Chapter Three

Tucked into a corner at a cozy booth, Frank ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir, a light sherry hue, flavored with strawberry, plum and violets. Minutes later, the waiter delivered the wine with two Bookmaker salads smothered in Sabatino's famous house dressing and took their order. Frank ordered Shrimp Renato, Rand the Veal Francese he'd been dreaming about for the last hour, notwithstanding the awesome shower sex he'd shared with Frank.

"This was a great idea, Frank. I've been starving all day."

Frank rolled the wine around in his glass and took a sip. "You were going to tell me about your test today."

"Oh, yeah, I think I aced it."

With a roll of his eyes, Frank said, "You think?"

"I'm feeling confident. When you were on the two-hour phone call last night I went over my notes again." Rand picked up his fork and dove into the salad. "I knew most of the answers on that exam, and besides, I promised you I'd go out with a bang."

"We need to talk about that."

Rand narrowed his eyes. "You're not backing out on me, McGuire. We had a deal. You said—"

"Are you going to let me talk or not?"

Rand put his fork down and placed his hands on the table. "Okay, shoot, but if you think to put me off, you got a fight on your hands. I know something is up again. I caught part of your conversation when you were talking to that nun on the phone."

"It's not polite to eavesdrop, and I thought you said you were cramming for the test."

"I was, but I heard your end of the conversation. So, what's up with the nun?"

Frank chuckled and shook his head. "What makes you think I was talking to a nun?"

"You called her Sister something and. . . ." Rand stopped in midsentence while the waiter set the entrees on the table and asked if he could bring them anything else.

"Not for me, thanks," Frank said. "Rand?'

"No, I'm good." As soon as the man ducked through the archway near their booth, Rand picked up where he'd left off. "Fast service here; and you don't have a sister."

Frank gave him a quizzical look.

"The nun, you called the person on the phone Sister Francoise."

"Francoise Genevieve from New Orleans, an Ursuline nun."

"Ursuline?"

"A Roman Catholic religious order that goes way back to some place in Italy." Frank stabbed a plump shrimp on his plate with his fork and popped it into his mouth. "Damn, this is good."

His lips splitting into a grin, Rand cut off a chunk of the veal. "She going to save your rotten soul, Frank?"

"I think it's beyond redemption."

"You got that right." For a long moment, Rand studied him as if mulling over the redemption comment. "You said something about New Orleans earlier. Does Sister whoever—?"

"Francoise Genevieve. You need to remember that if you plan to accompany me on this one."

Rand focused every element of his attention on Frank. "Am I going to accompany you this time?"

"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 waved 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.

Rand said the word with his mouth full. "More."

"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, on 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, 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 slow. "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 move 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."

Rand rubbed his hands together. "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 proved uneventful. Rand dozed during the Southwest nonstop 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 of his brain 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 who were 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, and 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 went 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."

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

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 along with 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 other 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."

Rand peered over Frank’s shoulder "The grounds too?"

"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. "Don’t forget to 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?"

"You never miss a thing, so don't pretend you didn't see the way Martin kept looking at me."

Frank shrugged. "Normal curiosity."

"Oh, yeah, why would he be curious about me?"

Standing before room 510, Frank swiped the room card through the metal box. "Look in a mirror."

"Quaint," Rand said walking into the room.

The second, queen-sized bed sat near the twelve-paned window in the room overlooking a Courtyard below. An open armoire, complete with TV, DVD player and sound system took up a corner of the room, and next to it, a wingback chair and desk. Mauve roses and white hydrangeas graced the heavy curtains and matched several pictures on the wall of sweeping trellises draped in twisting blossoms and vines. The furniture was ornate, claw feet and old-world looking, with the same mahogany tint as the paneled walls.

Frank gave a slight shiver. Something about the walls reminded him of the picture he'd seen moments ago in the photo album. "We've stepped into New Orleans past I believe."

"I like the room; it's urbane and breathes warmth."

Without warning, Frank's cock grew hard. "Urbane. Doesn't that mean suave, debonair?"

