The Dead Room (16 page)

“That's not enough,” Leslie said stubbornly. “If we need you to do something, you'll do it.”

“You are…a mule,” he told Leslie.

“Mule? Well, I've been called a cadaver dog before, so I guess mule is no worse.”

Robert laughed. “Was I the one who called you that?”

“Maybe. I don't remember. But mule will do just fine.”

He sighed. “More hopeless causes.”

“Aren't they the best kind?” she teased.

Robert rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

Leslie lifted her beer. “To us—and a solution to all our mysteries.”

Joe felt a moment's unease. He didn't know why. Maybe because Leslie seemed so fearless.

“To us—and a solution to all our mysteries,” Robert repeated. There was no skepticism in his voice, but there was no assurance, either.

“To us,” Joe added simply.

Soon after, they left. Joe had left his car on the street near Hastings House. Robert offered them a lift, but it was only a few blocks back and the night was pleasant, so they opted to walk.

They walked in companionable silence for several minutes. Then she turned to him with a smile, her eyes bright. “I have to know, just like you.”

“We may never discover anything. Maybe it really was an accident.”

“I just don't believe it,” she said. “And you don't, either.”

“Like Robert said, we both loved Matt,” he reminded her.

“I know, but…”

Her words hung in the air. He was startled when, a moment later, she slipped her arm through his. Startled, and pleased, despite himself. She was counting on him as a friend, he thought.

Screw it, Matt. I can't help it. Damn, you were a lucky man.

He vowed to be the friend she needed without turning into a stinking lech. She had enough of those around her. She was strong. She could handle herself. But he still felt a sudden urge to smash Hank Smith's face.

Yeah, what about your own?

No way out of it. She was sheer seduction. Just by walking, talking…being.

“There's the house,” he said, his voice husky as they turned a corner and Hastings House came into view.

“The house,” she repeated softly, and she seemed distant for a minute.

When they reached the door, he knew that he didn't dare go in.

She didn't ask him.

In fact, it seemed that she changed a little, once they were there.

“That was a great dinner. Thank you.”

“Sure. Nothing like discussing serial killers over a meal.”

She smiled sadly at that. “They're out there.”

“And it seems that there's one working this area. You be careful. Really careful.”

“It's not like I actually go anywhere,” she told him. “To work…and tonight I was out with you and Robert. I think I'm safe enough…. Well, good night, and thank you again.”

“'Night.”

“When do you want to take a walk on the wild side?” she asked abruptly, surprising him.

“Whenever you're ready.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“If your day isn't too exhausting,” he told her.

“It won't be. Digging is fun, and luckily, the guys like to do the talking.”

She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

“Good night. Set that alarm.”

“Absolutely.”

She went in. He listened, and could just hear her keying the alarm. Satisfied, he started down the walk, head bowed in thought as he turned onto the sidewalk and headed toward his car.

He heard the sudden revving of a motor.

He looked up just as a dark sedan shot past him on the quiet night street. He was in time to catch two numbers at the end of the license plate.

Six-three.

He looked back.

Where the hell had the car come from? The prostitutes' favorite corner wasn't far, only about four blocks down, one over.

He swore and raced toward his own car.

But he was too late, and he knew it. By the time he reached the corner of Broadway, there was nothing in sight but a Hummer and three taxis.

He stopped, irrationally tempted to go back to check on Leslie. In the rearview mirror, Hastings House seemed to look back at him like a living thing. Lights in the upstairs windows could have been eyes. The fanlight above the door could have been a mouth.

Upstairs, a light went out.

The alarm was on, he told himself. State-of-the-art. And the house wasn't far from One Police Plaza. She was safe. And he had to face it; she hadn't wanted to let him in.

Still, he drove back. He knew he should have been totally focused on finding Genevieve O'Brien, but he also knew he was doing all the right things, following the right leads.

Was the girl already dead?

There was no way to know. Not until he discovered the truth of where she had gone, and why.

Alone in the night, he swore out loud, drove around the block and parked again.

In front of Hastings House.

Where he spent the night, dozing in his car.

M
att didn't come to her that night.

Leslie lay awake for a long time, waiting, yearning for him to appear in the flesh.

Then she punched her pillows and made herself go to sleep, willing him into her dreams. But she woke early, all too aware that there had been no Matt—not even dreams of Matt—during the night. She rose, running her fingers through the tangles in her hair, and looked around.

“Please,” she whispered. “I know you're here. Please…you have to let me see you.”

Silence was her only answer.

Even though it was ridiculously early, she knew she wasn't going back to sleep, so she showered and dressed for the day, then went downstairs to make the coffee. It was when she was pouring water into the pot that she saw something with her peripheral vision. She held still for a moment, until she realized that the pot had overflowed and the water was running over her hands. She turned it off and looked toward the hearth.

