Chapter Seven

"I'm not leaving!" With his arms in the air, his face flushed, Rand faced off with Frank in the room. "I seem to remember another time we had this conversation!"

"That was different. At the time we were dealing with a real-life criminal, not a powerful specter from another world."

"Yeah, a killer with a .357 Magnum!"

"Rand, I knew my capabilities then. Billy had entered my world and leveled the playing field, but here, I'm out of my element. After what happened last night, Valmont would like nothing better than to use you to his advantage."

Rand kicked the leg of the upended desk at his feet. "My answer is the same now; you send me away, I might not—"

"Goddamn it, do what you have to do." When a look of incredulity crossed his features, Frank wanted to retract the words. Softer now, he added, "I'm not shutting you out. It's for your own good."

"You know what your problem is? You think you're an island. It's Frank McGuire against the whole fucking world."

"As long as I've been drawing breath it has been." He didn't have time for this bullshit with Rand right now. If he didn't understand Frank's motivation to protect him, he must be denser than moss. "If you can't live with that, do something about it, but quit threatening me."

Rand set his jaw, his nostrils flaring. "Where's my ticket back to Baltimore?"

"In my travel bag," Frank said his voice weary. "This isn't the way to handle this, you know." Without responding, Rand dug through the leather bag, opened the tickets and shoved one into the pocket of his shirt. "One night, that's all I ask. Go out on the town, see New Orleans and have a great time."

Rand opened the dresser drawer, and using both hands, shoved his clothing into his shoulder bag. Reaching the door of the room, he turned to Frank. "If I wanted to see New Orleans alone, I would have booked my own ticket."

Frank's gut clenched. He wanted to ask him to stay, but couldn't. When the door slammed in his face, Frank had an unmistakable urge to yank it open and call him back. Instead, he righted the wingback and fell into it with the numb realization he'd saved Rand and lost him in the span of ten minutes.

* * *

Frank doused the light in the room, locked the door and forced his tense body to relax. Willing his body into a meditative state, he attributed his slow connection to the screen to a number of factors—his fight with Rand, overriding doubt of success and bone-chilling fear.

After several attempts, the monitor floated behind his closed eyes. As in all prior instances, he didn't try to decipher the patterns, but rather allowed his mind to drift, keeping the maze of colorful patterns at the forefront. Rewarded long moments later when his sixth chakra opened, Frank slipped into a higher level of consciousness and willed his body to enter a boneless state. He knew he'd reached Valmont when the sound of a chair scraping across wooden planks filtered into his brain.

The image flared, faded and then returned before a deep, resonant voice blared like a megaphone in the room. "You bore witness to my violated resting place."

Frank collected his courage. "Yes, Valmont, I saw the broken headstone." For the first time Frank saw not only the man's beard, but every feature of his face—strong jaw, brown eyes and hair the color of wheat.

Valmont leaned forward and tapped the bayonet on the floor. "Was all I had left, a white stone marking my time on earth."

"A stupid, reckless undertaking without thought to their actions."

"You're dead," they said. "You're dead and must accept your fate."

"They're children, Valmont, didn't mean it; didn't understand the repercussions from such a deed."

"Now they bear witness to their lies. They see with their own eyes that I'm not-not dead."

Frank paused and wondered from what angle he should approach the subject. If he said, 'Yes, you are dead,' the session could be over before it began. "You fought bravely in the Battle of New Orleans, but you surrendered your life raising the Confederate flag that day."

Pride and sorrow meshed and rang in his voice. "24 April 1862."

"Yes, Valmont, you died that day, courageously. Now I'm asking you to perform another act of courage."

With narrowed eyes, Doucet shook his head. "Like me, they walk the halls of oblivion now because of their actions, their words. 'Get out', they said. 'Get out of New Orleans and accept your fate.'"

Frank expelled a rush of air as a mental image of what happened that night took shape in his mind. "You were twenty-two when you made the choice, you knew the risk. Brent and Charlie are only fourteen, weren't told of the consequences beforehand." Frank lowered his tone, his voice a whisper across the great expanse of time and space. "They made a terrible mistake."

"It's a cold, dark and lonely place."

Frank's hope rose. At least Doucet hadn't shut him down outright. He jumped in with both feet. "I've seen this cold, dark place you speak of, see it again now, but I know of a way for you to leave the desolate halls you wander."

Valmont arched his neck back. "You mean to trick me?"

"No trick. You return the boys and you'll be granted everlasting peace; I swear."

A strangled growl filled the hotel room. "You have one chance, and only one to convince me."

"I'll take it." Frank held his breath. "Do you remember the Ursuline nuns? They tended wounded soldiers, administered last rights at their convent."

"They saw to my wounds, wiped my fevered brow." He looked at the floor. "They too are all gone now."

"Not all," Frank said. "Sister Francoise Genevieve of the Ursuline order has given her word; you relinquish the boys and she'll personally commend your soul to God."

His voice died out. "One chance."

"Wait! Meet me tonight at your grave, but I need to see Brent and Charlie first."

Growing fainter, Valmont's words scattered like morning mist. "You gave your word and I have given mine."

* * *

Suffocating on his anger, Rand passed the desk and charged through the front door of the hotel. When would Frank stop treating him like a milk-livered Sally? The thick-skulled jackass had pushed his back to the wall again, and this time he couldn't back down.

In the back of his mind he'd worried about lines blurring once he became Frank's partner. Would the man waffle when the heat came down and don his shining armor to protect him or would he handle things with his usual fearless composure? Rand would worry no more. Frank had unequivocally drawn the line. He could hang around when things were cool, but had to hit the road when the shit hit the fan.

After kicking the cement at his feet, he drew an imaginary line with the toe of his tennis shoe. "I can map out boundaries too, prick. See this, McGuire, you just fucking crossed my line." He turned, looked toward the window of their room and shouted, "I'm not a dog you rescued from the shelter that wags its fucking tail every time you speak."

