by Roy Johansen
Joe stared at her, expressionless.
She smiled. “Fine, don't tell me. You …you repairedyour car. That's what you did, and I think you may have saved your life.”
“Is that all?”
“For now.”
Joe nodded. “Well, I did have words with my daughter. She wants to see some band with her friends in Midtown this weekend, and I told her no way. I know she's still upset about it. And I did have new brake shoes put on my 4-Runner a couple weeks ago.”
Monica used her napkin to wipe the corners of her mouth. “Of course, you still don't believe I have any special abilities. You think I'm spying on you, or maybe bugging your house?”
Joe shrugged.”Maybe.”
“Do you have any proof of that?”
“No, and I probably won't, since I'm not doing a full-fledged investigation of you. Our focus is on the murders.”
Howe was still dazed.”Jesus, I didn't tell anybodyI was going to propose to Regina.”He cocked an eye at Monica. “I don't suppose you can tell me if she's gonna accept, can you?”
“I hope you impressed them, Monica.”
Monica turned from the sidewalk newsstand and glared at Derek Haddenfield. The bastard. She'd left her hotel room to avoid another visit from him, but he'd found her anyway. There was no getting away from this guy; it was now a quarter past nine and, for all she knew, he'd been watching her all day.
“They were plenty impressed, Haddenfield. Are you doubting me now?”
“Of course not. I have the utmost faith in you and your abilities.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Just checking in on you, making sure that you haven't lost sight of the objective.”
“I haven't lost sight of anything. You don't need to worry about me.”
“I amworried. I thought you'd be on a plane back to Vancouver by now.”
“I'm not ready yet. You can't rush psychic abilities, you know.”
He sighed.”Oh Lord.”
“If you don't like it, just leave. I'll take care of things here.”
“No, I understand. You must follow your instincts. As long as you remember why we're here.”He cocked his head toward the hotel behind her. “You can invite me up, you know.”
“I'll pass on that.”She turned and walked toward the hotel's main entrance. “Lay off on the unannounced visits to my room. If you want to talk to me, my telephone works just fine.”
“It's not as secure.”
“Good night, Haddenfield.”
Monica felt his eyes on her as she entered her hotel and walked across the spacious lobby. Damn him. And damn her for agreeing to this crazy scheme.
He'd practically begged her to come to Atlanta and let his team study her in the field. It would be good for everyone, he promised—him, her, and their entire cause.
Their cause. He'd said it like it was some kind of goddamned crusade, like it was her duty to convert the world to their way of thinking.
What the hell was she doing here?
She took the elevator up, entered her room, and headed straight for the minibar. They'd restocked the rum. Good. She needed it.
She ran a hot bath as she called in for her messages. Just the usual crap. Guests needing to be rescheduled, requests for charity dinners, and a stack of audition tapes waiting for her perusal back in her office. The syndicator wanted a hip young “special correspondent”to host remote segments, so they were on the lookout for some young stud to appeal to the eighteen-to-forty-nine-year-old women whom advertisers coveted so much.
She tossed her cell phone onto the bathroom counter. Screw them all. She peeled off her clothes and lowered herself into the bathwater, trying to imagine all of her tensions floating from her body. It usually worked, but tonight she couldn't stop thinking about—
“Monica…”
She froze. A sharp, eerie whisper from the other side of the bathroom. Surely she had only imagined it.
“Monica…”
She stood, clutching the plastic shower curtain across her torso.
“We've come for you, Monica.”
She glanced around but saw no one.
“Your time has come.”Thevoice appeared to emanate from the bathroom counter.
She huddled against the wall. The tiles were cold against her back.”What the hell do you want?”
There was a pause, then a long-drawn-out whisper, “We've come for you.”
Her tears fell hot against her cheeks. What in the hell was going on?
Still gripping the shower curtain, she stepped from the tub. One foot, then the other. Her heart was trying to jump out of her chest.
