Scarecrow’s Dream (23 page)

“It would indeed.” I hugged her as best I could. “Addie, no matter what, thank you for taking me in and helping me discover who I was. Who I am. I love you.”

Addie and I both began to cry, until she stepped back and waved me away. “Enough. You need to go. And no matter what happens, if you remember anything, remember this—you’re like my daughter. You always have been. And you always will be. In any time.”

Chapter Thirty

Shane paid for the motorcycle while I stood by his side, smiling at the expression on the rental agent’s face, clearly amused watching a man in his seventies plunk down cash for a honkin’ nice bike at a ridiculously late hour of night.

“Got a little midnight street racing to do?” he asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.

Shane smiled and took the keys. I’d bet money Shane Halloran could beat a twenty-year-old street racer on one of these when he was well into his nineties.

Once Shane had wheeled the bike out of the lot, I hopped on and wrapped my hands around his waist. Shane started the engine and we rode in silence from West 57th to the Elysium Theatre
.

As strange as it sounds I wanted the ride to go on forever. I was enjoying the breeze lifting my hair and the excitement of the speed in the open air as we headed downtown. Although I did wish I had a helmet. The idea that I could die for real now worried me more than I cared to admit.

It was quiet around the Elysium Theatre. A few minutes before midnight, the stores were closed. The Greek diner appeared to be ushering its remaining customers out the door. Shane parked the bike in front of the computer store where he’d stood a few nights ago, right after the protest.

I was very much in the present, but a vague memory from forty-three years ago suddenly became as strong as though I were about to relive it.

“Shane. There was a street vendor here in front of what’s now the computer store, wasn’t there? I seem to recall this was a hot spot for folks selling souvenir stuff, watches, bags, jewelry, that sort of thing, but most of them had usually packed up and were gone before midnight.”

“You’re right. In fact, I bought the wooden peace symbol for you from her…” His voice grew rough. “That night.”

“We’re going to make it right, Shane. Look, I don’t want you coming inside the theatre with me. It’s too dangerous. Olson’s minions could be with him. Plus, you’re not in some alternate dimension or portal thingy where you can’t be seen.”

Shane laughed. “Sorry. You’re talking like you just noticed you were out of bread for a sandwich. Very matter of fact and—normal. It’s kind of freaky.”

“Hey, if I stop to figure out logistics and physics and science of this whole idea of time travel and loops, I’ll go nuts. I’ll also lose my focus and for the next thirty minutes or so I need to get into character as a ghost.”

“I wish you were as good an actress as you are a writer.”

“Oh, gee, thanks, Halloran. Hey, I promise I’ll give a performance of a lifetime.” I inhaled. “Ready? You go hide down the stairwell of the computer store. We’ll pray the spirit of that old street vendor will bring us luck.”

The back door to the Elysium Theatre was either unlocked or was so old the lock had broken years ago. I slipped inside, and then headed up to the catwalk ladder, thankful it was made of steel and not wood. At least I didn’t have to worry about falling to my death due to dry rot. I climbed up to the catwalk and found a spot near the ladder where I could nest, yet be close enough to haul butt if the bullets began to fly.

I pulled out the envelope with a copy of the photograph taken in the veterans’ hospital, already scanned and printed from the computer, laid it beside me, then pulled Addie’s old tape player out of my shoulder bag, silently sending kudos to the creators of cassette tapes who’d done such an amazing job back in the sixties. We’d listened to the recording earlier, and the sound quality was clear and crisp and didn’t waver at all. Between the photo, the tape, and hearing a “dead” girl hurling accusations, Larry Olson needed to be so rattled he’d spill and confess all.

He was early. I’d barely settled in when I heard the sounds of angry voices in the theatre house. Larry and his sister. Dear sweet Angela. Terrific.

Larry didn’t waste a second. “Halloran! Are you here?”

I kept silent, waiting to see where Larry would go next. Would he set up some kind of trap for Shane? Hide behind a seat and take aim when the target arrived?

To no one’s surprise, Larry pulled a gun out of a messenger bag. Angela showed no concern at all about her sibling preparing to assassinate another human being. I shuddered.

