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“Do you know any particulars on why she quit her job?”
Eileen waved a slender, elegant hand in the air. “Irritation with the system. She wanted to get workfare programs going…she wanted to help some of the girls keep their children. She is really an extraordinary human being, Mr. Connolly. Oh, I am so frustrated. No one seems to believe that I know that something’s really wrong. The police can’t—or won’t—do anything.”
“I do understand your frustration,” Joe told her, “but you have to understand that the police are seriously frustrated themselves. The point is, these are disappearances. There’s nothing for them to go on. And the people who have disappeared—in this particular situation—have lived transient lifestyles, which makes it very hard, as well. They can question those closest to the victims—if that’s what they are. They can question people up and down the streets where the victims were last seen. They’ve harassed known pimps to the point that their behavior borders on the illegal. But absolutely no one so far has seen anything to indicate foul play. Meanwhile, the police still have murders, rapes and robberies to deal with, crimes with sadly obvious victims. There’s only so much they can do when they have no victims, no murder weapons, no blood trails, no evidence of any kind.”
“Blood trails?” Eileen said, her eyes snapping. “They have to find out what’s going on and stop it before we discover that we’re in a river of blood! And before my niece is discovered lying dead somewhere. But they’re not going to find out what’s going on because, as you say, they have to deal with the blood they do see on the streets. I’m not calling our police incompetent. They try. Sergeant Adair has, I believe, been ordered to find the explanation for these disappearances, no matter what. They’ve searched Gen’s apartment—if she disappeared by choice, she did so with only her purse and the clothes on her back, not even a good coat. They’ve been to her former office. They’ve tried to question people on the streets. Sadly, I know nothing about her real friends. Or if she was dating. The basics have been done. They’ve proved nothing. Except that she’s gone, which I already knew. So I’ve hired you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“And you will find Genevieve,” she said passionately. “Because you will make finding her your priority every single morning from the moment you open your eyes. I’ll reward you highly.”
He pocketed the picture. “You know my fee. I don’t work to be rewarded highly. If I take a case on, it’s part of my every waking moment until I have an answer. But I’ll need your help at all times. Be ready to answer my calls,” he warned her. “I need to assimilate all that I’ve learned from you tonight, then get busy on my own and see what else I can discover. But I’ll need more help from you. I’ll need everything. Everything you know, anything that occurs to you. And don’t hold back on me. I’m in your employ. I’ll never repeat anything you tell me. Don’t let any family embarrassment hold you back from being entirely truthful with me, do you understand, Mrs. Brideswell? I can’t help you if you aren’t completely honest with me. No amount of money will change that.”
She nodded. Reaching down, she found her purse and produced a small notepad. “I’ve written down everything I know, what names and places I’ve heard…anything I can think of that might be some help.” She produced a pen, scribbling down another notation. “I’ve added the publication I was talking about,” she murmured. “That’s it.”
He accepted the notepad from her. “I’ll do everything I can,” he told her.
She picked up the teacup before her on the table, her eyes distant. She drank what must have been very cold tea by then.
“I’m very sorry about your cousin,” she said softly.
“Thank you.” The words took him by surprise, though he knew instantly what she meant.
“His death was a tremendous loss to the city, but for you, of course, it was very personal, and I extend my sincere condolences.” Her eyes began to water. “I was there that night, you know,” she murmured.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“I learned later that Gen would have been interested in going. In retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t know in time to invite her. She’d met a lot of people involved through the years. She had a lot of close contact with the police—being a social worker and all. And she knew Greta through me, of course.”
Joe couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward. “What do you remember about that night?”
“The lights, the music, the beautiful clothing, the glamour…I was in the entryway when the explosion occurred. They rounded us up and got us out immediately. I remember standing on the street and just being incredulous. I remember the sound of the sirens, the ambulances, the paramedics…and the body bags,” she said. “I am so, so sorry.”
“Thank you. Eileen, do you remember anything strange at all?” he pressed.
