Dead Bolt (28 page)

He chuckled.

“Or you can ask Mrs. Eldridge to open the door,” I suggested.

“I could, but my apartment door would still be locked.”

“Didn’t give a thought to grabbing your keys before jumping out the window?”

“I was focused on rescuing you. I was being gallant, thank you very much.”

“Yes, you were. Thank you. Too bad the guy had already run off.”

“Not my fault.”

“I should get home, anyway. Want me to boost you?”

“Nah.” Zach cocked his head, assessing the height of the window. He stepped back to get a running start, leapt in the air, grabbed the window ledge, then gracefully swung his body up and over the windowsill.

I was impressed. “What are you, a gymnast?”

“Misspent youth.”

“I’ll bet. Anyway, thanks.”

“Anytime. I’ll just wait here and watch until you leave.”

I turned, then hesitated. “Zach, this guy isn’t, in any way, working with you, is he?”

“You did
not
just ask me that. When are we going to get past that one little incident, so long ago?”

“Just wanted to cover my bases. Let me know what you find out about the Russian.”

I hurried to my car, climbed inside, and locked the doors. I waved good-bye to Zach, who was watching from the window, and drove off.

I didn’t really think Zach had had anything to do with what just happened—after all, he was in no way connected to any of this business. But this meant someone had been following me. I watched my rearview mirror anxiously all the way home.

I
hate
being followed.

 

I limped home to find all the boys—Caleb and a friend, Dad, Stan, even Dog—in the living room watching TV. They were sharing a huge bowl of popcorn, which was the one food—besides tofu—that Dog didn’t like. Unless, of course, a popcorn kernel was loaded with butter and salt, in which case he was all over it. Dog’s velvety snout was in constant motion, sniffing and waiting to make a move.

“Hey, what happened to you?” Dad asked, noticing my swelling, bruised cheekbone.

“Got in the way of my own hammer.”

“That’s not like you, babe.” Dad frowned. “You got too much on your plate?”

“I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

I took a bag of peas from the freezer and held it to my face, then slumped onto the sofa next to Caleb. He no longer enjoyed snuggling, but that didn’t keep me from stealing a little physical contact from him when I was feeling particularly needy . . . and tonight qualified. Caleb was gracious, allowing me to lean into him for all of five minutes before easing away. It was amazing to see him grow up, though I missed the cuddly five-year-old pirate.

I watched about twenty minutes of an animated sitcom the guys found hilarious before my eyelids began to droop. I pushed myself off the couch, hugged Caleb, said good-night to his friend, kissed Stan, and leaned over to give Dad a hug.

As I smelled the lingering scent of tobacco on Dad it dawned on me: The guy who attacked me had smelled of cigarettes.

U
sually I work on Saturdays, catching up on the million-and-one little things that I can’t see to during the week as I rush from job site to job site. But today, I vowed, I would check in with my foremen, then take the rest of the day off.

Well, not “off” in the sense of sipping piña coladas on a beach. But today I would trade my hard hat for a ghost-chasing hat, whatever that might look like.

First I stopped by Cheshire House to see if Katenka had returned.

No one was home in the Daleys’ basement apartment, but I found Raul in the main house, his arm in a sling, going over some paperwork.

“Raul, what are you doing here? Go home and recuperate. The General commands it.”

“I will, boss lady. I just wanted to make sure we’re ready for everything on Monday,” Raul said, then looked up from the paperwork and did a double take. “What happened to your face? Are you hurt?”

The swelling on my cheekbone had gone down, but a quick glimpse in the mirror this morning revealed a bloom of color on my cheek: cherry red, greenish gray, blue. It wasn’t becoming.

“Little accident. Nothing serious. And I already took care of everything for next week. Now please, go home and let your wife pamper you.”

He smiled but looked troubled.

“I want to show you something.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out how I fell. The ladder was positioned well; Bertie did his job. And I know I didn’t lose my balance. So I got to thinking maybe something was wrong with the ladder.”

