Caroline relayed this. "Welcome in peace, lady," he said.
"I'm Caroline Mackenzie," she told the image. "This is Martin Grey, my sister's boyfriend."
"I'm Winifred Morgan." The spirit closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sky. "I give thanks that we've met at last!" She lowered her head and looked directly at Caroline. "You and the gentleman know there's much trouble in the old hospital. Tell him I'm doing my best to hold it back, to interfere with his plans, but he's growing too powerful." She choked back a sob, and her calm mask slipped, showing her the anguish behind it. "I…I'm growing weaker. I don't know how much longer I can hold out!"
She relayed this, her eyes shut, feeling overwhelmed by the experience. She heard Martin take a sharp intake of breath. "Tell her we understand, and will try to help all we can," he said.
"I cannot stay long; he'll take advantage of my distraction."
"What is his name?"
"I can't tell you!" She felt Winifred shudder. "Naming calls!"
"Ask her if she can show me the files I need to discover the cause of it all."
"Yes! Will you allow me to use your hands?" the lady asked.
"Oh! I'm not sure," she said, feeling a strong flutter of nerves. "I had a real bad experience when something else was controlling me."
"I understand, Caroline," the lady said gently, "but I'm not that creature. It served the evil one at the hospital. He wants to taint your spirit, to control you because he knows you're a threat to it. If he could keep you from helping me, he'd have time to grow stronger. I won't hurt you, I promise."
She sensed the truth in the spirit's words. "Okay," she said with reluctance.
The lady laughed softly, with compassion. "I understand your fears. I'm coming in. I'll take it real slow so you can get used to me."
*
Martin watched as Caroline stiffened in her chair then arched her head back. "Oh! Ooh!" she gasped, her eyes squeezed shut. "She's coming in through my back!"
"I'm watching, Caroline," he said. "If anything goes wrong I'll break it up immediately."
She began to jerk and tremble and a hacking, retching cough sounded from her lips. "So…much…pain!" she gasped in a voice unlike her own.
"Winifred?" he asked.
"Hurts! Ahh!" Caroline's eyes flickered open. "Oh, my word!"
"Winifred?" he asked again.
"Yes, Mr. Grey." She turned a blank face toward him. "I haven't much time."
*
Here," she said, and Caroline felt her hands reach out of their own accord until she touched the files. Her fingertips ran rapidly down the stack and pulled out three files. "These will give you what you need." The lady sounded weaker, and she felt a flush of concern for the spirit. "Are you okay?"
"No; I've grown too weak to sustain this link. I must return. Tell Mr. Grey I'll see him when he comes. Goodbye, Caroline—and thanks."
The image faded, and she got the sense of something withdrawing from her mind at great speed. It left her feeling bereft, and she slumped in her chair. When she opened her eyes, tears sprang forth. Through the blur she saw Martin looking at her with sympathy. "She's gone," she said, distraught.
"I'm sorry, Caroline," he said gently and laid his hand on hers. "In my haste I forgot to warn you that channeling can have that effect."
"Why was she in such pain? I could feel it!" She shuddered.
"I think it was Winifred's death trauma. Many spirits feel compelled to re-enact their final moments in this existence when they enter a host." He clasped her hand. "I'm sorry you felt bad there."
She suddenly felt shy at being touched by him, and a memory of appearing naked before him threatened her composure. "It's okay," she said, drawing her hand back.
He nodded, and spread out the files on the table. "The lady's done her best. At least we've narrowed the search."
She looked at the dog-eared and faded card folders. One was a patient's record, headed Winifred Morgan, along with a code number. The other was a slim folder headed Dan Spade Pavilion with a red copy stamp on the front. The third was headed, Inquiry into suspicious deaths and treatment methods used at the Lower City Mental Health Institute, May 1938-September 1949.
"Whew! That doesn't exactly roll off the tongue!" he said.
"Hardly!" She tapped a finger on the last. "It was the hospital's name until the early 'fifties."
