Crossroads Shadowland (5 page)

About to ask what the hell
they wanted, he saved his breath and realized
he'd be talking to empty air. He glanced down the hallway in
both directions
and a cold chill nipped
the back of his neck. Whoever had knocked didn't have time to make
it to the end of the corridor, and to his right, his gaze met a
dead-
end wall.

He closed the door with a
favorite cuss word and, for the third time,
walked into a warm, steamy bathroom. Cutting his usual time
in the shower short, ten minutes later he stood in front of the
mirror and dressed.

His eyes narrowed. Words
glared back at him in the mirror, backward
words. Turning around, he lifted his eyes to the paneled
wall, acutely aware of his thundering heart.

In solid, dark letters, the
words,
You're dead, you're dead
stared back at
him.
Jesus, had someone knocked on the door and entered his room while
he
showered? With his heart in his throat,
he wandered toward the door and reached for the knob, cranking it
right to left. Locked. Next he checked the
deadbolt with a sinking feeling and realized it too remained
in place. He spun
around, expecting to
encounter someone in the room. Behind the heavy
curtains? Under the bed? Had he missed someone behind the
bathroom door?

Frank tiptoed to the bed
and retrieved the Glock from underneath his
pillow. With the gun in his hand, he lowered himself to the
floor and lifted the
fancy, lace bed
skirt. Nothing. He rose and walked to the draperies, grabbed
a
panel and yanked it back. Finding
nothing, he did the same with the next panel.

If someone had entered the
room, they had to be in the bathroom. With
the words,
You're dead
running through his head like a litany, he crept
toward
the open door in the bathroom and
peeked through the two-inch gap. Nada.

"Shit," he said, whipping around to scan the
room again.

Plopping onto the edge of
the bed, his head swam. He chewed on the
inside of his cheek, and looked up at the letters again. What
did they mean? A
light bulb went off. Of
course, they could only indicate one thing—someone or
something was trying to contact him and that
unknown person or entity
wasn't a
warm-blooded being from this world. Cold-blooded would be more like
it, very cold and very dead.

Frank grabbed his
wristwatch from the nightstand and checked the
time. Twenty minutes until the boys' parents arrived. "Okay,
lost soul, you
want to play?"

He dimmed the lights,
settled into the wingback and leaned his head
back. "Concentrate, Frank, you don't have much
time."

Closing his eyes, he
beckoned the screen. If he focused and all the
elements merged, particles of light would filter in. He
didn't need to interpret
anything at this
point, had only to study the illumination and scatter all
thought from his mind—not an easy
feat.

The light appeared behind
his eyelids and soon his consciousness shifted; a normal response
before he entered a semi-soporous state. He
wouldn't try to decipher the images taking shape, but rather
watch the light
and maintain a clear head.
Patience and concentration were rewarded by a
connection to his inner spirit, the catalyst for a gradual
shift to a higher level
of
perception.

"Ah, success," he whispered, the shape on
the screen floating before him.

A slat-chair, the blurred
shape of a human, the hand clutching an object
that touched the floor at its feet. Dark matter shifted and
rolled behind the
human and a pungent
scent spiraled up Frank's nose. It happened on
occasion; aromas, specific scents relating to the image would
find him.

He coughed with the
realization the smell represented thick, black
smoke. Flashes of light, bright orange and smoky-white, split
the sky in the
image. A fire? A violent
storm? Through it all, the outline remained as still as a
statue. No, not a vague shape, but a bewhiskered
gent dressed in drab
clothing. A white
banner of some sort crossed his chest, a sharp contrast to
the
dismal scene.

"Who are you?" Frank asked.

Long moments passed without a twitch from
the image.

"You left your calling card; you must want
something from me."

The shiny object in his
hand moved when he shifted in the chair. Frank put all his effort
into putting a name to the intangible item. Shiny and
pointed,
it looked like a weapon of some
sort and one he'd seen before. Where,
goddamn it, where had he seen it? The top portion jagged off
from the base. A
bayonet, by God, an
antiquated weapon that could have been used in
numerous wars throughout the centuries. Images of the photo
album crept
forth. Not only had he seen
the bayonet yesterday while flipping through the
pages, but he'd seen the soldier sitting in a
chair. The smoke and flashes of
light
represented a battle.

The screen shuddered. "No,
not yet, hang in there, baby." Despite his
plea, the image of the solider grew faint. "Not enough, a few
more seconds,
come back!"

Gradually the
pseudo-monitor faded until nothing remained but a cold, black void.
Frank willed his mind to return to the present with an
exasperated
sigh, and glanced at his
watch. He'd needed a little more time in his meditative
state, yet introductions had been made. His first
contact with the numinous
being had
materialized, and he'd bet his ass the spirit had something to
do
with the missing boys.

Now he had to put the
pieces of the large puzzle together and find out
what.

A monumental task.

* * * * *

He retrieved a damp
washcloth from the bathroom and swiped it over
the eerie message. A sigh of
relief left
his lips when
You're dead, you're
dead
disappeared. Rand might be scared
shitless if he saw it.

