The Dead Room (10 page)

She found the first bone. A breastbone. They both stopped and looked at each other.

“Let's go a little farther,” he whispered.

She nodded. They went back to work, meticulously, slowly. Her back ached, but she scarcely noticed the discomfort. Minutes passed. Eventually they revealed the skeletal remains of a woman. Bits and pieces of fabric had also survived the ravages of time and the worms of the grave. And a cross. A simple gold cross. Very tiny, a poor woman's treasure.

About to get up and summon the others, Leslie realized that they were already surrounded. Silently, and one by one, about twenty people, including Professor Laymon, Robert Adair and Hank Smith, had circled carefully around their position.

“Um, well, it's definitely a graveyard,” Leslie said.

“We knew there was a church here. It's a churchyard. There will be lots of graves, and, with luck, they'll reveal volumes of new understanding about the area,” Professor Laymon said, pleased.

Leslie wondered if Hank Smith felt happy. He shouldn't. This would put his project on hold for some time.

But Hank Smith was smooth, a man who had apparently learned never to give his true emotions away. His face revealed absolutely nothing of whatever he was feeling.

Laymon, however, looked as if he were about to have an orgasm.

“Oh. My. God,” he breathed. He sounded like a Valley girl, Leslie thought with a smile. “All right, we'll need to get the photographers over here…and the news crews.” He frowned. He didn't want anyone trampling on what he now considered to be
his
territory, but they could always use the publicity, and, anyway, there was no way
not
to allow the press at least some access, especially since it was the good PR that kept the developers happy. “Sergeant Adair, will you post a guard, please? And when we bring her up, I want her
in situ
…the dirt around her
and
beneath her.”

Laymon definitely looked as if he belonged in a laboratory somewhere—or filming a mad scientist movie—Leslie thought. He was in a smudged white lab coat, his glasses were sitting halfway down his nose, and his hair was dusty and sticking out at odd angles. She smiled. The man certainly got into his work.

Hank Smith reached down to help her up the little incline from where she'd been digging. She hesitated, worrying about leaving Mary's mother alone.

“Leslie, come on up. I promise, you'll get to oversee as soon as the photographers are done,” Laymon said.

She grinned at Hank Smith and accepted his hand, then found herself apologizing. He was wearing a suit that appeared to be the most haute of designer apparel, even if it had been designed for business. He looked like a million bucks in it. “I'm going to ruin your clothing. I'm a mess.”

“You're a beautiful mess,” he said politely, and grinned. “In fact, you can mess me up any time you like.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, unsure just how to take his words.

Brad had stepped up on his own; others were milling closer.

Leslie noted that Robert Adair had walked off. She frowned, trying to see where he had gotten to.

“Smile,” Hank whispered to her, drawing her close. A reporter had arrived. Leslie found herself standing between Hank and Laymon, and the men slipped their arms around her quickly. A flash went off.

Great.

“Hey, Miss MacIntyre, you're getting famous for finding bones,” a slender young newswoman called to her. “How did you find this lady?”

“The site was found for me,” she returned.

“Want to escape?” Hank Smith whispered to her.

“Yes,” she said. “Brad and Laymon can handle this.”

“Miss MacIntyre—”

“Talk to my partner, please, I've got to get…uh…”

“Come on. There's a trailer right over there,” Hank said. He waved a hand to the reporter. “Excuse us, please.”

He led her firmly away from the crowd, maneuvering with a surprising expertise through the stakes and ropes that then divided the site until they reached the trailer, parked near the street. It had been put there originally for the convenience of the building crew, she realized as he ushered her in.

The trailer was light and bright, offering a work station, kitchenette and table. “Take a seat, relax. I can get you water, soda, iced tea. Even wine, beer…”

“Iced tea sounds really great.”

He offered her a bottle and took one for himself, then crossed the trailer to open the plain cotton drapes. “I guess they'll be there for a bit.” He let the drape fall. “Well.” He sat across from her at the work station. “You really do have a nose for homing in on the past, don't you?”

“Seriously, the site was there. And all those other sections of the grid? We'll find more, believe me. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, as they say.”

“Sounds like you happen to be in the right place at the right time a lot,” he said pleasantly. Then he hesitated. “I'm sorry, you were in the hospital a long time, not in the right place at all the night that…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you remember.”

“It's all right. I never really forget.”

“Hey, I'd love to hear about Virginia sometime.”

