Mr. Grey and the Hotel Ghosts

by A. J. Matthews

  "What the hell's going on here?" the voice sounded again. "Who put this crap in front of the door?"

  Claudia groaned. "Oh great! I recognize that voice." She turned a sour face to Martin. "We've been rescued by Kyle Marshall. Now he'll be worse than ever!"

  Chapter Eleven

  Kyle Marshall did have a loathsome air of righteousness and self-satisfaction as he opened the door. It vanished abruptly when he saw the blood trickling from Tom's wound as Martin carried him out of the flooded basement. Kyle went pale. "What the hell happened?"

  "He's been shot, Kyle!" Claudia ground out. She was soaking wet, cold and very angry. "Did you think it was a fucking paper cut? Call the paramedics, then the police!"

  "Yeah, right, okay," he said hurriedly, backing away into the foyer. He pulled out his cell phone and made the call.

  A small group of people in business suits were waiting in the foyer behind him and they gasped as the bedraggled foursome emerged from the stairway. A woman came forward, hesitated when she saw Tom. "Is he badly hurt?" she asked anxiously.

  "Yes," Martin replied. "I'm qualified in first aid; I'll do what I can now we're out of the water."

  With Claudia and Carla's help he lowered Tom carefully to the floor, putting his folded jacket beneath his head to support it. "I think there's a first aid kit in the office."

  The woman fetched it. Tom's eyes flickered open and he grinned mirthlessly as Martin gently pulled open his uniform jacket and got to work with the bandages. "Takes me right back to Tet, '68." He chuckled softly. "I stopped one outside Pleiku. No Purple Heart this time, though." He closed his eyes and winced as Martin cut free a mass of blood-matted cloth. "Plugged by a remf! Shit! That hurts as much as the bullet!"

  "Hang in there," Carla whispered, her eyes wide, clasping Tom's hand. "You'll make it."

  Kyle returned, pale of face, deliberately not looking at Tom. "So, what the hell happened here?"

  "Never mind that!" Claudia snapped. "There's a guy on the loose with a gun! Did you see him?"

  "Yeah!" One of the group spoke up. "We were out on the sidewalk looking the place over when we saw someone run up to the door. He saw us on the other side, then ran back in here. We thought it was suspicious at the time."

  "Who are you people?" Claudia asked, looking up at them.

  "Prospective owners of the hotel," the woman replied crisply. "We wanted to view the place again so we can tie-in our plans with the zoning laws." She glanced up at Kyle. "Although at this juncture I think we'll be reconsidering our purchasing options."

  Kyle blinked, then flushed, darting Claudia and Martin a furious look that promised trouble later.

  "We didn't expect all this," the woman went on as an approaching siren wailed in the street. "What is going on?"

  "It's a long story," Martin replied, leaning on the counter and wiping his bloodied hands on a wad of tissues. Claudia was secretly pleased to see Kyle flinch and turn paler still at the sight. He moved away hurriedly and pretended to be busy with his cell phone. "The main point is, there's a former watchman on the loose somewhere and he's armed and dangerous," Martin went on. "If he didn't leave through the main door, where could he have gone?"

  "Out the back?" Claudia asked.

  "He couldn't go that way," the woman said doubtfully. "Our architect is out there with a photographer taking some shots of the rear of the building. If they saw anything, they'd be sure to yell."

  The ambulance crew arrived. Claudia unlatched one of the ordinary emergency doors alongside the revolving ones to let them in. Soon Tom had been laid on a stretcher and wheeled away, giving them a shaky thumbs-up as he went.

  As the gurney passed through the door, two cops stood aside to let it pass, then entered. "What's happening here, folks?" one demanded, looking them all over, one hand on the butt of his gun.

  Claudia crossed her eyes with brief annoyance then explained as quickly as she could. The cop nodded. "Okay, folks, you'll have to leave the building 'til we've checked it out," he ordered, pulling out his radio. "Make your way out to the opposite sidewalk, head round the corner to your right. Get out of the line of fire. We'll take it from here."

