A Question of Ghosts Read online

  Becca saw more numbers on the screen, and she leaned forward. 02.05.84/0815 hrs. The low hiss sounded again, and the white lines danced.

  “Two hours it took me to haul in that fish.” A man’s voice, his tone mellow and relaxed, and unmistakably proud.

  Becca, Marty, and Khadijah all grinned, caught up in these surreal post-mortem pronouncements. Becca felt a tingling at the base of her spine, and goose bumps rose along her forearms. She wasn’t ready to believe with certainty that she was hearing the voices of the dead, but these messages carried an odd flavor of the distant, a kind of remote, antique cadence. The sounds of the Rose faded around the table as they leaned closer again, their food forgotten.

  “Jenny, I know you borrowed my sweater!” A woman, sounding irritated, from 1992.

  “I fought in Patton’s army.” An elderly man, in 1984.

  “Why are you all here? Please go away!”

  That one, from a woman in 1980, gave Becca chills. She sounded resigned and hardly threatening, but Becca could imagine that voice echoing through a haunted house.

  “We’ve recorded many voices demanding that intruders leave their house,” Jo said as the screen flickered again. “It’s a common message. And we’ve captured over a hundred varieties of the word ‘hello’ or simple greetings, in almost every modern language.”

  “That tool chest is for Tom!” A man, commanding from 1993.

  The hissing rose, subsided briefly. A woman spoke next, and a shudder went through Becca.

  “I will see you no more.”

  “Good my Lord.” Khadijah sounded wounded. “Can you play that again, Jo?”

  Becca didn’t want to hear that message again. When Jo tapped the keys and the hiss issued from the speakers, she was swept with despair before she heard the woman’s bleak voice.

  “I will see you no more.”

  An older woman, perhaps very old. The screen reflected a recording date of 1959. There was such cheated hopelessness in her words, spoken softly but with terrible grief. This was a woman who had believed her entire life that death would end in reunion, and it had not. She was lost to those she loved who still lived, lost to those who had gone before her, and utterly alone. Becca heard it all in those six words, the pathetic surprise and bitterness of that discovery, that fate. A tear splashed down on her clenched hands.

  “Becca, I should have realized that one hit you hard.” Khadijah stroked Becca’s hair.

  Becca managed to raise her head. Marty and Khadijah were studying her with concern. Jo’s expression held a mixture of regret and self-disgust, as if she were castigating herself again. “I’m all right. She was just…” Becca gestured helplessly. “She sounded so lost.”

  “She sure did.” Khadijah folded her napkin and handed it to her. “I’m sorry the last one upset you, but I’m not sorry we heard these messages. They’re amazing, Jo.”

  “Shit fire.” This meant Marty was impressed. “Are you thinking you can catch a recording of Becca’s mom, Doc, if she ever speaks again? Is that what you’re going to try to do?”

  “That depends on many things.” Jo slid her device into her shoulder pack. She looked at Becca evenly, and now her gaze was piercing again, and held only challenge.

  “What do you mean?” Khadijah asked.

  “She means…” Becca drew in a deep, slow breath. “We have to go back to the house where my parents died.”

  Chapter Four

  There was nothing distinctive about the two-story red brick house on Fifteenth Avenue, unless sitting directly across the street from one of Seattle’s oldest and largest cemeteries was a distinction.

  Jo loved Lake View Cemetery. She strolled its grounds often enough to be thought an oddity by the staff, but she had no patience with those who found her affection for cemeteries macabre. To walk into Lake View was to enter a different world. It was a beautiful setting, with views of Lake Washington and both the Cascade and Olympic mountain ranges. It featured rolling hills shaded with dark greenery and extraordinary memorial statuary.

  The Lady of the Rock was Jo’s easy favorite. The Lady was a tall, cast-iron statue of a seated, cloaked woman holding a book, a young girl kneeling at her feet, her head in her lap. The girl’s hair streamed over the woman’s knees, her face mostly hidden. The Lady’s right hand pointed into the distance, toward some enticing mystery. Her gaze was unfathomable, but whispered of loss.

