The Sound of the Bell

"Yeah." The man nodded. "Rented a car and drove way out to Camden. They found her inside it the next day. Keys in the ignition, empty gas tank." A shudder ran down his spine and the man crossed himself. "Pobrecita. My girl blamed herself for months, saying if only she'd said or done something."

The first woman laughed nervously. "It was suicide, wasn't it?"

The man shrugged. "The cops said so, and nobody else wanted to ask too many questions. Pobrecita."

He put his arm around the woman beside him, hugging her as if she were the most precious person in the world. Her gown shifted as she leaned against him, and her swelling abdomen became apparent.

The gaze the spirit turned on Luke was frigid as a between-rounds ice pack. Luke took an involuntary step back.

"The girl, she decided that on her own," he explained, sweat prickling his armpits. "She didn't talk to me about it. And I offered to pay for the abortion."

"Your mother taught you better," she spat, and even her green gown seemed to flare with anger.

"My mother was weak. She didn't teach me nothing." Even to himself, he sounded like a sullen little punk.

"Poor Catie," the first woman said, and Luke suddenly placed that nasal accent. Barbie Bruno. He'd nailed her once at a party. She'd cried afterwards, and left immediately, brushing off her friends' attempts to learn what had happened. Good riddance, he'd thought at the time – not much of a lay, and it had cleared the field for him to find a second victim that night.

"To think we all told Catie how lucky she was, landing the great Luke O'Grady," the second woman was saying. "All us ring girls were so jealous!"

"Yeah, dodged a bullet, didn't we?" Barbie said. "He's nothing but a pool of dog vomit." She leaned forward, and her purple lips curved into a malicious smile. "And bad in bed. Or so I hear."

She dangled one finger, imitating a limp member, and her friends roared with appreciation, the sound bouncing off the walls. Around them, people turned to look, wanting to be in on the joke.

"Can't we get out of here?" Luke asked.

"Oh, doll, to see ourselves as others see us," the spirit quoted, twisting a lock of her strange multi-colored hair around one finger. "Burns. That's from 'To a Louse.' Rather appropriate, I think."

Luke gave her an imploring look. "Please?"

The unaccustomed word vibrated in the air like the toll of a bell, and the spirit looked at him with something like pity. She took his sleeve, and for once, he was glad of the transitional darkness swirling around him.

"What did you ever see in him?" a woman's voice said in his ear. Luke found himself seated between his wife and a lovely older woman Luke couldn't identify, and he bounded off the couch as if shot from a cannon. Nearby, the spirit sniggered, then looked around the room with interest.

"I thought he hung the moon," Caitlin replied simply.

"I tried to warn you, Catie," the older woman said, reaching over to pat Caitlin's shoulder. Staring at her, Luke felt himself grow faint. It couldn't be!

"I know you did," Caitlin said, her voice soft, her mane of platinum hair sweeping the top of her companion's hand. "But I was nineteen and thought I knew everything there was to know about life."

Both women chuckled as Luke stared at them in horror. His wife – and his mother? In the same room? Talking about him?

From a young age, Luke O'Grady had learned to compartmentalize his various spheres of activities. Family went into one slot, work into another, mistresses into a third, deals into a fourth, and so on. Much easier on everyone – cleaner and tidier, he told himself, rationalizing as usual.

But even that system had little sub-slots, with everyone in their rightful places and seldom mixing or meeting unless Luke approved. After he and Caitlin had eloped following a fight in Vegas, his mother had unexpectedly flown out to meet them, one of the few times she had ever spent money on an extravagance like airfare. The two had sized each other up, his mother no doubt seeing a busty blonde with no brains to speak of, and his wife seeing at last the woman who had brought her husband into this world.

The women had circled each other like fighters in the ring, and he had laughed at the sight, drawing identical angry glances from the pair. His phone had rung just then, and he had left them to it while he cut yet another deal-within-a-deal behind the closed door of their bedroom.

He had returned to find a note on the table by the door. "Gone to lunch," a note read in his wife's loopy, rather childish, script. "Back around two. You're not invited, darling, haha."

Fuming, he had hurried out to find them, but a stunning brunette he had noticed at the bar the night before had distracted him. He'd spent a rewarding two hours in her suite before sauntering back to Caitlin and his mother.

