Ghosts of the Past

by Cate Dean

  “No. Just come with me.”

  “Done.”

  She climbed out of the van and ran to the first tent. It was empty. Heart pounding, she waited for Spencer to join her, and they headed to the next tent. Empty.

  Light filtered under the front flap of the largest tent. Maggie sprinted toward it, halting at the entry. Spencer took her hand, squeezed it, nodding at her. She let out a shaky breath and pushed through the flap.

  It was empty—but this tent showed signs of a struggle. She searched for blood, relief threatening to buckle her knees when she didn’t find any.

  “Maggie.” Spencer’s voice floated in, and he didn’t sound good. “There’s blood out here.”

  “No,” she whispered. She ran outside, and halted when she saw what she had missed on her way in. Blood soaked the grass, enough that she knew Martin probably hadn’t been able to fight back. “Where would Geoffrey take him?”

  “To the museum.” Spencer reached out to close his hand over her shoulder. “The seal box is there—and if this bastard threatened you, the Professor would have told him without hesitating.”

  “We have to go, before he—” She cut herself off, her voice breaking.

  Spencer grabbed her hand and sprinted to his van. “Get in, sweetheart. We’ll find him, all right?” He took long enough to cup her chin, his blue eyes determined. “We’ll find him.”

  She nodded, and climbed into the van after he let her go. He was already revving the engine by the time she finished buckling in. They roared down the dirt road, Spencer swerving on to the paved road so fast, she braced herself against the window.

  Once she was sure the right side tires would stay on the road, she wiped her eyes, then dug out her mobile and called DI Chamberlain.

  “Mrs. Martin, what is it?”

  “Martin isn’t at the site. We think Geoffrey took him to Holmestead, to the museum. Can you—”

  “I am already on my way. Are you acquainted with the local authorities?”

  She almost smiled. “I am. I’ll call him, make sure he knows you’re coming. His name is Ian Reynolds.”

  “I believe we have met. Good man. Stay out of the museum, Mrs. Martin, until one of us arrives.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mrs. Mar—”

  She ended the call before he could drag a promise out of her.

  “Maggie—you need to ring Ian.”

  “I will—once we get there.”

  “But—”

  “You didn’t see Geoffrey, Spencer. He was desperate—desperate enough to hurt Martin if he feels like he’s been cornered.”

  “You’re going to let him have the box.”

  “If that’s what it takes, yes.” She glanced over at him. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Not me, but Martin may have something to say about it.”

  “I’ll deal with his objections after he’s safe.”

  “Mags?” He sounded so worried she turned to face him.

  “What is it?”

  “Please give me a warning if I ever get even close to making you this angry.”

  She surprised both of them by laughing. “I’m glad you’re here, Spence. And you won’t ever have to worry—I’ll smack the closest body part long before you reach that point.”

  “Right. Good.” He made a hard left, straightened the van before he held out his hand. “He’ll be all right. You know the Professor—clever even under pressure.”

  Maggie squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”

  She just hoped they got to him before he had to be clever.

  Sixteen

  Martin did not remember much of the ride back to Holmestead. He spent the majority of it fighting to stay conscious.

  The car jerked to a stop, sending fresh pain through his side. He gripped the edge of the seat, waited for Geoffrey to haul him out.

  Geoffrey opened the passenger door and leaned in, unbuckling him. “The box had best be here, Pembroke. My patience has about run out.”

  Before Martin had the chance to brace himself, Geoffrey pulled him out of the car. His right leg refused to work; with a curse, Geoffrey draped Martin’s left arm across his shoulders and half carried him to the back door of the museum.

  “Code,” Martin whispered. He knew Geoffrey would be demanding it as soon as he spotted the keypad. “8428.”

  “Smart of you to cooperate, Pembroke. Keep doing so, and this will go well for both of us.”

  Geoffrey punched in the code, smiling when the door opened. He dragged Martin inside, then headed into the huge loading dock.

