A second later, the words were furiously erased.
SPEAK NO TRUTH!
Jane turned slowly around. The image of the ghost remained. Sage McCormick opened her mouth, and although she was a ghost, there was something Jane could clearly see.
Sage McCormick had no tongue; it had been sliced off at the base.
“Oh, God!” Jane said softly, “I’m so sorry, so, so sorry!”
13
The county officer on duty at the hospital acknowledged Sloan as he came in. “The doctor was just in with her. One of the nurses was the first to realize Ms. Layton was coming to. I haven’t spoken to her. She went from being in the coma to dozing on and off, but they say it’s all right if you speak with her.”
Sloan went in. When he entered the room, Jennie’s eyes were closed. She looked small and frail as she lay in the hospital bed. He noted the veins in her hands where they lay on the white sheets.
He just sat there for a minute, waiting. After some time, her eyes opened. She blinked, disoriented.
“Sloan,” she said weakly.
He leaned close to the bed and took one of her thin, delicate hands. She offered him a shaky smile.
“You’re awake,” he said, smiling. “They say you’re going to be fine.”
She nodded. “When I first opened my eyes, I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what had happened. I had no...memory.”
“And now?”
“Now, I remember that I went down to the basement. And I woke up here.”
“Why did you go down to the basement, Jennie? Do you remember? You were in the room with all the old props and mannequins. Why?”
Jennie was silent, and then she looked at him, hesitant.
“They were talking,” Jennie said at last.
“The mannequins?” Sloan asked in a carefully even tone.
“Oh, Sloan, don’t be silly! I got hit on the head, but I know mannequins don’t talk!” she told him.
He smiled again. “So someone was down there?”
“Yes, someone was in the room. Or more than one person, because I’d heard talking down there several times over the past week. I couldn’t figure out what the actors would be doing down there. I’m responsible for storage, props, costumes.... I wanted to know what was going on.”
“So you didn’t recognize anything about the voices?”
She shook her head. “But, Sloan, I heard them late at night, and once, very early in the morning. Yet whenever I went down, no one was there.”
“Did you tell Henri about it?” he asked her.
“No.” She ran the fingers of her free hand over the sheets, glanced at them for a minute and then back at Sloan. “I didn’t want Henri to think I was too old for my job—too old, or too crazy.”
“You’re not that old, Jennie,” Sloan said firmly. “And Henri likes your work very much. So you’d go down but not see anyone.”
“Yes. Of course, the light is pretty dim. All you’re getting is the overflow from the main room,” Jennie reminded him. “But no, I didn’t see anyone, and the only way out is the stairs that lead to the door by the bar. So I thought I was crazy myself.”
“But when you were attacked, did you see anything? Do you have any idea who swung that cane at you?”
“The clown,” she said suddenly. “It was a clown mannequin. I saw it! Sloan, maybe there are ghosts down there.”
Again, she was quiet. He didn’t press her; he realized she wasn’t sure how to say what she wanted to say.
When she spoke, it was in a rush. “There are spirits of all the people gunned down or murdered in or near the theater, and now those spirits are possessing the mannequins.”
Sloan felt disappointment streak through him. She’d sounded as if she’d come out of it with all her senses. Now he was worried.
Not that spirits didn’t exist. Not that people wouldn’t think he was crazy if he ever told the truth.
He just didn’t believe that spirits were possessing the mannequins. People were down there doing something. He wanted to know who and what. And why...
“Jennie, maybe someone pushed one of the mannequins at you,” he said. “Maybe one of those people, whoever they are, were in the midst of the mannequins, talking. And that’s probably why it looked like the clown mannequin came after you.”
“Yes, maybe... It can be so dark and shadowy down there. It’s funny. The theater’s always had that feeling. Of being haunted. Maybe being haunted is the same as being steeped in history. But I always felt good before. Now, I don’t.”
“You’re right not to feel safe—but it wasn’t ghosts of the old theater doing bad things.”
Tears stung her eyes. “Am I too old, Sloan?”
“No, Jennie. You’re not. You walked in on someone’s secret meeting. Listen, you do everything at the theater and you do it well. That has nothing to do with the fact that you stumbled on someone who’s killing people, and that someone needed to silence you.”