Scarecrow’s Dream (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Storage Room 1397 had been issued to A. Kennedy back in 1973 and was the last in a line of about six storage spaces on the first floor. Shane found the number on the set of keys Addie had provided and unlocked the door. He clicked the light on and we both stepped inside.

The room was clean and organized. The boxes were labeled, the furniture set up to allow easy access without any hassle. An old steamer trunk lay in a corner next to an old coat rack, a hat rack, and a large box holding numerous small lamps and shades.

“Holly? Where are you?”

“I’m standing on the right side of the trunk. Shane, this is…indescribable. Everything is very…Paul Malone. The ‘super’ super.”

“Meaning?”

“He was one of the few supers at any building in Manhattan who was universally loved by the tenants, partly because he was very efficient, as evidenced by the set-up of this room.” I swallowed and my voice caught. “I don’t know if you remember, but we had a special father/daughter thing going. The last year of my life is fragmented, but I remember most of my childhood.”

“Do
you remember your da at all from
after
you met me?”

“Some. I recall a rainy night when Dad and I were arguing. I mean, I knew he was my dad the night I made it back to the apartment but it was more a vague, ‘I’m Paul Malone’s daughter and I live here.’ Then I had memories of him up until the day I recalled meeting you. I still had the memories, but nothing after you and I first met. If that makes sense. Weird, huh?”

“It does. Sort of. So, any favorite memories?”

“Flea markets. He’d take me to markets all over the city from the time I could walk. We couldn’t buy much but I’d write to Addie and tell her how excited we’d been when we saw something unusual, like an old Russian samovar or some kind of crazy kitchen gadget. Dad always wanted to hear about the history behind various objects being sold and I became curious because he was curious.” I paused. “I’m sure he would have had a million questions about the afterlife. None of which I can answer.”

Shane gently said, “You loved him very much. He knew it, too. The man adored you.” Then he laughed. “He once read me the riot act for dating you and putting you in harm’s way. It wasn’t long after the night you told me about. He called and asked to meet. I have to admit I was more than a mite worried he’d tell me he had a shotgun stashed somewhere and planned to use it if I didn’t get on the first plane back to Ireland.”

“Oh my! What happened?”

“He told me he admired my courage and in making good in this country as a black actor, and said if it came to it one day he’d be thrilled to hold a Holly/Shane grandchild in his arms.”

“He said that?”

“He did. Of course then he went on to say if I ever hurt you—or you got hurt because of me—he’d send me back to Ireland missin’ the equipment necessary to ever produce a grandchild with anybody.”

“Far out!” I laughed. “Okay, I feel better hearing this. Really. But I guess it’s time to get away from wallowing in the past. Find Rob’s proof.”

“Any ideas?”

“We should look for a care package addressed to Holly Malone. Or anything from Rob Stutzgraft which could include a cassette recording or some damaging photos.”

“Oh? Is that what we’re searching for, then? And here I assumed we came to find some of your grand hippie outfits. Considered vintage these days, so I’m told,” Shane teased.

“Well, Addie was supposed to buy me some jeans and shirts but things have gotten a bit crazy with me following you all over the city. I have to say, I do miss my long blouses and sweaters with the funky belts. And I hope at least one pair of boots got stashed here in storage. I’ll check in case we come up short of evidence and need to skulk into other towns for a while. I’m still able to feel the ground at my feet and I’d rather not get stones in my toes from holey shoes. Who knows? This proof could be tucked under a pair of my old jeans.”

“So, we’ll be startin’ with these boxes labeled ‘Holly’s clothes’, then?”

“Yep. After all, I don’t see anything like a package with Rob’s return address. At least not in plain sight.”

We spent the next thirty minutes sifting and sorting through my “old” things, but as the boxes dwindled down to the last two or three I noticed Shane becoming progressively more withdrawn.

“What’s wrong?”

Shane held up one of my peasant-style blouses with embroidery and a multi-tiered, multi-colored skirt.

