A Question of Ghosts (6 page)

“She strikes me as the independent and resourceful sort.” Jo tried to think of something rational but comforting. “Perhaps you’re overestimating how much she needs you.”

“For heaven’s sake, Joanne, everyone needs friends!” Becca sighed and turned to Jo. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bark at you. Come on, I’ll show you these rooms and you can set up your equipment, or whatever. I’d like to get out of here as soon as possible.”

Jo bit her lip. That would pose a problem. Becca hadn’t yet grasped the commitment necessary for this project.

The upstairs rooms struck Jo as generic and unpromising, at least compared to the rich acoustic potential of the lower level. She looked them over swiftly, then followed Becca to the stairs. For once, Becca was moving faster than she was, and a moment later Jo realized why.

“Chocolate,” Becca murmured, trotting down the stairs. The savory aroma was filling the house, and Jo’s mouth watered. Rachel backed her way out of the swinging kitchen door carrying a tin pan.

“In truth, I may not be able to eat these,” Rachel said, “but I can sit with you two and drool while you do.” She set the pan on a small table, straightened stiffly, and frowned at the brownies. “Oops, Rachel’s bad. I’ve forgotten the frosting.”

“No frosting on my brownies. That’s another sin to add to your torrid past.” Becca had regained her good spirits, or at least she was making a convincing show of it. She lifted the pan and headed for the kitchen. “Allow me.”

Rachel straightened, frowning. “Are you sure, Becca?”

“I’m sure I require frosting.” Becca hesitated a bare moment before she swung open the door to the kitchen, the room where her parents died. Then she walked through it.

Jo surveyed the space for the best placement of the Spiricom. She slid her pack off her shoulder and opened it.

“Becca tells me you have a degree in transpersonal psychology, Dr. Call.” Rachel lowered herself in stages into an armchair.

“That’s correct.” Jo freed the Spiricom from its protective foam casing and cradled it in her hands. It was a silver beauty from 1976, one of the first made. She had paid an exorbitant amount of money for it. Its design was rudimentary, given the tonal complexity of later models, but still her favorite. She’d had good luck with it.

“Did your studies include working with people with a history of trauma?”

“Most lives involve trauma, Dr. Perry, just as most death involves loss.” Jo positioned the Spiricom on a side table, switched it on, and adjusted its settings. “But if you’re asking if I have clinical counseling experience, the answer is no. My degree centered on research.”

“Then it’s possible you don’t realize the vulnerability of your current subject.” Rachel spoke politely, but her diction had grown more precise. “I don’t like Becca’s color, Dr. Call. She seems fragile to me. This focus on mysterious ghost messages has called up some very painful memories from her earliest childhood.”

“Yes, Becca has no end of defenders, warning me to handle her gently.” Jo wondered why she was being so peevish. The woman was only expressing concerns she shared herself. “Where is the radio in this room?”

“That’s the only radio I see.” Rachel gestured shortly. “I’m just asking you to proceed with caution. There’s no need to rush Becca through these experiments, or whatever you’re planning here. I’d like to see her have a few days of rest before you—ˮ

“Time might be of the essence, actually.” Jo looked around, not seeing whatever radio Rachel had flapped her hand at. “Becca’s mother may never speak again, or not for another twenty years. But if voices do manifest more than once, it’s likely the messages will be sent in close succession. Oh, my. Seriously?”

She felt a broad smile cross her face. Sitting on an end table was a small radio the size and shape of a tennis ball on steroids. It was one of the globe radios popular with adolescents in the seventies, a bombastic shade of yellow. Terrible frequency range in these models, but surprisingly good amplitude modulation. Jo picked it up.

“I’d appreciate some indication that you’re hearing me.” Rachel was standing by her elbow. “You’re right about Becca having many defenders, and woe betide the scientist who crosses us.” A slight smile took the sting from her words.

Jo studied Rachel’s face and read the genuine concern in her worn features. “You can relax, Dr. Perry. It’s true that this voice might speak again soon, but this process can’t be rushed. We might have to listen for days, even weeks, before we hear the faintest whisper. If we catch anything at all.” She turned the little ball radio on, and was relieved to hear the strong crackle of good batteries.

