Lady in White Read online

  "Is she hurt?" Caroline asked anxiously.

  Celia shook her head. "I didn't see her for long enough, but I don't think so."

  Burwell came up at that moment. "What's happening?"

  Caroline told him what they knew and he raised an eyebrow. "You couldn't ID the patient?"

  "He's a Hispanic guy," the guard offered.

  "That could describe one of four patients we have here," Burwell said. "I'll need to look."

  "Be careful, Doc!" the guard said. "He already shied a bedpan at me."

  "Be thankful it wasn't full!" Burwell said with a half-smile, and edged to the door.

  He glanced in then drew back. A second bedpan sailed out of the room to clatter on the opposite wall. "Raul Mendoza," he said and looked puzzled. "I was going to discharge him this afternoon. What the hell does he think he's doing?"

  "Did you see if he had a knife, Doctor?" Caroline asked.

  "No." Another bedpan clattered off the wall and he winced. "He's got plenty of those to hand, though!"

  *

  Sue Littlemoor sat as quietly as she could, long experience having taught her the best way to deal with psychotic patients. The speed with which Mr. Mendoza had turned on her had left her shaken. It was only by the grace of God she was able to pull the tab of her alarm pendant before he seized hold of her.

  He was behind her now, conducting a semi-audible debate with himself. Without trying to be obvious about it, she attempted to hear what he was saying. It could offer a clue as to the cause of his sudden attack. If nothing else, she hoped to persuade him not to wave the weapon about. She wasn't sure what it was, but had felt the chill touch of metal at her throat when he first seized her.

  *

  Raul Mendoza was in a horrible fix. He'd gone to take a leak in the restroom down the passage when suddenly the darkness had swirled up in his mind as swift and all-consuming as a tsunami, leaving him battered and at the mercy of the voices in his head. It hadn't been this bad since that awful time three years ago, when…

  "No!" he roared, pressing the heels of his hands to his head. The blunt handle of the scalpel dug into his skin, the pain just another amongst the welter of sensations flashing in his mind.

  The nurse jumped and made to dive out of the chair toward the door, but something made his hand lash out and seize her by the scruff of the neck. Hauling her back into the chair by main force, he dug the flat of the blade into the soft flesh of her throat. She winced. Leaning forward, he hissed in her ear. "Not yet, my pretty chica! You have to work for me."

  She bristled at that, although she was careful not to make it obvious. She had no illusions as to either her looks or her age; to be called a chica was stretching the term beyond breaking point, and even her mom had called her homely on one unguarded occasion. What effectively distracted her from his words was the unnatural cold which seemed to hang about the man. The room was no longer occupied by patients and was far from warm, yet this seemed something other than the chill of winter seeping in.

  * * * *

  Burwell touched Caroline's elbow to get her attention. "Go to my office, look in the closet and you'll see my case," he said quietly. "Bring it to me."

  "Okay, Doctor." She nodded and hurried back down the passage to the office.

  The door was unlocked; she went in and straight to the closet, noticing in passing how cold it seemed in the room. Burwell's attaché case stood inside the closet, ready in case of emergencies. She picked it up, mentally reviewing the options open to them in dealing with Raul Mendoza's sudden burst of insanity.

  The wing had never been part of the secure section, although the security precautions had been fitted some years back with an eye to possible future changes. They had the central security office manned by a single guard, but there was no isolation room. The only option open to them was to distract the patient and use a hypodermic loaded with Thorazine on him. She remembered Mendoza's case. He had been responding so well to treatment, and it pained her that such measures were needed.

  When she turned away from the closet an orb of white light was floating in the center of the room and the air temperature dropped. Caroline stared at the light in amazement, her jaw falling open as the orb expanded and gained definition until a beautiful but pale and anxious female face was staring at her from a few feet away. The lips moved and, almost as if the word was carried from a long way away, she heard it say, "Danger!"

  Her skin crawled and shivers ran up and down her arms and spine. "What? Who're you?" she managed to say. Even as she spoke the words, she knew with near certainty that she'd seen the woman before, from a distance, floating in front of the young boy as he walked into the river.