"Something like that." Rand turned to him with a modest smile. "Is that a hint? Do you want me, Frank?" Rand's gaze seized the bulge straining Frank's pants.

"Do you know when I don't?"

Rand sloughed the luggage strap from his shoulder and set about removing his shirt, one slow button at time. He paused and looked at Frank, the smoky eyes hungry with need.

"The pants, shoes, socks. Everything."

Rand took his time again, his deliberate dawdle one of the things Frank loved about him, that and his confidence, an unfaltering awareness of what cranked Frank's engine. He didn't want Rand to know everything in that area of their lives—knowledge held power. But what Rand discovered along the journey he'd honed to perfection.

Frank's eyes lingered on every hard plane and angle, a masterpiece. Tall and lean like his father, the kid was all exotic looks and unequivocal magnificence. He brushed past him on the way to the wingback and shucked his jeans, boxers, socks and shoes. Frank eased into the chair and rolled his head back, a silent command for Rand to join him.

What Rand did next surprised him. Opening the shoulder bag at his feet, he retrieved a length of rope and a black elongated scarf. Frank's pulse accelerated and a muscle in his groin clenched. Damn, he had to hand it to the punk. Rand knew how to rev him up like a boar hog at breeding time.

Rand closed the curtains in the room, effectuating a shadowy, soft ambience similar to dusk. Perfect, Frank thought watching his every move.

Like a match flaring, his eyes sparked. "Hands behind your back."

Frank obliged and recalled the time Rand snuck into his office with a gun, tied him up and sucked him off. The images nearly brought him out of the chair. Rand's shoulder brushed the collar of his shirt when he reached down and secured his hands behind the chair, yanking hard on the binding for drama.

Dangling the scarf before him he said, "Take a long look, Frank, before I pitch you into darkness."

Shivers ran down his spine and mingled with a rush of desire. He closed his eyes the moment the blindfold met his lashes and waited through the ensuing silence while Rand tied it.

"Here's the deal." Frank imagined him standing upright and directly in front of him, all hot sex and thrill. "You can't move your hands—"

"No, shit."

"—I wasn't finished. You can't talk. Not. One. Word."

"Oh, yeah? What happens if I do?"

"It's over. I don't have the gun this time, but I'm still in control, right, Frank?"

"Bastard."

"Right, Frank? You have to agree to the rules, and there's no fucking up. You utter a word, I stop."

"You think I have no power over my faculties. Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"Yep," he said low-voiced. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, you can moan, groan and make those animal-like noises, you just can't speak an intelligible word."

"You're on, smart ass. Let the game begin."

Frank's heart thudded in his chest. What man wouldn't want a lover that went to great lengths to please him, put that element of suspense and challenge into their sexual escapades? He thought about the nameless men he'd banged before Rand entered his life. He could no longer recall their faces, not one feature or the color of their hair. From the moment he'd found Rand again after a five-year hiatus, every one-night stand and short-term relationship evaporated like steam beneath a sauna door.

"Hang on; I need to make a minor adjustment." The scarf loosened before he tasted a ball of silk in his mouth. "That should remind you not to talk. But I can tell the difference between words and moans."

Frank emitted a growl, not even remotely close to a pleasured groan. His short fuse didn't scare Rand anymore; wouldn't stop him from taking this charade up main street if need be. Only once had Frank been bound, gagged and at the mercy of another man. Rand exhilarated him now like he had then.

Frank felt warm hands above his kneecaps and sensed Rand lowering himself to his knees. Christ, a slab of cement couldn't be harder than his prick.

Heat stoked his erection, Rand's fingers pausing near the cap to scrape his short nails over the sensitive tip.

"Think about burying big boy deep inside me Frank while I'm fondling you. I have to say fondling, because I can't really jack you off, not completely." He leaned in, his warm breath fanning his ear. "You're getting old; might not be able to get it up right away again."

Little prick.

The tortuous caresses of his weeping cock continued. Deep in Frank's gut the spasms rippled and shot up his engorged member. God, the sensations blew his mind. Rand's gentle ministrations turned rough and his cock responded like Pavlov's dog.

