Afraid.

It was laughable.

He was just the ghost of a man. Pathetic. Why was he here if he couldn’t even help, couldn’t stand against evil and injustice?

In dreams. There was a place for him in her dreams. Dreams filled with whispers and reminiscences. Poignant and sweet and surreal.

If he couldn’t manage to summon enough of himself to be seen, to linger for more than a few seconds, to leave the confines of the house, how was it that he could pace—or seem to—endlessly and desperately?

Peace, rest in peace…

He couldn’t. There was a reason for this pain of simultaneously being and not being, of needing to remain. It was fear. Fear for her. Strange warnings plagued his spectral soul. Somehow he knew she was in danger. He raged against it. What good did it do to feel this certainty that he should warn her, that the evil behind his death was still out there, when he was powerless to do anything about it? What had he ever done to deserve this wretched hell where he learned with more certainty each day that the greatest agony on earth didn’t lie in the pain of living or the pain of death, but in the pain of separation that haunted the heart and soul?

It seemed, as he paced, that everything always came back to this room. The servants’ pantry where he had died.

The dead room.

So often he stood here, reliving those last moments. Hearing the hum of a voice, trying to pretend he was paying attention, looking over others’ heads and seeing her eyes. It had been a great party, swimming with all the right people, with money, power and politics. The perfect evening…

And then the very air had exploded….

But she had been all right. Leslie had been all right….

He found himself in the main kitchen.

Hastings House was closing down for the day. The tourists were gone. Jeff Green was there, doffing his wig, looking around, making sure Melissa was nowhere to be seen. He lit up a cigarette, inhaled deeply, still keeping an eye out. From his pocket, he drew a flask and took a long swig.

The cigarette suddenly flew from his hand. Jeff stared at the flask, then at the cigarette. He stared around the room, then, in a panic, swooped down to pick up the cigarette. He put it out at the sink, still looking around, and then he fled. Matt could hear the front door slam behind him.

And there she was. The Colonial woman who was always cooking over the fire. She smiled at him.

He smiled back.

“I was betrayed,” she said.

“I know, but…”

“They never knew. They said I walked away. That I left everything…but I didn’t. He killed me. Shot me in the back. And they never knew. They never knew.” Her face contorted. “How could they believe I would have left my child?” She looked hopelessly at him. “He bricked up my body.”

“What?”

“I was working here in the kitchen, cooking. He was weary of me, you see, in love with another. My dowry made him rich, but he never really loved me. He killed me as I stood here, with a single shot. And then he told everyone I had left him, run away with another man. His mistress came to live here then, but she was not happy, either. He had betrayed me, and soon enough he betrayed her. But she caught the consumption. She died, but at least before she did she passed it to him, and he died, as well, choking on his own blood. But it was too late. It didn’t change what he did to me, what he told everyone I did. I saw it all, and yet…”

“Yet you remain here.”

“Yes…because I don’t know how to clear my name.”

“Where did he hide your body?”

“The basement. Beneath the pantry. The butler helped him. So I must stay.”

She turned away from him.

Once again she began to work over the hearth. And then she began to fade, until she finally disappeared.

Just like the missing prostitutes, this woman had vanished two hundred years ago. Women continued to vanish. Life didn’t change. Men didn’t change. Cruelty could not be halted by time.

And now the danger was threatening Leslie. He knew it. Had it been his own determination to write about the disappearances, to make the public aware, that had led to his death? And now Joe was searching for a missing woman, and he and Leslie were determined to find the truth behind the explosion. Was that what was putting her into danger, too?

So many sins could be hidden and buried.

He found himself drawn to the dead room and simply stood there, wondering why. Why he had died there.

He found himself thinking about the secret door beneath the braided rug that led to the basement and the bones that lay bricked up down there.

He felt the impotent rage of his helplessness, and wondered if this was hell. The powerlessness, the watching…the fear.

He decided suddenly that if he couldn’t help himself, at least maybe he could help the woman in the kitchen. For that, at least, there was a way.

As to Leslie…

How he loved her. But he had to let go, had to let her live. Perhaps he needed the answers in order to let go, in order to let her live. Maybe he was trapped here so he could protect her, and yet…

How?

10

T here was glass and chrome everywhere. Leslie, though she loved old buildings, was thrilled to be in an atmosphere of the completely new.