“It's a great state.”

“And you made a great find there.”

“It was pretty exciting,” she admitted.

“An old churchyard…and here you are, proving there's another old churchyard right here. I'd love to hear more about how you do it sometime. Maybe you'll go to lunch with me one day.”

She started to protest, but he lifted a hand. “Look, you're a bright and, let's face it, gorgeous woman, but I know you're not interested in dating. So I'm not asking you on a date. I'd just like to buy you lunch one of these days.”

She nodded. “Yes, then. Someday you can take me to lunch.”

“Since you won't date, maybe you can teach me more about figuring out women,” he said, shaking his head in dramatic bewilderment.

“Hank, you're rich, important and a handsome guy,” she said dryly. “I'm sure your life is full of women.”

“Yes, full, but…which one is the right one?”

“I'm not sure I can help you with that. Hey, are you upset that we made the find? This has to be costing you, I know.”

He shook his head. “Honestly, we can spin this so that every state in the union wants to see our bids when they have a project coming up. Some people get testy when a building is put on hold. I may think, ‘Damn, how did we pick another blankety-blank historic site?' for a few minutes, but then I move on. The world is what it is. And yes, it runs on money, so I like money. But perception is important, and creating the perception that we're humanitarians, conservationists, is good business.”

“Well, here's to your excellent spin-doctoring and perception, then. Cheers,” she said, lifting her bottle of tea to his.

“Cheers. Though this should be champagne,” he said.

“To tell you the truth, I like the taste of tea much better,” she said.

“Are you a total teetotaler?” he asked with mock horror.

“Not at all. Just give me a good beer and a slice of pizza any day,” she said.

“A down-home girl, huh?”

Hank was nice, she thought, but things were beginning to feel a little bit too chummy.

She rose and walked over to the window, looking out. She could see Robert Adair standing out on the sidewalk, on the other side of the fence, talking earnestly to a tall, light-haired man. Her heart began to thud. Tall and light-haired—like Matt. His head was bowed in concentration, as Matt's had so often been. He looked up. Matt's features. Not…

He said something to Robert, thanking him, she thought. Then he turned away.

“Hey!” she cried.

“What is it?” Hank demanded.

“That man…Excuse me, Hank, but I have to get to Robert….” The trailer was narrow; she almost stumbled over him in her haste to get away.

“Leslie—”

“Thanks!” she called over her shoulder. “See you later.”

She streaked across the site, avoiding the ropes and stakes of the grid out of habit. She headed straight for the fence.

But Robert was gone.

And the other man was gone, too.

As if he had never been.

As if he were…

A ghost.

T
hat night, he came to her at last, but not as she could ever have expected.

It was late when she left the dig. Her hasty exit from the trailer had exposed her to the reporters again, and there had been more pictures to be taken. This time she posed with Brad. Inevitably, there had been questions about the events of last year, and even some unexpected concern about her health. She was grateful to realize, during the course of the questioning, that no one had mentioned that she had chosen to stay at Hastings House, so she was spared any inquiries on that score. Still, the whole thing seemed to take forever, and she was longing for a shower and solitude. She realized, however, that she had been given an opportunity to remind everyone that this had been a graveyard and the remains found here deserved to be treated with respect and consideration. “I'm hoping we can put some families back together again,” she was able to say.

Finally it was over.

Laymon had ordered pizzas for everyone who wanted to stay, so, still dirty and very tired, they crowded into the trailer, ate and called it a day.

“I'll walk you home,” Brad told her.

“I live down the block,” she reminded him.

“I know. I'll walk you.”

“I'm a New Yorker and can take care of myself,” she reminded him.

He looked straight ahead. “I don't know. Matt always called you a rebel.”

“You remember that?”

“Sure. But I want to walk you home just because…well, I don't care how street-smart you are. I'll see you in, and then I can stand on the curb and pray for a cab or just wander over to Broadway and get one. And thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“You tossed all the press attention in my direction again.”

“We're partners.”

“Yeah, but you're the one who always knows where to dig. Anyway, the limelight finds you no matter what. The reporters love you. You're young and gorgeous, and you dig up the dead. That kind of thing fascinates people.”

“I don't dig up the dead, I dig up history,” she said.

He shrugged.

“And besides, you're young and gorgeous, too.”

“Thanks for noticing,” he told her, laughing.

She laughed, too, and they walked arm in arm to the house.