  “Which way? I want the most direct, or you will pay for any delay you cause.”

  “Door, just ahead of you.” Martin closed his eyes for a moment, pain threatening to overwhelm him. "A lift, to the fourth floor. The box—in the safe, admin office.”

  “Are you fading on me, Pembroke?” Geoffrey strode forward, tightening his grip on Martin. “I expected you to have more stamina. Such a disappointment.”

  They reached Brent Newcombe’s office, Martin not surprised that the door was locked. Newcombe kept quite a few valuable antiques in his office, from his personal collection—along with the safe that housed important and priceless items.

  Geoffrey surprised Martin by producing a lock pick kit, making short work of the lock. Once inside, he propped Martin in the chair behind the desk. “Where is the safe?”

  Martin closed his eyes, lightheaded, and applied more pressure to the wound in his side. Too much blood loss. When Geoffrey shook him, he lifted his head, remembering the question.

  “Wood panel, behind the chair.” He watched Geoffrey thumb the button next to the panel, spoke again before he could ask. “The combination is 8252398.” Unfortunately, he knew it, since the seal box belonged to him—for the moment—and because Newcombe trusted him with the combination.

  Martin wished he had not been so trusting.

  A triumphant sound drew his attention back to Geoffrey. He held up the box, the brocade that had protected it fluttering to the floor.

  “Mine,” he whispered. “At last, it is mine.” As if he had just remembered that Martin was in the room, he reached out with his left hand and grabbed the front of Martin’s jacket, flinching at the movement. Martin watched him, noting the stiffness in his left shoulder, and knew he had been the masked figure in the gardens. “Time to finish what I started.”

  Before Martin had the chance to think of a protest, Geoffrey hauled him up and dragged him out of the office. As they headed back down in the lift, Martin had an idea of their destination. He wasn’t disappointed when Geoffrey turned away from the door to the loading dock, heading down the hallway. Toward the storage rooms.

  “Every museum is the same,” Geoffrey said. “I believe it is poetic that you will die among the antiques that gave you your fame, however unwarranted.”

  His words shot adrenaline through Martin.

  He knew he wouldn’t get far, but he refused to give up without fighting.

  With a pained grunt, he shoved Geoffrey at the wall, cringing when Geoffrey lost his grip on the seal box.

  “No!” Geoffrey lunged for the box, giving Martin precious time to brace himself against the opposite wall and head to the freedom of the loading dock.

  He didn’t get far.

  One hand closed over his arm and yanked him off his feet. Martin hit the floor, landing on his left side. Geoffrey followed him down, the knife in his hand.

  “Geoffrey—please—”

  “I am taking no chances this time, Pembroke.”

  Martin screamed when Geoffrey drove the knife into his right thigh.

  Fiery pain scorched his leg, stole his breath. He was barely aware of being dragged down the hall, over a threshold, into a dimly lit, enclosed space. When he forced his eyes open, he recognized one of the smaller storage rooms.

  “No one will find you here,” Geoffrey said, his voice smug. “Not after I clean the blood you left behind.” He stood over Martin, clut
ching the seal box. “If you had been more agreeable, Pembroke, willing to step out of the spotlight for one bloody moment, none of this would have been necessary.”

  “I never—” Martin fought past the pain, the darkness edging his vision. “I would have been happy—to step aside.”

  “Liar! I saw you, angling for all the attention. The recognition. The credit.”

  “Geoffrey—please—we can—”

  “It is too late. I tried,” he let go of Martin and stood, pacing in front of the door. “I tried to get rid of you, several times. Did you think Ken finding you in this backward village was an accident?” He ran one hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “The fool was supposed to take care of you, but he had an agenda I was not aware of, and you managed to survive.”

  Martin stared at him, the words sinking in. “You sent—Ken after me?”

  “It was easy enough, since you had all but destroyed his chance at a career by expelling him.”

