For a moment, she hesitated. The large upholstered chair where she had sat when her Uncle Jed had still been alive remained where she had kept it, by the wall, but close to the bed, ready to be drawn up when they had talked and laughed and exchanged stories.
The chair was a haunting reminder of a very good man. She often told herself that he had lived nearly a hundred very good years, but still...she missed him. That was always the case—no matter how old someone was, and no matter what the reason for their passing—if you loved that person, you missed them when they were gone.
Maybe she should move the chair.
Tomorrow.
Donning a nightgown, she plunged into bed, not even bothering to take her makeup off. Absolutely exhausted, she quickly fell into a deep sleep.
Alexandria, Virginia
Dallas Wicker was accustomed to strange hours and stranger work situations. He’d graduated from the academy just a year ago, and, after his first assignment out at a murder site in rural Virginia, he’d found himself being interviewed by Assistant Director Adam Harrison and his supervising field director, Jackson Crow.
But it wasn’t quite 1:00 a.m. when he received a call from Crow that morning, and it was barely 2:00 a.m. when he found himself sitting in front of Adam Harrison at the man’s handsome town house in Alexandria—his bag packed, ready to go.
“An assignment?” he asked. He was curious; there was a young man there as well, who’d been introduced to him as Josh.
He’d gone to shake the young man’s hand before he realized that Josh wasn’t among the living, but rather, an accomplished ghost, quite capable of making himself easily seen.
By those who could see.
And, of course, Dallas could see, which apparently he’d revealed to those who shared the gift when he’d solved the abduction of a woman out near Richmond. It had been the spirit of an old soldier hanging around a historic tavern who had led Dallas to the kidnapper’s van. He’d explained his lucky break by saying he’d only followed tracks and broken branches and other clues in his hunt.
Someone was watching, of course, always watching, for those who were suited for the special unit of the FBI known informally as the Krewe of Hunters.
“Sorry to bring you out so late—or so early... You’re going to be flown down to Savannah as soon as we’re through here, and a car will be waiting for you at the airport. I’d like you to get where you’re going by breakfast time.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. He was still somewhat in awe of the older gentleman who had created the Krewe. Harrison ran his agents through his number one man, Jackson Crow, and he also had his hands in a dozen philanthropic projects. He was a highly respected man whose position in the government agency was not known by many. The charity projects that he both worked himself and donated to were legendary.
“Dallas, let me start with this. Have you ever heard of the Whaley House?”
“No, sir, I have not.”
Adam handed him a picture. It was of a house, most probably built in the mid to late 1800s.
“Well, interesting fact here. A United States agency—the US Department of Commerce—according to area records, keeps track of what they call ‘officially’ haunted places.”
“Officially haunted. Interesting.”
“And there are others with that designation.”
Adam handed him another picture. It was of another beautiful dwelling, this one with an intriguing mix of styles. It appeared as if he had been begun, at least, in the early 1800s, in the Federal style, but had been added to in the Victorian era, at which time a wraparound porch had been put up to grace the second story. A majestic dual stairway led to the front door of the house, while a fine brick path led around the side. It was all framed by oaks, with haunting wisps of Spanish moss sweeping down from the branches.
“That’s the McLane house, in Savannah. It’s off a beautiful square, in the oldest area of the town.”
“I’m guessing it’s haunted, too?”
“Not officially, but as I’ve said, there are others, and we’ve been asked to investigate a number of places that might be...officially haunted.”
“And we’ve agreed to do this?” Dallas asked, surprised. The Krewe didn’t tend to advertise its specialty, and definitely not to agencies outside the FBI.
“Only when it coincides with other...events. Such as mysterious deaths and disappearances.”
“Ah—hmm. Was this house built on a gallows site or a graveyard?”
Adam shrugged. “There could be bodies. There’s an infamous story about a Confederate soldier who slipped in after Sherman took the city and killed his wife and father for either politely asking the Union troops in—or perhaps because the wife was sleeping with a Yankee colonel. May or may not have happened, and may have happened in a variety of ways. A Revolutionary Patriot could be there, too. The house isn’t known for a graveyard.” Adam shrugged. “Hey, it’s Savannah. It’s haunted.”
Dallas frowned, curious—and worried.
He’d worked hard to become an agent, and as soon as he’d heard rumors about the Krewe of Hunters he’d known he wanted that assignment.
But now...he was just to investigate old ghosts?
And in Savannah.
Adam was studying him, maybe reading his mind.
The man handed him another picture. Dallas looked down at the image of a man in his midfifties to sixties.
“Simon Drake,” Dallas said quietly.
Adam nodded, waiting.
“About to run for the state senate in Georgia. He was supporting a new ‘crackdown on crime’ in the city. He disappeared two nights ago.”
“We believe he was—kidnapped?” Dallas asked.