I had no desire to sit on a catwalk for the next hour. I wanted this little game to end. It was obvious Larry had no intention of allowing Shane to live.

Plan C was to try to elicit some kind of confession from Captain Olson and get it to the cops before Larry caught on to the real game.

Shane and I had made copies of the tape and the photo in case this didn’t work. By now, Addie should be safely in for the night at some midtown hotel, along with the script and copies. She had instructions to mail everything to the police tomorrow morning if she didn’t hear from us. I prayed Larry would give it up tonight. A nice monologue from Olson confessing to the murders of Rob, Crimson, and the attempted murder of Shane—all packaged up with a pretty bow on top.

I clicked on the old cassette Mike Cherstvennikov had given his life to protect. The voice of a much younger Olson filled the theatre with the sound of a man betraying his country.

“Make it worth my while, Tran. After all, it’s in both our best interests. The US has you outmanned and outgunned. Can you wear them down over time with guerrilla tactics? Wouldn’t you want some extra firepower to help you along?”

Another voice now, obviously from the man Olson had called Tran, responded in clear but accented English.
“Firepower is good. Locations for where to use that firepower, that would be better.”

“Information is just another commodity. Let’s talk price.”

Larry shouted over the echoing voices from the past. “Shane! Are you up there? I want that goddamned tape! You hear me, you son of a bitch? No games. I get the tape. You get to live. Simple.”

Time to switch tapes. I popped in a new one and set to record. Then I called out in my scariest Holly ghost-voice, drawing out every word, “
Ohhhhlson. You killed Robbbbert. You killed meeeeee. Holllleee Malooooone. Tell me why and I might let you liiivvvve!
”

Larry stopped dead. He’d finally been met with the unexpected.

Larry continued to stare at the catwalk, doubtless trying to figure out what ventriloquist or sound engineer was up there. I carefully made my way to the middle of the catwalk and gave it another shot.

“
Confessssss, damn yooouuu! Or I’ll haunt you and Angeellaa the rest of your liiiives!
” I’d come prepared with various props I could send flying when the time was right. The time was right now. I tossed a blank tape at him.

He ducked and yelled, “Stop it, whoever you are! That little bitch is dead and I’m not buying your ridiculous ghost act.”

Angela laid her hand over her brother’s arm. “Larry. Let’s get out of here. You may not buy it but I’m starting to get spooked. That tape came from nowhere.”

“Get off it, Ange! We’re in a goddamned
theatre
. They’ll probably have a smoke machine hooked up and white sheets on wires flying by next.”

“Larry, I’m serious.”

He shook her hand away with a roughness toward his own sister I hadn’t expected and glared up at the catwalk. “Who the hell are you?”

I tossed him a manila envelope in which I’d enclosed a copy of the photo of Olson and Cherstvennikov in the VA hospital. I toned down the spooky ghost voice a couple of notches. It wasn’t helping. “
You murdered Rob. You shot me off a bridge. Crimson is dead because of you. You tried to kill Shane. Confess now, you bastard, before I send you where you belong—straight to hell!
”

Larry was way past pissed. He aimed and fired right into the middle of the catwalk. Crap! For someone who couldn’t see me, he’d come way too close to my location based on the sound of my voice.

I was insane if I remained where I was any longer. I edged my way down the left side ladder with as little noise as possible.

Once I reached the bottom, I began tossing blank cassettes across the stage, to the middle of the theatre, at Angela, and two or three to the top of the proscenium so they could shower down onto the stage. General poltergeist stuff.

Larry took shots in every direction where he heard tapes land.

I raced to the back of the stage—he was still looking up at the catwalk—and screamed, “
Murderer! Traitor!
” Then I ran to the stage right wings.

Larry kept shooting and Angela covered her ears and screamed.

I was terrified if I kept tossing tapes and shrieking at him he was going to get lucky and land a bullet and kill me for real. Time to leave.

That was when I saw Shane enter from the back. It was obvious he’d heard the shots, realized a confession was off the table, and rushed in to save me.