One glance at him told both women what they needed to know. Hell, they could probably smell his latest conquest on him, but that was the price tag for their disloyalty.

They had shared a look Luke hadn't understood, and his mother had quietly left. He hadn't seen her since, and to the best of his knowledge, neither had Caitlin.

Until now. The ease of their posture together told him how incomplete his knowledge really was.

"We're all idiots at that age," his mother was saying. "I was, you were, our mothers were..."

"But I stayed an idiot way too long," Caitlin cut in bitterly. "I didn't want to know what was happening under my own nose. Not just the other women, either. All of it. The lies, the corruption, the bodies, the money laundering, the mob ties. All of it."

"You couldn't know," the other woman soothed.

"He married me for my looks, Ginny," Caitlin said. "I knew that. To him, I was just another bimbo. But I was smarter than I looked. And – and I loved him."

"My son always underestimated women," Ginny said. "Starting with me, and on for the rest of his life."

Caitlin nodded. "Yeah. Thank God we never had kids. I was terrified we'd have a daughter."

Luke's mouth went dry as he turned to the watching spirit.

"She didn't want my kids?" he squeaked, his neck hot with fury.

The spirit waved a hand, choking off his tirade.

"There are none so blind as those who will not see. Heywood. Now be quiet. This is interesting."

"That's an awful thing for a woman to realize," Ginny was saying. "My dear, I'm so very sorry. About everything."

Forcing a smile, Caitlin faced her mother-in-law. "You tried. You tried to warn me over that first lunch. But I was so sure the love of a good woman – that my love – could make him a good man."

Dropping her gaze to the fringed leather carpet, Ginny sighed. "You know, he was a darling little boy. Absolutely angelic. " Her eyes took on the faraway look mothers get when thinking about their children's earliest years. "But something happened to him when he was about six. I still remember – it was the last day of school. I still don't know exactly what – he kept his own counsel even back then. Nothing could make that boy talk if he didn't want to."

"Sounds familiar," Caitlin said wryly, and Ginny gave her a brief smile of understanding.

"But I watched him that summer. He'd go off alone for hours, and when I'd peek in on him, he'd be lying there in his secret hiding place, staring up into space. Sometimes I'd see tears, sometimes not. But by the end of the summer, he wasn't my sweet little boy anymore."

The spirit shot him a questioning glance, and Luke's face reddened.

"I ain't thought of that in years." Looking at the ceiling, he shook his head. "I didn't know she was watching me."

"What were you doing?" the spirit asked.

"Building a wall. Building a fucking fortress."

"Why?"

"So no one could ever hurt me again. I was a little kid when I learned that people would push you around if you were soft. No way was I gonna be a target."

A muscle in Luke's jaw jumped, and his mother and wife would have recognized the look of determination. Luke and the spirit returned their attention to the scene in front of them.

Ginny turned back to Caitlin. "I would have loved a couple of grandkids, but maybe it's for the best that you didn't have kids."

She broke down then, and Caitlin circled her in her arms.

"Maybe," Ginny sniffed, "if you ever marry again, maybe I could be a bonus grandmother to your kids?"

Caitlin smiled, and all the magic Luke had once seen revealed itself once more. Only now, it no longer moved him.

"I never expect to marry again, but if I did have kids, I'd absolutely want you in their lives. I can't imagine a better grandmother!"

The spirit looked down at Luke and cocked an eyebrow, but he continued to glower at his wife and mother and said nothing.

A few minutes later, Ginny wiped her eyes. "So here we sit while the Boxers Ball that you spent the entire last year organizing goes on. Don't you want to go?"

Caitlin shook her head. "I have a video feed if I want to look in. But the Boxers Ball – well, it's my past. I put my heart and soul into it, and I'm proud of what it's become and the money it raises. Honestly, I'd rather stay home and plan a good future than think about the past."

Ginny nodded and gave a little smile. "You always were a smart one, hon. What about that little girl, Thea? The daughter of your friends?"

"I'll do my best for her," Caitlin said. "She's such a sweetheart, but it's not looking so good."

Incredulous, Luke turned to the spirit. "Thea Martelli? Catie's been funneling money for that little brat? The family's been faking that kid's illness for years, trying to get money and sympathy and shit. Everyone knows the kid's fi–."