"Places do undergo name changes," he said, looking at the title, "usually because of a takeover. But sometimes, it's because they attract a scandal. The authorities fix the problem and change the name to disconnect the place from its past."
"Good point. Which folder shall I take?"
"Take Winifred's, it'll preserve that link you have with her. I'll take the inquiry."
She drew the folder to her and, with a sense of anticipation, opened the cover. A photographic image of Winifred Morgan seemed to leap out at her, and she fingered it gently. "She's beautiful! It was weird, but not bad, having her inside my head," she said. "When she took control of my hands it even felt kind of natural." She felt her face grow hot. "I'm not sure if I'm explaining this right."
"You are." He gave her a thoughtful look. "I'm beginning to wonder if the link between you is stronger than I first thought. It could be you knew each other in a past life; maybe you even knew Winifred when she was alive."
Goosebumps prickled her flesh. "Do you believe in that?"
"Reincarnation? Oh, yes." He turned his attention back to the file. "One of my acquaintances uses hypnotic regression therapy. I've sat in on some of her cases, and got a great deal of information out of them."
"Have you ever tried it?"
His eyes twinkled as he looked up. "Yes, I have."
"Who or what were you?"
"Oddly enough, I wasn't a Roman Centurion," he said in a dry tone. "I was a French doctor, practicing in Paris at the turn of the nineteenth century." He buffed his nails. "I don't mean to boast, but I was a good friend of the French president's sister."
"Cool!" She gave him a narrow look. "How do you know all this?"
"I had a clear image of an intimate tea party, held in chamber in a great house. I described the people and what I saw around me to my friend perfectly. When I did some research afterwards, I found it was a room in the Petit Trianon; part of the Palace of Versailles." The gaze he turned on her was clear and steady, matter of fact. "My friend will confirm it all if you ask."
"No need, I believe you!" she said, and shivered. "Marty, I'm not sure if I want to get involved in the paranormal ever again after this. It's just too damn spooky for me!"
"No one can force you to, love," he said kindly, and turned back to the task at hand.
*
"Dear God!" he said after a few minutes as he leafed slowly through the pages. "This is grim reading."
"Bad?"
"Very! It's a litany of abuse by staff and other patients that wouldn't have been out of place in a South American dictatorship! It's nothing more than a catalog of beatings, rapes—male and female—five suspicious deaths and an account of electric shock torture that I won't forget in a month of Sundays."
She grimaced. "I've heard stories about that kind of thing from some of the older staff, seen some of the equipment used back then. I've never experienced any abuse of patients myself."
"I'm glad to hear it. Rotten apples show up in every type of institution, but this is just awful!" He turned another page, feeling sick to the bottom of his stomach. "The asylum was run by a superintendent, a guy named Rossiter. Patient release figures are listed as being far lower under his regime than any other similar institution in the country. Once inside, few ever came out. There's talk of deaths being covered up and the bodies disposed of in the furnaces of the boiler house. It went on for years!"
"They covered up their crimes!" She shuddered. "How can anyone behave in that way?"
"People are people wherever they are," he said, sighing as he flipped to the last page, which listed the conclusions of the inquiry b
oard. "It looks like Rossiter died in the course of the investigation. The authorities used his death as an excuse to install a new superintendent straight away and affect a clean sweep of the old staff. It says a number of successful court cases were brought against many of them." He read aloud with narrowed eyes. "'Details of the abuse have necessarily entered the public domain, but the recent events in Korea occupy the headlines.'"
"That was very convenient!" she said angrily. "A war began and saved the authorities a lot of embarrassment!"
"As one government official in Britain once said, 'It's a good day to bury bad news.' They also changed the name to the Daniels LaRoche Center. New name, new beginning."
"I'm puzzled. How did they gather so much evidence against the asylum staff?" she asked. "It sounds like it was a tight little group of thugs, each with something to hide that the others knew about."