“Oh, Lord, no!” I waved at him to leave but of course he couldn’t see me.

But Larry could see
him
. He whirled around when Shane yelled, “Want me, do you? Well, guess what? I’m not going down without taking at least one punch to your ugly face. You effin’coward.”

Larry smiled, and calmly raised the gun, aiming it directly at Shane.

Click.

No bullets! A miracle, but one that didn’t last long.

Shane charged Larry while he was reloading the gun. Shane tackled him and began delivering punches a boxer in his prime would envy. Larry’s face was bloody and his lip was beginning to swell. But Shane didn’t know Angela was about to enter the fray with her own weapon. It should have occurred to me the woman would also be more than handy with a gun. After all, she was COO of her brother’s slimy company. She didn’t shoot though. She whacked Shane over the head with the gun, giving Larry enough time to spring back up. Once he was on his feet, he stepped back a second to catch his breath.

Shane lay on the floor of the theatre, appearing stunned, staring up at the brother and sister.

I couldn’t let Shane die. I had to do something to stop this. I began throwing more tapes, this time at both Larry and Angela. Larry didn’t bat an eyelash.

Larry laughed when he addressed Shane. “So, where’s your noisy little Coppelia?”

“Dead. Remember? You killed her.”

“Obviously not well enough to shut her up. Or you, either. I wasn’t terribly efficient back then, was I? Didn’t make sure you were both dead. Something I plan to rectify tonight.”

Angela shivered. It occurred to me that she’d never actually witnessed her brother murder someone in cold blood before. “Larry. Please. I can’t take this anymore.”

Neither could I.

Larry reloaded the gun and pointed it at Shane’s head. It was over unless…

Plan D.

I grabbed the wooden peace symbol around my neck and squeezed it against the script under my jacket as I heard a shot ring out.

And everything went black.

Chapter Thirty-One

12:30 a.m. April 9, 1973

Shane placed the faux leather necklace with the wooden peace symbol over my head, and then lifted my hair from my neck so the strap wouldn’t become tangled. I smiled up at him. “I love you, Shane Halloran. And not just because you buy me cool gifts.”

The Gypsy vendor who’d dangled the necklace in front of me like a charm as we’d headed toward the Elysium Theatre nodded, obviously pleased we’d purchased this particular item.

The woman was dressed as though she should be in a dark room conducting a séance with a crystal ball. She wore a peasant blouse with a fringed vest and a long skirt over laced-up granny boots. The two of us had admired each other’s taste in clothes for a few moments, and then she’d shown me the peace symbol. There was a mystical quality to the piece and it drew me like a snake to a wicker basket.

Shane smiled, said, “We’ll take it,” and pulled out seven dollars. We thanked the vendor, who’d said she was glad she’d caught us when she did, since she was about to close for the night.

The odd thing though was as she handed me the piece she whispered, “You can fix it.”

I must have misheard her. There was nothing wrong with the peace symbol or the strap. But she’d been so adamant her words stuck in my mind.

Shane and I walked hand in hand toward the front entrance of the Elysium. I gave him a quick kiss and held up the necklace. “This is so cool. I love it. It’s got that whole ‘connect to the earth’ thing going for it and it’s also quite beautiful. Thank you!”

“Well, since your engagement ring still isn’t ready, consider this a token of my everlasting love. Besides, it suits you and brings out your gorgeous eyes.”

I stared at Shane for a long loving moment. “Are you still going to be this full of Irish blarney and charm when you’re old and gray?”

“Worse.” He grinned, and then muttered, “Which may happen soon if we have to keep waiting. Midnight, right? For an impromptu discussion to plan Rob’s memorial. Crazy. What exactly did Derek say?”

“Nothing. I mean, I didn’t talk to him personally. Alice somebody who said she was the new stage manager called. I told her midnight was a screwy time for a meeting, but she said Derek will be out of town for the next two weeks so this was the one chance the cast had to get together and decide what we need to do. Rob doesn’t have family except for Frannie and she’s also dealing with her mother being sick. So it’s up to us to help.” I reached inside my bag. “Hang on. I wrote the time down on the script.”

