Carol for Another Christmas (20 page)

At last they stood outside in the cold wind and rain, watching it pour through the broken glass in the front of the house. The lake tossed fitfully, dark with whitecaps, and seemed to be groping with lopping waves for the broken entrance.

“Spirit, one of those people—I thought I recognized him.”

“Now, where would you meet that sort of person?”

“It looked like Jamie, Tina Timmons's uncle. Where am I in all of this, Spirit, that these people treat my house this way? Am I in jail? Nothing in Wayne's diary indicated it.”

Two dark-clad figures emerged from the broken glass and the one who looked like Jamie said, “Whew, man, can you believe the smell in there?”

His companion laughed. “Yeah, man, her ritzy joint isn't so ritzy anymore, is it?”

“No, man, but it's coming from the part of the house we couldn't break into. It smells
bad
, man.”

“Maybe she ain't felt like takin' no bath since the water pipes busted,” the other one suggested in a mincing voice.

“I dunno. I say let's get out of here.” Jamie's two companions loaded their loot into the car, but Jamie said, “I gotta go meet somebody. We can divvy it up later.”

“Fer sure, man. We'll save you some. Definitely,” they said, and spun away in a fury of squealing rubber.

Monica looked at the ghost in horror. “Am I still in that house? With it being destroyed all around me? With all those people camping out, pounding on the walls, pipes bursting?”

“Let's follow young Jamie and see where he goes, shall we?” the ghost suggested.

The boy walked for blocks and blocks until he came to the University District, where he went to a pay phone and stuck what looked like a credit card in a slot. “Hello, is this KSBS-TV? I wanna talk to Bambi Billings herself. I got a little scoop here. She is? Hi, Bambi. I always watch you on TV.” The kid sounded like he was about to ask for her autograph, but then apparently Bambi Billings told him what a busy woman she was because he turned surly again. “Yeah, well, for your information, lady, I do have information for you. There's a big story at the Banks mansion. Somebody broke in there, and it smells like somebody died. Anybody seen old Money Banks lately? Maybe you people better check. Sounds like a story to me. No, I ain't gonna introduce myself while you get the police to come and find my butt, but it was nice speaking with you, too. Bye.”

“Oh, Spirit,” Monica said. “I don't want to stay here waiting for the vultures to come. Let's leave. Let's go back to Wayne's. He looks so sick and . . . old . . . and—”

“You don't have to give me excuses, Miss Banks. Don't forget to whom you are speaking. I quite see through your lies.” And she and the spirit, to whom she was still handcuffed, were swirled aloft with the boiling clouds, the roaring winds, and the driving rain. The enforcement agent followed at a discreet distance.

They sank down through the roof of Wayne's house and into his den. The telephone was ringing. “Hello. Yes, it's me. I have a cold so I just
sound
like Johnny Cash. Who's this? Oh, yeah, sure I remember you. Carl from testing who went over to do the news for KSBS.
What
break-in at the Banks mansion?
What
—did she call the police? Was she even home? Then who called you? But the police confirmed this anonymous tip, did they? No, I haven't heard from her since she went to ground. I did just try to raise her by e-mail, but she hasn't answered, though I can't exactly say that amazes me. Look, how about I meet you over there? Okay, I'm on my way.”

He left the den for the hallway, pulled on a raincoat over his pajamas and robe, and stuffed his sock-less feet into short rubber boots. He did pause to cram a wad of Kleenex in his raincoat pocket before he slid into the seat of his teal green Saturn. He didn't see the Monicas cuffed together in the backseat nor the enforcement agent, who no longer resembled Dave from marketing, in the front.

It was early and the streets were almost deserted, so he came to no harm despite driving like a jet pilot from his house to the long drive leading to the smoke-fogged entrance of the Banks mansion. He had to park behind a long line of police cars, ambulances, a fire truck, and the KSBS news van. The driveway was full of water and the once well-kept grounds were clogged with half-drowned, tall weeds and overgrown flowers and shrubs. Floodlights illuminated the gaping hole in the front of the house. Firemen were winding their hose back on their truck while police bundled the squatters Monica and the spirit had observed earlier into squad cars. Other police- and firemen were picking their way carefully through the building.