“Wrong how?” This was worrisome. My dad was a stickler for properly maintaining equipment, and I had followed his example to the letter. At least, I thought I had.

“I wondered if maybe the ladder had been tampered with. So I checked it out.”

“And had it?”

He shook his head. “No, not that I could tell. But look what I
did
find.”

He led the way up the stairs, to the section of balustrade that collapsed when I fell against it the other day. “See this?”

The railing had been sawed most of the way through, leaving a clean cut, not the jagged edges an accidental break would leave.

“And here . . .” Raul showed me another spot on the third-floor catwalk.

“Those cuts have been there awhile,” I said. A fresh wood cut is a bright, whitish yellow. Older cuts appear darker because wood oxidizes over time. Both of the cuts Raul showed me were a dark brown.

Raul nodded. “I checked the entire railing carefully and didn’t find any other cuts. How did they get there? Who would do such a thing?”

I had no answer for him.

Raul’s phone rang. “My wife’s outside,” he said, looking sheepish. “She gave me a half-hour furlough while she ran to the store. Mel, I know you’re careful, but . . . This is serious. Be more cautious than ever.”

“Thanks, Raul. I will.”

I walked him out to the car and exchanged pleasantries with his wife, then retrieved my supplies from yesterday’s trip to the botanica and went back inside the house
.
It was time to stop the supernatural nonsense once and for all. Mounting the stairs, I wondered if it was wise to go into the attic by myself. I thought about waiting and trying to get Graham to go up with me, but I hesitated to subject him to possible danger. Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted to allow these ghosts to reopen a romantic can of worms with Graham.

Olivier had explained it was vital to be resolute before contacting the spirits. Last night’s attack had served to strengthen my conviction. I had been physically threatened by a human as well as by ghosts, my foreman had been injured, and my complicated relationship with Graham had been rendered still more complex.

I’d had it with these spirits.

With each step I climbed, I focused on banishing my fear, replacing it with determination and a sense of calm. I started chanting to myself,
I am alive, a part of this world. You are not.
The winged angels of death carved in the woodwork seemed to follow me with their eyes, as if mocking me.
I am alive, a part of this world. You are not.

On the top floor, I took a deep breath and released it slowly, caressing the warm gold of my grandmother’s wedding ring that I wore around my neck. I pulled open the hatch, brought down the stairs, and ascended into the darkness of the attic.

Daylight streamed through the small vents, but otherwise the space was shadowy and forbidding. I switched on the overhead lightbulb and, using my flashlight, inspected the old dead bolt on the hidden door. I tried each key from the antique key ring. None worked.

I turned away to grab my tools, but this time when I crouched down in front of the lock, the door was ajar.

As I reached out toward it, it snapped shut.

Something scurried past in my peripheral vision.

A shadow hovered over my shoulder, dark and angry.

My heart leapt to my throat, and I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, pondering fear cages. Could I be experiencing a biological response to electromagnetic stimuli? Or was I, in fact, communicating with the former inhabitants of Cheshire House? Inhabitants who had to be convinced to move along to the light, or the other side, or wherever it is that ghosts are supposed to go? Maybe I should have thought this through a little more thoroughly. . . .

But for now, I had to try to speak to it . . . to them.

“Is this Charles Carter?” Nothing. “Andre? Dominga? Luvitica?” I intoned one name after the other, concentrating on calling them, communicating with them. I clasped the band of gold, centering myself.
I am alive, a part of this world. You are not. I am alive, a part of this world. You are not.

Still nothing.

Okay, plan B.

Kneeling on the dusty floor, I laid out the items from the botanica: a bell, bundles of herbs, holy water, candles. I felt a little foolish, and wondered if I had become the sort of person I used to make fun of, the “Berkeley woo-woo type.” But if I had, did it matter?

I lit the candles, then held the smudge bundle over the flame. As smoke arose from the herbs, I repeated aloud: “I am alive, a part of this world. You are not.”