  The apparition looked around at something unseen to her, before turning to look at her again. "No more time! Seek help! Please, for all of us!"

  As abruptly as a light going out, the face vanished. Caroline leaned back against the door of the closet and fought to gather her wits.

  She was still standing there when Burwell came into the room looking agitated. "Caroline, come on! What…" He stopped and looked hard at her. "Are you okay?"

  With an effort she focused on him and shook her head. "Something just happened, Doctor, but I'll be okay. Sorry; here's your case."

  She handed it to him and he took it, his eyes still on hers, his expression concerned. "Stay here for a while, Caroline; I don't think you're quite over that medication they gave you."

  "No!" She pushed away from the door and moved after him as he turned to leave. "You need help with Mr. Mendoza."

  He stopped her with a gentle touch to her shoulder. "No, Caroline; what I and Mr. Mendoza need is a nurse with full command of herself. This is a tricky situation, and you're not looking well enough to cope with it, so do as I say and stay here. Okay?" When she still hesitated, his voice dropped. "It could get rough, and I don't want you hurt."

  "Okay," she sighed.

  He smiled and left the room. She thought again of the ghostly warning and bit her lip with indecision. Training and experience told her to respect a doctor's order; but the warning seemed so definite! "Seek help, please, for all of us," she said to herself. The last dregs of her fear drained away, and she shook her head. "I've got to get to the bottom of this!"

  Leaving the room, she headed down the corridor to the private suites. The guard was waiting outside, peering with caution around the door with his hand on his tazer. Burwell's case stood on a table nearby, the lid open. The guard glanced at Caroline as she came up. "The guy got a goddamn scalpel from somewhere. Doc's moving in on him real slow," he whispered. "He's figuring to tranquilize the guy when he gets close enough."

  "He shouldn't be alone in there!" she protested. Her voice sounded weak to her own ears, and she felt woozy. Everything around her took on a white aura, a faint glowing nimbus of light that seemed not of the normal world. "I've got to look," she said, and edged in alongside the guard, who gave her a look of protest before blinking in surprise and stepping back.

  She peered around the door into the room and gasped. Sue was sitting quietly on a chair in the middle of the room, her face white with fear as Mendoza hovered behind her, his weapon at her throat; Burwell was advancing slowly and cautiously toward them, his guise non-threatening, the hypo loaded with Thorazine no doubt concealed somewhere close to hand. But Mendoza himself seemed to swim in a patch of darkness so deep it swallowed up the light around it, and she could feel an awful tugging at her soul, as if a void lay at her feet and called seductively to her. Take just one step, and you'll fly!

  Somehow she tore her gaze away from the terrible vision and staggered back past the guard who hesitated, seeming torn between either helping her or giving the doctor vital back-up. Caroline flapped her hand, motioning him to keep back, before bending over and vomiting.

  When the nausea passed, she tottered a few steps along the corridor and leaned against the wall. "Seek help," she muttered to herself, and felt in her pocket for her cell phone.

  C
hapter Nine

  Martin looked up from the screen of his laptop as the doorbell sounded. Sighing, he saved the file he was working on, got up, and went into the hall. Following Claudia's carefully-phrased advice, he checked through the spy hole first before opening the door. He was glad he did so, for Jay Walsh stood on the doorstep. The man's ears all but pricked up, and he looked at the door with expectancy. Martin cursed under his breath, realizing the spy hole lens would have blacked out as he put his eye to it. There was no pretending he was out. Walsh knew someone was home.

  Opening the door, he looked at the reporter. "Mr. Walsh, what a surprise. Are you looking for directions?"

  Walsh smiled in a way that made Martin's hackles rise. "I'm looking for a story, Mr. Grey! Can I come in?"

  He made to enter but Martin held the door firm and barred his way. "I'm rather busy at the moment, Mr. Walsh, and I can't see what kind of story you expect to get from me anyway."