"You're right." He scanned the pages. "Winifred Morgan played a key role there, it seems. She was planted in the asylum as a patient by a circuit judge." He blinked. "The judge's name was Dan Spade!"
"You're kidding!"
"It's here in black and white. She appeared before him in connection with a case of witchcraft and was committed to an institution, supposedly to cure her aberrant behavior." His voice grew somber. "It was all a ruse to get someone inside the place. And it led to her death." He read aloud from the report. "'Miss Morgan died of complications arising from internal injuries soon after giving an affidavit to the District Attorney. Her bravery in volunteering for this task, even with full knowledge that she would likely suffer abuse, cannot be praised highly enough.'" He set the folder down and rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling bone-weary. "Her attacker was given the death penalty, and her evidence encouraged others to come forward, including some staff that entered plea-bargains."
*
"She sacrificed herself!" Caroline whispered, looking pale.
"Yes. I said before that lady in white was a term that referred to a white witch. They have a strong commitment to life and well-being. Maybe she was exactly what she said." He sighed. "Perversely, it made the perfect excuse to have her committed. Folks were a lot less tolerant of alternative lifestyles until recently; if she was locked away, most people would have thought it a good thing."
Tears prickled her eyes. "That's awful, Martin!"
"Absolutely, love. The fear of the unknown's a strong one. But Winifred seems to have gone into it willingly; perhaps she saw it as her duty, and even when she died, it wasn't the end of her commitment to the place," Martin said, shaking his head. "Her spirit remains, still watching and working against this evil presence."
"We need to help her!" She felt close to tears. "What is it, Martin? What's at the root of it all?"
"I don't know for sure," he said quietly, "although I have a hunch. We really need to gain access to that old building." He picked up the file on the Dan Spade pavilion. "Winifred directed our attention to this. You told me yourself it didn't feel bad in any way. Maybe it holds a clue to help end all this."
"Let's look at what she's given us, then," she said, opening the file and moving to sit beside him.
The folder contained drawings, blueprints, and even a few black and white photographs. Some showed details of woodcarvings, with a repeated diamond motif. Others showed the glass structure atop the old Victorian building, with details of the stained glass panels, and some showed views from the windows out over what was then surrounding countryside.
"I remember seeing these," she said, tapping photos depicting two giant figures, one braced between two classic columns as if trying to push them apart, the other standing ready with a huge gnarled wooden club. "They're statues of Samson and Hercules, positioned just under the vaulted ceiling supporting the pavilion."
"Personifying strength and endurance," he said. "Two of the qualities needed to overcome bad health—mental or otherwise."
"Here's one of Dan Spade with the Samson statue," she said, handing him a photo showing a middle-aged man with long, black, wavy hair shot with gray, leaning against the Samson statue, a fedora in his hand. It was taken on an open grassy space. "It just shows how much influence he must've had. Perhaps he gained an idea something was wrong during one of his visits there and decided to do something about the situation."
"You're probably right." He looked at it. "It's in the open air, so it was taken before the statue was put in place. He's wearing a 1930's suit, but that hairstyle wasn't exactly fashionable back then. Maybe he's trying to mimic Samson's flowing locks?" He turned the photo over. "Someone's added a note on the back. I can't quite make out the writing, but there's a date—16, 4, 30."
"Let me see, I'm used to doctors' writing," she said with a smile. He held the reverse of the photo toward her, and she read the spidery handwriting without too much trouble. "'Was this Biblical strongman one of us?'"
He frowned. "Odd! I wonder who 'us' is in that context."
"I've no idea." She glanced at the date. "Whoever wrote it got the date wrong too."
"It's not sixteenth of April, 1930?"
"No. We write dates in the sequence—month—day—year; not day then month as you do in Britain."
"Oh, of course." He smiled. "Something I keep forgetting."
"Yeah, it's easily done." She looked over the typewritten page the photo had been attached to. "But what I mean is the pavilion was built five years later according to this file. It seems odd that someone should carve a statue for a place long before its construction."
