Carlene Thompson

by Black for Remembrance (epub)

  "When did you leave here?"

  "About five o'clock day before yesterday. I got back dis morning."

  "Can you give me the name of someone who will vouch for you?"

  "Certainly. My cousin." Fidelia went to the telephone, picked up a small address book, and began copying information on an index card. She handed it to Tom. "Name, address, phone number."

  "Thanks."

  "You know, no one but Caroline and I believes someting other dan a person is behind all de terrible tings happening."

  Tom put the index card in his pocket and looked at her closely. "Something other than a person. Do you mean a ghost?" Fidelia lifted one shoulder and said nothing. "I don't think Caroline believes a ghost is responsible."

  "Maybe she don't admit it, but dat is what she believes."

  "Has she received any encouragement in that belief?"

  Fidelia smiled. "You mean, am I trying to convert her to voodooism? No. But she did ask me if I believe in ghosts and I said yes."

  "You think spirits of the dead come back?"

  "Yes."

  Tom looked at her coolly. "Don't you think believing in ghosts or spirits returning is a little unusual?"

  "Where I come from, no it is not. But I suppose you do."

  "I've never seen a ghost, Miss Barnabas."

  "Have you ever seen an idea?"

  Tom's mouth quirked. "Touché. But I really didn't come here to discuss the supernatural. Can you prove you didn't damage Melinda's room?"

  "No. I have no alibi. I was home alone. Packing for my trip. But you're welcome to look me over for cuts."

  "Cuts?"

  "I would have had to cut myself to get blood for de message on de mirror. What type was it?"

  "O-positive."

  "I am A-positive. But I'll be happy to let you check if you don't believe me. Of course, I could have kept a container of someone else's blood in my purse all day, hoping Caroline would leave—she can tell you I didn't know she was going to Melinda's school until I got dere dat morning. And certainly I wouldn't expect anyone to suspect me even dough I was alone in de house."

  "Okay, okay," Tom said. "A little far-fetched, I admit. Still, if your alibi doesn't check out, I will want that blood typed. And I also need your fingerprints to compare with prints found in Melinda's room. We turned up five sets. Four belonged to the family."

  "And de last is mine. But of course I'll submit to any tests you want. I have noting to fear." Fidelia, still standing, looked at him calmly. "You said a couple of tings had happened to de Webbs. Someting must have happened yesterday or you wouldn't want to check wit my cousin. What is it?"

  "David Webb was shot last night"

  This time color came and went in Fidelia's light-brown skin. "Mon Dieu! Is he dead?"

  "No. He was shot in the thigh and the damage was mostly to the muscle. He should be fine."

  "What luck!" Fidelia breathed.

  "He was shot in the parking lot behind his office. The bullet was from a .22-caliber Beretta, and ballistics shows it was the same gun used on Caroline's ex-husband, Chris Corday. Before he was shot, David thinks he heard someone say, 'There he is' in a little girl's voice."

  Fidelia closed her eyes. "I was wrong. I fought Melinda was de focus of de evil, but it's touching de whole family." Her hands clenched in her lap. "Dat family is in great danger. We have to help dem."

  "I advised them to get out of town, and they were going until David got hurt. Caroline won't leave until she's certain he's all right, and of course David can't go anywhere for a few days. He lost a lot of blood."

  "Dey can't escape evil of dis level by leaving town."

  "Do you mean supernatural evil?"

  Fidelia lowered her head, rubbing a hand lightly across her forehead as if trying to clear her thoughts. "I'm not sure. I'm not a psychic, Mr. Jerome. My mama was. She was what in de voodoo religion is called a mambo, a female priest, healer, and protector against sorcery or witchcraft. She understood dese tings much better dan I do and she tried to teach me. My papa, who had been raised a Baptist, didn't approve. Maybe dat's why I didn't learn as I should have. But I still have feelings about de presence of evil, about how de evil is working."

  Tom wasn't sure he believed her, but something in him wanted to. Wasn't she describing what he experienced so many times in homicide cases and labeled "hunches"? "What do your feelings tell you now?" he asked, a little embarrassed by the question.