I pulled out the pages I’d brought from my dad’s place earlier, Rob’s script, which I’d been working on almost non-stop since his death. I stared at the first page, experiencing one of those déjà vu feelings that had been cropping up the last few months. “Shane, this is weird.”

“What? Wrong time?”

“Good question. There’s no time here at all. This script doesn’t look like the one I copied earlier. No carbon stains. What is wrong with me these last few days? I can’t remember stuff and there are times when it feels like I’m redoing entire days. It’s eerie. A bit scary, too.”

Shane hugged me. “Holly. Rob died only two days ago. You were more than co-writers. You were friends. Grief this strong gets anyone off his or her game. I wish you’d at least give me a hint about what Rob told you.”

I shook my head. “It’s too dangerous. I’d rather wait until the proof shows up along with the final script. God, I hope Rob actually sent it. Anyway, in the meantime no one knows what I know and it’s staying that way.”

“I can’t agree, darlin’. I’ve got to say remaining silent will have the opposite effect.” He smiled. “Ah, what the hell, I don’t care if you go bats on me. I’ll still love ya forever.”

He kissed me with such gentleness I began to tear up. I was so blessed being loved by someone so understanding—who also happened to be a damned fine kisser.

Finally we separated. “Well, I love you as well, but I still feel bats. Could I have been wrong about the time? Looks like it’s just us. Am I losing my mind
and
memory?”

“Want to call your da and ask him to check if you jotted down anything on the other script? How many of the blame things are out there?”

“I’m not sure. They seem to be multiplying.” That odd feeling, like a premonition I couldn’t pin down, returned. “Do you suppose the pay phone at the end of the block works?”

“Well, it didn’t last week and I’d bet my bike it’s still out of order. We need to find a way inside and use the phone there. And where did this freaky April snow come from? It seems to be getting stronger and colder, and I have no desire to freeze out here.”

Shane tried the front door of the theatre, which, of course, was locked.

“Want to try the back door?” I suggested. “The police were probably the last ones here after Rob died…maybe they forgot to lock it.”

“We can always try.”

We walked around to the back of the theatre. The police had been efficient. The door was padlocked.

“Around to the front again.” Shane scowled. “At least there’s an awning there. We can stay moderately dry.”

“Agreed.”

We waited another ten minutes under the awning, watching a few other individuals on West 16th scurry for cover or run toward the nearest subway entrance.

Shane grumbled, “Enough. This is rude. Late is one thing. Late in a surprise blizzard is another. It’s past twelve thirty. I’m considerin’ leavin’ the bike here. We can take the train home. Or I can ride it back while you stay dry and warm on the A.”

The twitchy, nasty feeling grew stronger. “I’m not leaving you. Neither of us will melt in the snow nor freeze to death. Let me scribble a note for Derek in case he shows up. I can slide it under the door.”

I took out the script again, since it was the only paper I had with me. I grabbed the last page, which should have had plenty of room to spare. What I found instead made no sense.

I was looking at what appeared to be Rob’s final script. There were two notes on the bottom, written in my hand. I read through them, stunned.

Rob was in a support group with Hemming—recognized him as Angela’s brother, Larry Olson. Collaborator. Sniper. Arms dealer. Killer.

When had I written this? Where had this copy come from?

I glanced down at the beginning of a second note and read
Wooden peace symbol
.
Hang on to Shane!
Okay. This fell into the category of odd, bizarre, and plain freakin’ weird. Of
course
I’d hang on to Shane. For the rest of my life, and for all of eternity, assuming spirits got to hang out with loved ones on the other side.

Then I saw the next part of the paragraph.
Henry Hudson Bridge. April 9th. Don’t let go. Don’t let him crash on the other side.

I quit reading.
April 9th
? Tonight. I looked up and cried out, “What the hell?”

“What’s wrong?”

I started to hand him the page but my bag slipped off my shoulder and I bent to pick it up. I heard what sounded like a ricochet coming from the front door of the theatre.

“Shane!”

“Run!”