"Never mind, we may figure it out later. What else do we have here?" He looked through the other photographs, which showed the completed main and ancillary rooms, along with views from the pavilion and close-ups of some of the wood carving which seemed to feature heavily. "A lot of detail may not have come out in these. It's another reason for getting into that building."
He glanced at his watch then at the door. "It's getting late. Someone has the authority to release all these files to me; I'll see if I can take this one home and study it, but I wonder if he or she can be prevailed on to let me enter the old building?"
"Do you really want to go in there?" she asked, and shivered. "It was bad enough before it closed. God knows what you'll find in there now."
"Do I want to go in? No. Do I have to?" He nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so."
* * * *
John lay on the couch in his office, his hands behind his head. His back pain had returned with a vengeance; just one more burden to bear on a day that had become full of them. Thank God it's Friday! he thought.
All normal activity in the hospital had been suspended. Patients had been sent home and appointments postponed. Now the beleaguered staff had the press around their necks. Why had the fates decreed Jay Walsh should be on the site when the two suicides happened? Word had flashed around the press circuit. There were two TV camera units out in the parking lot at that very moment, filming the police activity from the other side of the incident tape cordon. Incoming and outgoing staff were being badgered with questions. The phone in the outer office was ringing almost constantly. His secretary was fielding the calls and directing journalistic inquirers to the press office downtown.
At that moment, the office phone buzzed. With an effort, he got off the couch and limped to his desk to answer it. "You might want to take this call, Doctor," his secretary said on the internal line. "It's from Mr. Polson."
He took a deep breath. What was about to follow could be awkward, or it could be useful, but any change in the present circumstances would be welcome as far as he was concerned. "Sure," he said to her, and heard the click as she changed the circuit to the outside line. "Mr. Polson, good to hear from you," he said, deliberately keeping things formal.
"Hello, Doctor, good to hear you too. I've heard what happened there today. What's the latest?"
"We've got the press and cops all over the place. The detective in charge isn't saying much about the deaths, but I can't see how either of them could be anything but suicide."
"I've checked the records for all three men, seeking a connection between them, a reason why they did what they did. Nothing presented itself." He paused. "Detective Lovett was with me; I insisted he get a warrant before viewing the records."
"You did the right thing, John."
"Yeah," he said.
"Have the police given any indication as to when they'll be finished there?"
"I asked. If the autopsies bear out the suicide angle, the outer perimeter could come down tonight. Whatever the coroner's report, they'll preserve the inner one until the scenes of death have been checked and cleared. That could take two more days."
"So, we'll have a functional clinic by tomorrow at the earliest." Polson went silent, so silent that John thought he'd hung up until he heard the sound of breathing. He smiled; at least he could talk to the man without risking halitosis poisoning.
At the other end, Polson cleared his throat. "John, the consensus here is that we should close Daniels LaRoche early—perhaps not even bother to reopen it when the police are done. The remaining patients can be sent to other clinics."
"I see," he replied, rubbing at his lower back. The pain was easing up at last. "On the whole, I think it would be a good idea."
"You don't object?" Polson sounded surprised.
"No, not really." He stared at the distant river, thinking how he'd miss the view. "Frank, in hard-headed business terms, we're wasting resources keeping this place running even for another couple of months. On morale grounds, there's something seriously wrong with the atmosphere here. To tell the truth, it's felt bad for months. I'll be glad to clear out and close down."
"You're referring to the other incidents," Polson said, and John smiled at his reluctance to use emotive words like 'ghosts' over an open line.
"I am."
"Mr. Grey has been working in the archives today. I'm told he's had help of some kind from Caroline Mackenzie."
John felt his heart give a skip at mention of her name. "She did have some contact with the…phenomena," he said casually, thinking of her beautiful face.
"So I understand. If we do close down Daniels LaRoche, then neither of them need trouble themselves with the matter."
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