Deadly Decision (7 page)

“Dead here,” Barbara murmured, “but not dead. Our spirits live forever.”

I ached for the little boy whose soul lingered. “OK, now what?”

“Let's contact Jimmy's spirit. Since he was willing to show himself to you, he obviously wants to talk to you.”

Intrinsically I knew contacting a dead spirit was wrong, even if the spirit was a small and frightened child needing help. But then I thought of my dreams. It was also wrong to be trapped on the opposite side of a chasm for more than three generations with no one to help in the crossing.

Barbara looked at me, her blue eyes smoldering. I knew I would do whatever she asked.

“How about tonight?” she inquired.

“Can't we just pray now and get it over with?”

“It's a little more complicated than praying. And we need to be somewhere private. It will be all right. You'll see.”

“My church… we don't believe in séances. It says in the Bible no one lingers after death…”

She reached across the table and placed her hands over mine. I sucked in air, reveling in the warmth that filled me. Her touch was gentle, soft. “A lot of churches continue to preach the same outdated interpretation of the scriptures. But if you really read what the Bible says, you'll find many examples of God using the dead to reach the living. I agree, the Bible does say souls go to Heaven; but that doesn't mean they have to go right away, or that they all go.”

“But...”

“Let me ask you this, Bill Iver.” She pulled her hands from mine, rested her elbows on the table, and clasped her hands under her chin. “God gave us freedom of choice. Does that freedom stop once we're dead?”

“I never thought about it.”

“Tell you what. Come to church with me on Sunday.”

“You go to church?”

“Of course I go to church!”

Being with Barbara felt like biting the forbidden apple. And like Adam, allure of the prohibited clouded my judgment. Doubt lingered on the edge of my reasoning, but instead of doubt serving as a barrier, it became a lifeline: something solid to pull me back if the barrier crumbled. Right now, my footing was secure. Everything was under control. What should I be afraid of? A small boy? An eighteenth-century ghost? A petite woman who went to church, believed in God, and knew the Bible?

Sunday I would attend her church. But tonight we would contact Jimmy.

 

 

 

 

9

 

After the first couple of sessions at Barbara's house, her altered state, as she called it, no longer frightened me. She needed to empty her mind in order for her saint to provide the conduit that would allow the Jimmy to speak.

Jimmy never spoke.

Thinking we might have better success at Trina's house, I invited Barbara to South Carolina. After all, it was there Jimmy had revealed himself to me.

The last days of the school year dragged. I cancelled my weekly dinner with Betsy, and she teased me, saying I had found myself a girlfriend. Although not ready to declare my relationship with Barbara as romantic, it seemed unfair for Betsy not to know the truth. We shared everything.

I let myself into Betsy's house. The sound of contemporary Christian music drifted from the kitchen. Betsy loved music, and I smiled as I remembered her Beatles phase. Our house would reverberate with
their music.
The mop-haired skinny guys seemed hopelessly nerdy to me, but she had saved every dollar she earned babysitting the Nelson kids down the street to buy Beatles albums. I was glad I never complained because several years later she had come home from Ohio State on week-ends to sit in the stands, huddled in a coat and gripping cups of hot chocolate in mittened hands, to cheer for me at my football games. There was a special bond between us that few siblings shared. It grew even stronger after our parents died. And I don't know what I would have done without her during Nancy's illness and death. Betsy was my rock.

In the hall, I paused in front of the ghost child's picture. He died generations before Jimmy was born. What was the connection? Seeing the picture again made me even more grateful for Barbara's help. Without her, I would never find the answers to the questions that filled my mind day and night.

“Do you want the picture back?” Betsy asked, coming up behind me.

“No, just wanted to see it again. I may be able to find out who he is.”

We went to the kitchen. Betsy poured coffee into large ceramic mugs, part of a set she had bought last year when she and I had gone to Gatlinburg. I wasn't sure how Betsy was going to take my information about Barbara. The last thing I wanted to do before going to South Carolina for the summer was to upset my sister. Sitting in my usual spot at the table, I grabbed an Oreo cookie from the opened pack that lay between us and picked up my coffee. As brown brew almost splashed over the rim, I put the cup back down, hoping Betsy had not noticed my shaking hand.

