The Bone Orchard (12 page)

Room 18 became known as the Shaw Suite, named for Ambrose and his storied life, with rumors of the two murdered men of the law forever haunting the luxurious suite. More often than not, it was left unoccupied.

They once again lost track of the passing of time as they waged their private war, but now and then they would be reminded of it. They carried on through earthquakes and fires, witnessing the passing of the horse-drawn buggy and the introduction of the first odd trolley car to roam the streets. They bore witness to the birth of the city and the deaths of many, all the while protecting unsuspecting citizens from the icy fingers of Jennings’s grasp, occasionally failing in their duties and left to mourn over another life lost to the monster’s bone orchard.

In 1906, an earthquake devastated the city. Ambrose and Ezra were forced to watch as people died, crushed under buildings, smothered by smoke from fires that ravaged the streets. They could only help so many people, unable to be in more than one place at a time to lift debris off the injured or comfort victims so close to death they could already see Ambrose and Ezra clearly. But they helped those they could, then stood in the middle of the ruined street, watching their home burn as Boone Jennings laughed from his ghostly gallows.

It was the darkest time in Ambrose’s memory. The only light in his existence was Ezra, and it was a powerful light indeed. They were without a home, without a place to ground them, but they walked hand in hand through the ruined city together, facing the horror of the possibilities ahead. What would happen to them if the city never recovered? Would this be it for them?

They had each other, though, and somehow that was enough amidst the rubble.

It took three years before something familiar reappeared from the ashes—three years of wandering through a foggy, unfamiliar landscape where disappearing was always a frightening prospect because nothing grounded them but each other. Their relief was immeasurable when fittings and salvaged mementos were gathered and placed in the New Palace Hotel down the street, which was rebuilt grander and sturdier than before.

Ambrose and Ezra sat atop the building materials and watched as the place was erected. The bar top from the old Continental was installed in the New Palace, and one morning after a rather spirited boxing match with Jennings, in which Ambrose had finally gotten ahold of one of those red eyeballs and squished it between his fingers with a whoop of joy, Ambrose found himself at the bar of the New Palace Hotel, seeking a light for his cigarillo, more confused than usual. It took hours for Ezra to track him down, but once he did, they realized they might have a new home. They’d long ago established that their true home was each other, but it was kind of nice to have a bed somewhere too.

The grand new hotel stuck with them, weathering the storms, growing old gracefully until it’d become one of the oldest buildings in San Francisco. Eventually, Ambrose and Ezra became so grounded there that when they awoke each morning, they were still wrapped in each other’s arms. For the first time in decades, they were able to take advantage of waking up without clothes on.

When the Palace Hotel was placed on the historic register, Ambrose and Ezra breathed a mutual sigh of relief. Their home would be safe, protected from the inexorable march of progress, protected even from the earthquakes the city was prone to suffer by engineers who better understood the way the earth moved.

Boone Jennings’s gallows spot hadn’t fared so well. It was now an office building with gray walls and little cubes where people worked. It was just like a prison, except they had doughnuts in the break room and whispers among the workers to stay out of the basement.

Jennings’s rage kept him anchored there, unable to move to a new home as Ambrose and Ezra had, unable to find peace, unable to roam long or far. And his rage kept Ambrose and Ezra busy. Even in death, they were able to do what they’d loved in life: save lives.

Ambrose sat with his feet up on the table, his boots on the tablecloth making the dishes and silverware rattle whenever he laughed or moved. Ezra retained more of his propriety, legs crossed genteelly as they sat side by side, watching the hotel patrons bustle about the Palm Court.

It was a grand room, one that had seen almost as much history as Ambrose and Ezra had. In this room they’d listened in on speeches from presidents. Seen the birth of the United Nations. Heard from the Soviet premier and then poked him with a palm frond later that night just to make him curse in drunken Russian.