She gave him a pained smile. “You lost someone you loved, so you want there to be a reason, a better explanation than a gas explosion. No, I’m sorry. It’s all a blur. I was chatting, there was a noise like thunder. Someone was screaming ‘fire,’ people were panicking…the cops came and we were all ushered out.”
Joe nodded. Just what had he been hoping for?
“Thank you,” he repeated.
Her eyes met his, and her words were desperate. “I have to find Genevieve, Mr. Connolly. Please help me.”
Although her posture still seemed so regal and aloof, he reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. “I will do everything I can,” he told her solemnly.
She almost smiled. And then she turned her palm up and gripped his hand in return. Her touch was strong, and as desperate as the sound of her voice.
They talked for a few minutes longer about Genevieve, and as the girl in the picture began to come to life for him, Joe began to make mental notes as to exactly where he would begin his investigation. First he would go over the basic police work. Then he would move on to where the police, by virtue of their sworn duty, could not go.
There were others in the house.
He knew that from the beginning.
At first it was only a vague sense of awareness. They paid him no mind, seemed not to see or recognize him, but even so, he was aware that he was not alone.
There was the woman in the kitchen, for one. She was always by the hearth, stirring something in what he imagined had been a pot over an open fire. She was pretty and young, and wore Colonial garb, including a little mobcap on her head. He wasn’t sure if she had been an illicit mistress or a servant, but she hummed in a pretty voice as she stirred. Every so often she would suddenly straighten, her face pinching into a mask of pain. She would turn around, and her eyes would widen, and then she would fall…and fade away.
There was the soldier in the entry. He staggered into the house, mingled with the misty form of another individual. He would whisper something about a betrayal, and then he, too, would fall and fade away.
He didn’t want to be one of them. He didn’t want to spend eternity standing by the hearth in the servants’ pantry, laughing pleasantly, looking across the room…and then disappearing in the memory of an explosion.
After a while he realized that in addition to playing out their final moments over and over again, they did more. They recognized one another, though they might not have come from the same time. They mingled now and then.
While he…
He didn’t need to worry about eternally haunting the servants’ pantry. He couldn’t even manage that much. He could only be…aware.
So why was he there? Just to ache? Just to yearn and fear constantly for the woman he had loved? Damn it. Not fair. He’d lived his life as a decent man.
Others had died with him, so where were they? He didn’t have any sense of them whatsoever.
He saw the workmen. Heard them talk. Perhaps it should have been gratifying to have even that much contact with what had once been his world. To hear their anger that he should have died in such a stupid freak accident. They had respected and admired him. Nice to know, except that he was still dead.
Then came the day when the woman at the hearth turned to look at him at last. She even gave him a little smile. Maybe he was somehow real then. She walked over, and it felt as if she touched his cheek, like a sweet sister. “It takes time,” she told him, and smiled again.
All he could whisper was “Why?”
She shrugged sadly. “Justice? Something that must be known? The man who murdered me walked free. Perhaps it’s too late and the world will never know. So much time has passed. But it’s not so horrible, really. Maybe we’re here because we’ve more to learn?”
There was a comfort in her contact. Soon after, the soldier acknowledged him, too.
Then the burning question began in his mind. Why? There had to be a reason why he was here and the others who’d died that night weren’t.
The question dominated his thoughts, filled him with the resolve to know the answer, to solve the mystery of what had happened.
Sometimes, though, he thought of Leslie. Good God, how he had loved her….
It was late when the phone ring, but Leslie wasn’t asleep. And, oddly enough, she knew immediately who it was.
“Hi, Nikki.”
“You’re getting good.”
“Nothing to do with intuition or special gifts,” Leslie said with a laugh. “It’s late, but we’ve been on the news, and I knew that you’re the one person who might be calling.”
“How do you feel?”
“Great. I got to help find closure for people, in a weird sort of way.”
“Exactly,” Nikki said.
Leslie could picture Nikki. Slim and vivacious, with brilliant blue-green eyes. She led tours in New Orleans and loved history. She loved her city, too, and was working hard to bring tourism back to New Orleans. But she and Brent had taken time out to help Leslie adjust to life with the dead popping up now and then. What had seemed like a curse had almost become a gift with Nikki and Brent so serenely at her side.