Lost in black thoughts, Rand almost missed the three short beeps and frantic hand-waving out the car window. "Hey, buddy, over here!"

Rand walked toward the idling vehicle. He didn't know the man slouched down in the passenger seat, but peered through the window and recognized Martin, the desk clerk from the Provincial.

"Rand, not leaving New Orleans before you've seen the sights, are you pal?"

"Seen enough; I'm catching a flight back to Baltimore in about an hour."

"Ah, sorry to hear that. Ringo and I are headed that way. Let me give you a lift."

Rand looked down the street and frowned. Not a taxi in sight. "I don't want to impose."

"No bother, get in."

Before he had a chance to grab the door handle, Ringo popped out of the front seat and into the back.

"Come on, the airport is just down the road," Martin said.

Rand pushed the bag off his shoulder, set it between him and Martin and climbed in. With his anger abating, his thoughts drifted to his fight with Frank.

In his heart he knew the man had acted out of a need to protect him, but he couldn't live with his I-don't-need-anyone attitude. If McGuire wanted him in his life, it had to be for reasons other than lust and sexual need. Panic washed over him. What if Frank didn't want him in his life anymore?

For a split second he wanted to tell Martin to turn the car around and head back toward the Provincial, but stubbornness won out. He had to get on that plane, had to prove to Frank once and for all he wasn't a damn piece of furniture he could move around whenever it suited him.

"What's up?" Rand asked. "You said the airport was close to the hotel. What are we doing in the suburbs?"

He heard the familiar click of a gun before he felt the cold steel at the back of his neck. "Why don't you just relax, pretty boy." The cold-blooded tone in Ringo's voice set off alarm bells in his head. "We'll let you know when we arrive at our destination."

"Martin, what the hell are you up to?"

"If I were you, faggot, I'd keep my mouth shut. Ringo's got an itchy trigger finger and no telling when that snub-nose might go off."

Rand sneaked his hand around the door handle and thought about his options. The tires just swallowed the last block of suburbia and nothing but a row of abandoned warehouses came into view.

A dilapidated street sign flashed for a brief moment, Industrial Park. Might have been industrial at one time, but the buildings had seen better days decades ago. Whatever Martin and his bone-headed sidekick had in mind didn't bode well for him.

"I wouldn't try for that door. Ringo will drop you before your shoulder clears."

"What the hell do you want?" Rand struggled to keep his voice calm. "If you're looking for money, I got some bad news for you."

From the back seat, Ringo's laughter rang out. "Money?"

The car veered left and came to a halt at the back entrance of a brick structure, its metal door partially ripped from the hinges.

Desolate. Deserted. Not a soul in sight.

Rand heard the back door of the car open simultaneously with Martin's.

"Get out," Ringo said. "Oh, you won't be needing that shoulder bag anymore." Just like in the movies, Rand's life flashed before him as he exited the vehicle and waited for their next move. Martin led the way into a warehouse that looked like it served as a shelter for homeless people now. Not surprising after Katrina's destruction several years ago.

An odious stench permeated the empty room, rancid food, and the rank smell of humans who hadn't benefited from a shower in ages. Empty pallets lined the walls, with more scattered throughout. Vandals had been at play here.

Daylight streamed through a narrow block of smashed windows and sections of wooden floor planks had been ripped out, no doubt burned to provide heat. Several mattresses, thin and flea-infested, sat in one corner of the room, more evidence transients had passed through at some time. A leaky roof with stains bigger than mud puddles caught his gaze when he looked up. Right now, the room emanated heat like a furnace, but it could be the result of fear wracking his body.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through Rand's blood and his palms broke out in a cold sweat when Martin snatched an electrical cord from the floor and took up a position behind him. His shoulders groaned in pain when his wrists were bound and his body dragged backwards toward a cement pillar.

"This should do," Martin said.

Ringo set the gun on the floor and advanced, his heinous grin preceding the blow he delivered to his face. At the last second, Rand instinctively turned his head and took a closed fist to the cheek. Pain shot into his brain and for a minute his world spun.

"Cock-sucking faggot." Martin's words wound through his dazed mind. So that's what this was about? "Where's your hard-ass lover now?"

Rand dragged his chin around and looked Martin in the eye. "I don't need a hard-ass against pussies like you." His knee jerked upward and out and caught Martin's groin head-on. He tumbled to the floor, clutched his balls and groaned like a sick calf.

Ringo charged like an enraged ball, pummeling his face with both fists. Bones cracked and warm, salty blood poured from his nose and trickled into his mouth. Rand fought to remain conscious against the enveloping darkness. They meant to kill him, he knew that now, wouldn't dare to leave a witness.

Through a mind-numbing fog, he saw Martin clamber to his feet. He limped toward him, his contorted face a mask of hate. "No one will ever find you, and if they do it'll be too late you sorry piece of shit."

Garbled words fell from Rand's mouth. "Maybe not, but make no mistake McGuire will find you."

A rib snapped and the breath flew from his lungs after a series of punches to his torso. He prayed he'd lapse into unconsciousness . . . or die soon. Black lights converged and a gurgling rasp spewed from his chest. Choking, he was choking on his own blood.

A white beacon swept over the room. Ah, the angels had come at last. Through one eye he watched an expression of shock cross Ringo's face, and Martin's raised fist stopped in mid-air. Naked fear passed through the man's eyes as he focused on an unknown entity over Rand's shoulder.

Feet shuffled and then the sound of panicked screams running from the building echoed around Rand. He felt a presence, unknown, vague and compassionate. "Too late, but thank you for coming," his swollen lips ground out. "Sorry, Frank," he whispered and felt his chin fall to his chest.