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The Dead Room

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Год написания книги
2018
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“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.”
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