They’d tried and failed to save Warren G. Harding in room 8064 during his Voyage of Understanding in the 1920s. Boone Jennings hadn’t been able to pass up the chance to add an American president to his bone orchard, and they’d gotten there too late.

They were now well into the new millennium. Ezra had been enthralled by the end-of-the-world scare of 2012, wondering what would happen to the spirits of the dead if the Mayan prophecy was correct. Ambrose hadn’t cared either way, and he’d taken great pleasure in poking fun at Ezra’s fascination.

Boone Jennings had been quiet for some time. So long, in fact, that Ambrose was pushing Ezra to let him go to that office building and hunt Jennings down to see what he was up to.

“I say enjoy the peace while we’ve got it. Don’t go prodding him if he’s not hurting anything.”

Ambrose huffed at that, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ezra gazed upon him for several seconds, smiling fondly. “You’re quite charming when you’re sulking.”

Ambrose cut his eyes toward Ezra, trying not to smile. His mustache hid the twitching of his lips, but it twitched instead and made him look like a bunny flexing its whiskers.

Ezra took his hand, squeezing affectionately. “You’re just bored,” he said with a smile. “This too shall pass.”

“But it passes so damn slow sometimes. At least when he’s up and roaming, I feel like I have a purpose.” Ambrose groaned and flopped his head back. The chair dislodged his hat and it fluttered to the floor, giving off a cloud of dust before it disappeared. “Well, hell.”

Ezra chuckled as Ambrose ran his fingers through his hair. The man looked absolutely naked without his hat. It was a good look for him.

Ambrose frowned and cocked his head at the entry to the gleaming marble lobby. A group of men had walked in, glancing around the Palm Court and waiting until the hostess showed them to a table at which to dine.

Ezra watched them curiously, wondering why they’d caught Ambrose’s attention.

“That boy favors you a bit,” Ambrose murmured. He removed his feet from the table and leaned forward.

“Which?”

“The one in front, the one leading the others.”

Ezra adjusted his eyeglasses. The man did look quite a bit like him. Same light brown hair, same shape of the face. He was roughly Ezra’s height and weight, too, and though his eyes appeared to be a lighter color than Ezra’s brown, they had the same downward turn to the corners.

As Ezra examined the man, he saw that he was holding a small leather journal against his chest, clutching it in his hand even though he had a satchel slung over his shoulder.

Ezra gasped when he recognized it.

“What, what’s wrong?”

“My journal!”

“Your what now?” Ambrose asked, and they both stood so quickly that they disturbed the candle in the center of the table. It flickered and went out.

Ezra made his way through the maze of tables and diners to the group of gentlemen, reaching them as they were being seated.

“Nice digs, man,” one of the men was saying. He was black, with dark skin and the accent of the deep bayou. “Glad you’re picking up the tab for this one.”

“I always pick up your tab,” the man with the journal said. He set the book on the table beside him, and Ezra hurried over to see it. It was worn from years of use and storage. The leather had cracked and faded, and the bottom of the book was bent where it appeared to have sat on a shelf. But it was also newly oiled, as if someone had tried to protect and restore it. His initials were etched in the corner.

“Is it yours?” Ambrose asked again.

“It is,” Ezra whispered. He glanced at the man. “He must be a relative of mine. Oh my God, Ambrose.”

Ambrose snaked a hand around his shoulders, patting him in support. Ezra didn’t know how to feel, looking at a man who could possibly have the same blood flowing through his veins. The great-great-grandson of Ezra’s brother—he had to be.

“He probably found you through that journal of yours, Ez.” Ambrose let go of Ezra and reached to poke at the journal. His finger waved through it. “He’s here looking for you, he has to be. Trying to connect with his ancestors. That’s awful nice, this day and age.”

Warmth and joy filled Ezra as he gazed at the man. Ambrose had to be right. This man was here with his journal. There was no other reason to think he might have walked into this hotel, the oldest hotel in the city, than to feel closer to Ezra, to be seeking information. The fact that a man born generations after Ezra had died—a hundred years after anyone had told tales of his life—was here with his journal made tears prick at his eyes.