  Walsh stepped back and looked at Martin closely; his smile—or smirk, Martin decided was a more accurate term—not slipping one bit. "You're too modest, Martin. I found some very interesting material on the ‘net, posted by a colleague up in the Catskills—a guy by the name of Kenyon, Doug Kenyon, editor of the Gainesville Gazette."

  "Really? Amazing what rubbish there is around the ‘net these days," Martin said in a disparaging tone, eager to get rid of the unwanted visitor.

  "Maybe, but he sure had some interesting news in his piece." He leveled a finger at him. "You, Mr. Martin Grey, are a paranormal investigator. I called Kenyon and he gave me the whole background."

  "And our address, I presume?"

  "Oh no; I asked, but he wouldn't give me that. Give the guy his due, he has his principles when protecting a source. No, I got contacts; it wasn't long before I tracked down an Englishman and his American girlfriend to here."

  Walsh looked smug, and Martin wished he could smack the journalist's silly smile around the other side of his head. "I can't comment on what he told you, Mr. Walsh," he said. "Much of that Catskill case is bound up in legal action."

  "Recovered US Treasury bonds? A consignment of bootleg Scotch from the Prohibition era?" Walsh grinned. "Add to those a rather interesting snippet about a mass outbreak of ghostly activity and a fraud case against the owner of the resort where you and your girlfriend were based, and I can see it's complicated. Then there's the hotel case in New York City."

  He held up a hand. "Frankly, Mr. Grey, I'm not interested in any of that; those stories are covered by other guys' bylines, and good luck to them, I say. What I'm interested in is why you're here or rather sniffing around that old hospital down by the river. Do you suspect ghosts are haunting the place? Is there any connection between that cute sister of your girlfriend and your taking up the case? Who's hiring you, Martin?"

  "I can't possibly comment on anything you might have heard. My clients hire me on the basis of confidentiality, the same as any specialist."

  "But you're not a run-of-the-mill specialist, Martin!"

  He opened his mouth to reply when he heard his cell phone ringing back on the table where he'd been working. Saved by the bell! he thought, and held up his hand. "Mr. Walsh, as I said, I'm very busy, and this is a call I have to take. Goodbye!"

  He closed the door and hurried to snatch up the phone. A glance at the little screen showed the caller.

  "Hi, Caroline."

  * * * *

  The sound of Martin's voice steadied her immediately. He sounded a touch breathless, and she assumed he'd been away from his cell phone judging from the number of times it had rung. "Martin, I need you here right away. Something's going on; it looks spooky."

  "Really?" The interest in his voice was palpable. "Are you at the hospital?"

  "Oh, yes." She closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her face. The taste of bile hung around her mouth and she swallowed, feeling the bitter bite of acid in her throat. "Sorry, I should've said. I'm not feeling too good. Martin, please hurry!"

  "I'm on my way."

  "Wait!"

  "Yes?"

  "The wing is locked-down; you won't be able to get in. I'll meet you by the security door."

  "I'm coming now. See you soon."

  "Bye."

  She closed the call and sank down against the wall. A need for sleep all but overwhelmed her, and she had to fight to keep her eyes open. Shaking her head, she pinched her arm until tears came to her eyes with the pain, but the tiredness receded. Pushing herself up, she breathed deeply a few times before heading for the reception area.

  * * * *

  Jay sat in his car in the parking lot of Seacombe Field, recording notes on his brief encounter with the Brit ghost hunter when the man himself emerged at a near run from the apartment building. Laying aside his digital recorder, Jay instinctively ducked low and watched as Martin fumbled with the keys to a big Chevy SUV.

  "Where are you off to in such a hurry, friend?" he asked himself, slotting his own keys in the ignition and turning it to first stop. He was thankful the car was partially hidden from Martin's view by another alongside; although he had no reason to believe the guy would be alert to his presence, journalistic caution had won through—and his instinct was twitching.