I heard something, a sound so low I wondered if I’d actually heard it, or if I’d imagined it. It reminded me of being awakened from a sound sleep by Caleb calling to me when he was younger. I couldn’t tell if it was real or a dream, so I would tiptoe into his room to find him fast asleep, chubby boy cheeks flushed with warmth, holding his plush rabbit close to his chest.

After my marriage ended, I would still awaken, certain Caleb was calling me, only to realize that I was in my dad’s home, far from the little boy I loved so much, wondering if he was all right.

This was that kind of sound. There, but not there.

“What is it you want?”

Silence.

But now I could feel them, sense them along my skin, an engulfing sensation, like entering an air-conditioned store on a hot, humid afternoon.

I felt anger, and desire. Longing. Lust.
Need
.

I picked up the bell, then went to the far corner of the attic and rang it, intoning, “I am alive and you are not. I am part of this world; you are not. Leave this place.”

A woman’s laughter rang out, as it had when I was in the basement. Malicious, immature. Once I got over the sinister shock of it all, I was reminded of girls snickering behind their lockers in high school.

As I walked the perimeter of the attic, I noticed a neat stack of ancient newspapers, as though someone had pulled them from the walls and floor. Could someone have been up here, cleaning up?

They were yellowed and brittle with age. The one on top contained a nuptial announcement, with a formal wedding sketch of Charles and Luvitica. She was beautiful and very young-looking; he was rather gaunt-looking, though not nearly so haggard as when I saw him in the bathroom mirror downstairs the other day. So the wet footprints did, indeed, belong to Charles.

I lifted the paper, which fell apart in my hands. Below it was another, reporting Charles Carter’s demise from kidney failure while on a sea voyage to Chile. He was survived by his wife, Luvitica, his mother, Dominga, and his younger brother, Andre.

I felt I was being watched. The next thing I knew, wet footprints appeared before me.

“Charles? Can you tell me what happened?”

I turned back to the papers. The next in the stack was dated two days later, and had been folded to display a small article about Andre Carter going missing. Maybe Charles
was
communicating. He couldn’t speak to me, so was he trying to tell the story through the old papers?

It dawned on me that Charles spit up liquid when he tried to talk. But the dead don’t breathe. How had liquid gotten into his lungs? Perhaps he hadn’t died of kidney failure, after all.

Then I felt a blackness over my shoulder—it appeared to chase Charles away. The newspapers began to scatter, whirling through the attic, as though flung by invisible hands.

I heard the woman’s laughter again, and I saw something in the shadows, shifting and growing.

A newspaper landed on the burning candle and burst into flames.

I ran to extinguish it, stomping on it with my booted foot. Papers were flying through the air now, the neat stack dispersed. I blew out the remainder of the candles, but turned on my flashlight. Daylight sifted in through the ventilation screens, but the place was still dim.

I looked all around me, but Charles had disappeared.

But the shadow loomed on one side of the attic, and a ghostly woman laughed on the other. Two different entities, then. And Charles. All in this house. I was hoping their unhappy trio was the extent of it.

I stroked my grandmother’s wedding ring, and tried to regroup.

“Luvitica?” I called.

More laughter. And a faint, “Hmmmmm.”

“Show yourself,” I said. Nothing. “This is no longer your house. Leave this place.”

The candles began to fall over, one after the other. The bell rang of its own accord. I tried not to respond in fear to the eerie parlor tricks. I told myself to hold on to my resolution to rid this house of these ghosts, once and for all.

“What do you want?” I demanded.

Urgent whispers, unintelligible, from behind the hidden door.

“Do you know what happened to Katenka?” I asked, taking another tack.

More laughing.

And then . . . an image of the horsehair settee popped into my mind—as if the ghosts had guided it there.

“I am alive, a part of this world. You are not,” I said. I had to get control over them before they were able to manipulate me to do their will.

I heard a high-pitched giggle, mocking, as if daring me. I felt rage building inside me, but pushed it away.