  Becca must have noticed Jo’s lingering attention on the gravestones as they stepped onto the front porch of the house. “That cemetery is a map of all the major Seattle city street names, by the way. All our traffic-choked big ones. The Borens are there and the Dennys and the Mercers.” Becca fumbled with the keys, and even Jo could pick up on her anxiety level. “Bruce Lee and his son Brandon are buried there.”

  Jo wondered why Becca was telling her factoids all Seattle natives knew by heart. “Did you go to the cemetery often? I can’t imagine it being much of a playground for a five-year-old.” Lake View had been a favorite outing for Jo when she was five, but she kept that to herself.

  “No, I never hung out there. I was scared of the place when I was a kid.” Becca dropped her keys, picked them up, and fit one into the front door. She sighed and slid it free. “First, this is the key to my apartment. Second, Rachel’s waiting to let us in.” She puffed her hair out of her eyes and pressed the doorbell, a discreet glowing circle in a metal frame. Jo heard a faint bong.

  “Rachel’s shown a few renters around, but there are no takers yet.” Becca resumed her polite chatter. “We’re renting it furnished, that’s probably one problem. It’s a plain house, but this neighborhood’s too pricey for most.”

  Jo could imagine. Like many of Seattle’s quirky neighborhoods, Capitol Hill was becoming both a haven for the wealthy and a shabby, subsidized housing refuge for the poor. Middle class families stood little chance of affording its market rate rents. They waited together on the porch for what seemed an unnecessarily long time to answer a doorbell.

  “Jo, I’m sorry for ambushing you at the Rose the other night.” Becca’s tone lost its brightness and she looked up at Jo directly, a first for that afternoon. “I know social gatherings aren’t your thing.”

  “It’s all right. I managed to avoid public disgrace.” Jo wasn’t being flip. She had only wanted to get away from that table when she first sat down, but the evening at the Rose had taken a strange twist. She had almost enjoyed it. Becca and the two other women were so openly fascinated by her work. Khadijah and Marty. Jo remembered the palpable, easy warmth between them. She cleared her throat. “Your friends care about you very much.”

  “Yes, I’m lucky.” Becca’s features softened, losing some of their tension. “I’m good at friendship, and I like that about myself. It’s work, you know? Friends should have just as much of your attention and time as your job, your family, the other important things in your life. You have to work at it, make sacrifices sometimes. Friends like Khadijah and Marty are worth it.”

  Jo was lost in the fondness in Becca’s eyes as she spoke their names. “I’ve never had that kind of friend. Not even close.”

  Becca looked startled, but the ornate handle of the door rattled and the door swung slowly open.

  “I am sorry it took me so long. A glacier could have let you in faster.” A small woman stood in the doorway, about Becca’s height. She wore a green silk blouse and expensive-looking slacks. Jo placed her in her early seventies. She was panting lightly, but her shadowed face was wreathed in a smile. “I’ve put some brownies in to bake. Just for you, Becca, of course. I’ll eat half of them only in solidarity with you.”

  Becca didn’t answer right away, her pleased smile matching the woman’s. “Hello, you.” She stepped over the threshold and wrapped her in her arms, a brief but tender embrace, then stepped back. “Dr. Joanne Call, this is Dr. Rachel Perry. My psychiatrist when I was a kid, and my good friend ever since.”

  “Hello, Dr. Call.” Rachel offered Jo her hand, and her grip
was tighter and longer than Jo expected, as the woman seemed frail. “I’ve spoken to Becca on the phone about the work you want to do together. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Jo parroted. She shifted the strap of the pack on her shoulder, trying to see past Rachel into the house. She was eager to set up the Spiricom.

  “Come in, please.” Rachel draped her arm across Becca’s shoulders and led them into a small entry. “Your aunt is after me for another sit-down dinner, Becca. Can you stomach that, tomorrow night?”

  “Any chance my uncle will be out of town tomorrow night?” Becca’s tone was light. “Eh, if you’re there, I’ll be able to choke down a plate or three, whether he’s around or not.”

  “I’ll be there. Patricia does make a dynamite manicotti. Just sit close enough to kick my ankle if I bring up Michelle Obama again.”

  They stepped down into a high-ceilinged living room, furnished simply with an overstuffed couch and matching armchairs. Jo spied a colorful Pendleton rug beneath an antique coffee table. The white walls held tall windows, necessary to catch the meager light of cloud-choked Seattle winters.