Darkness cut him off and Luke's head ached with everything he had learned.

The quality of the darkness changed, and he found himself on a quiet street, trailing behind a couple with a thin little girl in a sheer white ghost costume. Each adult grasped one of the child's hands, and even Luke could see the tension in their bodies, illuminated by the streetlights.

"Is that Jacob?" he asked. "And Andrea?"

The spirit made no answer, leaving him to figure it out for himself.

The child stumbled, and her parents anxiously stooped next to her.

"Are you all right, honey?" Jacob said. "Are you too tired?"

"It was just a little rough patch on the street," the child insisted, waving her bag of candy. "I'm not tired, I'm not!"

After a quick glance at the smooth pavement around them, Andrea hugged the little girl to her. "You may not be tired, but I am." She faked a yawn. "Three more houses, and we're going home."

"Aw, Mom, it's too early to go home. All the other kids are staying out."

Andrea stared thoughtfully at the pale little face barely visible through the white tulle. "We'll see, alanna."

By the third house, though, Thea had drooped noticeably. Her father scooped up his giggling ghost and placed her on his shoulders as if she were five, and the trio trooped home, talking about which houses had the best treats.

"Lazy kid," Luke grumbled. "Leave it to a girl to figure out how to make a man do all the work."

A cuckoo clock's whistle sounded in the night, and the spirit jumped.

"Our revels now are ended," the spirit quoted. "Shakespeare. Now, Luke O'Grady, have you learned anything from our little foray this evening?"

"Yeah. I need new friends and a different wife."

"You, Luke O'Grady, are possibly the least self-aware mortal I have ever met," the spirit said sadly, shaking her mane of magnificent hair, and Luke realized with a jolt who she reminded him of. Even her green gown matched his wife's eyes exactly.

Caitlin. Always Caitlin.

Then he fell into a mist and knew nothing more.

Luke sat slumped in his leather chair. He glanced at the clock. In a few moments it would be a new day and all this would be over. The Ball in the evening would be a time to unwind.

The first note sounded. Luke picked up his drink and strode to the window, staring out over the city. He counted the chimes. Eleven. Twelve. He saw a motion in the reflection of the darkened room.

He turned. "The witching hour. It—" His voice froze in his throat as the specter slid near.

It moved toward him in a smooth glide that didn't suggest a man walking. It was enveloped in the depths of a black silk robe. Not the black of midnight that might be broken by a star's twinkle. This unnatural silk didn't gleam with the lights of the City flowing through the wide windows of his bedroom. This was the absolute black of being locked in the tiny closet of a dark attic when he was a child.

The figure's head was hidden in the deep hood. Luke was so used to bright trim on the hems, sash, and cuffs that it took a moment to register that this unrelieved darkness was a boxing robe. Nor did the figure it shrouded evoke the ring. It was thin, and the robe's hem brushed the floor, denying him a glimpse of its legs. And yet, for all the slightness of figure, it exuded gloom and the menace of a heavyweight stalking an exhausted opponent.

Only one outstretched hand was visible. It was thin with arthritic knuckles and untended nails. The skin was dark and had a grayish cast that conveyed age. It pointed out his window toward the north.

"I guess that makes you the Ghost of Next Halloween?" said Luke.

The specter neither answered nor moved.

"Come on." Luke kept his voice firm even though the apparition was creeping him out. "I saw the past and the present. That makes you the future, right?"

The hood moved slightly, as if the figure was nodding within its depths. The hand didn't waver.

"All right! Jesus! Give me a second."

At the oath, the figure's head tipped as if it were studying him intently. That made it even worse for Luke. No matter how much he strained, he could see nothing in the depths of that cowl.

He stepped closer. A musty scent hit his nostrils, an earthy smell that evoked mushrooms or a mildewy, old cabin. "Let's go," he said before his courage failed. The figure's other arm came up as if to embrace him. He shrank from it, but he felt nothing, only a swirl of blackness and then they were elsewhere.

It was a scene any person would recognize. A doctor and nurse stood talking in a hospital room.

"There was no chance, really," the nurse said. "There was too much damage to the brain."

"I know," said the doctor. "I just hate it when they go on my shift. It's a downer for the rest of the day."