She didn't breathe as she stepped across the bathroom, bracing herself for that awful, slithering whisper. She moved past the washbasin, almost afraid to look toward the mirror. She glanced up in spite of herself.
She gasped. This couldn't be happening.
There, on her chest, was the circle-intersecting-bars symbol that had marked the murder victims.
She rubbed it with her fingertips, but it wouldn't go away.
Oh, Jesus. Get out, she told herself. Just get the hell out of there.
She hurried from the bathroom, reached into the closet, and pulled out her robe. She yanked it on.
“Die, Monica….”
She screamed and jumped for the door. She turned the knob and pulled.
The chain. The goddamned security chain. She fumbled with it as the whispers grew louder and more intense.
“Monica…Die with us, Monica….”
She pulled the chain free and yanked the door open wide. She stumbled into the hallway.”Leave me alone! Leave me the hell alone!”
“We're coming for you, Monica.”
“No!”
Her screams drew other hotel guests from their rooms behind her, but she couldn't stop. Not while that…thingwas after her.
The glass elevators loomed ahead, but she couldn't stop and wait for the car. Must keep moving. She reached the stairwell door and reached for the handle.
In the next instant, there was a sickening roar and flames erupted over her entire body.
“Die with us, Monica….”
Fire everywhere. Not everywhere, she realized. Just on her. White-hot flames attacking her, rolling over her legs and chest, licking at her neck and hair.
Pain. Agony.
It was as if the fires of hell had come for her.
Joe stepped off the musty elevator and paced down the hallway toward Grady Memorial Hospital's intensive care unit. Carla and Howe were waiting at the nurses'station.
“What the hell happened?”Joe asked.
Howe shrugged. “We're about to find out. All we know is that Monica Gaines made like a human torch in front of about half a dozen witnesses at her hotel.”
“I got that much from the precinct,”Joe said. “Any idea how it happened?”
Carla shook her head. “I just talked to a uniformed cop on the scene, and according to the witnesses, she was running down the hall, screaming. Then, a few seconds later, she just ignited. It was like spontaneous combustion.”
Before Joe could respond, a doctor with silver hair and round-shaped eyeglasses strode through a doorway. Howe was on him immediately.”How is she?”
The doctor took off his spectacles and wiped them on his green scrub shirt. “It's very serious. She has first- and second-degree burns over twenty-five to thirty percent of her body. She was in shock from fluid loss when they brought her in. We have her stabilized right now, but she still may not survive.”
“I guess talking to her is out of the question,”Carla said.
“Actually, she wants to talk to you.”
“She's conscious?”Carla asked.
“Heavily medicated, but awake.”
“Isn't that a good sign?”
“Not necessarily. Her real problems could begin in a few days, when infection sets in. Her body may not be able to fight it, and if that happens, her organs will shut down.”
“And there's nothing you can do to help fight the infection?”Joe asked.
“To helpfight, yes. But that's all.”
Joe nodded.”Take us to her.”
The doctor led them through the double doors to the intensive care unit. As they walked through the wide hallways, the hospital smells almost made Joe sick to his stomach. They reminded him of Angela's awful final weeks.
Let it go. At least for now.
They followed the doctor into a dim, single-bed ICU. Monica's face was red and swollen, and her delicate features were puffed beyond all recognition. Her arms and midsection were heavily bandaged.
Joe clenched his jaw. Only hours before, she'd been so full of life. Shit.
She whispered something. Joe leaned closer to hear.”What is it?”
She whispered again.”Pretty, ain't I?”
Joe managed a smile. “How did this happen, Monica?”
She stared at the ceiling. “They—they came for me.”
“Who did?”Carla asked softly.
“The spirits. The ones who killed the others.”
“You saw them?”Joe asked.
“I heard them. Voices in my room, terrible voices. I ran, but they caught me.”Joe could see tears welling in the thin slits of her eyes. “They burned me.”
“How did the fire start?”Joe asked.