“It’s seeing all this…and wondering how it’s going to end. You’re here with me now, but not for real, and not for much longer. It’s…it’s tough to take. God, I miss being able to see you and touch you. Really touch you.”

I agreed. This was not the way the grand love of the last century was supposed to be played out. Time to change the subject.

“Do you suppose we’re missing something else that could help? I mean, some other kind of proof we haven’t considered?”

“Could you have written notes somewhere? Preferably a few choice lines on the order of ‘Larry murdered Rob and I’m pretty damned sure Shane and I are next because…’ followed by a big ‘Ta-Da!’”

“I don’t recall writing anything but it’s anyone’s guess. Do you suppose there are notes from Rob to me? Or notes to myself about the characters in the play?”

Shane opened the steamer trunk and bent down to check inside so his voice was a bit muffled. “There’s a collection of old clippings and photos in here.”

I joined him, squatting down on the floor and waiting while Shane scooped up handfuls of newspaper and magazine clippings and a couple of photographs.

Shane held up a photo. “You were one cute little tyke, Miss Holly. What are ya here? About five? I love the little sailor top and shorts and hat. You look ready to take on the world.”

“Where was it taken? Does it say?”

Shane flipped the photo and squinted at the faded handwriting. “Says ‘Holly. Coney Island. 1956.’
Cool.”

“It was a special day.” My eyes misted. “I miss my dad so much. I feel so cheated out of all the years we should have had.”

“I understand.”

Again, we didn’t speak for a few moments, both of us filled with anger and sadness.

“Okay. Enough of this self-pity crap. I can’t fix my own death but I can damn sure try to fix the future and keep Larry Olson from bumping off everyone who can identify him for the traitor he is.”

“Agreed.” Shane squared his shoulders. “Okay. Proof. Notes. Whatever. Back to work.”

We sorted through a pile of newspaper articles I’d written in high school and in college, including the underground stuff my dad had never discussed with me but had apparently read. Dad had labeled the articles with dates and included a note he must have planned to send to me.

It was dated April 12, 1973. Three days after I died.

“Shane, could you read this aloud? Please. I need to hear his words.”

Shane nodded and lifted the paper up to the light.

“‘Holly, I’m putting this with your articles in case we ever get a chance to come here in the future and dig this stuff up. I wanted you to know how very proud I am of you. Even with all the crazy protests and ending up in jail, I understand everything you do is for the good of others. You’re the kindest person on this planet, and I don’t say this because you’re my daughter. You’re also the best writer I’ve ever read.

“‘I still don’t believe you’re dead, Holly. I’m sure my heart would tell me if you were. I’ll always love you. Please, find a way home
.
’”

I was crying by the time Shane got to the word “proud”. Shane couldn’t see me but he could hear me. “Holly. Are you okay? Do we need to stop?”

I swallowed hard and forced the sadness into a sheer determination to see justice done. “No. We
will
find this proof. And if we don’t? We’re going to lie like crazy. We’ll pretend we have tons of stuff on Captain Olson and con him into giving up something. I want this bastard put away forever.”

“I’m with you. I love the beaches and the people down in Australia but I’d like to be able to stay here in New York without fearing some goon is going to shoot me in the head every time I take a walk outside. Or inside, for that matter.”

We searched for another ten minutes. Every carton, every box, every piece of clothing hanging on a rack. We were about to give up when something hit me regarding the timing.

“Shane, Rob told me he was sending something a day or so
before
he died, right? Say, the sixth of April at the earliest?”

“Yeah. At least it’s what you said you remembered from your chat at O’Bannion’s.”

“I’m so dense! It must literally be in plain sight then.”

“Where?”

“When we first came in I barely noticed the open carton because I assumed we’d be looking for something Dad would have taken care to hide.”

Shane caught on immediately. “But Paul had no way of knowing a package from Rob would be important. So he’d have no reason to go to great lengths to keep it hidden.”

“Exactly. Assuming about three days for delivery, Dad could have received it on the ninth and tossed it into a carton of anything addressed to me during those last weeks.”

