The Dead Room, Page 2

  They had worked well together before the accident.

  Now she relied on him more than ever—even if she was the one who usually “saw” the past more clearly and homed in on a location with eerily perfect accuracy. Sometimes he eyed her almost warily, but when she shrugged, he let it alone.

  She watched as Laymon listened to Brad. His face lit up as if the sun had risen again purely to shine down on him. He was up in a flash, hurrying to Leslie’s side, shouting excitedly and bringing the rest of the team—teachers, students and volunteers—in his wake. “Watch where you walk,” he cautioned. “We don’t want all this work trampled.” Hopping over one of the plastic lines set out to protect the dig and provide the grid that allowed them to map their finds, he seemed like a little kid, he was so happy.

  He stared at Leslie, eyebrows raised questioningly, then looked down at the skull she’d uncovered before turning back to her again. A broad smile lit his worn features. He pushed his Ben Franklin bifocals up the bridge of his nose and scratched his white-bearded chin. If anyone had ever looked the part of a professor, it was David Laymon. “You’ve done it,” he said.

  “We’ve done it,” she murmured.

  “We’ll uncover the rest of the skeleton in the morning, then get it to the folks at the Smithsonian…right away, right away. It’s too late to work anymore tonight, but we need to secure this area before we go, then get back to work first thing in the morning. From now on we’ll need speed—and real care. Leslie, I could hug you. I will hug you!” He drew her to her feet, hugged her, then kissed her on the cheek. She was suffused with color, a blush staining her cheeks, as a burst of applause sounded from all around them.

  “Hey, please,” she protested. “We’re all in on this, and Brad was the one to cordon off this particular area.”

  “Still, what a find,” Professor Laymon murmured. “You’ll need to speak to the press. This is big excitement for this area…for historians everywhere.”

  “Please,” she said softly, firmly, “let Brad speak to the press. Better yet, the two of you can speak as a team.”

  Laymon frowned, looking mildly annoyed.

  “Please,” Leslie repeated firmly.

  Laymon sighed deeply, looking at her with sorrow in his gray eyes. “You never used to be so shy,” he said. “Okay, sorry, I understand. It’s just that…” He shook his head. “I understand. Whatever you want. All right, I’ll get the ball rolling for the press conference, and you stay here—grab some students to give you a hand—and make sure that the site is protected until we get back to it in the morning. I’m going to see to it that we get some police out here to keep an eye on things, too.”

  Leslie wasn’t sure why anyone would want to disturb a paupers’ cemetery, but she knew that plenty of digs had been compromised, even ruined, by intruders in the past. She assured Laymon that she would stand guard until they were battened down for the night.

  He stared at her, letting out a sigh and shaking his head again as he walked away. Brad walked behind him. One of the grad students, a shapely redhead, hurried up alongside Brad, slipping an arm through his. Leslie decided that she would have to tease him about her later.

  For a moment, she wondered what Brad said about her when he decided to get close to a woman. Oh, my friend Leslie? Completely platonic. She was engaged, but there was a terrible accident. She almost died, and her fiancé was killed. Since then she’s been having kind of a hard time, so I try to be there for her. But it wasn’t that long ago, just a year….

  Just a year.

  She wondered if she would ever again feel that there was a perfect guy out there for. Right now, all she felt was…

  Cold.

  Just a year. A year since she had buried Matt. Buried her life…

  With a shake, she forced her attention back to her work.

  Despite her determination to call it an early night, she found herself dragged to a celebration dinner. They didn’t opt for anything fancy—budget would always be important in field work—just a chain pancake house on the main highway. But when the group decided to go on to a local tavern for a few drinks, she at last managed to bow out.

  She returned to the residence provided for those higher up in the echelon. She, Laymon, Brad and a few others were housed in a Colonial plantation that was now a charming bed-and-breakfast. Their hostess, a cheerful septuagenarian, rose with the rooster’s crow, so she went to bed early. She happily saw them off each morning, and since she was a bit hard of hearing, she was also happy when they came in late at night, because she never heard a thing.