  * * * *

  Other squad cars were pulling up and the street was quickly closed off. An icy north wind made Martin, Claudia and Carla shiver as they walked quickly across the street in their wet clothes. Another cop, alerted by the first to arrive, guided them around the corner and into a police truck. Once inside, he turned up the heat and settled in the front seat to watch, wait, and listen for radio reports.

  The three of them gradually warmed up.

  "This whole thing has turned absolutely nuts!" Claudia settled back in the seat and attempted to peel her damp clothes away from her skin.

  Carla shivered and sneezed violently.

  Martin leaned forward to catch the chatter on the radio. "What's happening now, constable?" he asked the cop.

  "Constable?" The cop looked at him askance, and then light dawned. He grinned. "Oh, you're British? We've got the place surrounded, sir. Couple of our guys out back of the place saw the fugitive on the fire escape. He saw them, went back inside." The cop peered across the street at the building. "You folks were in on the start of this. Care to tell me what happened?"

  Martin heard Claudia take a deep breath and he hurriedly supplied the details. The cop turned around in his seat and stared at Martin. "Mike Covington's in there?" he asked. "What the hell is that old fart doing?"

  "You know him?"

  "Yeah, sure I know Mike. He served in the traffic section down at the precinct house. Retired not long after I started." He reached for the radio handset. “I'll call this in."

  He spoke quickly, giving his fellows an outline of events.

  "He told us he was in homicide," Claudia said when he finished. She sounded aggrieved. "Was everything he told us a lie?"

  "Could be, ma'am." The cop shrugged as he hung up the handset. "When the old mayor cleaned up the town he had Internal Affairs work through the police department as well, looking for cops on the take."

  "Mike was corrupt?"

  "I didn't say that, ma'am," the cop replied evenly, looking her in the eye. "All I know, Mike took early retirement. Capische?"

  "I don't suppose you'd know if he worked in the records department before he was in the traffic branch?" Martin asked.

  "Yeah, he did."

  "Bingo!" Martin sat back and smiled at Claudia. "That could explain everything."

  "You think he saw the file on the hotel theft?" she asked.

  "Theft?" the cop looked round again, eyebrows raised.

  "A theft from a long, long time ago," Martin told him. "It was something we were researching. It's as good a guess as any," he said, turning back to Claudia. "Perhaps the file opened as he was readying a batch to send to the archives. Maybe it even opened itself," he added softly, with a glance at Carla, who was sitting with her head tipped back, seemingly too drained of energy to take much notice of proceedings.

  "James Covington's hand, again," Claudia mused. "I wonder what the connection is?"

  "I certainly think he's related to James. Family links tend to be the strongest, even through several generations."

  "Whatever, he's treed now." Claudia leaned forward to peer up at the building.

  Carla moaned softly. Martin glanced at her. "Carla? What's wrong?"

  "I feel…funny," the girl whispered, pressing her hand to her forehead. It was beading with sweat.

  "It could be shock," Claudia said, concern on her face as she felt the girl's forehead. "Martin, perhaps you'd better get her something to drink."

  Carla shivered, then convulsed.

  "Carla!" Claudia clasped her arm and tried to hold her still.

  "Hey, miss, what's happening?" the cop asked, turning his attention away from the street.

  "She may be suffering from shock. Could you call the paramedics?"

  "No need for that, Miss Mackenzie," a woman's voice said firmly.

&
nbsp; Carla went still, and her eyes opened. For a moment Martin saw them swim with an opalescent light. Then they cleared and someone other than Carla looked out of her eyes. Her features seemed to melt, flow, and settle into a new pattern. Martin and Claudia found themselves face-to-face with Anna-Grace.

  The cop gaped at her. "Jesus H. Christ!" He crossed himself as he stared at her. "Who the hell are you, lady?"

  "This does not concern you, officer," she responded tartly, and turned her attention to Martin and Claudia. "Follow me!"

  Carla/Anna-Grace opened the door and got out, then began to walk towards the hotel. Martin shook his head and climbed out after her, followed by Claudia.

  Reality swam briefly, the effect seeming to emanate from Anna-Grace like a heat haze from a sun-scorched road—

  They followed her across a street busy with horse drawn traffic, the acrid reek of dung, dust and coal smoke filling the air. As they neared the awning of the hotel the commissionaire stepped forward, touching his hat as he opened the door for Anna-Grace to pass.