“So her name's Barbara?” Betsy asked, repeating what I had told her over the phone.

“Barbara Thompson. I met her at the bookstore.”

“She must be something special.”

“She's going to help me find out about the boy in the picture.” I filled my mouth with dry cookie.

Betsy raised her eyebrows. “She's a historian?”

“Sort of. She's a psychic.”

I could hear the mantle clock ticking in the next room, another gift from Grandfather. The crunch of cookies in my mouth sounded as loud as boulders grinding beneath an earth mover.

“You're not serious.”

“She's a Christian, Betsy. It's not like you think.”

“It's not like I think?”

“Talking to spirits is a gift from God.”

“Not my God.”

“Listen, Betsy—”

“No, you listen. I supported you when you told Dad you didn't want to follow family tradition and go to law school. Everyone should follow his own path. But I refuse to support you here. I can't believe you went to a psychic for help.” She pushed herself away from the table and looked toward the window. Her lips were almost lost in her tense face.

“Our relationship is more than her psychic ability. I really like her.”

Betsy turned toward me and reached across the table, placing her hands over mine. “This woman has bewitched you. It's as old as man himself. Evil woman deceives innocent man—”

“She's not evil. You haven't even met her.”

“And I plan to keep it that way.” Icy eyes froze my heart. She pulled her hands away from mine and stood, feet planted and arms folded in front of her. “And until you come to your senses, you are not welcome in my house.”

“Betsy…”

“I mean it. I won't tolerate evil inside my home.”

“I'm not evil.”

“If you stay in her company, you soon will be.”

“You mean you're going to let this come between us? I'm your own brother.” Betsy and I had fought, we had experienced differences, but she had never turned me away. Her rejection caught me by surprise.

“I'm not doing this, Bill, you are. You choose. Give up this satanic practice or stay away from me.”

Anger, and something else, etched Betsy's face. Maybe fear?

 

 

 

 

10

 

Emptiness accompanied me on the trip from Ashland to Darlington. I tried to shift the disagreement with my sister to the back of my mind, knowing she would come to her senses in a few days and call me. But my thoughts wandered back to our last words. Why wouldn't she try to understand?

The cellphone rested in the cup holder, just as it had on my last trip to Trina's. Now its presence grew bigger than life. It would be so easy to pick up the phone, to place the call and end the emotional confusion that tethered me to Ashland. Little traffic shared the highway with me, it would be safe to place a call. I only had to push one button; her number was on speed dial. I released my tight grip from the steering wheel with my right hand and stretched toward the phone.

No. I wouldn't give in to her this time. If she didn't call me first, I would call her. But not until after Barbara talked to Jimmy.

Within an hour of arriving in Darlington, Trina had caught me up on all the news. Mrs. Roberts was now called Sandra. There had been no progress on Jimmy and, after prompting, I found out Mitch had not yet been arrested for planting the marijuana. No mention of the ghosts.

When I arrived, I noted my advice that Trina rest had been ignored. She looked tired, but the entire downstairs glowed from being scrubbed and polished. The smell of Murphy's Oil Soap and lemon furniture polish replaced the stink of mold and arthritis cream. Ted had finished painting the porch.

The place felt like a home. How had I ever thought the ghosts could be demons? A demon couldn't survive in a place as warm and comforting as this.

In spite of the good feeling evoked from the house, I was more anxious than ever to hear from Jimmy's spirit. I imagined, with satisfaction, the look on Officer Studler's face when I handed him the lead to Jimmy's killer. On the other hand, I dreaded finding out the part my possible-ancestor played, but I had to know the truth. I looked at the attic door as I passed, suitcase in hand. Were the ghost boys still up there? I hoped so.

