Chapter Four

Frank sent Rand uptown to meet with Sister Francoise with a promise to meet him at a restaurant on Bourbon Street. Soon, Brent and Charlie's parents would arrive in the Courtyard with recent photos, a list of their favorite hangouts and their closest friends. Frank didn't have a thing to tell them yet, but he sure intended to listen to their version of what happened to their sons.

However, right now, he needed a shower. He dug in the bureau drawer and laid out clean clothes on the bed—a black T-shirt and faded jeans. Upon entering the bathroom, he heard a knock on the door, pivoted and walked across the room. A look through the peephole showed an empty hallway. Certain someone had rapped; he shook his head. Perhaps they had the wrong room and moved on.

He returned to the bathroom, stripped down to his boxers, and turned the hot and cold faucets on. Another knock at the door rose above the sound of water gushing from the shower head.

"Son of a bitch," he bit out under his breath and headed for the door again.

Rather than look through the peep hole this time, he unlocked the dead bolt and yanked the door open, didn't give a damn if the entire housekeeping staff stood on the other side.

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.

The shape of a screen floated before him. "Ah, success."

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?” Carmen's voice cracked “Oh, my God!"

"Continue," Frank said.

"That's pretty much it." A lengthy silence ensued during which time she fidgeted under their bold stares. "Oh, all right. I said I found the burial records of the soldiers who might possibly be responsible for the hauntings."

Carmen bolted from the table and paced. "Are they buried in Lafayette?"

"Some, yes," she whispered.

"Good, God, Marsha," her husband screeched. "Why didn't you mention this before?"

Frank's heart went out to her when she burst into tears. "Who would believe such a theory? I don't believe it myself." She glanced up. "Do you believe it's possible, Mr. McGuire?"

From Frank's perspective, their distress seemed genuine, their turmoil heartfelt. He breathed an internal sigh of relief, hated discovering a parent had been intricately involved in the disappearance of their own child. He'd seen it happen all too often, motivated by financial stress, spousal jealousy or sexual exploitation.

"I guess anything is possible, but we're jumping to conclusions. I want to stress again, don't hold anything back from me."

"Well, I'm not buying it." Carmen stopped her harried steps and faced them. "I think it more likely we'll receive a ransom note."

Frank had done his homework and knew the question would arise. Since the Burroughs owned a chain of hardware stories stretching from New Orleans to South Carolina, and the Chapman's descended from ancestors who raised Arabian thoroughbreds, Frank considered the possibility at the onset. Now, it seemed only remotely possible, if not improbable.

"Money has always been an incentive in kidnappings," Dave said.

"I think contact would have been made by now." Frank wanted to give them something to hang on to without letting on the case had just taken a drastic turn. Or perhaps it had taken the turn long ago and he just needed confirmation.

Marsha's perceptive brown eyes narrowed. "Do you know something you're not telling us, Frank?"

"Nothing concrete. At this point let's call it a hunch."

"What does that mean?" Mark asked wide-eyed.

"Nothing more than my experience in the field."

A fresh flurry of tears rolled down Marsha's face when she reached out for Carmen's hand. "If whoever took the boys doesn't want money, we have to assume a sexual predator might be behind this."

Carmen's sob revealed her horror.

"Let's not jump to conclusions; allow Frank to do his job." The anguish in Dave's eyes belied his words.

Frank knew while they might have considered the possibility a molester was involved they hadn't actually said the words aloud until now. "Any success in talking the police out of the shoe and flashlight?"

Mark shook his head. "Evidence." The man handed him recent photos of the boys and a list of friends and places they hung out.

After spending the better part of an hour with the parents discussing possibilities and strategy, Frank excused himself with a promise to be in touch the following day. At this point, he almost wished he was dealing with a person motivated by financial gain. At least he'd know what to expect in the ensuing days.

To tell Brent and Charlie's parents he believed a ghost had snatched their boys, would result in questions he couldn't deal with right now, much less answer. Carmen's words ran through his mind, 'Well, I'm not buying it.' He had a sinking feeling that before too long, they'd all have to buy it.

And like it or not, eat, breathe and live with it.