Chapter Six

Moonlight filtered through the twelve-pane window, illuminating the room in striated ribbons of silver and white. Pulled from a sound sleep, Frank sensed a menacing presence, jackknifed up in bed and patted the empty mattress beside him—cold like the room, and unmistakably empty. Reminiscent of a sleep-drugged android, Rand stumbled toward the paneled wall near the bathroom.

Frank's breath scattered in the icy air. "Rand, you're sleepwalking."

Onward he trudged. Frank's words fell on deaf ears. "Rand!" A debilitating chill cloaked the air, a frigidity Frank knew came from a deep, dank shadowland few had entered. "Jesus!" He shoved off the bed with the speed and agility of a wild beast.

An arm came out—the sickening Déjà vu from the photo album stopping Frank's heart. Like a programmed zombie, Rand's outstretched hand reached for the beckoning illusion and then disappeared through the wall.

"No!" Frank dove for Rand's feet and, only through the grace of God, made contact with an ankle. Grasping with every ounce of his strength, Frank yanked and twisted against the whirling dervish seizing the room. "Let him go you son of a bitch!"

He'd never encountered such might. The breath wheezed from Frank's lungs; every tendon stretched beyond human limit. Rand's upper body had vanished through the mahogany portal, striking sheer black terror in Frank's soul.

On the heels of a malevolent laugh, the spirit's words echoed through the room. "You're dead, you're dead."

Drawing on a lifetime of mental self-discipline, Frank focused on the portico, his authoritative tone cutting through the black void. "Release this man from the clutches of hell!" An unearthly groan spewed through the gateway and shook the walls, the overwhelming tug threatening Frank's grip. "Let him go!"

The threshold receded, the prevailing current in the room ebbing as the seconds ticked by. Frank's vitality poured from his body. He shuddered with the realization he couldn't have held on for another ten seconds. Before him Rand's limp body struck terror in his heart.

Tugging on his leg, he dragged him back and clutched him to his chest. "Rand, speak to me, say something. Rand!"

His eyes fluttered before opening, and then he patted his body down. "Wha-what happened? Frank, tell me you're real."

"Oh, God, you're back and safe." His breath escaped in a rush. "What happened; what in hell propelled you toward that wall?"

"A dream." Rand brought shaky fingers to his temple. "I thought it was a dream."

"Tell me while it’s still fresh in your mind. I have to know."

"A man called out to me; said I should come with him if I wanted true peace. Ah, shit, it's right there at the edge of my brain. Give me a minute, Frank."

"Take your time. Think back. What do you remember?"

"Coming to me. Fuck, he entered my dream—the man from the photo."

"Visualize the album we looked at, Rand, the one from the front desk. The man you saw in your dream, have you seen him before?"

"I think so, but in the picture we couldn't make out his face. One thing is clear though, the man that attempted to drag my ass into Never Land sat in a chair holding an object."

"Right, keep thinking. We thought we saw the outline of a man's body and he clutched something—"

Rand looked into his eyes. "Not something, a bayonet."

"Are you sure?"

"A bayonet is a bayonet is a bayonet, Frank. I excelled in history in high school."

"Yeah, you're doing great. So he is a solider?"

For the first time since he'd been pulled back through the portal, Rand looked around the room. The desk had been upended, and all the pictures hung catawampus on the wall. The floor lamp was broken and their empty shoulder bags had been tossed against the window, shattering two panes.

"He's a soldier, all right, and much more."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw the boys—Charlie and Brent, or at least I think it must have been them." A visible shiver tore through him. "I've never seen such stark, black terror in anyone's eyes. Their arms came out, reaching, straining toward me."

'They're still alive, Rand. That's all that matters."

"You gotta pull them back like you did me. I don't think I can live now that I saw the look . . .."

Frank fell silent.

"You can get them out of there, can't you?"

"I don't know, Rand. I've never been up against such powerful energy." He ran a knuckle down his cheek. "I almost lost you, another ten seconds and . . ."

"Yeah, serves your unredeemable ass right after scaring me shitless in the cab tonight."

Frank laughed.

"You think that's funny?"

"Not at all." His voice softened. "You just heard my laugh of relief."

Rand rolled his eyes.

"Come on; let's get you back in bed. We have a big day ahead after this."

* * *

With the taste of cotton in his mouth, Frank answered his cell phone on the fourth ring. "McGuire."

The voice reminded him of Katherine Hepburn's fractured speech in her last years. "I fell in love yesterday, Mr. McGuire. Oh, not really because I'm married to our Lord but your young assistant is a charmer."

"I heard your meeting with Rand went well, Sister." Frank chuckled despite the buzz of wasps in his head and the wrenched muscles in his neck. "Has something come up?"