  "Dey tell me dat whoever, or whatever, is plaguing de Webbs isn't satisfied,"

  "What does he it want?"

  Fidelia took a deep breath. "Revenge. And Melinda."

  Tina hugged her sweater closer around her as she stood at the open storeroom doors, nervously watching the movers unload a huge antique tester bed. One of the men stumbled on the truck ramp and Tina gasped, ashamed of herself for being more worried about the bed than the man.

  "Just take it slow and easy," she said.

  "We know our job," the one who'd turned his ankle snapped.

  "I'm sorry. It's just that this piece is so valuable."

  "Yeah, yeah. You could probably feed a kid for a year on what this old bed costs. Hell, two kids. My two kids." They were off the ramp and entering the storeroom. "So where d'ya want this 'valuable piece'?" He looked at his partner, who snickered at the high humor.

  "Over to the right by the wall."

  "Clear over there?"

  "Yes, clear over there. Please."

  "Hell."

  They staggered through the storeroom, twice bumping into other pieces of furniture. "Be careful," Tina wailed.

  "So you wanna carry this yourself or what?"

  "No. I just want you to watch where you're going."

  "Yeah, yeah. We know what we're doing."

  But as they neared the wall, the bed listed dangerously to one side. Trying to right it, they completely lost control. The men grunted, the loud one cursed furiously, and both bed and men lurched toward the north end of the wall, crashing into two tall stacks of crates. Tina shrieked as with a tremendous cracking of wood the bed crashed onto the concrete floor. The men collapsed, the staked crates raining down on them and bursting open. Tina rushed forward. "Are you all right?"

  The quiet one was already on his feet, but the loud one was flailing in the debris like a man trapped in quicksand. "I'm suing!" he shouted.

  Tina grabbed his arm and pulled him up. "I told you to be careful."

  "Big damn deal. I've got a concussion. Hell, I've got brain damage."

  "You had that before you got here."

  The man glared and Tina knew she'd blundered. Now was not the time for sarcasm. And he did have a grand bump raising on his high forehead. "I'm sorry, really. Is anything broken?"

  The doors to the showroom burst open and Lucy ran into the room. "What in the name of God…?"

  "They dropped the bed."

  "The bed! They dropped the bed?"

  The loud one was smoothing down his curly hair, which looked as if it had not come in contact with shampoo for at least a week. "What about me? Huh, lady? What about me and Hal here? Any concern for us? Hell no, all you care about is some old relic."

  Lucy stalked toward them. "How could you have done this?"

  "Easy." He looked at his partner. "C'mon, Hal. We're goin' to the hospital." He gave Lucy a murderous look. "And you'll be hearing from my lawyer."

  "And you'll be hearing from mine!" Lucy shouted back as the two trailed out of the storeroom.

  Tina looked with despair at the bed lying on its side amid the pile of broken crates, which held so many of Lucy's personal belongings and old paintings, things she didn't have room for at the condo. There was no way to determine how much damage had been done to the bed until the mess was cleared away.

  "Do you know how much that bed cost?" Lucy cried.

  "Yes. I also know it's insured. Don't go to pieces."

  "Money can't replace that bed. The workmanship. The sheer age of the thing."

 
She looked like she was going to cry. "Lucy, it may not be as bad as it seems." She bent to pick up an old photograph album. "Let's just get all this stuff out of the way."

  "I'll clean it up."

  "It'll take you forever alone."

  "Tina, go back out front," Lucy said sharply. "I'll take care…"

  Tina knelt and, shoving aside a canvas, picked up a battered clown doll. She stared at it for a long, still moment. Then she turned slowly to face Lucy.