He saw her to the door and left her. The moment he was gone, she dialed Robert's number.

“Are you all right?” he asked immediately.

“I'm fine.”

“Good. You home? Or at Hastings House, I mean.”

“Yup.”

“It was a zoo out there today. A good zoo, though.”

“Sure. I guess. So…what's up?”

“Um…Robert…” She hesitated, trying to sound light. “You haven't started seeing ghosts, have you?”

“What?” He sounded astonished—and then worried again. “Leslie, what are you talking about?”

“Who was that man?”

“What man?”

“The one you were talking to.”

“Leslie, I talked to dozens of men today.”

“This afternoon. Out on the sidewalk near the site.”

Did he hesitate for just a second? Was she imagining that he sounded suspicious when he answered?

“I think you know most of the people I talked to today. Hank, Dryer…maybe you saw me talking to him? Let's see, I talked with Brad a couple of times, with Laymon…a really cute grad student—but she was no man. Hmm. A not-so-cute grad student, some other cops, a P.I., a nosy businessman…a guy driving a double-parked limo….”

“Okay, sorry. Never mind,” Leslie said.

“You sure you're all right?”

“I'm great. Actually, I'm tired and filthy, but at least I'm not hungry—we had pizza. I'm sorry I bothered you, Robert. I'm going to clean up and go to bed. But enough about me. How are you doing?”

“I'm great. No, no, I'm not,” he said, and she could hear the rueful humor in his voice. “Half the time I'm so frustrated I could scream, but then again, I'm an old cop, and I'm accustomed to that feeling. I'll tell you what. When I take you to dinner, I'll pour my heart out, how's that?”

“Sounds fine,” she assured him.

“Good night, then. You call me if you need me. And ask me anything. Anytime.”

“You're a doll. And you know I will. Thank you.”

She clicked off, then stood in the entryway and looked around. The house was so quiet it seemed almost unnatural.

“Someone has to be here,” she said aloud. But if they were, apparently they had no intention of showing themselves to her.

She went upstairs and showered. Afterward, drying her hair, she turned on the television. She'd no idea it had gotten quite so late, but the ten o'clock news was on. She got to see herself, Brad, Laymon, a few of the excited grad students and Dryer, who announced that the police were excited by the discovery, like everyone else, and that there would be a large police presence in the area. New York would be preserved for New Yorkers. The city wouldn't stand for vandalism or interference.

At last, with the television on, she fell asleep.

And that was when he came to her.

In dreams.

She slept, and he was there.

She knew that she dreamed, but the dreaming was sweet and real. She felt his presence as he spooned his body around her, just as they had so often slept when he was alive. His arms were around her, and she could feel the soft seduction of his breath against her nape. She smiled. “I knew that you would come. But—”

“Shh,” he said softly.

He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, caressed the length of her back, stroked soothingly along her spine.

She turned into his arms, felt his kiss. Hungry, erotic, just as it had always been when they were apart for any length of time. A kiss that spoke volumes. Strong and powerful, liquid and ardent. His embrace was strong, reassuring, somehow gentle, like the power of his passion, and she slid into that embrace as if they had never been apart. She returned his kiss with the love that had lain dormant in the painful corridors of her heart ever since…

But she knew she was only dreaming.

She broke the kiss, lips moving the slightest distance away.

“I love you so much,” he whispered.

“Why won't you come to me? Speak to me? Why has it taken you so long? Why can I only dream about you?” she whispered. “I see so many others….”

“But I'm not like any of the others,” he told her, and he smiled, that rakish, rueful smile. He was such a combination of assurance and humility.

“Matt…”

“Shh…”

And then his lips were against hers once again. So loving, so passionate.

As their lips locked, their hands bumped as they drew her nightgown over her head, both of them working to get the garment out of the way. And then she was against him, flesh against flesh, and he was warm and vital, hard muscle and taut sinew, his heartbeat thundering in rhythm with her own. She let her fingers play over his shoulders, slide down his back, clasp his buttocks. In turn, he drew her even closer, fitting her body to his own. It seemed as if they kissed forever, lips locked, bodies straining to be ever closer, as if they could crawl inside each other. She touched him…and touched him….

It was sweet and aching and poignant.

And it was a dream….

At last he pulled away, an apparition in her mind, but one that seemed so real. She met his eyes for a moment, the deep, dark, dazzling blue eyes that had so teased and loved her throughout most of her life. “Rebel,” he breathed. “Damn, I've missed you.”