“We believe he’s dead,” Adam said flatly.
“But we’re not sure.”
“Mr. Drake was last seen speaking at a square in the city. He was heading on to a meeting with a group of his supporters, toward the riverfront. You’ll be supplied with maps, although I understand you are familiar with Savannah.”
Yes, he was familiar with Savannah.
“I’m at a loss, sir. Haunted houses and a disappearing politician...”
“His disappearance took place near the McLane house.”
“And near others, I imagine.”
Dallas was handed another picture. This was of a woman with graying hair and an open smile.
“Eliza Malone. Prominent businesswoman, outspoken on improving the city. She also disappeared—near the McLane house. Two years ago.”
“Still...”
“Thing is,” Josh said, speaking up, “And trust me, I know,” he added, smiling ruefully, and as if reading Dallas’s mind, “most of the dead are kind. They were as they were in life, usually seeking justice, or seeking to touch a loved one, trying to find a way to say goodbye. But some remain as well to watch over places—to help. But you are aware of that.”
“No one really knows what happened at the McLane house in December of 1864,” Adam said. “I’ve given you two names of people who were last seen in the area of the house. There have been other disturbing incidents occurring nearby... Almost as if there’s a strange Bermuda Triangle situation there. A supposed suicide occurred recently—an older man, a Savannah native named Ian Murphy. And then there was another death from a fall—this one a young and very healthy man, Lachlan Plant, a personal trainer. I’ve emailed all the information we have to you, and have physical files for you to review. Other government agencies are involved who don’t wish to have official association with the investigation. You won’t go in as a federal agent, but rather as a friend of the young man who died from a fall. You’ll be a licensed private investigator, of course, to give you some of the access you’ll need to get into certain places, police records, and so on.”
“And this friend who died from a fall...”
“Lachlan Plant—and he wasn’t from Savannah.”
“But his fall—was it from a height? The porch of the McLane house?” Dallas asked.
“No—from a sidewalk curb,” Adam said drily.
“A curb?”
“You can read all about it on the plane. As I said, you’re a PI hired by the family. In truth, he was an only child and his parents are dead, so, I’m counting myself as his family.”
“Are you related—in any way?”
“In the way there is something very wrong about a young man’s death,” Adam said.
“Thing is,” Josh put in, “these could all be unrelated incidents and tragedies—and then again, the McLane house is dead center in all that’s going on.”
“We were approached by a local police detective—not officially, but through some back channels. He’ll be there to help you with whatever he can. But even the detective—Joseph Dunhill—will think that you’re working independently. For now, we’re invited in. If there’s a reason to step in because the disappearances do prove to be cases of kidnapping—we’ll step in. Until then, it’s just you.”
“I’m to find out if those deaths are related—and find the missing people?” Dallas asked.
“Dead or alive,” Adam said.
* * *
It seemed she had barely slept before she was awake.
Light was coming in through a break in the curtains, but it was weak. Opening her eyes, she frowned, thinking she had awakened before her alarm had even gone off.
Confused, she started to sit up. The light in the room was very dim, but...
There was a man in the chair; the plushy upholstered wingback chair she used to sit in by the bed.
He was wearing a Confederate cavalry uniform. He had light eyes, dark hair...
And he was the spitting image of the man in the portrait on the stairway wall.
He wasn’t real; she was dreaming.
Dreaming. And, in her dream, she couldn’t seem to make a sound, to let her cry of fear rip through the air.
“Please, it’s all right,” the image said softly, standing politely.
She jumped out of bed, first backing away from the chair—and then hurrying forward to swipe her hand through the image, some speck of logic in the back of her mind trying to reason that it had to be a prop, or a puppet—someone playing a practical joke on her.
She touched nothing...
Nothing but cold air.
But the image remained.
“Stop that, Kristi, please. You are a logical woman!” the apparition said.
His words sounded cultured, as if he were well-educated, with just a slight Southern drawl.
Dreaming, she was dreaming...
She stood, getting out of bed. She could feel the hardwood floor beneath her feet.
“Kristi, forgive me—I don’t make a habit of entering a lady’s bedchamber unannounced and uninvited. But circumstances being what they are...well, I knew that you could see me.”
“See you?” she whispered, in shock, she thought, still looking for the logic he believed that she possessed, ready to scream...yet unable to do so.
He stepped forward, taking her by the arms—and now she could feel him!
His touch was very strange and cold.
“I’m real, and I’m here,” he told her.
“Oh, my God. Shelley...actually summoned you?” Kristi asked, incredulous.
“She opened one of those portals, you know,” he said. “A door between the worlds of the living and dead.”
“Shelley opened a portal,” Kristi said. “And you came through?”
“No, not really. I’ve been here all along,” the ghost said, grinning. He sighed. “Since the late 1700s. But tonight was the first time someone saw me. You saw me!” he said, and she could have sworn he seemed very pleased.