  Ken had earned it after stealing from Martin, but he thought it had been simple revenge behind the elaborate plan. Geoffrey’s voice jerked him back to the moment.

  “Did you really believe the equipment left in your path was an accident? Or that the rung you broke on the ladder was actually defective?” He pulled at his hair until it stood on end. “This last effort to discredit you, perhaps land you in prison long enough to tarnish your reputation, should have worked.”

  Sandra—God in heaven, Geoffrey had been the one to assault Sandra.

  “You didn’t—need to—we could have sorted this.”

  “Bow before the high and mighty Pembroke Martin and beg for some of the credit that should by all rights be mine?” He snarled, his fists clenched. “There should have been no question, no doubt. Damn you, it should have been mine!”

  Martin only had enough warning to brace himself before Geoffrey stomped on his leg.

  Agony roared through him. He clutched the floor, used the last of his strength to stay conscious. He nearly lost the battle when Geoffrey lashed out at him again and he felt bone snap.

  Martin fought past the searing pain, and opened his eyes. Geoffrey leaned over him, rifling through his pockets. Martin understood why when Geoffrey held up his mobile, a triumphant smile on his face.

  “Wouldn’t want you calling in the troops, eh?” He slid the mobile in his jacket, then pulled off Martin’s glasses. Martin flinched when he dropped them to the floor and crushed them under his heel. “You have been a thorn in my side for years, Pembroke. Now, I can finally pluck you out.”

  Martin swallowed, hot pain shooting down his leg when Geoffrey bumped it. He must have made a sound, because Geoffrey glanced at him.

  He bent over, whispering next to Martin’s ear. “I win, Pembroke. Now that I have the box, the accolades will be mine, the credit will be mine. I win.”

  “Geoff—”

  “Goodbye, Pembroke. I doubt we will meet again.”

  He closed the door, and Martin closed his eyes when he heard the lock click over.

  Without the distraction of his presence, the agony in Martin’s leg threatened to consume him.

  He fought through it, slowly shifting until he was able to lever up on one elbow. That movement left him lightheaded, but he kept going. If he didn’t at least tie off his leg, he may very well bleed out before anyone found him.

  Endless minutes later, he freed the scarf wrapped around his neck. Black dots swam in his vision, and he closed his eyes, forcing himself to take slow, even breaths. He had been injured before; but not this badly, and he had never been alone, without a way to communicate.

  Every movement hurt. It took longer than he wanted, and cost the rest of his already fading strength, but he managed to tie the scarf off. Hopefully, the tourniquet was tight enough to be effective.

  Martin lowered himself—and his arm gave out before he was done. He hit the floor hard, fresh pain roaring through his leg.

  It hurt to breathe, to think, and he let himself sink toward the waiting darkness.

  “Don’t you be giving up, Pembroke Andrew Martin.”

  He stilled, certain he was dreaming. Only one person used his middle name...

  “Mother?” he whispered.

  “Open your eyes, my beautiful boy.”

  He swallowed, prepared to see the dim storage room, the voice only in his head. When he opened his eyes, his mother knelt beside him. Tears blurred his vision, lodged in his throat.

  “How—”

  “Your gift, Martin. I am dead, of course, but your sensitivity allows me to show myself to you.”

  He had only been able to hear a ghost one time before; as a boy, after he had been thrown from a horse and hit his head on a rock. The doctors told him later that he had been close to death when he was found.

  “How—are you here?”

  “I was on a dig nearby, and tried to go back to my lodging on a foggy night. We crashed into a tree, and the coward who had been driving deserted me.”

  “Who?”

  Her hand hovered over his cheek, the cold that emanated from her soothing on his fever hot skin. “There is no need for you to know, not after all this time.”

  “Who, Mother?” Anger lent him strength, pushed aside the grief, the absolute heartache at seeing her again.

  “I doubt you even know him. He was an average student, at best. I would be surprised if he completed his course of study. Stop glaring at me, Martin. I will give you his name, if you give me your promise not to exact some kind of revenge. It was an accident.”