Where she saw a woman apparently stirring something in a large pot hung over a ghostly fire.

Leslie remained silent, watching. The woman was young, pretty, wearing a mobcap over her soft blond hair.

After a long moment, Leslie spoke to her. “Please, don't leave,” she said softly.

The woman froze; Leslie was sure she was about to fade away to nothing.

“Please,” Leslie said very softly. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

The woman began to fade, then became more visible again.

“I was betrayed,” she said. Her eyes became great pools of tears. “By one I trusted. One I loved,” she whispered.

Suddenly she spasmed, arching slightly backward, then slumped forward and faded away completely.

Leslie inhaled, staring for a very long timeat the spot where the woman had stood. But the woman was gone, and she knew it. Still, she felt a sense of elation. The apparition had not just appeared; it had spoken to her.

She turned, newly invigorated and wide awake, and finished making the coffee. A few minutes later, she heard a noise at the front door and Melissa came in. “You're up early.”

“And you're at work early,” Leslie replied.

Melissa nodded. “I have some paperwork to finish. I can't stop thinking about last night, though. I'm sure this house is haunted. I think a ghost put that missing money back on the table for me.”

“Who knows?” Leslie said thoughtfully, then frowned suddenly. “Melissa, how long have you worked here?”

“Well, I was hired right before they had that party to open the place, but then they had to close it for a while because…well, you know.”

“So what happened then?” Leslie asked.

“Greta—she insists we call her Greta—said she was sorry, but the society couldn't afford to keep us on while the house was being repaired, so I told her I'd just take a temporary job and come back here once it opened again. I love this house. I would never give up an opportunity to work here. And now that I know it's haunted…”

“Maybe.”

Melissa pointed a finger at her. “You know it is.”

“I do?”

Melissa gave her a smile as if to say it was okay that she was trying to pull the wool over her eyes. “You know it's haunted. You're special.”

Leslie felt uneasy, as if she belonged in some carnival freak show. “Melissa…”

“If you see a ghost, you'll let me know, right?” Melissa implored.

“Sure. If we're standing here and a ghost appears, I'll let you know. And you let me know, too, right?”

“There was one here yesterday. That's why the books balanced.”

“So we have a ghost who used to be a CPA, huh?”

Melissa frowned and looked hurt.

“I'm just teasing you,” Leslie said quickly. “Who's to say a ghost didn't help you, right?” Leslie said, then went on to say, “If you still want to help with the dig, I'll arrange for you to come help on Saturday, how's that?”

Melissa looked as if she were experiencing pure rapture for the first time in her life.

“Great,” Leslie said. “I'm going to head over there now.”

“This early?”

“I like to get to the site ahead of the crowd.”

Melissa nodded sagely. “Better for getting vibes, right?”

“Better for working.”

“I brought doughnuts—you want one?”

“I'd love one, thank you.”

“Actually, I keep eggs and bread and sandwich stuff in the fridge, too. You can help yourself.”

Leslie helped herself to a doughnut. “Thanks. I owe you big time.”

“It's my pleasure.”

She wolfed down the doughnut, finished her coffee and thanked Melissa again. Then she headed out.

She was surprised to see Joe's car parked across the street. Frowning, she walked over to it. He looked up before she reached him, looking a little dismayed. But he had been sitting there going through files, and he didn't try to hide them.

“Hi,” she said, her tone turning the simple word into a question.

“Hi,” he said sheepishly.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked.

He lowered his lashes for a moment, then slid on a pair of dark glasses, effectively shielding whatever thoughts might have been evident in his eyes. He shrugged. “I saw a dark sedan leaving here last night. Just thought I should stick around.”

She smiled slowly, a little irritated, but mostly grateful. “You've been here all night?” she asked him. “Thanks. I think. But, come on, you're a private investigator. How many dark sedans do you think there are in New York?”

“Okay, more than a few. Want a ride to work?”

“A couple of blocks?” she asked.

“Want a walk to work?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He got out of the car. The sun was just beginning to come up over the southern tip of Manhattan. Skyscrapers reached up toward the heavens, bathed in a delicate pink light. There was no hustle and bustle yet. The muted pastels hid the sins of the city, cloaking the trash and decay.

She glanced over at Joe as they walked. He reminded her so much of Matt. She wanted to be close to him. Feel protected by his height and size. Touch his hair, stroke his shoulders.

Because he reminded her of Matt, she told herself. Which was a bad reason.

And it wasn't fair to him at all. He was a fine man in his own right.

“By the way, I'm sorry,” she murmured.

“For what?”

“I know you lost someone, too. A girl…”

He gazed at her, offered a rueful smile, shrugged. “That was a long time ago.”

“Do you ever really forget?” she asked.