She bypassed his question with one of her own. "Can you meet me at Lafayette Cemetery this afternoon?"

"Sure, what time?"

She paused, her voice cracking with humor. "If we don't meet within the hour, the afternoon will be over."

Frank glanced to the window and remembered he'd pulled the curtains shut in the middle of the night against the broken panes. "Damn. I mean, dang, you mean we missed the continental breakfast?"

"And lunch, Mr. McGuire. Do you know where Lafayette is located?"

"Yes, the Garden District on Hillary Street."

"Will Mr. Brennan accompany you?" Another staccato chuckle. "Beauty is something that can be perceived, and also something that can be experienced. God meant for us to see His glory."

"Right." Frank looked at Rand's puzzled face and rolled his eyes. "I'll make sure the Lord's perfect creation joins us."

Frank snapped his cell phone shut to Rand's question. "What was that all about?"

"Sister Francoise Genevieve is smitten with you."

"She's a nun."

Frank smiled. "Oh, well, she made it clear her appreciation for beauty has been pre-approved by God."

"My head is killing me, and I have a score to settle yet with the Mack truck that hit me last night, so don't fuck with me."

"I'm merely the messenger." Frank rose from the bed and rifled through his travel bag on the nightstand. "Did you happen to pack Aleve, Motrin, anything for pain?"

"Tylenol in the side pocket in my shoulder bag." Rand rolled onto his side and covered his head with the pillow.

"Get up, Adonis. I promised Sister Francoise we'd meet her within the hour at the cemetery."

* * *

Gray clouds hung from a salmon-kissed sky as Frank and Rand exited the taxi and walked toward the front gate of the cemetery. Frank's gaze wandered to the black LX10 idling at the curb. Behind the wheel, the back of a man's head came into view, the Sister's driver he assumed.

"What about the cabbie?' Rand asked.

"I let him go. We're within distance of the hotel."

Just inside the black, wrought iron gate, the Sister's voice called out to them. "Over here, Mr. McGuire, Mr. Brennan."

Rand's description of the woman failed to do her justice. Oh, the clear, blue eyes were wintry, all right, and the network of tiny lines around her eyes and mouth, but beneath it all an earthy glow lit her small face. The blue blazer Rand had described hugged her small frame, matching the pair of neat and serviceable denim pants. Obviously, the Ursuline Order had come a long way over the years.

Rand made the introductions before the Sister led them toward a section in the far-left corner of the cemetery. "Here's where the police found the flashlight and shoe."

Frank drank in the scene, a labyrinth of white granite headstones and monuments; many yellowed with age and covered in lichen. "Why would two young boys be in this particular section? Any idea?"

"I suspect they were up to no good." She smiled at Rand. "Did Mr. Brennan tell you about the soldiers that haunt the hotel you're staying at?"

Frank nodded. "Tell me. From a spiritual perspective what do they want?"

"Peace, Mr. McGuire. They're lost, caught between our world and another."

Guilt nibbled at Frank's conscience. The woman didn't have to help them, but here she stood, waiting for his next question. He had to tell her about the pictures from the photo album and particularly about the incident last night. "What will put their souls to rest?"

"Someone telling them they're dead, someone they trust."

"This is rather far-fetched when you think about it. Two boys are missing, and the only clues, a tennis shoe and flashlight in a cemetery. Anyone could have grabbed those young men, taken them anywhere, even out of state by now."

"The dogs followed their scent here, to this exact spot." She pointed to the ground. "The police have been reluctant to release information, but one of the detectives told me if someone took them out of the cemetery, the bloodhounds would have picked up the trail."

"And they didn't." Frank said on a sigh.

"Mr. McGuire, without sounding intrusive, of all the places to stay in New Orleans, why did you choose the Hotel Provincial?"

He could no longer withhold information from her. It seemed pointless now when time was of the essence. The boys' parents would expect a report today of some sort, and sooner or later he'd have to confirm their suspicions, sans Carmen's disbelief or not. He pictured it in his mind now. Folks, a ghost did indeed snatch the boys and now his spirit is doing its best to flaunt it in my face. In fact, his arm came through our hotel wall last night when he tried to add Rand to his human menagerie.

An uncomfortable silence passed. "Mr. McGuire?"

He began by telling her his gut feeling convinced him to stay at the Provincial, and moved on to the discovery of the photo album on Building Five when they checked in. Further, that led to his initial contact with a spirit. Her benevolent face remained staid when he told her about his encounter with a disheveled man in the hallway outside his room, and finally of Rand's brush with the ghost last night.

She crossed herself and looked at Rand. "How can you be sure the boys you saw are Brent and Charlie?"

"Frank showed me recent photos their parents left with him."