  “He left you.”

  “And mostly likely thought I would be able to take care of myself. I was quite coherent when he left. I did shout at him for it. Not until after I tried to climb out of the car did I realize the extent of my injuries.”

  “Mother.” She tended to babble when she was stalling.

  “All right. His name was Geoffrey Drummond—”

  “Doddington. Damn him—” Hot, sharp pain drove through Martin’s leg, echoing in his side.

  He doubled, fighting to stay in the moment, even as his body threatened to shut down.

  “—hear me, Martin? Heaven above, please answer me, my beautiful boy.”

  “Still—here,” he whispered, his voice raw.

  He could almost feel her hand on his forehead, his cheek, gentle, soothing. “You know Geoffrey?”

  “He—injured me.”

  She let out a string of curses, in several languages. “Whatever for?”

  “Stealing—his spotlight.”

  “Oh, Martin.” She leaned down and brushed her lips over his cheek. “I wish I had not tried to leave the site. Geoffrey was a bit of a coward, and the fog spooked him. He talked me into making a go of it. Forgive me for leaving you.”

  “No need.” He swallowed, felt his muscles relax. Her voice sounded faint, and he knew he was losing his battle to stay conscious. “I—miss you.”

  “Not as much as I miss you, my sweet boy. Had I known you were nearby, I would have haunted you sooner.”

  He managed a smile. “How did you—”

  “I felt your spirit. It must have been after that coward hurt you. Stay with me, Martin. Tell me of your life.”

  “Mother—I—” He clutched his leg as the broken bone shifted. Blood pooled the floor under him, more blood than he could afford to lose. “Tell Maggie—”

  “I will not welcome you to the other side. Do you hear me?” Her fingers hovered over the sweat soaked hair clinging to his face. “Is this Maggie someone important?” He nodded, once, paid for the movement. “Fight for her. Hold on for her.”

  He wanted to—God help him, he wanted to see her again, hold her and Kit in his arms.

  His body had other plans.

  He let out a raw scream when his leg convulsed, his mother’s voice fading as he fell into the waiting darkness.

  Seventeen

  No car waited outside the loading dock.

  Terror and hope battled each other as Maggie climbed out
of Spencer’s van. He beat her to the door, his hand reaching to type in the security code. He froze halfway there.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “What?”

  He turned to her. “The door is open.”

  “Oh, God—” She started to push past him, and he caught her arm. “Spencer—”

  “We are not going to run in there blindly, not with a desperate man holding Martin. Ring Ian.”

  “Spence—”

  “Now, Maggie.”

  She yanked her mobile out of her pocket and tapped Ian’s number. He answered on the first ring. “Are you in Holmestead, Maggie?”

  “How did you—”

  “DI Chamberlain rang me just now, with a quick update on Martin. Where are you?”

  “The museum.”

  “Stay put until I get there.” He ended the call before she could open her mouth to argue.

  “Well?” Spencer studied her, his arms crossed. “What did he say?”

  “He already knew about Martin, and is on his way.” She grabbed Spencer’s hand. “I know you want to be cautious, but I can’t wait for Ian. Martin could be badly hurt.” She refused to think of the other option. “Please, Spence—please.”

  “Fine. But you stay behind me—and if I tell you to leave, you go. No argument.”

  She nodded, and he pushed the door open enough to slip through, gesturing for her to stay while he went inside.

  “All clear,” he said, his voice quiet. Maggie joined him inside, scanning the loading dock. The door on the far side was closed, but it was the only way into the museum. Spencer took her hand and headed for it. “We’ll check the exhibit first. The Professor may take him there, to stall him.”

  “Where is the seal box?”

  “In Brent Newcombe’s office.” Spencer opened the door, checking both ways before he stepped into the hallway. “He has a safe for exhibit items, or private donations the owner would like to keep in a secure place.”

  “Does Martin know the combination?”