We ran to his motorcycle. I slung my bag over my shoulder and held on to the script with one hand. I was desperate to figure out how I’d written a note to myself without knowing I’d done it or when I’d done it, and what the second part meant, but there was no time. That sound I’d heard whizzing by was a bullet.

Shane started up the bike and I jumped on right behind him, putting my hands on the grips on either side, crumpling the script. I sensed rather than heard another bullet go by. The snow was making it almost impossible to see or hear but thankfully it was also making it harder for the gunman to fire with any accuracy.

Then we were off, charging down the street toward the West Side Highway. I kept repeating, “Hang on to Shane. Don’t let him crash,” to myself like some mad mantra.

I assumed Olson was the shooter and I also assumed he was firing from a car, because a black sporty convertible began to follow us. I’d witnessed Larry dropping his sister Angela off in a very similar car two weeks ago, and admired the car’s sleek, seductive lines. I’d been almost glad Shane hadn’t arrived yet, since I knew he’d want to run out and grab an identical model, although in a flashy red. When Angela told me the price I’d nearly fainted with shock.

That same car now easily kept up with us as Shane began to weave between the few other cars heading up the West Side Highway. I’d ridden on the back of Shane’s bike often enough to have some idea of its awesome speed, but not even the fastest motorcycle could outrun a vehicle Angela had said could reach 195 in seconds.

There was no chance to tell Shane who was trying to kill us. He had to focus. Shane was doing an amazing job keeping some distance between the bike and the car but this couldn’t last. I whipped my head around, looking for any police vehicles on the road, but didn’t spot a single black-and-white anywhere.

Shane slipped between two cars and zoomed up toward Inwood Hill Park and the Henry Hudson Bridge. We were going fast but I still managed to turn around to check for the black sports car. When I didn’t see it, for a brief second I rejoiced. We’d lost him!

Then it hit me how stupid I was. A ruthless killer in a swift car was not going to let a little thing like other cars on the road stop him. As I was about to turn and face front again, a vehicle overtook a small truck that had been blocking my view. Within seconds our pursuer had closed the gap to about three car lengths.

Shane was almost at the bridge. For one insane moment it seemed Larry wasn’t going to follow us. Then I realized he’d slowed down in order to take a steadier shot. I’ve always been clueless about guns but it seemed to me shooting while driving a speeding vehicle was complete lunacy. But then, Larry Olson was desperate. Someone else must be driving. Angela?

We were on the upper level of the Henry Hudson Bridge. I knew Olson was going to take a last shot and I was going to die. There was nothing I could do to stop it.

Just like before.

In the strongest wave of déjà vu yet, I could feel the effects of the bullet hitting the tire, sending me flying into the air and tumbling through a tunnel of nothing until I hit the water. And then…

My déjà vu merged with present and past. If I didn’t follow my instincts nothing would change. Nothing.

Hang on to Shane!

It wasn’t meant as a lover’s cry for any future breakups. It was a warning. A command.

I released my hands from the side grips and grabbed Shane. The script flew into the air. Pages swirled in the wind and snow. I kept my arms wrapped around Shane’s waist and hung on for what was literally my life.

I heard the shot and felt the bullet pierce the rubber in the tire. I held on. Shane fought to control the motorcycle through the ice and wet snow and the busted tire. We careened and weaved and spun and then we were across the bridge, making it another hundred yards down the road with Shane steering to the side of the highway without crashing. No other cars were in sight. We were about to run when I heard screams from the bridge. I turned.

“Shane!”

The black convertible must have lost control. The driver had been going way too fast and there was no way to stop the momentum. For one brief moment, the car was suspended on the edge, as though rooted forever in time. Its headlights continued to flash wildly, like a strobe light at a rock concert. Then the car and its occupants plunged into a dive to be consumed by the icy water below. Perhaps the pages I’d let loose into the air had hit the windshield, blinding the driver?

Shane’s held me close. I stared into the sky and suddenly spotted a bald eagle circling high over the bridge.

And heard the whisper of a Gypsy vendor telling me,
“You fixed it.”