“All right, you guys can stop talking about me behind my back now.” Becca shouldered open the door from the kitchen and brought in a plate of lavishly frosted brownies. “Were you telling Rach about me throwing up in your lap after I saw that mannequin, Jo? That was my favorite part of the day.”

“I was telling Dr. Perry that we may have to be patient moving forward, Becca.” Jo fiddled with the ridged circular dial of the radio. “These voices can be subtle and quite elusive, and it might be a long time before we hear—ˮ

An ear-splitting crack of static erupted from the globe in her hand, and Jo almost dropped it. An equally piercing shriek followed.

“
BECCA, RUN!
”

Becca dropped the plate and it shattered, brownies scattering across the floor. Her face drained of color and her eyes were enormous. She bolted, racing for the entry and through it, and slammed out the front door.

The radio went silent in Jo’s shaking hands, not even whispering the dead air space that lay between stations.

“What are you waiting for?” Rachel said sharply, her hand pressed to her heart. “I can hardly run after her. Go!”

Jo went.

And so it was that Joanne Call chased madly after a fleeing Becca Healy for the second time in one week, she thought grimly as she ran down the steep driveway. She skittered to a halt, spying the briefest flash of Becca’s blue blouse in the distance. Across the street. Becca had run directly into Lake View Cemetery.

Jo followed her through the ornate wrought iron gates, hoping for sparse attendance among the day’s visitors. There were several people wending their way over the sunny paths or lingering by gravestones, so she relied on speed over yelling Becca’s name. She ran hard past the stately memorial to AIDs victims and beyond the red rock scattering of stones honoring Civil War dead. She slid around a corner and stopped abruptly on the graveled path. Becca was leaning against the Lady of the Rock.

Jo walked to her slowly, fearing she’d find the same eerie trance that took Becca when she was triggered by the mannequin. She was bent at the waist, one hand on the base of the statue, one braced on her knee, her drifting blond hair obscuring her face. She was panting, pulling hard for air.

“Hello?” Jo tapped her thighs. She had no earthly idea what to do at this point, except try to catch Becca if she fainted again. Her brain was exploding with the ramifications of that extraordinary transmission back at the house, the shriek that still rang in her ears, and she had to work hard to focus on Becca. “Are you all right?”

Becca lifted one hand in reassurance, put it back on her knee, and went on panting. Jo moved closer cautiously.

“Well.” Becca’s voice was muffled. “At least we learned one thing from this. I’m an obedient daughter. Sheesh.”

Becca straightened, and her face was blotched with red where it wasn’t cheesy pale, but her eyes were clear and sharp. Jo huffed out a breath of relief.

“If she’d screamed ‘Becca, cook,’ I’d have a four-course dinner on the table right now.” Becca slid bonelessly into the grass at the base of the statue and sat leaning against it. “Good Lord, Jo. Have you ever heard anything like that?”

“Actually, I have, yes. Warnings are a fairly common theme in transmissions.” Jo wondered if a scholarly approach would be more helpful to Becca now or a nurturing one, and hoped for the former. “I admit I’m astonished by the volume and clarity of the message. That small radio should be utterly incapable of producing such a blast.”

“Yeah, it was impressive.” It was taking Becca too long to catch her breath after a relatively short sprint, and Jo realized how shaken she was. “Is Rachel all right?”

“She was fine enough to pitch me out the door after you. Are you…yourself again?”

“I’m getting there.” Becca squinted up at her and shaded her eyes. “Would you please sit down before my neck goes into spasm?”

Jo would have sat on the ground where she was, but Becca patted the grass next to her. She glanced up at the Lady’s implacable face as if asking for guidance, then lowered herself carefully beside Becca. “You did take that command rather literally. It was your mother’s voice?”

Becca shrugged. “It was a shriek. It’s hard to hear a voice in a shriek, especially a voice you hardly remember.” She hesitated. “But yes, it was her.”

Jo nodded. “Your mother is proving to be remarkably reticent. ‘Not true.’ ‘Becca, run.’ It seems we can’t count on her for more than two words at a time.”

“I sure didn’t inherit that tendency.” Becca sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “I’m sorry, Jo. Normally, I’m not a big fan of drama, but I seem to keep drawing you into some very theatrical scenes.”

“Well.” Jo sat back on her hands and crossed her legs in the grass. “What’s listening for the voices of the dead if not high drama? A chase scene or two probably goes with the territory. But I’m a little surprised that you ran here.”