  Becca folded her arms, and the tension had returned to her shoulders. Jo realized where they were. Five-year-old Becca had been sitting in this innocuous living room when the shootings had happened in the kitchen. Jo stepped closer to her and tried to make her tone gentle. “You heard the voice from a radio in this room the other day, correct?”

  Becca nodded. “My aunt asked me to come by here to check out a broken washer. I hadn’t been in the house for many years. I was sitting here, in the living room…” Becca was watching Rachel, who was standing in a beam of sunlight that fell across the hardwood floor, and she frowned. She took Rachel’s arm and turned her toward the light. “Hey. What’s going on with you?”

  “Well, I’m having a very bad hair day. Something about my new pillowcases make me wake up looking like a demented woodchuck.”

  “Rachel.” Becca drew the older woman closer to the window. “I’m serious. You don’t look well.”

  “I’m not, of course, you know that.” Rachel patted Becca’s hand. “Diabetes isn’t for the timid, friend.”

  “I do know that.” Becca’s forehead was creased with worry, and Jo tried to think of anyone in her own life who would care as much if she were ill. “But you had your blood sugars pretty well under control for so long. Is the insulin not working? What does your doctor say?”

  “My doctor says it’s time to try dialysis. My kidneys are simply working too hard these days, and it’s making me feel rotten. But I have my first treatment next week, and that’s going to help my energy considerably.”

  “Dialysis.” Becca swallowed visibly. “Are you in kidney failure?”

  “No, I’m just kidney-challenged, at this point. We’re adjusting my meds too, so I’ll feel much better soon.”

  “Can I take you to your appointment? I can get off work easily. I have a lot of comp time—ˮ

  “Becca, the dialysis center is half a mile from my house.” Rachel patted Becca’s fingers again, more firmly. “I promise if I ever need someone to hold my hand at an appointment, you’ll be the first one I call. But I’ll be fine. Now, can we concentrate on you for a moment? You’re looking a little peaked yourself.”

  “Eh, I’m not sleeping well.” Becca glanced at Jo. “I was thrown a bit by that trigger the other day.”

  “Yes, that sounded very unpleasant.” Rachel studied Becca. “You know I can’t be your therapist now. We’ve been friends for too many years, and you know all my torrid secrets. But it might not be a bad idea for you to meet with someone short-term, just to see you through this hard patch.”

  “Rachel, I get by with a little help from my amigas.” Becca slid her hand through Rachel’s arm. “Always have, always will. But thank you. Do you think we should show Jo the house now, before she starts foaming at the mouth?”

  Jo hadn’t realized her impatience was so evident, but if foaming at the mouth would get things started, she would foam.

  Rachel laughed. “Right this way, Dr. Call.” She turned and walked slowly toward the staircase.

  Jo followed them, wanting to see the rest of the house but already itching to be back in the living room. The acoustics there were good, as they often were in older houses. The Spiricom would have excellent reception.

  Rachel paused at the foot of the stairs. “Why don’t you two tour the second floor, Becca, and I’ll check on our brownies?”

  “That would be fine.” Jo stepped between them and started up the stairs. After a moment, she heard Becca follow her, her footfalls muted on the carpeted tread.

  The stairway was narrow and somewhat claustrophobic. The walls held framed photos of Puget Sound, a generic but scenic means of pleasing the eye of prospective renters. The hallway led to four closed doors, and Jo went to the first. It opened to a small bedroom, painted in bright colors and furnished for a child, with a single twin bed and a chest of drawers. “This was your room, Becca?”

  There was no answer, and Jo turned to see Becca scowling at the stairs.

  “You know why she wouldn’t come up with us, right?” Becca brushed her hand across her eyes. “She’s too weak to climb the stairs. Jesus, Jo. I had no idea.”

  Jo shifted uncomfortably. “Dr. Perry isn’t a young woman, Becca. Many older people have a hard time with stairs.”

  “She just turned sixty,” Becca snapped. “She and my mother were the same age. She just looks ten years older because she’s sick. Rachel doesn’t have any family now. Who’s been taking care of her?”

  “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.