She wasn’t surprised to see Brad there, nor to see that he was in the company of Ken Dryer—out of uniform—and that they were engaged in conversation at the bar with a number of extremely attractive women. They didn’t see her enter with Joe, and she was glad though not surprised, since the place was crowded, having recently been listed as one of Downtown’s newest hot spots.

Joe looked amused as he caught her arm and whispered, “You’re sure you want to be here?”

She grinned. “It’s good to shake things up once in a while. It’s like…well, you know. You get too involved in what you’re doing and you can’t see the forest for the trees.”

“Good point. I guess.”

They made their way to the back of the bar. There was one bar stool; Joe let her sit and stood by her side. “What will it be? Sparkling soda?”

“No good beers on tap here?” she asked.

“You were conked on the head today, remember?”

“And the doctor said I’m fine.”

“Not exactly. The doctor said you were conked on the head,” he corrected.

She liked his smile so much. Of course she did. It reminded her of Matt’s.

They both had the same way about them. A bit rueful, as if they had learned early on not to take themselves too seriously. Not that they couldn’t be serious, because they could. They both cared about the world around them, both had a quiet strength that demanded respect. But there was one crucial difference.

Matt was dead.

And it was wrong for her to spend her time comparing Joe to him.

“What?” he asked.

“What about what?”

“You’re smiling.”

She took a breath, decided to be honest. “I’m sorry—there are just a lot of things about you that remind me so much of Matt.”

He didn’t seem offended. “Granny Rose,” he said seriously.

“Who?”

He laughed. “Our grandmother. She was four foot eleven, in a stretch. A good eighty pounds. She was the toughest—and sweetest—old bird I ever knew. She landed here, married Granddad, had her kids. Her respect for America was enormous, but her tales of the old country were full of her love for the place. She was as Catholic as the day was long, but in her own way. She loathed people who went to church every Sunday, then turned around and behaved badly. The true measure of a man, she’d always say, was the way he dealt with his fellow man. Of course, she was also fond of saying, ‘Don’t pee on me head and tell me it’s raining.’ She was quite an influence on us when we were boys. Our parents all worked, so we were with her a lot during our formative years.”

“Matt mentioned her a few times. I wish I’d gotten to meet her.”

The bartender came at last, staring at them with a superior look. Joe glanced at her, arched a brow, then asked the man, “Any beer?”

The bartender looked at them as if they were utterly lacking in taste, but he shrugged and said that they carried one bottled beer. It was a new European brand, but Joe shrugged in return and ordered two. They arrived promptly.

Joe took a swallow, studying her. She looked back at him. “Could you meet her—if you wanted to?”

“Meet who?”

“My grandmother.”

“She’s dead.”

“Yes, I know.”

She didn’t get a chance to answer, didn’t even know if he’d been mocking her or if his question had been serious, because just then Brad spotted them.

“Leslie!” he called, walking over. “Uh…Joe,” he added, with noticeably less enthusiasm.

“Hey, Brad,” she said. Joe acknowledged him with a nod that matched Brad’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Cool. You decided to check the place out,” Brad said, then frowned at her. “Leslie, did you see a doctor? Are you all right? Should you be drinking?”

“I’m fine—I’m only having the one beer—but thanks for asking. And I can see why you like this place,” she told him, smiling and indicating the bevy of very attractive women around the spot at the bar where Ken Dryer was still chatting. “It’s a good pickup spot. You and Ken should do well. You’re both gorgeous,” she assured him.

Brad winked at Joe. “You can almost believe she thinks so.” He grinned. “Dryer has been at the site a lot, and I thought he deserved a break. You know Laymon. He thinks the world lives to steal whatever it is he’s looking for. He’s bugging the cops constantly. He wants them to put out regular announcements that the police presence at the site is heavy.”

“I don’t think we’re going to find buried treasure. It was a very poor area,” Leslie said. She couldn’t help glancing over toward Dryer. The guy was perfect at his job. Suddenly, though, noticing one of the girls, a tall redhead in a very short skirt, sporting a white fur mini-stole, she had an uncomfortable feeling. High-priced call girl? If so, did she know she was flirting with a police officer? Silly, she told herself, thinking anyone dressed that way had to be hooking. Half the women in town dressed like hookers and weren’t. Since this one had it, she was certainly entitled to flaunt it.