She worked her jaw to speak. Her words were halting and confused.
“You...you...you want me to help you, to bring out the truth of what happened so long ago, maybe...clear your name. Clear Trinity’s name... I mean, if you didn’t kill her...”
“Kill Trinity? She was the love of my life, and to clearing me...well, that would be nice, but...what I really want you to do is help me figure out what the hell is happening now.” His eyes met hers. “No, Kristi, right now.”
It was as if she could feel his words, feel the passion in them, a searing heat against that strange, strange, cold!
“You understand? You’ll help?” he demanded.
She nodded, terrified.
He released her.
She fell back onto the bed.
She was losing it, losing it entirely. Too much pressure, work, the house...and Shelley’s wild séances!
She stood, stared at him, praying he would disappear.
He didn’t. His ghostly eyes bored into hers.
She ran. Dashing down the hallway and the stairs, through the back parlor, the front parlor and out the mudroom, frantically working at the lock to open the front door and get the hell out.
She burst out of the house—and right into a man on the doorstep.
He was tall and solid, flesh and blood; she could feel the muscles in his chest, she could almost feel his heart, really beating.
His hands were real, strong as they caught her, and his eyes were hazel and amused as he smiled down at her with curiosity. Something electric seemed to stream from his touch, and a tremor ripped through her, something different, but almost as strong as the terror that had seized her upstairs.
“I heard that McLane House had a wonderful and welcoming staff,” he said, “but really—this just goes beyond all expectations!”
2
Great, Dallas thought, being hit by a whirlwind.
Not only was he on something of a wild goose chase, but the woman he was steadying—who had exploded out of the house like a bat out of hell—obviously had something wrong with her.
She was staring at him with huge, wild, blue eyes.
Something had truly frightened her.
For a moment, those eyes of hers were on him in sheer panic; then she blinked, and stepped back, as if coming to the conclusion that he was just flesh and blood, and not something surreal and terrifying. The change in her was mercurial—despite the short, silky nightgown she was wearing, she suddenly had an air of control and casual dignity.
“Ah, hello. I’m so sorry—I’m at a disadvantage. Are you a—guest?”
“That was what I was assuming,” he told her.
She was a very attractive woman. Her blue eyes were enhanced, made even bluer by the deep, burnished-gold color of her hair, cascading wildly around her shoulders.
“Are you all right?” he asked her. “The way you flew out here... Is someone threatening you in there?”
“Oh, no, no... I just ran out for air and...to have a minute to myself!” she said.
Lying. Definitely.
But he’d have to get inside to figure out just what was happening.
The short silky thing she was wearing certainly enhanced her appeal. Her legs were perfectly curvy, and the way the material fell over the rest of her...
He forced himself to keep his eyes on hers as he shifted his backpack on his shoulder and offered her a handshake. “My name is Dallas. Dallas Wicker. A reservation was made for me last night—this is McLane House, right?”
“Right, right, yes...of course. And I am sorry—you’re most welcome here. I just—I hadn’t known we had another reservation for today.”
“Oh—I have a confirmation number,” Dallas said.
“That’s fine. I’m sorry. The reservation must have gone through Jonah—the manager here,” she said quickly, and then, realizing she still held his hand, she shook it quickly and released it. “I’m Kristi Stewart, proprietor,” she told him. “
And forgive me, please... I thought I saw a friend going by on the sidewalk, and wasn’t expecting anyone at the door and...”
“I thought you wanted to be alone?” he said.
“Oh, yeah, well—both. Anyway, do come in. It is quite early—check-in doesn’t usually happen until later. But of course, please come in. Breakfast starts in about an hour from now and...”
She stopped speaking and seemed to smile ruefully at herself. “Forgive me—I’ll get out of the way, and then you can come in.”
She held open the door wider, stepped inside and allowed him entrance.
He paused just a minute, looking down at the sidewalk and Johnson Square across the way; cars were beginning to move, school buses were out and the sun was beginning a nice ascent in the sky. But it was a quiet time of early morning.
He was damned sure she hadn’t seen a friend out on the sidewalk—or wanted a breath of fresh air.
He smiled and stepped into the house.
“This is our front parlor,” she told him. “There’s a back parlor, and a screened-in porch, and then a courtyard down here. Offices and a library off to the side over there—with a computer. The internet is available at any time. Or there’s Wi-Fi. The stairs are right through that archway, and I believe you’re going to be in room number seven...sorry, I know you’ll be in seven, it’s the only room that isn’t taken this morning. I don’t believe the room is ready. Make yourself at home in the parlor for now. The staff should be arriving any second and...” She paused, suddenly self-conscious. “I’ll be right back down!” she said.
She turned and fled—departing with almost the same speed with which she’d crashed into him.
The Summoning Page 3