“How’s everything going in your neck of the woods?” Leslie asked.
“Step by step, but we’re coming back. So many neighborhoods are still in need of total rebuilding, but we’ll get there. And you? Everything all right?”
“Great. I think…I think we may have seen the last of the reverend.”
“Ah. Well, bless his heart. So…I guess you’re going to see to the details now? My history is a lot easier—I just talk about it. You spend hours brushing dust off yours.”
Leslie wondered why she’d thought that Nikki already knew what she was about to do.
“Actually,” she replied, “I’m going home.”
“Home…?”
“New York. I was born in the South, but New York’s been home for a long time now. There’s a new project there, a site near…near Hastings House, and I’m going to work on it.”
“Are you ready?” Nikki asked flatly.
“Yes…No…Maybe.”
“Then…?”
“I’m not sure I’ll never actually be ready. I think I just have to do it.”
The phone line was silent for several seconds, and she knew that Nikki was carefully weighing her next words. “Leslie, you do know that although we’ve come to accept certain things and learned to use our abilities to a degree, we don’t have all the answers. You’re still fragile, whether you want to believe that or not. So be careful. And don’t…don’t let yourself get trapped in the past, in what was. You’re here. You’re alive.”
“Nikki, thanks to you guys, I’m still sane and I appreciate living. It’s just that…you know how you feel when you lose someone, like there were so many things you didn’t get to say, and you want so desperately to know that everything is all right, and of course it isn’t, because the person is dead…okay, now I do sound a little on the loopy side. But…I just wish I could say goodbye, you know?”
“You can’t know that you’ll get that chance, Leslie, even if you do go back. Matt Connolly was an exceptional man. He did a lot of good in his days on earth. He might, well…he might never be seen.”
“I know that. I promise you, I’m not going home because I’m sure I’ll see him if I do. I just know I have to go on. And this is a great opportunity.”
“Want me to hop a plane on up?”
Leslie smiled. Some things were so strange. She’d had many friends when Matt had died. Nice people. But she’d found that she had to push them away a bit. Politely, she hoped. It was just that she didn’t really want to make their lives painful, and she didn’t like people tiptoeing around her feelings. She hadn’t been able to talk, really talk, to many people. But then Nikki had stepped into her life, and it had been as if she’d known her forever.
Of course, they both saw ghosts, as did Nikki’s husband, Brent. Nikki always found it amusing that most people accepted his ability to communicate with the dead more easily than hers, simply because he had Dakota Sioux in his background. Apparently that made him a more spiritual soul in the eyes of the world.
“Leslie?”
“I’m okay. And I…I think I need to be alone a bit. But later, I’d love for you to visit. I’ll show you New York as you’ve never seen it.”
“Deal,” Nikki said.
After a few more minutes of chat, they hung up.
Leslie lay in bed, awake. She was going home for all the right reasons, she assured herself. The work. The opportunity. And she just plain loved New York. She needed to be back.
Hell.
She was going home to try to find a way to reach Matt….
Joe watched as Eileen settled into her chauffeur-driven sedan, refusing the offer of a ride with a thank-you, though he wasn’t really sure why. It was late, but this was New York. People were out at all hours, even though some areas, like this one, became much quieter.
When the car had disappeared into the easy flow of the late-night traffic, he found himself just walking down the street. He had always loved downtown. He was a New Yorker, born and bred in Brooklyn Heights, an area he loved. But downtown New York offered a history few people took the time to appreciate, since the city offered such a bustle of business, shopping and entertainment.
His walk took him down Broadway. He found himself feeling a strange sense of comfort as he walked by St. Paul’s; even the old burial ground, a sign of the times gone by, gave him a sense of permanence and belonging. He loved St. Paul’s, though it wasn’t as grand as Trinity Church just down the road. St. Paul’s was the only remaining church built before the Revolutionary War, a true Georgian masterpiece. Washington’s pew was still there, along with displays honoring those who had worked tirelessly on the rescue efforts after 9/11, since the church lay in the shadows of the monumental tragedy. Drenched in history, yet still a place for modern man to find solace.