It seemed almost too simple. I raced back to the locker’s entrance and found the box. My father had been thorough, even with discarded mail. I dragged it out of the corner and began rummaging. Shane joined me.

“Found it!” I lifted a large manila envelope into the air, and then handed it to Shane.

“Okay. Let’s see, yeah, addressed to Holly Malone.” Shane read aloud the name on the return line. “Wait. Marshall Di’Angelo? What? Not Rob. Are you sure this is the right envelope?”

“Oh yeah. I’m positive. Do you remember? You guys met at a protest. It was the same day we found out
Basement
would be produced. Kind of fitting he’d use Marshall’s name.”

Shane winced. “I’m still embarrassed. Marshall and I got into a row about you and you were furious. Anyway, I’m impressed with how careful Rob was in sending this package. Paranoid, really, for your safety.”

“If only he’d been that careful before he met Larry at the theatre.”

Shane opened the envelope and drew out a cassette tape. It had been wrapped in paper several times.

“I hope it’s not degraded after all these years.”

Shane shook his head. “These storage places are temperature and humidity controlled. Should be fine.”

“We’ll take it to Addie’s. She has an old cassette player in her desk. Hell, no matter what’s on it we can still threaten to take it to the cops. Larry Olson won’t know that. He must have some idea this tape exists. Otherwise why did he kill Mike in the hospital?”

Shane eyed the tape as if it were an ancient relic of power. “I just pray this has the proof Rob thought would work to nail the bastard.”

“Rob told me it’s why Larry killed Private Cherstvennikov in the hospital. Either Olson realized Mike had taped him collaborating with the enemy or he found out later in the hospital. The how and when doesn’t really matter. The point is, he knew.”

“Speaking of hospitals…” Shane took a photo, encased in a plastic wrapper, out of the envelope, and held it up and shined a flashlight over it. “This is both sad and scary.”

The photo had been taken in the veterans’ hospital. Captain Larry Olson was crouched over the bed of Private Cherstvennikov and the look on his face wasn’t pretty. I’d never seen such hatred coming from one individual captured on film. It was the expression of someone willing to commit murder. I had no idea who’d taken the shot or when or how Rob had gotten it. Admittedly it wasn’t a smoking gun as to Larry committing murder, but it was proof the two men knew each other and suggested Cherstvennikov was uneasy at best and terrified at worst. With good reason. Plus, if nothing else, Larry Olsen would realize that if Shane had the photo, he must also have the tape.

“Okay. Let’s take this back to Addie’s and figure out what to do next,” I said.

“Holly, wait.”

“What?”

“I found something else.” Shane carefully lifted out the last contents of the envelope. Pages typewritten with precision on paper minus even the barest coffee stain or blotch from a black ribbon.

It was the completed script for
Trapped in the Basement
. The date on the front page was marked
April 7, 1973
.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I opened the lid to Addie’s all-in-one printer. She’d shown me how to scan as well as copy or print so I was confident I could get this done. I wanted these pages safely on a computer before I became too absorbed in reading the script. I’d become terrified Larry Olson or his minions would come busting in at any moment, grab the script, the tape, and the photo, shoot Shane, and find a way to dump me off the bridge again.

I was dizzy and my feeling of déjà vu kept getting stronger with every page I scanned. I reached the end of the script. There were two handwritten notes on the last page. With more than a measure of shock, I read both of them at least four times before scanning them into the computer and emailing the entire document as an attachment to Addie’s address for safekeeping. I made sure there was enough paper to handle the script, and sat back in a daze as I watched those last pages print out.

“Shane?” I yelled.

He ran into the office, followed by Addie. My brave auntie had turned back at Penn Station before leaving the city, loaded down with burner phones. She’d decided three fools were better than two and was determined to help if she could.

“Take a deep breath, folks,” I said with more calm than I felt. “Actually, a large shot of tequila sounds better than air.”

“You okay?” came in unison. “What’s wrong?”