  Very tired herself, but feeling a comforting sense of satisfaction, Leslie helped herself to a cup of hot tea from the well-stocked kitchen left open for the help-yourself pleasure of the guests. She took a seat before the large open hearth that dominated the room and sipped her tea from the comfort of the rocker to the left of the gently burning fire. Within a few minutes, she knew she was not alone.

  She glanced slowly to her side, a smile curving her lips as she looked at the man who had joined her. He had a rounded stomach, emphasized by his plain black waistcoat and the bit of bleached cotton that protruded from his waistband right where it shouldn’t. His wig was a bit messy, but in the style of his time, and the tricornered hat he wore sat perfectly atop it. His hose were thick, white and somewhat worn; his shoes bore handsome buckles. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes a bit dark and small beneath bushy brows. He looked at her and returned her smile with a sigh of satisfaction. “Well, now, it’s good and done, eh?” he asked her.

  She nodded. “And you mustn’t worry, Reverend Donegal. It’s true that some of the bones will be boxed and sent for analysis, but the people at the Smithsonian are very careful and reverent. They’ll be returned, and we’ll see to it that all the dead are reinterred with prayers and all the respect that’s due them. And I believe that once the significance of what we’ve found here has been verified, the Park Service will have its way. A lovely memorial and a facsimile of the church will be built, and generations of visitors will be able to enjoy the beautiful countryside and learn about everything that happened here during both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars.” Her smile turned slightly rueful. “I know you did a great deal to help refugees during the Revolutionary War, but this very house was a stop for escaping slaves during the days of the Underground Railroad. There was also a Civil War skirmish in the front yard here. It’s amazing the place is still standing.”

  “Solid construction,” Reverend Donegal said sternly. “Folks to care for her. Why, I remember, years and years ago, of course, when I came many a Sunday to this house for my tea following services…ah, lovely then, it was. So much excitement and fear. A new country.” His eyes darkened, and he seemed troubled for a minute. “Pity…one war always leads to the next. It hurt me to be here…to see so many fine men die, North and South, believing in the same God…. Ah, well, never mind. There’s always hope that man will learn from his mistakes.” He paused, his old eyes clouding, and she knew he was looking back to his own time, firmly fixed in his mind.

  Of course, she knew his story. He had worshipped the hostess of his very house from afar, always entirely circumspect, but enjoying every opportunity to be in her company. He had faithfully served his flock of parishioners; a good man. His one pleasure had been his Sunday tea. And so, one day, he had come here, had his tea…and then died of a heart attack in the arms of the woman he had secretly adored for so many years. Leslie had thought at first that he must have been a very sad ghost, seeking the love he hadn’t allowed himself in life. But that hadn’t been the case at all. She had discovered that he had been at peace with himself; that his distant and unrequited love for Mrs. Adella Baxter had in actuality been a pleasant fantasy but not one he had truly hoped to fulfill. He had enjoyed his life as a bachelor, administering to his flock. He had stayed all these years because he felt so many of his flock needed to be remembered. In short, he had wanted the graveyard found.

  At first, he hadn’t t
rusted her. He’d tried a dozen tricks, moving her brush around, locking her suitcase, hiding her keys. He hadn’t expected her to see him, and he certainly hadn’t expected her to get angry, yell at him and demand that they talk. Once they had, he’d become an absolute charmer. Through his eyes, she’d seen the house as it had been in his day. She’d experienced his passion as he’d spoken of what he and so many others had gone through to establish a new country; his fear that he might be hanged as a traitor—something that had been a distinct possibility many times during the brutal years of the Revolution. He was deeply disturbed that so few of the people who passed through the old house were aware of just how precarious the struggle for freedom had been. “You can’t understand,” he had told her. “We almost lost the war. In fact, it’s a miracle that we won. And all those men who signed the Declaration of Independence? They would have been hanged! So many risked so much. Ah, well, God does show his will, against all odds.”

