Crossroads Shadowland (3 page)

"Like you said, we made a
deal—you finish out the year in college and I
welcome you into the bosom of Frank McGuire, PI."

"Hot damn, New Orleans!"

The skin on the back of
Frank's neck crawled, again. From the moment
Charlie Burroughs' father had phoned last week his sixth
sense had been
working overtime. Twice
he'd attempted to channel his inner spirit and twice
he'd failed to get a substantive feel for what
had happened to the missing
boys.
Insignificant allusions had broken through, moldering aromas, and
foggy
realms, but nothing that sent him
down a solid path.

Unless one considered the
image of five clustered buildings noteworthy,
and Frank had learned long ago to never leave a stone
unturned, not even a
pebble. One thing led
to another, and soon he was up to his elbows in research about The
Big Easy, particularly historical architecture. Within hours he
came
across some photos that looked
remarkably like the image he'd seen while
channeling—five, not four, not six, but five buildings that
now comprised the
Hotel Provincial on
Chartres Street in the French Quarter.

"Frank?"

"Yes, sorry, I faded there for a
second."

Rand brushed a hand through
the air. "More than a second, but I'm used
to it." Without missing a beat, he launched into his next
question. "So why are
we going to New
Orleans and why were you talking to the nun?"

"I needed the history on
the hotel we're staying at." Frank talked
between alternating bites of shrimp and salad. "I'm not
exactly eager to jump
feet-first into
another ghost situation."

"Ghost?" Rand's head came
up. "Do you have reason to believe we're
walking into that?"

"Hotel Provincial has a
long-standing history of ghost sightings,
documented
ghost-sightings."

"I gotta believe there are lots of hotels in
New Orleans, lots and lots. If you're worried about spirits sharing
our room, book one elsewhere."

"No, I don't think so."
Frank chewed on the side of his lip and shook his
head.

"More," Rand said talking with his mouth
full.

"More what?"

"Tell me more. Why don't
you want to book a room at another hotel, and
are you telling me everything?"

"Damned if I know why I'm
drawn to the Provincial, call it a gut feeling,
and yes, I'm telling you what I know so far."

"You're freaking me out
again." Rand looked toward the ceiling. "Why do
I get the feeling the theme from
Poltergeist
is going to start playing
through
the speakers any second
now?"

"You don't have to come
with me, Rand. I think this will be a tough one
to solve."

"What? I'm a pussy? I can only work on the
easy cases?"

Frank crumpled up his
napkin and set it on the table. "I didn't mean it
that way, but that last case. . . ."

Understanding flickered
through Rand's green eyes. "I know it was
tough on you, Cricket and all, but you have to move on,
Frank. You can't allow
what happened to
affect future cases."

"I just want to know what
I'm walking into. If the hotel is haunted, then I
want to know everything about the place before I
lay my head down on their satin pillows."

"All right." Rand drew the
words out slowly. "So where does Sister
Francoise Genevieve fit in?"

"For several decades, the
Ursuline nuns owned the property, and the
archdiocese houses all the records on the Provincial in their
downtown
offices. When I called there,
this fragile, little voice answered."

"Sister Francoise."

"Right," Frank said. "She
knows a lot about the hotel, New Orleans' past
and the spirit realm."

"Well that makes me feel better."

Frank caught the waiter's
attention, ordered another glass of wine and
picked up the conversation where they'd left off. "Why is
that?"

"It's always good to have a
true believer on your side when you're
dealing with the otherworld.

A snorted laugh. "That's what the Sister
said."

"Did she offer an opinion
on what she thinks happened to the missing
boys?"

Frank felt his lips quirk
into a grimace. "She said the same thing
Charlie's dad said. No one has any idea why they were in the
cemetery, but
they know they were there
that night. Brent's dad identified the flashlight the
caretaker found lying next to some tombstones,
and Mr. Burroughs, Charlie's
dad,
recognized a tennis shoe his son was wearing when he left the house
that
night."

"No blood, no bodies, that's it? A
flashlight and a shoe?"

"Nada on the blood, zilch
on the bodies, and the police have searched
the cemetery and the surrounding property with cadaver
dogs."

Rand leaned forward, his
voice low. "Have you done your thing, you
know, the perfection thing?"

"Some, and to answer your
next question before you ask, nothing
substantial came through."

Enthusiastically, Rand asked. "When do we
leave?"

"I already booked the
flights." He pulled the tickets from the pocket of
his shirt and opened one. "Tomorrow,
noon."

Glancing up, Rand focused
on his face. "If you're done eating, let's go. I
have to pack, although I suppose I have all night
to do that. Too excited to
sleep."

Frank downed the rest of
his wine, set the goblet next to the wrinkled
napkin and held his gaze while returning the tickets to his
shirt pocket. "I can
think of a thing or
two to relax you."

Frank caught the gleam in Rand's eyes. "Like
I said, let's ditch this place."

* * * * *

The trip from Baltimore to
New Orleans was uneventful. Rand dozed
during the Southwest non-stop flight, and how Frank envied
him. He'd also intended to catch a few winks, but every time he
closed his eyes, disturbing
revelations
filtered into his brain. Snippets, nothing more than broken
threads
and Byzantine snapshots he knew
belonged to a much larger collage.