I gave Shane the printed script, along with the notes at the bottom.

“What’s going on?” Addie asked. Shane remained silent, as if he knew.

“This is going to sound crazy but…”

“Don’t stop there!” Addie commanded. “Explain.”

Shane handed Addie the last page with the notes.

Addie read the handwritten note aloud. “‘Rob was in a support group with Hemming—recognized him as Angela’s brother, Larry Olson. Collaborator. Sniper. Arms dealer. Killer.’”

Addie stared at me. “And your point?”

“Look at the signature. More important, look at the date.”

“‘Holly Jordan Malone. April fourteenth…2016’? Am I seeing what I’m seeing? That’s today.”

“I swear I found it when I was scanning the script.” I took a deep breath. “Addie, could we have been wrong? This is going to sound totally unhinged, but is it possible— that I didn’t die? Are we looking at something a lot more complicated than a haunting?”

“I need to sit.” Addie suited action to word. “What are you suggesting? Time travel? An alternate universe?”

“I don’t know. Either? Both? I’m just becoming more and more certain I’m not really dead.”

Silence.

Shane finally asked, “Do you suppose that means you stick around here for good? As opposed to going into some light somewhere?”

“Whatever it is, it’s not the average time travel stuff you see in the movies. It feels as if some of my flashbacks are more than visions and memories. I don’t remember this future when I’m reliving them, but it’s still like I’m popping back and forth through time. I guess if I managed to arrive in 2016 seamlessly after every time I’d experienced what I thought was a flashback or a memory, I would have had no clue I was literally tripping through time. It might also explain how today’s date and notes in my handwriting ended up on the script locked away in the storage unit. Is it possible I played this scene more than once?”

Shane nodded, with a light in his eye that signaled hope. “You’ve seemed to hit on something. It makes no sense in the physical world, yet it answers a lot of our confusion and questions about Holly as a ghost.”

“True. And while I’m not one hundred percent positive, but it seems likely given the odd déjà vu feelings I’ve been experiencing again and again. Not to be repetitive but
again
is the operative word. It might explain why in so many flashbacks I’ve felt like I’ve played the same scene before—more than once. Did I travel through some kind of recycled space or time continuum tunnel loop in 1973 when I went sailing off the bridge?”

“Bridge…” Shane snapped his fingers. “Wait! The day you and I visited Crimson’s son and drove back over the GWB. You knew something was off. And when Olson’s goons almost caught us here, you stopped me before I was in the lobby…like it had happened before. It’s premonitions on top of déjà vu on top of…whatever.”

I couldn’t suppress a shudder. “As if time travel isn’t wacky enough. The idea I’ve been zipping back and forth through decades is so scary it’s almost preferable to stay a nice, normal ghost.”

Shane started pacing. “Holly, how do the flashbacks work? They’ve been in chronological order, right?”

“Most of the time, yeah. Why?”

“When was your last flashback? What was the date back then?”

“April. It was the day before Rob… It was April sixth. In O’Bannion’s when he said he planned to send me proof and I seem to recall he mentioned the script, too.”

“Okay. Work with me here. Do you suppose there’s any chance you could stay in 1973 during the next loop?”

Typically, we were in sync. “And stop the recycle/memory/trip from rewinding ad infinitum?”

“Precisely.”

We both fell silent. Was it possible to change what up to now had been the tragic history of Shane Halloran and Holly Malone? Or would the worst-case scenario happen? Worst case being I wouldn’t remember once I was back in the past and therefore couldn’t stop the shooting during the next loop and I ended up dead for real.

Addie stared down at the page in her hand and then read aloud, “‘Wooden peace symbol. Hang on to Shane! Henry Hudson Bridge. April ninth. Don’t let go. Don’t let him crash on the other side.’” She stared at Shane. “It’s a warning. Or perhaps better labeled—it’s a recommendation or an exhortation.”