“You don't forget, but you do go on. You learn to laugh when you remember good things. A certain smile, a way of doing something. Oh, there's the guilt, too, of course. Why am I alive, when someone who deserved to live so much is gone? I've made my peace with the past.” He was silent a minute. “Eventually, you will, too. It's harder when it's not the natural order of things, though. I still miss my parents, but they had a great life together. I honestly think my father died of loneliness after he lost my mother, but they were older and it was their time. But when it's someone young, cheated out of a natural life span, I guess we can't help but be bitter. But the truth is, long or short, life is a gift, and so long as we're alive, we need to appreciate that fact.”

She grinned at him. “Trust me, I am grateful to be alive.”

“Then you have to live your life to the fullest. Not just for yourself but for Matt. Follow your dreams. Look to the future.”

She laughed. “Well, for me, that means digging for the past.”

“Absolutely.” He slipped his hand around hers and squeezed it.

A policewoman stationed on the corner near the dig gave them a pleasant nod. Leslie noticed that there was a greater police presence around the entire site than there had been previously. She stopped walking and looked around for a moment. So much that was new had been built on top of so much that was old, so much that was underground. Hastings House had been part of the Underground Railroad. She smiled ruefully to herself. She didn't know why that thought kept recurring to her. The word
underground
didn't always mean literally “under the ground,” she reflected. Sometimes it meant below the scope of authority.

New York was definitely an underground city in every sense of the word.

“Where's the big excitement?” Joe asked.

“What?”

“You're staring awful hard at
something.
”

“Sorry—just looking at the site and the buildings and…Just looking.”

“New York. Gotta love it,” Joe said.

“I do. Look at all the cops. I guess someone decided to step up security,” she said.

“Your little ‘accident' yesterday turned this into a major find,” Joe reminded her.

At the gate, there were two guards. Leslie started to reach for her identification, but the taller one nodded at her and said, “We all know you, Miss MacIntyre. Come on in.”

“Well, I'll leave you here,” Joe said.

“And I'll see you tonight. If you're awake,” she teased.

“I'll be awake,” he promised her.

She walked on through the temporary wire gates that allowed entry to the site and carefully made her way through the grid, heading straight for the entry to the crypt.

Glow lights that couldn't possibly catch fire had been set in two corners of the room. Leslie left them where they were and fumbled in her bag for her flashlight. Turning that on, she looked around.

Laymon, bless him, had already staked out his territory. Large signs propped against two niches in the wall read Do Not Touch!!!

But there was no such sign on the niche where Brad and Laymon had found the record book. She hoped it hadn't already been taken away to be preserved. She felt a little guilty, knowing that any touch might injure the old paper, but she had a feeling she might find a reference to the woman whose remains she had found, as well as to the child, Mary, and she was determined to find the little girl's remains so she could reunite mother and child.

Very carefully, she moved to the niche and found the book. Leather-bound, and protected for so many years in this sealed environment, it was in far better shape than she had dared to hope. Then again, she reminded herself, some books—well, scrolls—had survived for millennia.

A breath of cold air suddenly seemed to sweep around her. She frowned and looked over her shoulder. The place was in shadow, but she could tell she was alone. Even so…

“Hello?” she said softly.

She frowned. There could certainly be more ghosts here, of course, but she hadn't felt the sense that some disembodied being from a different time had joined her, even though surely there were at least a few here. She was certain that some of the people interred in this earth had died violent or miserable deaths. No, she had felt a breeze. Movement. Not just the chill that some suggested accompanied ghosts, but a real breeze. As if someone or something had joined her in the crypt and disturbed the air by moving.

She shrugged. Strange. Even when she had first started seeing ghosts, she hadn't felt such a sudden chill. She had felt fear, but only the natural fear of the unknown. She had never felt the sense of unease that had ridden on that breeze, a feeling of something icy, like a warning trickle down her spine.

“Enough,” she said aloud, then focused on the shadows. The room wasn't that big. She was obviously alone.

Gritting her teeth, she dismissed the strange sensation and returned her attention to the book.

As she had hoped, it was the parish register, filled with the dates of weddings, births and, of course, deaths.

She didn't run her fingers down the pages. She would never disrespect such a precious relic that way. But her eyes roamed. The book had been kept by a Father Browne, and his script was clear, with only a slight flourish. So many people. These were not the rich and famous, though she was sure there were a few rabble-rousers among them, since most of the entries were from the 1850s, when gang violence had been rampant. The
Times
had written about the desperate throngs, saying that the streets had been filled with ruffians, and there had been no promise of safety anywhere in the disorderly metropolis. May 1849 had brought the Astor Place riots, with many dying when a mob had protested the appearance of the aristocratic English actor William Macready, believing the role of Macbeth belonged to American luminary Edwin Forrest. Had a theatrical question really created such a stir, or had the true cause been the great chasm growing between the rich and poor of the city? Most people believed that the wretched living conditions of so many had lain behind the violence, fanned into action on the pretext of cultural controversy.