Returning from the
washroom, he stopped in his tracks. In all its naked
verity, glaring at him like an ominous portent,
the writing had returned. It
solidified
his suspicion—if the spirit indeed possessed the ability to
wrench
the boys from this realm, he'd be
dealing with a prevailing power. While lost
between planes, a specter's energy intensified with every
passing year. This
particular ghost's
force could be magnified over a hundred fold, thus
explaining his ability to snatch people from this
realm and drag them into
another.

His mind crammed with
ruminations, and running late, Frank rushed
from the room and almost ran smack through someone in the
hallway. "Whoa!
Sorry man, my
apologies."

The stranger brought a hand to his head, his
eyes dazed. "Have you seen Dr. Flanagan?"

Frank put the brakes on and
took a better look at the man. Long, unruly hair framed his bearded
face. His chest was bare, and dull, gray pants straight
from a Salvation Army bin hung from his emaciated
hips.

Surprised by the question,
and his appearance, Frank said, "Sorry, I've
been in my room." The man brought a hand up and scratched the
stubble on
his chin. "Hey, are you all
right?

The stranger shuffled down
the corridor mumbling under his breath.
Beard? Drab, worn trousers? Frank sprinted down the hall,
hoping to catch
him, but by the time he
reached the intersecting hallway the stranger had
vanished. Damn, he'd just had a conversation with
the ghost… his ghost.

Cursing his
slow-wittedness, he almost missed Martin standing near the
ice machine alcove on his left. Engaged in
whispered conversation with
another young
man, they nearly jumped from their skin when Frank stopped
to speak with them.

"Martin, did you just see a bare-chested man
pass by here?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. McGuire. Sorry, sir,
Ringo and I were," he faltered. "We were talking and I didn't see
anyone walk by."

Frank stole a quick look at
Martin's sidekick in the blue maintenance
shirt. What in hell did their guilty expressions mean?
Certain they were up to
no good—as in
ransacking guests' rooms the minute they left the hotel,
Frank
had to shelve his inquisitiveness in
lieu of more important issues.

"I nearly collided with a
man moments ago outside the door to my room.
Shirtless, and dressed like a transient, he seemed
disoriented, asked me if I
knew where he
could find Dr. Flanagan."

The lopsided grin splitting
Martin's lips peeved Frank. Young people
found humor in the damnedest things these days.

"Dr. Flanagan? Remember
those ghosts I warned you about when you
checked in, Mr. McGuire? If he asked you about Dr. Flanagan,
you just
encountered one."

"Who's Flanagan?"

"The surgeon that ran the
temporary field hospital here during the
war."

"What war?" Frank asked his curiosity
piqued.

"The Civil War. There's a
picture of Flanagan in one of the albums at the
check-in desk." Behind Martin, Ringo shifted his weight from
one hip to the
other, his eyes darting
left to right. "Stop by later," Martin added. "I'll scrounge
it up."

"I'll do that, thanks."

Martin looked over Frank's
shoulder. "Hey, where's your sidekick
today?"

"On an errand," Frank
replied, still thinking about the specter.
"Out of the hotel then?"

Frank gathered his rambling
thoughts. "Yes, gone from the hotel as I
should be."

"What does he think of New Orleans so
far?"

"I don't think he's had
much time to enjoy the sights yet." He looked
down at his watch and realized he should have been in the
Courtyard five
minutes ago. "We hope to
remedy that this afternoon when we meet up at Pat
O'Brien's."

"Home of the Hurricane, great choice."

Frank uttered his thanks
and hustled down the hallway, acutely aware
he wouldn't be making a great first impression by running
late.

* * * * *

Two couples, their backs
rigid, their expressions sullen, huddled around
an umbrella table in the aromatic Courtyard behind Hotel
Provincial. Like the
others he'd met whose
children had
gone
missing
, their weary features bore
the stamp of pain and incredulity.

The men came out of their
chairs, but Frank waved them back and
extended his hand, and his apologies for being
late.

"Mark Burroughs and this is
my wife, Carmen," the beefy, partially-bald
man said. Frank nodded to the woman and turned his attention
to the second
set of parents. "Dave and
Marsha Chapman. Our son is Brent."

Pulling up a chair
opposite, Frank retrieved a small notebook and a pen
from his pocket and settled in. "Your son must be
Charlie then; we spoke on
the phone last
week."

"Six days ago." Frank
assumed Carmen Burroughs' cringe stemmed from
the length of time that had passed.

"You go first, Mr. and Mrs. Chapman. Tell me
what you know."

"Very little," Brent's father confessed.
"Our son left the house near dark; said he'd be back before 10:00
PM."

"Didn't say where he was off to?"

"No," Marsha dabbed her
eyes with a scrunched tissue in her hand.
"Brent mentioned catching up with Charlie though."

Frank's internal radar
beeped when she looked away a little too fast.
"Mrs. Chapman?"

"I'm sure it's nothing."

"What you might think
insignificant, I might consider monumental, so
please, now is not the time to hold back even a scrap of
information."

All eyes fell upon her. "Brent and I had
several discussions about…"

"Marsha
?" Her husband's brows met in the middle.

"I'm getting there, Dave,"
she snapped. Her chest deflated with a deep
breath. "I told him about the time a ghost tried to grab me
when I stayed at the
Provincial with my
sisters."

"A ghost? Oh, my God!" Carmen's voice
cracked.