Lady in White Read online

  "No, but I can see it happening. They love each other," she added with a smile.

  He raised his mug in a toast. "Well, good luck to them! Your aunt and I had many happy years together, so it can work sometimes." He cocked his head. "And what about you, baby? Has any man come into your life that I should know about?"

  She thought of John Burwell and felt her face begin to grow warm. "Yeah, maybe. His name's John; he's a doctor at the clinic where I work, and he asked me for a date only last night."

  "He's a psychiatrist?"

  "Yeah."

  "Hmm! Could be useful having one of those in the family, the way we all behave sometimes!"

  "Oh, Uncle!" She picked up a small cushion and batted at him with it. "Behave! John's a nice guy, and I liked him from the first time we met. We couldn't date, as it wouldn't have been right. He's my boss until the clinic closes—which will probably be on Monday."

  He sat upright and stared at her. "You're still at the Daniels LaRoche, yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  He snapped his fingers. "That's where I heard the name Martin Grey! I caught the TV news last night; there was a report of a double suicide in the place and someone's talking about a ghost haunting the clinic! His name was mentioned in connection with it."

  "Martin works for the British tax office, but he's a paranormal investigator in his spare time." She decided to come clean. "It was the real reason he and Claudie met. The hotel she was trying to sell was haunted, and Martin solved the mystery for her."

  "You don't say?" His eyes narrowed. "Is he working on this hospital business?"

  "Yeah, but not officially; it's because I asked him to." She lowered her gaze, feeling embarrassed. "When I rescued the boy from the river, I saw something I thought was a ghost. Martin's looking into it for me."

  "You saw a ghost?" He gave her a wry smile. "I'd have thought that would've been Claudia's area of interest."

  "She's welcome to it." She shivered at the memories. "There's something seriously wrong in that old building. There's a whole lot of evil gathered under that roof. I'm sure it had something to do with those poor guys who killed themselves. That boy could've been the first to die."

  "Yeah, but thanks to you, he didn't. I can see you're convinced about this," he said quietly.

  "I am." She spread her hands. "If the clinic is closed for good on Monday, I just hope Martin will be allowed to continue until he solves this case. Something like that shouldn't be left to lie."

  He rubbed his chin again with a distinct rasp of stubble. "I know a guy who's high up in the health affairs in this state. If you think Martin can do what you say and finish the haunting for good, maybe I can speak to my friend and ensure he has all the access he needs."

  "I'd appreciate it. You might know John, too. When I called him this morning he asked your name, and told me you're both members of the same club." She looked at him sidelong. "Would it be the Carpenters?"

  He merely winked. "I know three Johns in that club, two of them are shrinks; what's his surname?"

  "Burwell."

  "Well, I'll be damned!"

  * * * *

  John's cell phone rang as he finished breakfast. He checked the number and answered. "Hi, Frank."

  "Hello, John. How're you today?"

  "Recovering," he grunted, looking out the window at the bright morning. "I've still got a couple of reporters hanging around downstairs, but at least they've stopped trying to phone me."

  "That's good. Listen, our mutual friend in the club called me a while ago. He bent my ear over this haunting business, which surprised me. It seems someone in the know has talked to him about it."

  "It wasn't me."

  "No?" Polson sounded surprised at the flat denial. "Okay, then. Maybe one of his nieces gave him the gen. Whatever, he's asked me to continue giving Mr. Grey all the help he needs, including access to the old building. I admit I wanted to know what was going on, but then those suicides changed the whole ballgame."

  He poured more coffee into his mug. "The cops are sure the men killed themselves?"

  "Oh, yes. I've seen a preliminary copy of the coroner's report. One cut his throat, the other shot himself. The cops are trying to trace where he got the gun, but that's not important to us right now." He sighed. "Frankly, John, I thought we'd done our best over this. It would've been good to find the cause of it all, but the clinic's closure gave us a means of walking away from the problem. Mr. Grey's interest and assistance was a bonus, but once the decision to close had been made, it all seemed academic. Andrew convinced me otherwise."