  The hotel foyer thronged with people of all descriptions. There were elegantly attired ladies in lace shawls, leg-of-mutton shouldered dresses and long skirts, broad brimmed hats with flowers and feathers upon coifed hair. Many were escorted by gentlemen in town coats of sober black or gray, set off by outrageously colored waistcoats. There were even a couple of tall, deeply tanned men wearing Stetsons and lariat ties with their smart town-suits. Brightly uniformed bellboys and soberly dressed managers threaded amongst the crowd, busy with the affairs of the hotel.

  Anna-Grace swept through them all with the stateliness of an ocean liner amongst small craft. Martin clasped Claudia's hand. "When is this?" she asked, leaning close.

  "The 1890's, again," Martin replied softly.

  Anna-Grace made for the elevator, the attendant hurrying to open the cage for them. "Top floor, please," she directed him, her cool gaze sweeping over other folks who made to board with them. Something in her eye made them step back hurriedly.

  At the top, she made for the stairway to the roof garden. "That wretched man has brought his puppet up here," she called back over her shoulder. Her face was grim. "I would be most obliged to you both if you would give your assistance in settling this matter once and for all."

  "We'll be glad to help, Mrs. Palmer," Martin replied firmly, as they emerged onto the roof.

  She nodded.

  Another wave of change flowed out from her, filling the world and altering reality—

  The barren space stretched away from them on all sides, abandoned planters and decrepit summer houses dark and forlorn under the lowering sky. Martin looked around. A burly figure hunched over some stacked lengths of timber near the railings opposite an adjoining building. He seemed to be trying to dislodge a long plank from the pile.

  "It's Mike!" Claudia hissed, gripping Martin's arm.

  Anna-Grace Palmer walked forward. "Stop where you are!" she thundered. Her tone had a strange resonance that seemed to impinge on the brain independently of the ears.

  Mike stiffened, jerked around to stare at them. "Stay back!" He pulled his gun from his belt and aimed it at them. "I don't want to use this!"

  "Rather late for that, isn't it, Mike?" Martin called. "Tom will live, no thanks to you. Now why don't you…"

  Mike gave a kind of spasm. A shot rang out and gravel flew up from the path at Anna-Grace's feet. Martin and Claudia flinched. Anna-Grace ignored it.

  Mike hunched over the smoking gun, gripping it tight with both hands, his face sweaty, eyes bulging. "I said stay back!" he said through gritted teeth.

  "Jesus, Martin!" Claudia clutched his arm and tried to pull him back. "Don't be a hero!"

  "I don't think he's entirely in control of himself," Martin said, stepping back. "Watch."

  Mike glared at them for a few moments. When they made no further move toward him, he bent over the woodpile again. His movements seemed jerky and his face twitched.

  Anna-Grace walked forward again with measured step and he stood up to face her, gun leveled.

  "You would shoot your own cousin?" she asked in a cool voice.

  "What?" He glared up at her.

  As she spoke, her features flowed and settled into those of a highly confused Carla.

  Mike stood up straight and stared at her. "What kind of shit is this? How the hell did you do that?"

  Carla's glazed eyes focused on the gun and she gave a little scream, stepping back hurriedly.

  "Carla is my direct descendent," came Anna-Grace's disembodied voice. "As you are the illegitimate descendant of my uncle, James Cloverdale!"

  Mike jerked and twitched. He stared around wildly. "Who are you calling a bastard? Where are you?"

  "Here."

  A hazy female outline appeared to Mike's left, away from the direct line of fire to Martin and Claudia. He fired, the gun-flash bright in the darkening sky.

  "Stop, you fool!" came another disembodied voice, a man's in familiar tones. "She's provoking you!"

  "Or am I here?"

  He fired again, his eyes bulging more than ever, hand trembling violently.

  "Or perhaps here?"

  "Stop, damn you!"

  Mike fired again, his arm jerking as if he struggled with an unseen opponent.

  "No, here I am."

  Click. The hammer fell on an empty chamber. Mike stared down at the gun in disbelief, just as a thick baulk of timber slammed into the back of his head.