Meanwhile, an anchorwoman in a smart trench coat and wearing a patently false expression of concern and dismay, stuck a microphone in Wayne's face. “Mr. Reilly, I'm Bambi Billings from KSBS-TV news. Would you give our viewers your impression of the terrible disaster that seems to have overtaken the Banks empire? Were you not once a partner in this empire until you were cheated out of your share by the late Douglas Banks, and were you not one of the few people who had a personal friendship with a woman who's become known as the Queen of Mean of the computer world, Monica ‘Money' Banks, herself?”

Wayne looked as if he were about to bolt. Then he said brusquely but with a little smile, “It's a real mess, yes, no, and maybe. Excuse me.” With that he pushed past her and made his way to the front of the building. A policeman started to stop him, but after a few words, he called another officer over to guard the entrance and preceded Wayne into the building himself.

“Do I have to go back in there?” Monica asked the ghost.

The ghost didn't speak this time but pulled her back inside the building, through the rubble, now soaked from the fire hose, to a door to which the firefighters were applying the Jaws of Life device. The door gave, but behind it was a barricade of furniture, which they had to push past as well. Those who weren't wearing masks were holding pieces of cloth to their faces, and Wayne pulled out his handful of Kleenex to do likewise, turning his nose away.

“Mr. Reilly, I hope you're ready for this, sir,” one of the men said. “I've smelled this kind of thing before, and I can tell you it won't be pretty.”

It wasn't. The men almost stumbled over the corpse, which was rolled in a sleeping bag on the couch that had been added to the barricade. The room was otherwise bare, except for the fireplace, which held pieces of wood from broken furniture.

“I'm not going to look,” Monica said. “It's just some vagrant who broke into my house, isn't it? Tell me it is, Spirit.”

The ghost nodded toward Wayne, who took a brief look over the back of the couch and recoiled, burying his face in the Kleenex.

“Sir, we realize this is unpleasant, but we need to know. Is the deceased here Monica Banks?”

Wayne nodded, then ducked into a corner of the room and threw up.

“God, I must be a real mess,” Monica said, shuddering. “Get me out of here, Spirit. You've showed me my death. I'm impressed. I want to wake up now.”

“What? Without realizing your full impact on your fellow beings? Oh, no, I can't permit you to be so modest. Come. KSBS is getting their story, and we can watch the news on Wayne's television.”

By the time they returned to Wayne's house, without him this time, since he had lingered for whatever reason Monica couldn't bear to imagine, KSBS was indeed airing their morning program. “Good morning and happy holidays from KSBS-TV,” the handsome, serious news anchor said. He had a cheerful Christmas tie with patterns of presents on it to set off his tasteful, dark blue suit. “I'm Treat Ramsey, bringing you this special report on the death of Databanks heiress Monica Banks, also known by the nickname Money Banks. The badly decomposed body of Ms. Banks was discovered a short time ago by firefighters and police in the ruins of the palatial Lake Washington home she inherited from her late brother, Doug, founder of the Databanks empire. Her identity was confirmed by Doug's former partner and the former neighbor of both Doug and Monica Banks, Wild Web founder Wayne Reilly. We now take you to Bambi Billings on location at the devastated Banks mansion. Hi, Bambi. It looks wet out there.”

“It certainly is, Treat,” said Bambi, from her little video box superimposed on the KSBS newsroom. The wind tore through her hair dramatically. “But rescuers have been tireless emptying the Banks compound of the many people who have camped out in the safety of its walls.”

“Before we go into that, Bambi, can you tell us something about the cause of Monica Banks's death? Is foul play suspected? Was the body in any way molested?”

“Oh, turn this off!” Monica said. “This is too tacky! He's practically slobbering right there in front of the television audience!”

“He is not,” the spirit said firmly.

