John Manning - The Killing Room

“Whose voice?”

“Ryan didn’t know. But it was not a man’s voice.”

“So Beatrice.”

Carolyn sighed. “I suppose.”

“It makes sense. You said that Clem was in love with her. Now she wants revenge on the family, so she’s using the spirit of a man who, even now, would still do anything for her.”

Carolyn shook her head. “But why would Beatrice want revenge on the family? The Youngs were good to her.”

“As far as we know,” Diana said. “But might there be something lost to history? Something she blames the family for?”

“Possibly the loss of her baby,” Carolyn said. “Apparently Desmond Young gave the baby away after Beatrice’s death. Maybe the new parents didn’t prove to be good caretakers, because I suspect the baby died soon afterward. Some in the family have reported seeing a ghostly baby over the years. So perhaps Beatrice blames the Youngs for not taking care of her baby, for not finding it a good home.”

“I assume this baby, what you keep referring to as ‘it,’ had a gender?”

Carolyn sighed. “I’m sure it did, but I don’t know if it was a boy or a girl. Old Harry Noons, the man on Kip’s tape, never said, and there are no records of the baby at all at the Youngsport town hall or in the newspapers at the time. I know this is true. I checked and rechecked before I left.”

“Well, it’s a theory, anyway,” Diana agreed. “A mother’s love can be a strong, enduring force. But until you make contact with Beatrice, you can’t be sure of why or who or what or when.”

“I know.” Carolyn smiled “So can you help me?”

“I suppose it could make a good book,” Diana said, her eyes twinkling.

Carolyn beamed. “Thank you. I’m heading back up to Maine the day after tomorrow. Mr. Young is sending a chartered plane. I’ll tell him we’ll have an additional passenger.”

“Well, I don’t take up a lot of room,” Diana said with a wink. “Actually, though, you should make that two additional passengers. Fraulein Schmitz would be very aggrieved if I didn’t take her.”

Almost as if on cue, the door opened, and a stocky, broad-shouldered, white-haired woman in her seventies huffed inside carrying two brown paper bags of groceries. Huldah Schmitz was Diana’s German-born nurse and companion, hired years ago by Diana’s mother and at her side fiercely ever since. Huldah was a tough woman of few words, but she made sure that Diana’s meals were made and baths were taken and doctors’ appointments were kept. Diana could do many things on her own-her disability had never kept her down-but Huldah was there to handle those occasional things that proved too much even for Diana’s ingenuity. Carolyn had met her when she’d worked with Diana before. She liked her, even if Huldah’s most frequent reply to a question was a grunt.

“We’re going to Maine,” Diana called over to her as the nurse began putting groceries away in the kitchen. If there was a reply, even a grunt, they didn’t hear it.

“Hello, Huldah,” Carolyn called, standing. She reached into her bag and withdrew a folder, placing it on the chaise next to Diana. “Here are some photocopies of some of the reports from previous investigators. There are also photographs of the room, of the house, of the cliffs. We can talk more on the flight up to Maine.”

“Sounds good,” Diana said.

“Rack your brain,” Carolyn said. “See if there’s anything we can do to protect the family in case we aren’t successful with persuading the ghosts to back off.”

“If you go in with doubts about your mission, sweetie, then you’re doomed to fail.”

Carolyn sighed. “I just worry that we’re simply repeating steps Kip already took. They thought they had succeeded. Beatrice was free. But still the killing took place.”

“She may have been free,” Diana said, as Huldah came into the room with a specially designed prop that she set on the disabled woman’s chest. “But whatever keeps her wandering between worlds was not addressed. The reason for her grief was not assuaged.” Twisting her torso, she grabbed the folder Carolyn had placed beside her with her teeth, maneuvering it onto the prop Huldah had placed on her chest. Again using her teeth, she opened the folder and glanced down at the first page. “I’ll start reading right away, sweetie. I promise you I’ll think of whatever I can.”

“Thank you,” Carolyn said, stooping down to kiss her on the forehead.

“We’ll do our best to save your young man,” Diana said. “It would be nice if you could finally move beyond the past and forget that horrible experience.”

Carolyn just smiled. Diana knew all about David Cooke. Some of it Carolyn had shared; some of it Diana had picked up, without even trying too hard to read Carolyn’s mind.

She said good-bye to Huldah, who gave her a grunt that seemed a little cheerier than usual. Maybe she was looking forward to taking a trip. Carolyn let herself out of the apartment and headed back down the crooked staircase into the gathering purple evening of the city.

The meeting with Diana had gone well. It should have made her optimistic. But suddenly the sounds and the hustle-bustle of the city no longer felt comforting to Carolyn. Making her way back across town, she couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled over her. She felt cold, shaky, even though the night was warm. She felt as if strangers were looking at her, their sharp eyes burning holes into her face. A bus backfired, and Carolyn jumped, letting out a small cry. This is crazy, she thought. Why am I so jittery all of a sudden?

Heading down into the subway, she had the distinct sense that someone was watching her. Following her. She looked up and down the platform, but saw no one overtly suspect. But she distrusted everyone. The man with the backpack and the shifty eyes. The woman carrying the Macy’s shopping bag. The lanky teenager with the sagging jeans and exposed checkered underwear. The heavyset man with the red splotches on his face. The girl with the iPod plugged into her ears.

Getting onto the train, Carolyn clung tightly to the bar. Her heart was racing. Why am I suddenly so frightened?

The train lurched and began to move, twisting its way along the underground tracks. Someone was on the train who wanted to kill her. Suddenly she knew that as clearly as anything she’d ever known in her life. She was being stalked. She was the prey, and the killer had her in his sights.

Or her sights.

Or its sights.

The entire subway trip was a nightmare of nerves and terror. Every person who pressed against her caused her to recoil. Her hands had broken out into clammy sweat. When she finally reached her destination, she walked quickly out into the night, hoping the sights and sounds of her neighborhood would reassure her. They did not. Walking past the convenience store just a few doors down from her apartment, she decided to pop inside for a moment, hoping some of her usual banter with the clerk, an Indian man with kind eyes, would calm her nerves. But to her dismay, there was a different clerk behind the counter this night, a hard-eyed man who frowned when she looked over at him. Outside she noticed a figure pause outside the store window. The darkness precluded her from getting a look at the figure’s face. Was this who was stalking her?

Stop it, Carolyn, she scolded herself. You are letting your fears run away with all sense and reason.

This had never happened before. She had been frightened at times. The night seeing George Grant on the pier had been one of those times; the bloody message on the wall in that basement room in Mr. Young’s house had occasioned another. But never had she been paranoid. Never had she felt an irrational sense of danger.