  "I see."

  "I'm not going to appear in this case, John, so I'd like you to liaise with Mr. Grey. Call him; tell him he has clearance to check over everything and go anywhere in the hospital grounds and buildings. This permission won't be in writing, but I'll cover his back from here."

  "When can he begin?"

  "He can go tomorrow morning if possible. It's Sunday; it's not likely the press will be hanging around, and it'll give him a clear run at the problem. You're his point of contact, and he's to give his final report to you. We'll make sure he's compensated for his efforts, although again it won't be in writing."

  "Frank, this sounds uncomfortably like a deniable operation."

  "That's because it is, John. If word gets out about this, it'll leave me vulnerable to city hall politics."

  "And what about me? If it goes wrong, will I be left to twist in the wind?" he said feeling angry.

  "Of course not, John! We club members stick together, you know that," Polson said smoothly.

  "So long as you know it!"

  "Believe me, I do. Now, I've got to get going. I leave it to you to arrange matters with Mr. Grey."

  He ended the call, and John returned the phone to the charging cradle with decidedly mixed feelings.

  * * * *

  Claudia laid the gun on the shelf in the booth at the firing range and spread a number of gleaming brass shells on the rack. She held up her pistol, pointed to the muzzle, and gave him a stern look. "When you hold the gun in your hand, this end is to be kept pointing away from people at all times, understood?"

  "Yes," he said, feeling a flutter of nerves.

  "Good. Here's how you load up," she said, flipping open the cylinder and popping the shells in the chambers one at a time with her slender fingers.

  He watched her carefully with a mixture of admiration and unease at the speed and dexterity with which she handled the weapon and ammunition. In the same field of vision he saw a silver-bright gouge had been taken out the front edge of the metal shelf, showing where one gun had discharged unexpectedly in its owner's hands.

  She looked up and followed his line of sight. "Don't worry about that, it happened years ago. Paul left it like that as a warning not to get careless. He hasn't had a fatality here since he took over the place fifteen years ago."

  "I'm glad to hear it!"

  "We all are, Marty."

  "Whoever the fatality was, his spirit's at peace. He's not hanging around here."

  She blinked, and smiled. "Just for a moment there I forgot about your abilities. I guess you see spirits just about everywhere."

  "Oh, yes, quite often." He looked around. "There's no one here, though."

  "Good! Now, pick up the pistol by the grip." He did so, feeling the heft of it, and she leaned close. "This is the safety catch." She manipulated it. "On, off, on, off. See?"

  "Yes, dear."

  "Okay." She handed him a pair of yellow foam earplugs connected with a blue cord. "Lay the gun down, and pop these in your ears. Gunfire's real loud in these booths and you don't want to damage your hearing." Once he was protected, she tapped his hand to get his attention. "Pick up the gun," she mouthed.

  He did so, and she stood close behind him, her breasts pressing into his back in a way that made his cock twitch. Sliding her hands along his arms, she moved him into the correct firing stance and aimed his hands at the distant man-shaped target. "Fire when ready!" sh
e called; her voice was just audible over the plugs.

  He pulled the trigger, and the pistol roared and bucked in his hands. The target gave a twitch, and a hole appeared in the upper left shoulder. "Shit!" he said, appalled by the noise.

  "That's good!" she hollered, and corrected his aim. "Don't jerk the trigger; just squeeze it like you do my tits!"

  "Dear gods, woman!" he laughed.

  She kissed his ear. "Relax! Fire again!" The gun roared again. This time the hole appeared in the throat of the target. "That'll put a man down," she said, nodding approval.

  "You're bloodthirsty, you are!" he called back with a grin.

  "Me or him, Marty; me or him. Keep firing until the bullets are gone, taking your time between shots. When the pistol's empty, pop open the cylinder like I showed you and lay the gun down."

  He squeezed off four more shots, the noise and stench of the propellant making his head buzz, before the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Popping open the cylinder as instructed, he laid the gun down.