  It was midnight. The evening had been quiet at Sunnyhill Nursing Home, but the quiet was always short-lived. Garrison Longworth laid aside his worn copy of Portrait of a Lady, removed his reading glasses, and sighed as he heard that woman down the hall, the one they called Blanche, start her nightly tirade. It always began with sweet importunings for her daughter Rose to read to her. A nurse had told Garrison Rose died in a car wreck over fifty years ago, but as with so many senile people, the distant past was more real to Blanche than the present, and in her memory Rose still lived. Soon the importunings would become more strident. Then Blanche would begin cursing, move on to screaming, and finally she would have to be restrained and sedated. Always the same, Garrison thought. So distressing. And so loud. Would he have to listen to this woman's torment until the end of his days?

  Resignedly he tossed back the covers and tottered on stick legs to his bathroom. The bathroom was a joy to him, modern and pristine, not like the facilities at home, which had been hopelessly outdated. Home. His eyes misted over. Home was nothing more than a pile of rubble now. And Millicent had gone up in flames with it.

  He flushed the commode, bared his teeth to the mirror to make sure they didn't need a second flossing, then flipped off the light and crept back to his room. There wasn't much moon tonight and he was glad the night-light burned steadily by the bed. He was afraid of the dark, but the nurses wouldn't let him keep on the overhead light all night. Every time they caught him asleep, they turned it off and he woke up in terror.

  Blanche down the hall was now shouting. "Goddamn it, Rose, I said I wanted a story! Mildred Pierce. I want to hear Mildred Pierce and you're going to read it to me, not go off with that boy to screw in the bushes!"

  Good lord, Garrison thought. Not only did the woman have a foul mouth, but common tastes as well. Mildred Pierce! What an appalling choice of reading matter.

  "Hi, Garrison."

  Garrison felt as if he were plummeting down a tunnel toward the very depths of hell. Wind roared in his ears. Something seemed to growl nearby. He stood frozen.

  "Aren't you going to say hello to me?"

  He could not turn around. He could not face the atrocity he knew stood behind him. He uttered a feeble cry, but his door was shut and Blanche down the hall had already begun to scream. No one could hear him.

  "You knew I was coming to see you, didn't you?"

  How sweet her voice was. How sweet and relentless. And yes, he had known she was coming, ever since Harry Vinton told him Caroline Corday had been receiving calls from a child named Hayley. That's when he'd had the heart attack. And then Millicent had been murdered. Yes, he'd known she was coming.

  A rope slipped around his stringy neck and pulled tight, letting in just enough air to allow him to breathe. "You were supposed to be a good man, Garrison. You said you were a good man. But good men don't do what you did."

  Garrison struggled for breath against the rope. Suddenly he could hear his father intoning Bible verses just like he did before every meal, and then he realized it was he who was talking, not Father:

  "And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth."

  "Hayley's a beast of the earth now. That's what you made her. She didn't have to be. She had a mommy and a daddy who loved her. She was going to first grade. But you took her. And you hid her. And you did things to her. Bad things. Things an old man shouldn't do to a little girl. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

  Ashamed? Was he ashamed? It didn't seem he should be. But other people, people who didn't understand, they might think so. And Father might think so. Father.

  "And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever."

  "You're going to be tormented. Even after I get through with you you're going to be tormented. All this time nobody knew. They all thought you were in Italy with your wife. Nobody knew you came home because you were crazy and she left you. Millicent kept you hidden and nobody knew, nobody except Harry Vinton. He found out, didn't he? But he didn't tell anyone except Millicent so she'd give him money. Isn't that right? And Millicent never told on you." The rope jerked, nearly pulling Garrison off his feet. "And I never told on you."

  Down the hall Blanche was shrieking, "Goddamn it to hell, I want a story! Not a shot! I don't want any goddamn shot!"

  Garrison closed his eyes. Only God could save him now. Only God could stop this misguided one who didn't understand him. "

  "And the third angel poured out his vial upon the rivers and fountains of water; and they became blood."

  "Stop it!" the voice hissed. "Stop saying that stuff! I can't stand it anymore. Talk. Say you're sorry. Say it!"

  "You don't understand," Garrison quavered. "You never tried to understand." He started to cry.

  "You're a murderer. You murdered Hayley."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Murderer!"