“Well, then he's inciting the public to slobber.”

“No, Treat, according to rescuers, Banks seems to have died of exposure, despite being inside her own home. What they believe happened is that with her assets frozen by the courts from her recent legal battles with the government, the woman known as Money no longer had enough money to maintain the huge mansion she inherited from her brother's estate. If she vacated for any reason, the government had a right to seize the building, so she stayed on long after the telephone, power, and gas were shut off. From the flooding in the building, it appears that the water was not shut off until later. Meanwhile, Banks, friendless and with no one to turn to, stayed in one room of the vast mansion, feeding furniture to the fireplace and living on canned goods. At some point, the dark, empty, seemingly deserted building, now devoid of the protection of its electronic security system, invited squatters, thieves, and vandals. Sergeant John Tremont of the King County Police, can you tell us anything about the occupation of the Banks mansion?”

A trim man in his late forties, wearing a slicker and a plastic cover over his hat, spoke gravely into the microphone. “Well, Bambi, it's an ongoing investigation at present, but it seems pretty clear at this point that the occupation has gone on for some weeks. Vandals beat in first the outer windows of the house, then the various doors as they penetrated the interior of the home. Some seem to have been only in search of shelter, but others were there to loot. Still, there was so much to steal and the doors were so strong that it seems to have taken them some time to make their way to the interior of the house, where Banks had barricaded herself. No doubt she started out living in more than one room, but as she heard the noises and couldn't make it to the outer entrance without going past the intruders—”

“What noises would those have been, Sergeant?”

“Objects breaking, the booming of doors giving way, that sort of thing. Also some of the squatters report loud parties, obscene language, and threats made by other intruders against Miss Banks, some of them pretty graphic. I guess the lady was so scared to come out that she was pretty much scared to death.”

“Scared to death,” Bambi repeated, dwelling with relish on each sensational word. “At one time the richest woman in this city, possibly in the country, ladies and gentlemen, has just died alone, cold, and probably hungry, listening to the threats of people who seemed to hate her. She died, you heard it, scared to death. What does that say about our society, eh, Treat?”

“Let's see if you made it to the radio as well, shall we?” asked the ghost, shutting the television off with a flick of her finger. With another flick, the stereo system lit up and a popular talk radio announcer's voice came on.

“Hey, did you hear that Money Banks was found all dead and icky in her big, old house last night? Which brings us to an interesting question. Even if Banks is cremated, what're they going to do with the ashes? I mean, who'd want 'em? Give us your answers—
now
.

“Hel-lo, this is Jack the Jackal, KLYMX—that's Klimax—FM. Merry Christmas. What's on your mind?”

“That rich woman who died was a tax collector. They could let her fertilize a potted plant at the federal building.”

“Recycle her, huh? Good idea. Next. Merry Christmas, Jack the Jackal here.”

“You know, that woman had every advantage, and all she ever did was make other people miserable. I think she should just be flushed down the toilet, since she treated everyone else like that's where they belonged.”

“Peace on earth to you, too, ma'am. Next. This is Jack the Jackal. Merry Christmas. What's on your mind?”

“About the Banks broad: You know when they burn old money at the banks? They should just burn old Money Banks along with it and do with her whatever they do with the dead bills. She'd like that.”

“Well, Merry Christmas to you, too, you sick sucker . . .”

If Monica had been in tears before, she was hysterical now, crying so hard she didn't hear the next answer. “Spirit, take me home, please. Don't let this be how it is. I'm not like this. These people don't even know me, and listen to how much they hate me.”

“They might hate you worse if they did know you.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” she cried, and threw herself as far to the spirit's feet as she could go, still handcuffed to her. “Oh, please let me wake up and have a chance to change some things. There's so much I didn't realize. So much I didn't know.”

“Ignorance is no excuse,” the spirit said. “That's what you used to tell anyone who asked you for mercy.”

“But I've learned so much,” Monica pleaded. “I can fix it. I really can. I can learn. Please, Spirit, I have changed. I have . . .”

Fifteen