"So there you have it, Sister. We most definitely have a restless spirit harassing us, a powerful, angry energy. He, whoever he is, has Brent and Charlie and I don't know why he took them." Frank tilted his head back and watched a string of clouds chase the sky. "More bad news—I don't know how to get them back."

"We must appeal to the human side of his once compassionate nature, of course."

"Maybe he didn't have one," Rand interjected.

"Oh, I believe our ghost did, particularly after reading about his death." Frank pulled is gaze from the clouds and met her eyes. "His death?"

She pulled something from the sleeve of her blazer—a snapshot of a grave—and looked at Rand again. "Mr. Brennan—"

"Please, Sister, since we're on our second date, I insist you call me Rand."

"Very well. Rand, will you lift that tombstone at your feet so we might see the name on front?"

Passing the photo to Frank she said, "Take a close look at the photo, Mr. McGuire."

"Frank."

"Frank, can you make out the name on the headstone in that photo?"

He nodded. "Valmont Doucet."

"That's right, and what's the name on the marker Rand is holding upright?"

"The same," Frank said.

"I ran across the photo last night while looking through a file marked Committee for The Beautification of Tombstones."

"Okay, Sister, I'm with you so far."

"The Committee took the photo last month while on a trip through the cemetery to see what graves were in need of repair."

Frank wanted to hug her but held back. "Bless you, Sister Francoise." Blue eyes twinkled.

"And you, Frank."

"I'm going to let go of the headstone now," Rand said. "And then please tell me what is going on."

Frank handed Rand the picture of Valmont's marker, and seconds later he gave a slow nod. "Brent and Charlie smashed his headstone."

"Bingo," Frank said. "Pissed . . . sorry, Sister. That pitched Mr. Doucet into a frisson of rage."

"As they often do, one thing leads to another. This morning I made a trip to the Archdiocese and sifted through old records concerning the convent during the Civil War." She made the sign of the cross again. "The Lord was looking over my shoulder and pointed me to a file containing newspaper articles about the battle. Lo and behold, one spoke about the passing of our Valmont Doucet."

"Let me guess," Rand said. "He was a commanding officer?"

"No, but a hero nonetheless. Stationed at Fort Jackson while Federal boats bombarded New Orleans with mortar, his regiment sustained massive casualties. When the flagpole holding the Confederate flag splintered, Mr. Doucet rigged several bayonets end-to-end and took a mortal wound in an attempt to raise it again at the highest summit of the fort."

"And died at the temporary field hospital where the Provincial Hotel now sits?" Frank said.

"Precisely."

"Brilliant, Sister, absolutely brilliant."

"Thank you, Frank, but I'm afraid our work isn't complete yet."

"You mentioned appealing to the human side of his compassion."

"Yes, you must channel him, contact him or whatever it is you do, convince him the boys must be returned."

Frank didn't miss Rand's shudder and knew he was reliving his ordeal from last night. "That's a very tall order."

"With God all things are possible, Frank. Gain Valmont's trust. Call him by name, strike a bargain with him."

"Bargain?"

"Yes, tell him he'll be granted eternal peace when he releases Brent and Charlie."

Frank shook his head. "Whether dealing with human or spirit, I've learned things backfire when you don't follow through on deals you strike. Could get ugly."

"It's not in my nature to deceive anyone, not even a misguided spirit," she insisted. "Persuade him to meet us here tonight so we might bring those boys home."

"Us? I can't agree to put you in harm's way, Sister—"

Frank's new ally flashed a mischievous grin. "The Sisters of Ursula were placed in harm's way long before landing in New Orleans in 1727," she interjected. "They survived pirate attacks during the journey and the ravages of disease aboard ship. After arriving, they established schools, orphanages, hospitals, and triumphed over cyclonic fires and vast famine. We are a hardy Order, Frank; more than equipped to deal with a restless spirit. Besides, with God, all—"

"—things are possible."

She squared her narrow shoulders and issued a firm nod.

Damn, the wisp of a woman had grit. "I'll attempt to make contact with our ghost when we return to the hotel. If I'm successful in convincing Doucet to meet us here, I'll be in touch."

"Good, it's settled then. Rand has my phone number." She looked in the direction of the entrance. "My driver will be happy to drop you at the Provincial."

Frank shook his head. "Thanks, Sister, but we'll hoof it back; need some fresh air."

With a final smile at Rand, Sister Francoise marched off with a wave to her driver, an indication she'd finished her task at the cemetery.

Frank heard the engine come to life and looked at Rand. "Who do you suppose chauffeurs her around?"

"She said she never learned to drive. By the time she wanted to, figured she was too old. I think she introduced him as the maintenance man for the building."

"Our Sister Francoise is quite the interesting character." Frank watched the vehicle until it pulled from the curb. "Let's go. Sounds like I have some work to do."