Neither Trina nor Ted allowed me to do anything the first day. At loose ends, I ended up examining some of Ted's paintings that remained in the upstairs bedroom. He had moved his workshop to the garage while I was gone. Looking at the abstract art, I still had a hard time believing the picture Betsy had given me had been created by the same man that produced these scribbled canvasses.

Wandering outside, I noticed weeds had taken over the marijuana plot. I would have to do something about the wild growth in that part of the yard.

After lunch, Trina disappeared into town, and Ted retreated to his workshop. Alone, I headed to the attic door and tentatively put my hand on the knob, half expecting to feel an unusual energy. Nothing happened.

I open the door and climbed the stairs, no longer fearing the ghosts. Instead, an ache gripped me. I longed for a connection, and my eyes sought the spot where Jimmy had died.

The shoe prints of the investigators remained entombed in the dust, revealing the presence of humans as strongly as the ghost had revealed Jimmy's. A young life reduced to a statistic. My heart lay heavy as I closed the attic door.

Barbara was due the next day. I paced around, unable to stick with any task. I had to keep Barbara's occupation from Trina and Ted. I had never kept a secret from Trina before.

Would Barbara agree not to mention her gift? Why hadn't I thought to talk to her about this before?

Anticipation and tension mounted with each passing hour.

 



 

Barbara's plane landed at the Florence Regional Airport at 2:00 PM. We exited the small terminal, Barbara's hand in one of mine, her extra-large suitcase gripped in my other.

Barbara fanned her face with her hand. “Is this what the south always feels like?”

I laughed. “Hot and muggy they tell me. You know as much as I do.”

“This will take some getting used to.”

We reached the row where I had parked my car. “It would be best if you and I go to the attic alone,” I said.

“I agree. The less interference we have the better.”

Slipping my key into the lock, I opened her door then lifted the suitcase into the trunk. Once on the road, I continued the conversation.

“I didn't tell Trina and Ted that you're a psychic.”

She shifted in her seat to face me. “Oh? Is there a reason?”

“I'm not sure how Ted feels about psychics. He's a little strange, and I don't want him to upset our plan.”

“But Trina's all right with it, right?”

“Let's wait and surprise her after you contact Jimmy. You'll like Trina. She has a tendency to talk too much, but she's a sweet girl, and she's been a great daughter. Couldn't ask for better. Wait 'til you see what she's done to the house.”

She stared at me before speaking. “I think you are the one uncomfortable with me being a psychic.”

“No. It's just that…they've never met a psychic before. You said yourself that lots of people have misconceptions about psychics until they meet them. Let the kids get to know you first; that's all I ask.”

She looked out the window, her expression hidden.

“OK?” I urged.

“I'm disappointed you feel like you can't tell them who I really am.”

By the time I pulled into the drive way the pit in my stomach had grown roots. Barbara had not agreed to keep silent. Trina stood waiting on the porch. I helped Barbara out of the car and guided her to the newly repaired front steps.

“Barbara! I'm Trina,” she said, grasping Barbara's hand. “I've been looking forward to meeting you. I hope your flight went well. Are you tired?”

“Honey, how about some iced tea on the porch?” I asked. “It's a beautiful day, we should enjoy it. Where's Ted?”

“In the shower.”

“I'm fine,” Barbara said, “but if you want some tea, Bill.” She turned to Trina. “I'm anxious to see this house I've heard so much about.” She took Trina's arm and the two women headed through the front door.

“You should have seen it when we first moved in…”

The door closed, muffling their conversation. I raced to the car, and pulled Barbara's suitcase from the trunk. It was big enough for three women. I lugged it up the porch steps, anxious to follow them into the house. Barbara alone with Trina. My stomach surged.

Getting Barbara to the attic alone without Trina or Ted was going to be hard, but I had a plan. I needed to delay the tour of the upstairs as long as I could. I had counted on spending a good half hour on the porch. Already we were ahead of schedule, not a good thing. The pit grew branches and crept into my throat. It was going to be a long night.