“I don't know. It happened all at once, all over me. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't—”She sobbed, and an alarm went off from the pulse-oxygen monitor.
The doctor stepped forward and reset the alarm. “Relax, Monica. Just relax.”He stared at the monitor until he was satisfied that the readings had stabilized. He turned toward the detectives.”Sorry, but I have to cut this short. You can come back later.”
“Poof, just like that. She lit up like a Roman candle.” Jerry Tillinger shook his head. He and his wife, Emily, stood in the hallway outside their room, staring at the spot where Monica had caught fire. They were well into their eighties, and they seemed to be competing with each other to tell Joe, Howe, and Carla their version of the event.
“Did you see a spark or anything that precipitated the fire?”Joe asked.
“Not at all,”Jerry said. He wore thick black-framed eyeglasses and a white goatee that reminded Joe of Colonel Sanders. “We had no warning. One second she was yelling and carrying on, the next she was burning up.”
“Everybody was just standing around, doing a fat lot of nothing.”Emily turned proudly toward her husband. “But not Jerry here. He whipped off his coat, threw it around the woman, and tackled her. He probably saved Miss Gaines's life.”
“I'm sure he did,”Carla said.
Jerry smiled modestly. “I was on an aircraft carrier in the navy. I saw how the fire crew worked.”
Joe retraced the steps from Monica's room to the place in front of the stairwell. The carpet was singed from the blaze. “Did you see anyone else around here?”
Jerry shook his head.”Nope, just the people who'd come out of their rooms to see what the ruckus was about. I'd say there was nobody within twenty feet of her.”
The elevator chime sounded and the doors slid open. A portly, thirtyish man with a thick mustache stepped through the door. “Atlanta PD?”he asked.
Joe flashed his badge.”You got it. And you are?”
The man flashed his own ID.”Ed Bonafas, director of hotel security. I'm an ex-cop.”
“Where?”Howe asked.
“In Charleston. I'm just doing this until something opens up around here.”
“Something will open up, don't worry,”Howe said. “Catch me on the right day, and I'll give you my job.”
Joe cocked his head toward a ceiling-mount security camera aimed in the direction of the elevators. “Please tell me that thing was working.”
“That thing was working,”Bonafas assured him. “That's why I'm up here. Wanna see a show?”
Joe, Howe, and Carla followed him to the plush first-floor security offices, where a monitor rested at the end of a long conference table. Bonafas pressed the remote, and a black-and-white image flickered on the monitor.
“Jeez,”Howe said. “You guys spend a fortune on this office but can't kick in a few extra bucks for color cameras with decent resolution?”
“Priorities,”Bonafas muttered. “Do me a favor and repeat what you just said to the hotel manager, will you?”He pointed to the screen.”Look.”
The camera offered a clear view of the elevators and stairwell doors. Monica ran toward the camera, and although there was no audio, it was obvious that she was screaming. As she reached for the door handle, a flame suddenly ignited on her sleeve and mid-section. She stumbled backward, writhing and twisting until Jerry threw his overcoat around her and pulled her to the ground.
“Jesus,”Carla said. She turned to Joe. “Do you believe in spontaneous combustion?”
“No.”
“What are you talking about?”Howe said. “There are all kinds of documented cases of people burning up and their clothes aren't even singed.”
Joe shook his head. “Many of those victims happened to be smokers in poor health. It's probable they suffered a stroke or heart attack while holding a cigar or cigarette, which began a slow ignition of their bodies that took place over a period of several hours. The bodies would be consumed, while the clothing may only burn slightly. A few years ago, there was a study done with pig carcasses that bore this out.”
Howe grinned. “Your explanations for some of this stuff are freakier than if they were the real thing.”
Carla pointed toward the monitor. “This took only a few seconds.”
“And her clothes were burned too.”Joe took the remote control from Bonafas and scanned the picture back. He replayed the ignition one frame at a time. “Amazing. It looks like the fire erupted everywhere between one frame and the next, in just one-thirtieth of a second.”