  "Gun clear?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "You always reply by saying 'gun clear' when asked," Claudia said and checked it anyway. "Always do this, too, Marty," she said when he gave her an affronted look. "Never trust anyone's word—even mine—that a weapon is clear without checking it yourself. You can never be too careful around these things."

  He hung his head and twisted the toe of his shoe on the floor like a chastised schoolboy. "Understood, dear."

  She winked. "Better that you learn good habits from the very start, lover. Let's see how you did."

  She flicked the switch at the side of the booth and the target jerked and moved toward them, carried on an overhead wire. They inspected the six holes in the sheet. "Not bad," she said. "Quite a tight grouping once you got used to the recoil. Now, we'll send it back," she said, reloading the gun, "and watch me."

  The target slid back into position once more, and he watched as she raised the pistol and took aim. She squeezed off six deliberate shots, the roar of gunfire and the smoke filling the booth once more. His attention swung from watching the target to watching Claudia. There was something about the harmonics the recoil sent rushing through her body that was very erotic. Her breasts shook, her arms twitched, and the look of deadly concentration on her pretty features made her seem like a different woman.

  Laying the gun down, she brought the target forward again. "Not bad," she said. "I'm not quite as rusty as I feared."

  He looked at the tight grouping of holes on and around the center of the silhouette and shook his head with awe at her ability. "If that's what you can do when out of practice, you must be awesome when your eye's in!"

  "Aw, you say the sweetest things!" she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

  They took turns firing until their range time was up. Out in the storefront, Claudia bought another box of shells, and she and Martin reclaimed their ID from the range owner. "How'd you do in there?" he asked Martin with a friendly grin.

  "I did all right—I think; but I bow before this lady," he said, gesturing to Claudia.

  "Huh! I'm rusty, and you didn't do so bad, mister!" she said, rubbing his back. "First time he ever handled a gun," she told the man.

  "Yeah? Did you like it? Be honest now!" he said, holding up a finger.

  "It's got a certain appeal," he replied with a smile.

  "Don't it just?" the man said with a wink. "God bless the Second Amendment!"

  * * * *

  Alan Whitaker got off the IndyGo bus two stops down from the entrance to the clinic grounds. Light snow was falling again, making the day dark and dismal. Slush from previous falls soaked the legs of his pants but he disregarded the discomfort. Clutching the bottle of mineral water, he set off down the sidewalk.

  Morris Street crossed the White River on a long concrete bridge set at an angle to the watercourse. Galvanized steel railings lined the walkway, and Alan clambered over them at the far end, dropping the few feet to sprawl on the muddy ground of the revetment. His ankle gave a twinge of pain as he stood up, but he ignored it as he looked ahead to the hospital buildings. He was now in the grounds, standing in the cut made by the river, and screened from casual observers by the trees. The boundary fence had been dismantled since he'd last been there; one less barrier to cross.

  Somewhere in the old hospital lay the one thing many had tried to convince him was unnecessary but which he knew in his gut that he needed more than anything else. The sense of purpose which had driven him this far intensified, and with a grim smile on his lips, he climbed the bank and began to trudge along the riverside path, his attention fixed on the buildings.

  Ten minutes of steady walking brought him level with them; a few minutes more and he was out of the line of sight from the lit Greville Wing windows. Changing course sharply, he headed straight for the rear of the old building, which stood stark and grim in the fading light.

  Much of the ground behind the old building was strewn with snow-covered rubble, the demolished remnants of ancillary structures, and he picked his way with care up to the rear doors. They were boarded up, but someone had thoughtfully left a pickax propped against the wall nearby. Hefting it, he jammed one end in between the boards and the brick wall, and worked it in further with brute force until he had sufficient leverage. With an effort that crushed part of the old bricks, he pried the board free; removing the panel to make enough of a gap for him to enter took a matter of moments. He kicked open the doors; he was so close to his goal a bit of noise wouldn't make any difference.

  Rubbing his abraded hands, he began to walk down the long passageway leading to the heart of the building. It was dark, it reeked of damp and disuse, but it was where he wanted to be. When he walked onto the expanse of tiled floor he felt the welcoming, pitying embrace of others of his kind, and he smiled at them.