He reached for the journal, dragging his fingers across it. It was solid under his skin. He pushed it toward the edge of the table, hoping to surreptitiously make it fall so he could catch a glimpse at some of the pages. It reached the edge and teetered, then Ezra gave it a tiny poke and it plummeted toward the floor. But the man reacted with lightning speed. He must’ve seen it fall in his peripheral vision and reached out, catching the journal in his palm without ever even turning his head.

Ezra stepped back, wide-eyed. He’d only ever seen Ambrose move so fast. He and Ambrose shared a look. They knew what that meant. This man, whoever he was, had lived a life where his reaction time meant life or death. By the way he carried himself, Ezra was willing to guess he was in the military, or at the very least a member of law enforcement. Ezra felt inexplicably proud of that. This was his family’s legacy, and he seemed like a fine young man.

“Nice catch,” one of the men said, deadpan. He was a big man with auburn hair and striking green eyes. “Ghosts are after you already, Longjohns.”

“Funny.” Ezra’s descendant frowned at the journal, swiping his fingers over it in a gesture of respect. He closed it and carefully placed it back on the table, further from the edge.

“So Owen, what exactly are you looking for here?” another man asked. He was shorter, with brown hair and changeable eyes that reminded Ezra of the silver in Ambrose’s eyes when he’d been a ghost and Ezra was still alive.

“Owen,” Ezra whispered. “That was my father’s name. He’s named for my father.”

Ambrose bent close, putting his face in front of Owen’s. “His eyes are kind of brown. Otherwise he looks quite like you. Weird.”

“I just want to find out what happened to him, you know?” Owen was saying, oblivious to Ambrose in his face. “His journal talks about this guy, Jennings, being hanged. But then he says the murders started up again, and he claims it’s Jennings. He writes it down like there’s no question, says Jennings killed again. But he doesn’t say how he knows or why he thinks Jennings is still alive. He also talks about working with a US Marshal named Ambrose Shaw. He writes about
falling in love
with the guy, but I looked Shaw up, and he died two weeks before Ezra ever made it to town. They never should have met.”

Ambrose nudged Ezra, grinning widely. “You wrote you were in love with me?”

Ezra slipped his arm around him, pulling him closer. “I was.” He kissed Ambrose quickly. “Still am, God help me.”

Ambrose chuckled. “You weren’t the love of my life, but you sure as hell were the love of my death.”

“So either your uncle dude was crazy, or he was seeing ghosts,” the black man said.

“He was
in love
with a ghost. Is insanity inherited?” the red-haired man asked. The smaller man nodded, smiling.

“They don’t seem to care it was a man ghost,” Ambrose observed. “I like your nephew and his friends, Ezra.”

“Me too.”

Owen rolled his eyes, looking amused over the teasing from his friends. “Come on, now. We’ve all seen ghosts. Nick? You remember the kid on the tricycle at Guantanamo Bay?”

The red-haired man shivered and nodded, looking away like he was trying
not
to remember it.

“We’re not here for a séance are we?” the black man asked. “’Cause that shit’s freaky.”

“No! I just wanted to see some local records, maybe hear if there are legends or . . . I don’t know. The story’s always intrigued me for some reason.” Owen shrugged. “It was the great family mystery: how did Uncle Ezra die? And after our last tour, I just . . . I just felt this urgent need to figure it out.”

The admission gave Ezra pause. The story of his death had been told by his family? He’d never thought about his loved ones missing him or wondering what had happened to him. He’d never thought of someone reading through that journal and trying to piece together the odd things he’d recorded. He hadn’t tried to hide the truth when he’d put his thoughts and feelings to paper.

“Okay,” the man named Nick finally said. He leaned his elbows on the table. “I looked over the police reports from that time period like you asked me to, what there was of them anyway. And I agree with you, okay? There was some weird shit going on.”