Crossroads Shadowland (8 page)

"Tell me while it' 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 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," he said his voice softening.
"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
present, 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, the only clues a tennis shoe and a flashlight left
in a cemetery. Anyone
could have grabbed
those young men, taken them anywhere, even out of the
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. 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 interjected. "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."