Ignoring the callous words, Luke moved to see around the curtain. Even though he couldn't see the face, the bandages that covered it told Luke who it was. Davin Abascal. He'd taken a ferocious pounding in "All Tricks, No Treats."

"You loaded him up on morphine, so the ending was pretty painless. That's more than some of the people he hurt had." The nurse's tone was disdainful.

Luke knew Abascal was injured, but he had no idea it was this bad. He had plans for that young man: a return match because grudges thrilled the paying public. There'd have been a lot of money for everyone, including Abascal. It was about the show that brought the payoff, not about crippling people.

Luke turned to the specter.

"I didn't mean for that to happen," he said. "He was supposed to get bloodied up because you can't have a madman like him go down easy, not after what he's done to opponents. But Abascal didn't follow the script. He kept hanging in there until this happened."

The specter made no response. With a swirl, it drew him on to another scene.

The harsh glare of sun and palm trees told Luke where he was. Bal Harbor. He recognized two of the three figures on the park bench. They were an older couple who took care of things for a few of the snowbirds when they were up north.

"He was a bastard to work for, no question," the woman said. Her face was twisted in a sneer so unlike her usual solicitous expression. "Treated us like dirt. Time we got our due."

Her husband nodded and held out a small object to the other man. "This here's the fob to the Lambo. I'll miss 'er. She were a sweet ride when he weren't around, but cash be better."

"Ouch," Luke said to the spirit. "That's like a quarter mil up to maybe a half if you're talking about an Aventador. I like expensive cars and I'd probably get a Lamborghini someday, but I guess I won't leave it down there if this is what happens when we're not around." He waved toward the couple. "I haven't lost anything I know of, but still, I'm going to have to let those two go. I can't have people who'll stick a knife in your back working for me. I hope they're not fucking over one of my friends." He chuckled. "Though there are a couple guys down there I wouldn't mind it happening to."

The unknown man pocketed the car fob and paper, then handed over an envelope in return. It bulged in a way that suggested it contained quite a bit.

"It chaps my ass the way people take advantage," Luke said as the robe flared black.

The quiet dim of the soaring nave was a sudden contrast to the bright sun of Florida. Luke followed the outstretched finger to see a woman kneeling forward, her hands folded in prayer. He recognized her, Baquiran's daughter, Mariel. Her quiet words barely reached his ears.

"... a Lucas O'Grady. Amén." There was a pause, and then a new cycle started. "Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo. Bendita tú ..."

"She's still praying for me? I don't know what to say. She's a good woman."

The two, specter and human spirit, stood and watched the young woman for a moment, then blackness pulled Luke onward.

He knew this office. It was down the hall from his own. The two men in it were seniors in his battalion of minions.

"You know, it might just work," the younger one said tentatively.

"It will. This company's books show the money donated, and we have a record of the money being wired. The trust has a record of the money hitting the operating account. That it never reached the account for the trophy fund ... well, who's the person who moved that money?" The older man grinned. "Him, that's who. And if it's not replaced from the payouts before someone notices, who are they gonna ask?"

"Him," they said in unison this time.

"But now, there's a boatload of cash he was gonna use to set up that next fight."

"I think five mil each in the Yours Truly Retirement Fund is a much better use."

As their meaning sank in, Luke flew into a rage.

"You're fired! And it doesn't end there, assholes. Look over your shoulders because what happened to Abascal is nothing compared to what's going to happen to you. You're dead men walking and it won't be quick!"

Neither of the men he addressed noticed Luke.

He turned to his guide. "I get the message. I've surrounded myself with thieves. Okay, I've crossed the line a few times, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised. I get it. Mea culpa. So, take me home so that I can fix it. That fund was for something good. I won't let those assholes do this."

His underlings were still speaking.

"I kind of feel sorry for the young fighters. Those awards would have been something to shoot for."

"Whatever. You know he'd have announced some big endowment to get everyone sucking up to him and his name in all the papers, then clawed half of it back in expenses and management fees. It's the way he was. No, if someone wants to create that monument to his ego, then they can fund the O'Grady Awards themselves. Maybe Caitlin will want to. She can put the money back if she wants to protect his name."

"Cailin! Yeah, like she has the money. Fuck them! I—" Luke was in mid-rant when the scene shifted.