Damn, he wasn't in
meditation mode right now, hadn't willed his sixth
chakra to open, and yet numinous entities
lingered on the fringe of his
subconscious. The exploitation pissed him off.

He'd
always decided when his consciousness would shift and slip
into a
dreamlike state.
He'd
chosen the place and
time to connect with his inner
spirit
before shifting into a higher level of consciousness. Not once
since he'd
learned the technique had the
dead tried to reach
him
unsolicited. One
couldn't call the
naggings an outright attempt to invade his mind, but the
subtle pestering to nudge it left him
unsettled.

Rand's soft snores drew his
glance, and a vision of his father, Quinn,
surfaced. Up until his ex-partner had died in a freak bank
robbery, Frank
hadn't thought about
leaving Baltimore's men in blue. He knew he possessed
the ability to connect with other worlds, and in
private had on occasion. He didn't like hiring out his services to
police forces or government agencies. Parents grieving hard and
deep was a different story.

Tired of the politics of
catering to criminals, Frank had a strong desire at
the time to mete out his own justice when it came
to drug lords, dealers and
mobsters—anonymously, down and dirty. But like many things in
life, the new
path he'd chosen veered off
course.

He hadn't anticipated his
phone would ring off the hook with calls from
hysterical parents whose children were missing, hadn't
counted on crumbling
beneath their
heartfelt pleas to help find them. Now, he couldn't think of
a
single occupation in the world more
rewarding, or at times, more
heartbreaking
if the child turned up dead.

When the plane's engines
shifted and eased into descent mode, Frank nudged Rand. "We're
about to land. Thought you might want to get your first
look at New Orleans from the air."

"Hey, thanks," Rand said with a sleepy yawn
and looked out the window.

They took a taxi from the
airport to the Provincial Hotel and checked in
with a desk clerk whose nametag claimed he went by Martin.
"Welcome to
New Orleans, Mr. McGuire
and...." He looked at Rand.

"Rand Brennan," Frank said.
"So, Martin, they tell me if I really want my
stay in New Orleans to be memorable I should ask for a room
in Building Five."

Martin's hazel eyes
lingered on Rand before he turned to Frank. "If
you're looking to make lasting memories, you should be here
during Mardi
Gras."

"Next year, perhaps."

After punching some numbers
into the keyboard, Martin studied the
screen for a time, and then handed Frank a registration form
to sign and two
room cards. "You're in
luck, Mr. McGuire, room 510." The clerk gave a short
laugh. "Since you asked for building five, you
must know its history."

"If you're talking about the
ghost-sightings, I've heard rumors, yes."

Martin snorted through
another chuckle, reached under the counter and
retrieved a photo album labeled Building Five. "Not rumors,
sir. Care to take a look at some photos the guests have
taken?"

"Sure, why not?" Next to
him, Rand's shoulder brushed his when he
moved in for a better look.

Frank opened the album and
flipped through the laminated sheets— various snapshots of
hallways, rooms, and stairwells with vague images of
clouded, translucent forms. Some were
indistinguishable and could easily pass
for a camera malfunction or an unintentional flash of natural
light that found
its way into the setting.
But not all could be discarded as inconsequential
flukes.

Two in particular merited
closer study. The first, an outline of a man—
too big to be a woman—holding a staff of some sort parallel
to his body, and
the second, an arm
reaching through a paneled wall, the five fingers clearly
visible.
Frank glanced
up, his pinkie on the photo. "These to boost the
tourist industry?"

"No, sir, like I said, they
were taken by guests that stayed in Building
Five. If you don't believe me, ask Jackson tomorrow when he
checks in for
work. He's been the head
maintenance guy here forever. He can talk the ears
off a donkey about the spirits that haunt the
hotel and grounds."

"The grounds too?" Rand asked over his
shoulder.

"Mostly the courtyard."
Martin shagged his head toward a large door
that obviously led to the grounds outside. "Can't miss it;
you'll hear the
fountain, smell the
plumeria and roses. Follow your noses."

Frank shut the album and picked up his
shoulder luggage.

"Need some help with that, Mr. McGuire?"

"No, thanks, Martin. Just point us in the
direction of building five."

Martin drew them a quick
map and handed it to Frank. "The legendary
Cafe du Monde is within walking distance, known for their
coffee and
beignets."

"Bagels?" Rand asked.

"Oh, no, not a bagel, a
pastry made from deep-fried dough sprinkled
with confectioner's sugar. I warn you, you'll become
addicted."

"How far are we from Bourbon Street?"

"Two blocks, and only four
from Jackson Square." Martin glanced to
Rand again, and something approaching anomalous curiosity
flashed in the
man's eyes. "You might find
the Square interesting if you like jazz music."

"Just so happens I do."
Rand smiled and Frank knew he'd missed the
flicker of whatever it was that passed through the clerk's
green-flecked pupils.
"And check out our
restaurant, Stella's, great food and service."

"Right now, I'd like to check out the room,
but thanks for the tips."

Straight, white teeth
gleamed behind Martin's smile. "No sweat. Let me
know if you need anything else."

Frank headed toward Building Five with Rand
following close behind. "You're quiet all of a sudden, Rand.
Something wrong?"