She stroked a strand of hair away from his eyes.

“There really is no life without you,” she murmured.

He shook his head. “Yes, there is. There has to be,” he told her. And then his lips curved into that smile that always took her breath away. “But not tonight.”

And then he began to make love to her, his lips caressing her flesh, tender, provocative. His fingertips danced along her arms, her collarbone, her breasts. Delicate kisses followed, growing more forceful, teasing…the stroke of his tongue, the brush of his teeth, his lips…barely there, so that she strained toward him in search of sensation.

He moved against her, her wraith of the night, his flesh and vitality eliciting her own growing arousal. As intimate as he had always been, his kisses found her abdomen, the brush of his hair teasing her midriff. His hands moved down her inner thighs, spreading them wide as he lowered his head, leaving a whisper of sweet wet fire everywhere his mouth fell. She felt the spiraling ache of longing grow until it approached madness, and she strained against him, whispered his name, threaded her fingers through his hair. He made love to her with the hot wired tension of his body and the searing caress of his lips and tongue, until she was writhing and whispering and finally all but sobbing his name.

And then he rose above her again before driving into her with the passion she had never forgotten.

Her arms were locked around him, her hips rocking with his. His hands cradled her buttocks, pulling her against him, until it seemed they really had become one. She arched, quivered, her heart thundering as she strove to get even closer to him, soaring on a cloud of dreams and ecstasy. His mouth found hers again, melding against it just as she melded into him. He stroked and drove deeper, until the fire seemed to consume her. She wanted it go on forever, wanted to reach the promised climax, to know that shattering moment of completion once again….

Finally it came. She cried out his name, shuddering as the world seemed to explode around her, within her. And she felt him,
felt him,
as he tensed, frame hard as steel, haunches taut and straining. She
heard
the hoarse cry that fell from his lips, felt him as he fell against her, drawing her fully into his arms once again, holding her.

“Matt?”

“Shh.”

“But, Matt…”

His arms were still around her. His fingers smoothed back the dampness of her hair. “Sleep,” he whispered. “Dream.”

And there in his arms, she did.

 

In the morning, of course, she woke alone.

But the dream was fresh in her mind.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe dreams were better than nothing, than the loss, the ache of loneliness, that never seemed to leave her.

Or maybe, as Brad had told her, she needed to come to terms with the past, to get on with her life.

She rose, showered and dressed for a day in the trenches in jeans, a blue denim shirt and sneakers. They were on to a treasure. But even the excitement of discovery seemed to lie dormant in her heart compared to the dream, which, she had to admit, had shaken her badly.

Downstairs, she was greeted by humming. Cheerful humming.
Perky,
cheerful humming. When she entered the kitchen, she got her first glance of Melissa Turner. The young woman was busy at the coffeepot. She had short brown hair and was a little on the stout side, comfortably dressed in serviceable deck shoes, a calf-length skirt and a white blouse. The tune she was humming was “Yankee Doodle.”

She'd been running the water for the coffee, which was probably why she hadn't heard Leslie come down. When she turned, she jumped and screamed dramatically, staring with wide brown eyes at Leslie.

“I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you,” Leslie said.

“Startle me? You scared me out of ten years of life,” Melissa replied. She had a death grip on the coffee urn. Probably a good thing. It might have crashed to the floor otherwise.

“But you're not a ghost,” Melissa said, still staring.

Leslie shook her head, half smiling, half frowning. “No, I'm Leslie MacIntyre. Didn't they tell you? I'm staying here while I work on the new dig site. You were expecting a ghost?”

“No, they told me. I just forgot. And, well, I think this place
has
to be haunted.”

“I see,” Leslie murmured.

“Oh, Lord, I'm
so
sorry,” Melissa said awkwardly. “I meant…ghosts from the Revolutionary War. The gang wars. Old ghosts.”

“It's all right,” Leslie said. Melissa was trying so hard and seemed so earnest that she almost laughed aloud. “It's a very historic house.”

“Incredibly historic,” Melissa agreed. “And you—you're an archaeologist,” Melissa said, her tone filled with reverence.

“Yes. You'll see lots of them around here.”

“Not of your caliber.”

“I've had some luck,” Leslie admitted.

“Luck? You're a mile above the rest.”

“I've just had a few more years at it than some, that's all.”