  Carla dropped the wood and stared down at the recumbent form of the ex-cop. She pressed her hands to her face and tears began to trickle silently down her cheeks. "I've killed him!" she moaned, as Martin hurried over to kneel by the prone figure.

  "No, he'll live," he replied, moving Mike into the recovery position. "He must have a thick skull."

  Glancing at the pistol which lay nearby, he fished a pen from his pocket and slipped it through the trigger-guard, using it to lift the weapon out of Mike's reach.

  Standing up, he glanced around, and let his perceptions shift.

  Anna-Grace Palmer faced James Cloverdale across a few feet of gravel path and several decades of history. Bitter defeat and anger twisted the man's face, as his niece stared at him with disgust.

  "You have lost, sir," she said with quiet dignity. "Now leave my family in peace!"

  "You Yankee bitch!" he spat at her. "Why should I? My family suffered because of my so-called brother's treachery! I'm going to see yours suffer too!"

  "Why should you?" Martin asked quietly. James Cloverdale spun to face him, his fists clenched, mouth opening in surprise at the intervention. "After all, have you asked your family what they think?"

  "My family?" The spirit glared at him, confusion etched on his features.

  Martin concentrated. "Think of them," he said. "Think of how they were when you were all younger, before the war drove you apart. Before the bitterness and the hatred spoiled everything."

  To Martin's right, a number of figures began to emerge as if from a mist. As the foremost drew near, they took the forms of Joseph and Claire Cloverdale, Joseph in his uniform, Claire in the elegant lady's attire of their age. Anna-Grace gave a little sigh and reached out her hand. "Mother? Father?" she called softly.

  Joseph drew her into his arms, as Claire pressed close to both of them, her cheeks wet with tears. "Anna-Grace!" She sighed, caressing her daughter's hair. "I've longed for this moment so much!"

  Behind them was an older man, a stern, patriarchal figure with a splendid set of graying whiskers. He wore the gray uniform of the Confederacy, the gold braid about his cuffs denoting Colonel's rank. Martin saw he shared certain characteristics with both of the other men, a fact more clearly seen when he approached James.

  James stared at the man. "Father!"

  The older man stopped before him, his sorrowful gaze fixed on his son's face. "My boy, why do you harbor this hatred in your soul?" he asked him gently. "Your family has missed you these long years. Only that bitterness inside you
has kept you from reuniting with us."

  "But, Father!" James protested. "Our honor deserves to be upheld! What my brother did…"

  "…was to save lives!" Joshua Cloverdale shook his head sadly. "Lives placed in jeopardy by your actions! Oh, my boy, how could you?"

  "They are our enemies, Father!" James cried, raising his fists in exasperation. "I had to strike at them for what they did to the South!"

  The old man drew himself up to his full height and glared sternly at his errant child. "Son, I was a soldier; an officer! I faced Union soldiers in open battle, took my chances along with every other man at Fredericksburg that day. But I never, ever contemplated killing innocents, that I do assure you!" His expression softened and he placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "In my heart, I know you never really intended to harm others. Did you?"

  James raised his fists. "I did, damn it! I am angry at Joseph for betraying our cause, angry at his placing Mother's necklace around the neck of his whore." He glared at his brother, who stood with his arm around the daughter he had never met in life. "You are a traitor, Joseph! Joseph? Hah! You should rightly be called Judas for what you did to your homeland!"

  "My homeland was the United States of America, James," Joseph replied in a low, angry voice. "United, do you hear?" He waved his free arm, his other tightly clasped around his daughter. "Lift up your eyes from your hatred, brother, and see what our nation became in all the years after us! Do you think our descendants would ever have achieved anything like the glories they did if we had been a nation divided?"

  "We were all of us human, my boy," Joshua said sadly. "Weak of flesh, and spirit. Yet you always were strong willed." He looked at James with deep compassion etched on his handsome features. "I hoped great things would come of your life."

  James sneered. Martin could feel the power surging in the spirit and stepped closer to Claudia.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  "It's a face-off," he said. "James is getting nasty. Carla, get behind me, quickly!"

  Carla, looking completely baffled, did as she was told. Quietly, Martin began to gather his own energy, letting it build slowly, unobtrusively.