  "I am he that liveth and was dead…"

  "Just like Hayley, Garrison. She that liveth and was dead."

  "…and, behold, I am alive forevermore…"

  A pain shot down Garrison's left arm. A fiery, paralyzing pain. He gasped before his eyes fluttered and he sagged, held up only by the rope around his neck.

  Down the hall Blanche was subsiding, crooning, "Sweet little Rosie. My sweet little girl. My good little girl."

  "Garrison. Garrison!"

  The rope was released and Garrison fell forward onto his face. A scream of childish rage filled the room.

  An exhausted nurse coming back from Blanche's room had heard the unfamiliar voice and was pushing on Mr. Longworth's door, but it wouldn't open. None of the room doors had locks. It had been jammed shut.

  "Mr. Longworth," she called. "Mr. Longworth!" Nothing. She ran down the hall calling "Joe!" until the large orderly appeared. "Longworth's jammed his door shut with something. If you can't push it open, we'll have to break out his window."

  But when they reached the room, the door opened easily. The nurse stepped in and turned on the overhead light. For a moment she was rigid. Then, like someone in slow motion, she sank to the floor in a faint. The orderly ignored her, mesmerized by the sight of Garrison Longworth's fragile body crumpled on the floor with a rope around its neck. Beside him rested a bouquet of black orchids whose petals fluttered in the cold wind coming through the open window.

  Chapter 17

  BUT, MOMMY, WE want to go to school."

  Caroline looked at Melinda and Greg in disbelief. "I never thought I'd see the day when I had to talk you into staying home."

  "But this house is haunted," Melinda explained. "We're scared here."

  Greg was tossing an apple from hand to hand. "I'm not scared. I just think I ought to go to school today."

  Caroline studied them. Well, the house had been broken into twice and now they knew someone was stalking the family. No wonder they were afraid to spend time in a place where someone left messages written in blood on the mirror.

  "I'll tell you what—you two go on to school," Caroline said. "You might actually be safer there surrounded by people than you would be here. This evening we'll go to a hotel."

  "The big one downtown with the indoor swimming pool?" Melinda asked excitedly.

  "Sure."

  "But what about George?"
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br />   "I'm afraid he'll have to be boarded at the vet's for a few days. But they're very good to him. He won't mind."

  The kids looked slightly cheered as they left for school, and Caroline had to admit she felt great relief at the thought of getting out of the house, even if they were only going a few miles away.

  She made three calls, one to reserve a couple of rooms at the Carlyle Hotel, one to the vet reserving space for George, and one to Fidelia. Then she went upstairs to pack, this time for a short stay at the Carlyle. At ten o'clock she dressed to visit David.

  She was supposed to tell the policeman watching the house wherever she was going, and he insisted on driving her to the hospital. "I'm here to protect you, not the house," he said. "We don't want you getting shot like your husband did."

  David was propped up in bed watching a morning talk show when she arrived. "How're you feeling, honey?" she asked, thinking he didn't look as ghastly pale as he had last night.

  "On the mend." He clicked off the television. "Do they always have bizarre topics on these talk shows?"

  Caroline smiled. "Yes. They're quite an education."

  "Tom called this morning and told me about the bullet they found in my leg. Looks like Chris and I got nailed by the same nut."

  "It seems so. I guess you still don't remember seeing anything?"

  David shook his head. "No. Whoever it was kept herself hidden in the trees. If the wind hadn't been just right, I probably wouldn't have heard the voice."

  "You're sure it was a child's?"

  "It sounded like a child's voice, but it couldn't have been. Not a young one, that is."

  "I see." She glanced over at the roses the kids had brought last night. "Melinda is going to call you when she gets home from school," she said.

  "Don't you mean right after Guiding Light?"

  "I didn't know you knew which soap opera she liked!"

  "Caroline, I don't live in a total fog. She talks about it all the time." He reached out and touched her hand. "But considering how much time I spend away from you and the kids, I'm not surprised you think I don't know anything about our home life."