  Martin got in the driver’s seat of the Chevy and drove it out of the lot, pausing long enough before turning left at the junction with the main road for Jay to start his car and follow at a discreet distance. Keeping the dark blue SUV in sight, he tailed it with the same caution until Martin reached I-70 and took the eastbound lane where he cracked open the throttle.

  Jay took a risk and stayed quite close behind, keeping his quarry in sight and changing lanes with him until Martin took a turn-off and headed toward the city proper. A quick glance at the street signs told Jay what he’d already guessed. "You're heading for the hospital, friend!"

  He grinned. After the disappointment of the short interview, maybe things weren't going to be such a bust after all.

  * * * *

  Burwell eased closer to Mendoza. "Raul, this is hardly a sign of recovery, now is it?" he said in a soothing murmur as if attempting to calm a frightened horse. The hypo nestled in his pocket, charged with Thorazine, ready for immediate use. "Why not let nurse Littlemoor go, and we can talk over this problem? You were making such good progress; I was going to discharge you today."

  Mendoza watched him, his black eyes glinting like chips of obsidian. He held a rusty scalpel in his hand, the blade moving ever so slightly back and forth. Burwell knew he had heard every word, but he gave no more reaction than a carved figure. A sharp twinge of pain shot through his back and made him freeze. Mendoza struck.

  * * * *

  Snow was falling again as Martin steered with difficulty into the near-empty parking lot and switched off the engine. It was getting late enough in the day for lights to be on all through the active wing of the hospital, and he could see a metal security gate had closed-off the main entrance. Caroline was standing on the other side of the doors talking to Celia the security guard. A red light pulsed above the door, indicating trouble afoot.

  Hurrying up to the entrance, he knocked. The two women looked at him; Caroline seemed pleased to see him, but the guard wore an unhappy expression. She unlocked a side door and opened it for him, and Caroline came up and grasped his arm. He felt concern when he saw how pale she looked. "Are you okay, love?" he asked, laying his hand on hers. It felt surprisingly cold.

  "No, but never mind me." Still clasping his arm, she set off into the hospital at a fast walk. "We've got trouble, Martin; I think it's something only you can deal with."

  "What happened here? You mentioned something spooky?" She filled in the events for him and he realized he'd slowed almost to a halt. "You saw darkness hovering in and around this Mendoza chap?"

  "Yes. Now he's taken Doctor Burwell hostage too."

  "Good grief! Are the security people handling the situation?"

  "They're stumped right now. Doctor Burwell's the only one with any
authority and he can't issue instructions. Celia wouldn't have let you in, but I told her you were the best option we have of resolving this mess."

  "Hmm! I hope I can help. And the lady in white appeared to you as well?" She nodded. "Interesting! Lead on, let's go and see."

  A sign above a set of doors showed him they were entering the private wing. Another security guard was waiting in the passageway the other side, looking alert and far from happy. He shook his head and held up his hand. "Don't go any further, folks. That guy's armed and he's got Doc Burwell, and Sue sitting down and tied up. I don't think he'll hurt them—yet—but you never know what some of these crazies may take into their heads to do."

  Martin's senses began to twitch, eager to be let off the leash to hunt. Raising his mental wards, he sat on a nearby chair and let his consciousness expand outwards. Sniffing the psychic air, he became aware of every shift and subtle nuance of the other world around him.

  There was darkness in the private room, a darkness that swam and shifted as if a large carnivore lurked beneath the surface of a muddy pool. He recognized the stench of it from his encounter with Mr. Chapman's ghost. Casting a careful look around to ensure no other entities lurked nearby, he slowly closed in on the central node. "So you're back, are you? What's your business with these people?" he demanded. It jolted with shock and lashed out at him, but his wards deflected the blow with ease. "You can stop that! I don't wish to harm you, but I can and will if you don't explain yourself!" he snapped.

  Go away! He's mine! The darkness shifted again, allowing Martin to see the hapless figure of the human within, the man's spirit crying and gasping with fright and confusion. You can't have him!

  "I don't want him, and neither do you. He's his own person, and you have neither right nor need to possess him."