“If that's not spontaneous, I don't know what is,”Bonafas said.
Joe put down the remote. “Do you know anything about the voices she said she heard?”
Bonafas shrugged. “Only that she was running from them.”
“Did anybody else hear them?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Has the room been disturbed since this happened?”
“No. I did a walk-through to make sure nobody was in there, but I didn't touch anything.”
“Good.”
Howe lifted his eyebrows.”Time for the spirit kit?”
Joe nodded.”You got it.”
Ten minutes later, Joe strode into Monica Gaines's hotel room, carrying the worn black leather case that he kept in his car trunk. Containing an odd assortment of high-tech test instruments, evidence-gathering tools, and ordinary household objects, his “spirit kit”came in handy whenever he investigated the scene of a sÉance or other paranormal activity. Someone at the station had once affixed a Ghost-busters “no ghosts”insignia on its side, and when the decal wore off, had even replaced it with another. Joe had no idea who the joker was, but he left on the sticker for his fellow officers'amusement.
He placed the kit on the bed, opened it, and pulled out a pair of electronic goggles as Bonafas walked into the room.
Joe switched on the goggles and put them on. “Are Howe and Carla talking to the other witnesses?”
Bonafas nodded, staring curiously at Joe's eyewear. “Yeah …I got 'em in the conference room downstairs. They all have pretty much the same story though.”
Joe glanced around the room until his eyes fixed on the far wall. He pointed. “I suppose there's a TV right about there in the room next door.”
Bonafas took a moment to orient himself, then nodded. “Yeah. Every room on this floor flip-flops the layout of the one next to it, like a mirror image. That'd put the TV about there. Are those some kind of X-ray glasses?”
“Infrared. It lets me view heat waves. I can see a slight bit of heat buildup on that wall, concentrated in a small area about four feet from the floor.”
&nbs
p; Bonafas whistled. “Wow. Those things aren't standard issue in Charleston.”
“Here neither, at least not in the Fraud Unit. I picked these up secondhand from an army surplus wholesaler.”
“You bought 'em yourself?”
“I do some freelance debunking work for a university parapsychology program, and that helps pay for some of this stuff.”Joe glanced around the room. “These glasses are amazingly handy during nighttime sÉances.”
“What are you looking for now?”
“If someone was in here, waiting for her awhile, it's possible though not likely there might still be some heat residue. Also, if there's some kind of electronic mechanism in place that transmitted the voice, this may find it.”
Bonafas watched as Joe surveyed the room with his glasses.”See anything?”
Joe turned toward the bathroom and stopped. “Wait. There's something in there.”
Bonafas drew a snub-nosed .38 from his shoulder holster.
Joe shook his head. “That's not necessary.”He pulled on a pair of plastic evidence gloves and walked into the bathroom, where he immediately saw that the heat source was the tub of now-lukewarm water. He turned toward the washbasin. Nothing unusual.
Bonafas holstered his .38.”Does she have fillings?”
“I don't know,”Joe said.”Why do you ask?”
“They say some people can pick up radio broadcasts with dental fillings. It sounds crazy, but maybe someone was transmitting to her.”
Joe took off the goggles. “There are anecdotal reports of that happening, but no one's been able to bring that about in any kind of controlled circumstances.”He paused at Monica's closet, where there was a stack of sketches on the upper shelf. He picked up the drawings and looked at them.
“What are those?”Bonafas asked.
“Sketches that Monica made. They're a lot like the ones she drew at the crime scenes, but these—”Joe studied them. “These are different.”
“Different?”
“These look more polished, and yet the backgrounds are all wrong. It's almost as if—”
“What?”
“Hmmm. I'll have to take these with me.”Joe put them on the bed. He picked up a pair of black plastic headphones, flipped a power switch, and adjusted the gain control.
Bonafas smiled broadly. “I used to wear a set of 'phones like that when I was a kid, stayin'up all night listening to Deep Purple.”