“The cemetery?”

“Yes. Didn’t you say this place scared you?”

“When I was a kid, sure.” She nodded at the serene statue above them. “But my mom brought me here sometimes, to visit the Lady. I was never scared when she was with me.”

“Really? Are you referring to some kind of psychic summons?”

Becca laughed. “No, I mean she brought me here when I was little, for picnics. It’s green and quiet and peaceful here, like a park. It’s one of the few clear memories I have of my mom—sitting under the Lady, eating peanut butter sandwiches.” She glanced up at the cloaked woman. “I’ve always loved her, Jo. She’s one of the few lifelike images that doesn’t trigger me now. I’m not sure why. Maybe because she was familiar to me before the…trauma happened. She’s obviously a mother, the way she comforts the girl kneeling beside her. I’ve always felt safe here.”

“The Lady means a lot to me, too,” Jo found herself saying. “This is my favorite spot in the cemetery, maybe in all of Seattle.”

“You’re kidding.” Becca sounded both surprised and pleased. “I love that you and the Lady are friends. It’s a good character reference. For you.” She leaned so her shoulder bumped Jo’s lightly. “I’m glad she’s able to bring both of us a little peace.”

Jo felt a warm pulsing on her shoulder where Becca touched her. She realized how very little space separated them. Jo was swept with a distinct, tactile memory of the feel of Becca in her arms days ago, holding her after she’d fainted, looking down into her face. She thought fast. “Are you concerned about the content of your mother’s message?”

Becca sobered and leaned back against the Lady. She still looked wan, and her expression reminded Jo of the young girl above them, resting her head in the Lady’s lap. “Well, I wish she could have been more specific. She could have mentioned a destination I should run
to
, or at least a direction I should run
in
.”

“Becca, you need to take this seriously now.” Jo was surprised by a flare of impatience that felt strangely protective. “I’ve told you that messages received through EVP are rarely factually false. We need to be aware that your mother perceives some danger to you. She’s warned you to run.”

“But from what?” Becca’s brow furrowed. “Gaining two pounds from Rachel’s brownies? That’s the only threat I know of.”

“If your mother didn’t pull the trigger that night, someone else did.” Surely Jo was pointing out the obvious; Becca must have considered this. “Forensics indicates it wasn’t your father. So it’s possible there’s still a murderer out there who the police didn’t have the wit to consider.”

“Oh. There’s a cheerful idea.” Becca closed her eyes. “My mother is warning me to run from a murderer who is still out there. Okay. You and Rachel were the only ones in the room when she yelled. One of you did it.”

“I was eight years old in nineteen seventy-eight.”

“Joanne. I was kidding. Rachel?” Becca leaned away from her. “You’re more likely to have shot my parents than Rachel Perry, eight years old or not. You have no idea what that woman’s been through, but she’s one of the strongest and most loving people I know. ”

“I’m not implying Dr. Perry shot your parents.” Jo felt the slight physical distance between them and was unsettled by a sense of loss. “I’m just saying your mother’s warning should be taken seriously, is all. You might be in some kind of danger.”

A bleakness passed over Becca’s expressive features that aged her in seconds. “I’m tired of this,” she said quietly. “All these questions, not an answer in sight. I’ve been asking these questions since I was sixteen, Jo.”

Becca’s gaze became uncertain, and Jo felt the air between them prickle oddly. Becca shifted closer to her, and lowered her head until it rested on Jo’s shoulder. A long breath escaped them both. Becca settled against her, her body relaxing in stages. Her cold fingers sought Jo’s in the thick grass and entwined in them.

Jo stared pop-eyed into the distance, her jaw clenched. Words ran through her head in rapid succession, punctuated by exclamation points. Words that rarely occurred to her, like “right” and “need.”

Becca’s touch was purely platonic. Jo had witnessed this phenomenon the other night, her easy physical affection with her friends. Becca was tired and afraid and she needed comfort. She apparently found something comforting in resting her head on Jo’s shoulder and holding her hand. Jo felt the firm swell of Becca’s breast against her arm, smelled the light vanilla scent of her hair, soft against her throat. Becca lifted her head and looked into Jo’s eyes, and her lips parted. They stared at each other in silence beneath the Lady’s kind gaze.