He kept walking, wondering at the age of some of the buildings, trying to discern what might really be old beneath a newer facade, his wanderings taking him by Fraunces Tavern and then down to the once-again newly restored Hastings House.
He had come here before, since that fateful night. Several times. And he never knew exactly why. Every time he felt the same searing and poignant ripple of pain. Four dead. Jerry Osbourne, police officer. Sally Rydell, socialite. Tom Burton, architect. And Matthew Connolly, brilliant journalist, a man whose words had the ability to create genuine change.
He’d been working out in Las Vegas when it had happened, on a cold case involving kidnapping, fraud and money laundering. The job had taken nearly a year, but it had paid extremely well. He’d managed to tie it all up shortly after he’d flown home for his cousin’s funeral.
He had never felt so numb in his life. When he’d gone to the hospital afterward, where Matt’s fiancée, Leslie, had still been in intensive care, he had been grateful to discover that she spent most of her time unconscious. He hadn’t known what to say to her. Because of the amount of time he spent out of the city, he’d never actually met her, except maybe once, when they’d been kids. He’d felt awkward, glad that he could leave a message saying he’d been there, equally glad to disappear.
Strange, growing up, he and Matt had seen each other only on family occasions. Matt had lived by Central Park; he had lived in Brooklyn Heights. Once it had seemed as if they were far apart. Maybe it was just the size of New York. Each neighborhood was complete unto itself. They’d always gotten along; as adults, even though real distance often came between them. They had actually become the best of friends. Maybe it had been their shared passion for many of the same rights and ideals.
Matt had been a man of impeccable integrity. Many people would miss him. But for Joe, the loss was personal, and he still felt a helpless rage every time he thought about the stupidity of the way he’d died.
He had planned to return to the city after wrapping up of the Vegas thing and get to know Leslie and make plans with Matt. He would have been the best man at the wedding. Strange. He didn’t know Leslie because of happenstance. They had simply never been in the same place at the same time, yet she was the closest living link to Matt.
It was amazing that she had survived the blast.
The force of the explosion had thrown her across the room, saving her from the flames. Then again, the dead had died on impact, according to the coroner; they hadn’t had to face the agony of burning to death.
The blast had been investigated. Backward and forward and inside out. But in the end, there had been no explanation other than that there had been a gas buildup in the line. The innocent flicking of a furnace switch had caused a spark, which had triggered the explosion and the tragedy.
Hastings House was back now. It was open to the public, other than the private rooms in back, some of which were maintained as offices and others as accommodations for archaeologists working on historical sites around downtown. It seemed that these days, every construction project uncovered some remnant of the past, a clear illustration of the contrast between those dedicated to preservation and those dedicated to moving on. Hastings House had been a worthy project, he was sure. But he could never forget what had happened there, and he found himself turning quickly away for a moment to compose himself before looking back at the building. He couldn’t help the bitterness that seemed to assail him every time he saw the house. He understood Eileen Brideswell, because it seemed to him, too, that pain was only endurable with knowledge or a conclusion; he realized that the rage that filled him each time he came here had more to do with his feelings of helplessness and failure than the natural pain of loss. He couldn’t help but believe, no matter what conclusion the extensive investigations had led to, that something more had gone on here. That they had missed something.
That someone had gotten away with murder.
Had Matt been the target?
He’d done some investigating himself, hitting dead end after dead end. He was sure it was frustration that kept him coming back to stand here, impotently staring at the house.
People walked past him. Tourists, with their guidebooks out. He wondered if he should warn them that wandering around on their own wasn’t such a great thing to be doing at that hour of the night.
A few teenagers walked by the house, and then a couple with two children somewhere around the age of ten. More tourists.
“Is it haunted?” the boy asked eagerly.
“Could be,” the father said. “Patriots met here during the Revolutionary War, and others met here during the War of 1812. It was even a stop on the Underground Railroad during the Civil War. Lots of people could be haunting the place.” The father winked.
His wife nudged him. “Don’t go telling him that, Herbert,” she said firmly, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “People died here just last year.”