  Right now he seemed lost in thought.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said very softly to him.

  He nodded, then wagged a finger at her. “I expect you to play fair, young lady. You see that the right thing is done by my people. Especially little Peg. You did find her grave, didn’t you, right where I sent you?”

  Leslie nodded, then stared at the fire for a moment, as lost in the past as he had been. It was strange. Before the blast, she’d had intuitions, like the one that had helped her find the homeless man. As if she could close her eyes and imagine something of a life now gone, then home in on it. Logic? Instinct? Something more? She couldn’t have said. But now…

  Now ghosts came into her life.

  “I will see that Peg’s story is told,” she assured Reverend Donegal. She repeated what he had told her before about the girl. “Peg, aged ten, walked the ten miles from town through a pouring, freezing rain to bring the men from the county together when she knew an attack was coming. She rallied the local troops, and they successfully defended the river and the plantation here, all because of her bravery. She died of the fever that came on her that night, after her journey through the rain and cold and enemy lines. And after the war…well, people were poor. She was given the best burial they could manage.”

  He nodded in satisfaction. “A statue would be very nice. You will get someone to pay for a statue?”

  “I’ll pay for a statue of her myself, if need be,” she assured him.

  He looked at her indignantly. “A statue of me!” he declared. “Oh, well, of course, Peg must be honored, too, I suppose.”

  “You’ll have a place when they rebuild the church, and Peg will be honored in the graveyard. How’s that?” she said, glad she could smile.

  He nodded, staring at the fire. “There’s a chill in here,” he said. “Ah, these old bones…”

  “It is chilly tonight, but I don’t think you’re really feeling your old bones,” she teased. She set her cup down and rose, walked to the fire and let it warm her hands. When she turned to speak to the reverend again, he was gone.

  She sat back in her chair. In a little while she heard the others returning. It had grown late; she assumed they would head right up to their beds, but she sensed someone behind her, and this time she heard breathing.

  She turned. Brad was there, just inside the doorway, staring at her.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” he echoed, still staring at her.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Laymon really didn’t say anything to you yet?” he asked, looking surprised. “I thought he called you.”

  “About what?” she asked.

  “They’re researching another site in Lower Manhattan,” he said.

  She felt a streak of cold sweep along her spine, as if she’d been stroked by an icy sword. She looked at the fire, trying to speak perfectly calmly. “I’m sure that at any given time, someone is always digging somewhere in Lower Manhattan.”

  “This is going to be a major project.” He was quiet for a minute. “Near Hastings House.”

  “Great,” she murmured, still staring at the flames.

  He hunkered down by her chair. “You know, only the one room was severely damaged. They’ve pretty much got the place back up and running now.”

  Her fingers tensed on the arms of her chair. “Glad to hear it.”

  “What happened there was a tragic accident, Leslie.”

  She stared at him—hard. “Yes, I do know that, Brad.”

  “The point is, you don’t seem to get it, to understand what that means. I’m not trying to be brutal here, Leslie, but Matt died. You didn’t.”

  She stared blankly back at him for several moments.

  “I almost died there.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I know. And I’m grateful to be alive. I truly appreciate every day.”

  “It’s time to go back.”

  “Time to go back?” she repeated.

  “You need to accept the past, and move into the present and then into the future. No, you’ll never forget Matt. But you have to accept that he’s dead. You’ve been…well, kind of weird since it happened. Maybe you need to confront your memories.”

  Again, she stared at him.

  Oh, Brad. You don’t get it, do you? And I will never, ever explain, I can assure you of that.

  “We still have work to do here,” she said flatly.

  He waved a hand in the air. “We’re the pros—there are lots of worker bees. Thanks to you and your amazing instincts, all that’s left is the grunt work. We can move on.”