  Taking the bottle of pills from his jeans, he poured some into the palm of his hand until they were heaped up, swept the pile into his mouth and washed them down with a hefty swig of mineral water.

  The others sighed with a reluctant form of approval. At least he was taking his medication.

  * * * *

  "There's something very sexy about a woman with a gun," he said to her as they walked arm-in-arm to the Taurus.

  "I saw you watching me when I fired," she replied. "When I looked a li'l bit lower I thought for a second you had another weapon stashed in your pants."

  He waggled his eyebrows. "Maybe I have."

  "Oh, I know you have!" She tossed her bag on the back seat and turned to take him in her arms. They kissed amidst the lightly falling snow of late afternoon. "And I just love it when you fire it in me!"

  "Mm! I've got a full clip loaded. Shall we go home and set up another firing session?"

  "Sounds good to me!"

  As they got in the car, he switched on his cell phone, and it beeped to announce an incoming text message. "Ah!" he said, reading it as Claudia guided the car onto the road. "John's got me permission to finish the hospital case. I have access to all areas."

  "Whoa!" She gave him a sideways glance. "That's good. I'm glad you get to finish it. I did wonder if the plug would be pulled once the clinic shut."

  "Me too. It seems someone's got some sense."

  He closed the text message and, as sometimes happened, pushed the menu button on his cell once too often. Instead of the ready mode, he found himself staring at the games section. It showed a hand of playing cards, an animation program spreading them out to show the suite of four aces and the king of hearts.

  "Well, bugger me!" he said, gazing at the screen as the light of revelation flared in his mind.

  "If you like, but we'd need to call at the specialist shop for a strap-on." She grinned, glanced at him, then nudged him. "Hey! That was a joke—possibly. What's the matter? Seen a ghost?"

  He tore his attention away from the cell and focused on her. "No, but what I've just seen has been staring me in the face for a long while!"

 
* * * *

  They entered the apartment and he headed straight for the file on the pavilion, which he'd left on the table in the sitting room. Claudia cuddled up to him and leaned her chin on his shoulder. "What’ve you got?" she asked as he flipped through the photographs.

  He spread them out and tapped each one in turn. "A set of stained glass windows with a heart motif; Hercules with his club; the woodwork's carved in a repeating pattern of diamonds—and the whole place is called the Dan Spade Pavilion!"

  "Someone built the place and included the four suites of playing cards?" He nodded, and she kissed his ear. "It's very clever—or the sign of a compulsive gambler—but, so what?"

  "Remember the anagram; Samson became masons, which you tell me is a shibboleth used by the Carpenters Movement. The statue is carved from wood, so I'd guess whoever designed the pavilion intended it to point out the connection to them. Do they go in for symbolism?"

  She rolled her eyes. "God, yeah! I used to go to Overland Girl meetings in their Chapel up on Meredith Street quite often. The place is loaded with symbols of this and that. I'll have to take you up there one of these days; they have guided tours."

  "Then I'm guessing that the suites have the same meaning to the Carpenters as they do the Freemasons."

  "Which is?"

  "They're a disguised form of the Tarot. Hearts become cups, diamonds become pentacles, clubs become wands, and spades become swords!"

  "Ooh!" He felt her shiver against him. "That's spooky! I don't think I'll play solitaire again without thinking of that."

  "No," he said, as he leafed through the papers. "It surprised me when I found out." He unfolded the blueprint for the pavilion and spread it on the table. "Here's something else. Look at this. The plan of the pavilion is an equal-armed cross. That's symbolic of peace, which is one of the reasons why the Red Cross uses it; it's also the symbol of equality between men and women."

  "Hah! As if that'll ever happen!" she scoffed and poked him in the stomach. "We've got you beat, and you know it. But, Marty, what does it all mean?"

  "The Tarot is powerful in its own right, but I think someone's used it to build a kind of enchantment into the pavilion."