“Whatever it is, we can’t afford to dismiss it,” said Shane. “Now then, ladies, we can theorize all we want, but we also need a plan as to how to proceed in the life we’ve got today. Would we just be better off telling the authorities what we’ve learned about Larry Olson? We’d talked about turning him in before you found the script. The photo and tape might not be conclusive as to any murders, but it would expose the sonovabitch as a collaborator and get a real investigation going. Point to something shady taking place in the hospital back in 1969.”

“We could try,” I said. “But so much is based on memories from someone the cops can’t see. A cassette tape? Could they do anything without the testimony of Rob or Private Mike? I’d imagine Larry could spin it twelve ways to Sunday and we’d be worse off than ever.”

Shane agreed. “Our boy Olson is powerful and we’d have a helluva time trying to convince anyone it’s authentic, let alone all our other accusations.”

I burst out, “I want our lives back! Things are way wonked and out of kilter and I’m bloody unhappy about it. I would love to be seen and felt by more than dogs and bald eagles—like exist in the same dimension with real people? Especially Shane. I can’t help but believe the reason a time portal loopy thing opened up was I was
meant
to go through and rectify this disaster.”

“So you’re willing to get this circle or loop whatever you want to call it started again? Try to make things right before they go wrong? I’m intrigued, darlin’, but clueless as to how we manage it.”

“Well, I sure don’t want to go sailing through another loop. The goal is to be able to stay in 1973. And nutty as this sounds, I’ve got one of my gut premonitions demanding we go back to the old Elysium Theatre. Tonight. I’m afraid if we wait Olson will track us all down and…we’ll be back to the beginning. Again.”

“That sounded disturbingly specific,” said Shane.

I almost didn’t hear him. There was a different voice in my head whispering, “You
can
fix this.”

I shook it off. “It’s the déjà vu kicking in. I’m sure we have to act now. We need to try to reproduce what Shane remembers from that night, since I haven’t relived those events again—at least not this time around. If I can somehow manage to go back to that night I’ll try to hold on to this script and the notes. Oh hell, that assumes they go back with me? I am
so
confused. Well, anyway, if I can carry them into whatever portal opens hopefully I can read them before all hell breaks loose.”

“I’ll have to rent a motorcycle if we’re going to reproduce April ninth.” Shane grinned. “It’s been a while, but I have to admit, I’m ready for the chance to take a ride.” He shook his head. “But the rest of this sounds damned dicey. I don’t want to lose you if you do go sailing through time again. I wish there was a way for me to discover all this in the past before you die and now I’m not making any sense.”

“She’ll be fine and no it doesn’t make sense but we all understood you,” Addie said. Typically, like accepting my ghost persona, she seemed to have no difficulty buying the whole reliving time theory. “Now, then. Holly? What were you wearing? Do you have something similar?”

I laughed. “Similar? Can we say the exact outfit? I was wearing it the night I came stumbling into the apartment. I’m wearing it now.”

Addie replied, “Perfect. What about your bag and your boots? And where’s the peace symbol?”

“Around my neck.” I thought for a moment. “This may sound bizarre, which isn’t saying much since we’re talking about time travel and causality loops or whatever—but maybe this particular pendant acts as some kind of catalyst? It seems I was wearing it during one or more of my strongest flashbacks.”

Addie said, “It must mean something or you wouldn’t have written it down in the future to take to the past. Or is that in the past to warn about the future? Keep it on. You need to use any trinkets or potions you can find which will help send you back.”

“Hang on a sec,” came from Shane. “I’ll admit this probably isn’t terribly important in the grand scheme of trying to stop a killer and relive a life but it’s driving me nuts. Why are you invisible? I mean you can eat and drink and sleep but can’t be seen and the whole touch thing is, well, odd. Any brilliant ideas?”

“No clue,” I answered. “I’m still in shock believing I might not be dead.”

Addie coughed twice. “Pardon me, friends and relations, but I have a theory regarding invisibility. Of course, my theory Holly is a ghost turned out to be a crock, but wanna hear a far more wacky idea?”

“Go for it,” Shane urged.