  She shook her head.

  “Listen, this new site is really important…. I know Laymon wants to talk to you about it. He’s going back to lead the team, with or without you. With or without us,” Brad amended quickly.

  Her nails dug into the arms of the chair. She stared at the flames. “I’ve made some promises here,” she said.

  He looked puzzled. “You made promises? To whom?”

  “To myself. To see that people are honored, that bones are buried with the proper rites,” she said.

  “We’ll tell Laymon, and he’ll make sure it happens,” Brad said. “It’s not like we’re leaving the country. With the way your reputation has grown, you can drop a word and people will hustle, you know that.”

  “Okay,” she murmured.

  “Laymon got the call when we were on the way to the tavern, and he talked about nothing else once we got there,” Brad said softly. “New York City, Leslie! You know you love it.”

  “I can’t go back.”

  “You need to go back.”

  “Brad…”

  “Leslie, please.”

  She stared at him and saw the earnest plea in his eyes. She lowered her head quickly, not wanting him to read her thoughts.

  Hastings House. It was fixed, repaired, reopened. Brought back to life again. But the dead…the dead couldn’t be brought back to life…?

  And some of the dead had never left.

  She lowered her head, biting her lower lip. It had started immediately. In the hospital, she’d thought she’d gone mad. There had been the horrible pain, the ache like the loss of a limb or half of her soul, knowing Matt was gone. The concussion, the bruising, the cuts, scrapes, burns…

  Those had been nothing compared to the pain of losing Matt.

  At first she had lived in a stage somewhere between consciousness and dreams. One night she’d awakened in the hospital morgue, drawn there by a man who had lost his wedding ring when they’d rolled him down. All he had wanted was to have his ring put back on his finger. But she hadn’t known that, and she’d freaked. She was lucky she hadn’t wound up in the psychiatric ward that night. Luckily for her, the next day she’d discovered an article in a news magazine about a man named Adam Harrison and the group of paranormal investigators who worked for him. No matter how the reporter had tried to trip him up, the man had come off as intelligent and well spoken, and not at all like a kook. She had started to sha
ke, reading the article. She had called Harrison Investigations immediately, and, to her amazement, Adam Harrison himself had shown up in the hospital. They had talked then, and again when she had been released. It was as if she had instantly acquired not only a new best friend, one she felt she had known forever, but as if she’d gotten her father back, though her real father had been gone since she was a little girl.

  She’d called Adam right away when she’d started talking to the ghostly Colonial churchman, and soon after, she’d noticed a couple in the crowd of visitors hanging around the site. They’d stood out, and eventually they’d introduced themselves as two of Harrison’s employees. Brent and Nikki Blackhawk—he dark and strikingly handsome, his wife blond and beautiful—had gone back to the house with her and taught her how to become friends with the ghost, even chatted with him casually themselves. There really were others like her, she’d realized, and that meant she was sane.

  “Leslie,” Brad said softly, recalling her to the present. “I told Laymon I’d work the new dig, so I’ll be there with you. You need to go back, to put the past to rest, to put the pain behind you.”

  She stared at him. Smiled slowly.

  Brad didn’t know about Adam Harrison, the Black-hawks, or that there were others like them to help her. Brad didn’t know that it was thanks to Adam and his associates that she had been able to sit calmly in a Colonial kitchen, talking to a long-dead reverend, and that she could feel entirely sane as she did so.

  But as to going back, facing her own ghosts…That was something else again, something she dreaded but something she needed to do.

  Brad let out a soft sigh. “Okay, I’m sorry. Too soon,” he said.

  She stared back at him. “I didn’t say that,” she murmured quickly. “Maybe I should go back. I think…I think maybe I want to go back to Hastings House.”

  He hesitated. “I know you have an apartment in Brooklyn, but…” He stared, paused, then said quickly, on a single fast breath, “There are a few rooms available for the workers at Hastings House.”