A velvety tongue licked the crown and slid down the length of the underside before teeth nipped his balls. A moan slipped from Frank's mouth from behind the gag, and then a muffled curse.

"Was that a word?"

Frank shook his head.

"Sounded like it could have been. Too close to call." Rand paused with a chuckle before he struck with renewed vigor. He nibbled, sucked and pulled, wringing a series of moans from Frank's lips. "Ah, you get off on that, don't you?"

The game had started to stir Frank's impatience, if not his anger. Rand might choose to keep this up for a long time, and the need to deep-hilt his tight ass overwhelmed Frank. On the other hand, if he spoke, the cocky asshole might call the game.

Rand withdrew his mouth, thank God, and slid onto his lap. "Figured I better stop; the blood's rushing to the top and you're harder than a tree trunk. Want to fuck me now, Frank? I want you to fuck me. Shit, do I want you to fuck me."

Straddling him, Rand lifted his hips and positioned his cock at his hole. Sinful images surfaced and Frank had to wonder if they weren't heightened behind the blindfold.

Rand squirmed once, drew a deep breath and impaled himself on his prick. Using his muscles, Rand moved up and down, rocked forward and back and panted through his mouth. The need to be in control overpowered Frank. A long-breathed moan escaped Rand's lips, and the sound undid Frank.

He wasn't in deep enough, didn't have the ability to bury his dick, hit the sweet spot that drove Rand mindless. When Rand banged his head on his chest and dug his fingers into his shoulders, the gig was up.

"Untie me," Frank said his voice a distorted, muffled remnant of what it once was.

He didn't have to ask again. Hands reached around his sides and grappled with the rope, freeing him in no time. Frank pulled the gag from his mouth and rose with Rand still attached to his cock. He walked to the bed and eased them down, inching Rand up the middle of the mattress with his thrusts.

Finally in command, Frank hugged Rand's hips with his knees and drove in. A pleasurable cry spewed from Rand when Frank eased back, left only the crown, and slammed in again. The muscles in Rand's body trembled when Frank grabbed his cock and stroked the length. He ran his thumb across the top and exalted in the slick cum oozing from the slit.

"Oh, God," Rand rasped and his cock jerked in Frank's hand. "Can't wait much longer."

Frank cupped his bottom and set the tempo, repeating the rough plunge and retreat with Rand's upward thrusts of his hips matching his. Rand's tight insides convulsed, his muscles clenching Frank's prick like a vise. Drowning in the wet, hot bliss of his lover, lights exploded behind Frank's eyes. Waves of dizzying pleasure surged through him, and sweat streamed from his forehead.

Heaven. Pure heaven.

"Don't stop," Rand said. "Almost there, don't stop."

"Open your eyes. I want to watch them as I fuck you."

A prolonged moan filled the air, Rand's, and then Frank's as they reached their orgasms in sync. Shock registered somewhere in Frank's foggy brain. He could fuck Rand until Kingdom Come and every time was more mind-numbing than the last. He wrenched the last strains of Rand's climax from his damp body and collapsed on top of him.

Long minutes later, his breath still erratic, Frank eased out and flopped onto the mattress beside him. "Jesus, maybe I am getting too old."

"No," Rand whispered. "You're getting better."

"I don't know about you, but after that, I need to sleep."

Rand's voice sounded like he'd already entered dreamland. "Uh-huh."

"Tomorrow, we get down to serious business, so get some rest."

"Food," Rand murmured.

"We'll hit Stella's for crawfish, jambalaya, and gumbo when we wake up."

"Yum."

In short order, Rand's rhythmic breathing drifted around Frank. How he wished he could ditch the feeling of sick uncertainty from his mind. Maybe he'd been a bit serendipitous hauling Rand along so soon.

He hadn't even met with the parents or Sister Francoise to get a feel for the case, yet the nagging, sinister force hounded him, called to him from beyond the grave. Damn, the sooner he put order to what really happened to the missing boys, the better the chances of finding them. He closed his eyes, mimicked Rand's somnolent breathing and soon all the muscles in his body followed suit.