“Okay. Well, time is another dimension, right? What if Holly isn’t fully in 2016 each time she comes back? Perhaps she’s sort of out of phase with everything around her by a microsecond? Or is that just way too bizarre?”

I smiled. “It is, but so is looping through time. Okay, gang. It’s time to get Plan C working.”

Shane was already browsing to find a shop where he could rent a motorcycle this late in the evening.

Everything we’d discussed was pure conjecture. Supposition and theory and fantasy, yet, in an odd way, it was also logical. I was positive I’d gone through this scene or something similar before. It was the only way those two notes at the bottom of the script could have been written. The last time around, whether that time had been one, two, or a dozen repetitions ago, I must have figured out I needed to stay on the motorcycle, with the wooden peace symbol hanging loose in order to fix things.

It suddenly hit me that if I did make it back and remained in 1973, I wouldn’t remember having met Addie in this time period. The thought hurt almost as much as the idea of losing my courage trying to get back and simply staying here as the girl between worlds.

I blinked back tears. “Shane? Do you have the copied pages for the script? If they travel with me I’m hoping I can read my notes when I’m there. With luck I’ll see them before we get chased to the bridge again.”

Shane retrieved the last page from Addie. He reached out to where he assumed I was and handed me the script.

“Thanks. So, I gather we’re good to go?”

“I’ve got a bike ready for pick-up on West Fifty-Seventh.”

“Great. Hey, one other stop, too. Let’s pick up a small recording device.”

“And just what are ya plannin’, lass?”

“Well, if you’re up for it, let’s invite Larry Olson to the theatre tonight. Tell the jerk we have some interesting photos and a very old tape in hand.”

“How are we to get him to show? He’s bound to know it’s a trap.”

“No idea.”

Shane’s tone hardened. “I’ll just tell the blighter I’m tired of being hunted and I’d like to discuss an exchange. My life for the tapes.”

“Pretty nervy, Halloran.”

“Yeah. But so is he. I’m damned sure Olson won’t stick by the bargain but then, I won’t be the one inside, will I?”

“Exactly. I’ll do the Invisible Girl routine again. Do my damndest to rattle him enough to confess and get it on tape. At least then you’d have something tangible to give to the police in case the trip back doesn’t work.”

“This could be dangerous. If you’re not actually dead, Holly, what happens if he takes a few shots and hits you?”

“I’ll be up on the catwalk. And he’s not expecting me. He expects you. At this point, we have to take some kind of risk.”

“Do you have his number?”

“I have Angela’s. I’m sure she’ll relay any and all messages to her twin, especially if they come from Shane Halloran.”

“I may hide with you inside the theatre, luv. This promises to be an experience I won’t want to miss.”

I gave him the number then asked, “Would you…would you mind calling her from outside?”

Shane was nothing if not perceptive. “No problem.” He gave Addie a hug and headed to the front door.

I gently took Addie’s hands in mine.

“This is nuts, isn’t it?” I said.

“Yes. Damn! Holly, I’ve missed you so for so many years. And then you show up, and it sounds funny to say, but this has been such a fantastic week.”

“Same here.” My voice felt stuck in my throat. “If this works, we won’t remember this. It’s so confusing. I just hope next time I see you you’ll be able to see me.”

“So I could end up reliving my life, too?”

For a moment the terror I’d felt scanning the pages came back. “I have no idea. Oh God, Addie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even consider a different scenario for you. Is it right to try and go back? Am I being selfish?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. To going back. Not to being selfish. This is right for you and Shane and also for everyone who’s dealt with this bastard. You’ll be getting justice for Rob, and for everyone else. You might be able to save Crimson’s life. Holly, I have to believe the reason you didn’t die the first time around was to correct all the wrong things set into motion the moment you tumbled off that bridge. So, do it. Don’t look back today and regret. Go and fix it.” She tried to laugh to cover what was clearly a strong sentiment. “Shee-it!, Wouldn’t this beat all for my next column for
Guys and Dolls in the City
?”