Second Glance (37 page)

SEARCH INVENTORY:
Pike Homicide, Sept. 19, 1932

SEIZED FROM THE ICEHOUSE PORCH:

Noose, cut

Leather pouch

Pipe

Photographs: sawdust on porch w/footprints, body cut down

SEIZED FROM VICTIM:

Boots

Dress

Underwear/sanitary napkin

Photographs: autopsy

SEIZED FROM MASTER BEDROOM:

Photographs: broken glass window

Photographs: interior of house—ransacked

List of names—dinner party following week

Sheets, pillows, coverlet, nightgown—stained

Swaddling blankets

Metal basin

By the time Ross got home, it was daybreak. He walked inside, thanking a God he no longer believed in that Shelby did not seem to be around. Making a beeline upstairs, he shut the door of his room behind him, crawled into bed fully clothed, and finally let himself go to pieces.

Most of the time when Ross thought about his life, he imagined living it alone. The very concept of a family did not appear to be in the cards for him. He was not commitment-shy, or unattractive, or too free-spirited to settle; but whenever he tried to give his heart away, he found himself holding it out to a person who was no longer there.

There were women. The waitress in Duluth who took him home with the extra beef stew one night; the soccer mom who had never been told by her businessman husband that she was worthy of more than that life; the scarred breast-cancer survivor who had to be reminded how beautiful she still was. But these were women who needed him for a night or two, who dropped him the moment they saw how much Ross needed
them
. After all, who could love someone like him—a man who sometimes could not get out of bed even though he had not slept for weeks, a man who had tried to kill himself so many times that he believed he was invincible, a man who could not even love himself?

Ross pulled a pillow over his head. He wanted a woman who would feel about him the way he felt about her—as if she’d been missing something until they met, willing to give up everything to follow him from one world to another, certain that every disastrous second she’d spent alone had only been leading up to this moment.

He wanted a woman who did not exist.

There was a knock on his door, which Ross ignored. Maybe Shelby would think he was asleep. He ducked further beneath the covers.

“Hey.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, her hand resting gently on the blanket covering his shoulder. “I know you’re not asleep.”

He tugged down the blanket. “How?”

“Because you
never
sleep.”

“There’s always a first time,” Ross said.

He watched Shelby pleat the edge of the sheet into a fan, then let it fall apart. “What did the police want?”

“Nothing.”

“He came all the way here, and took you all the way to the station, for nothing?”

“Leave me alone, Shelby. If you want to be a mother, go practice on your son.”

“My son isn’t the one who’s crying.”

Ross touched his fingers to his cheeks—Christ, he hadn’t even noticed. “I can’t do this now.”

“Ross,
talk
to me . . .”

He fell onto his back, his arm covering his eyes. “Shel, look. I haven’t found out that I have six weeks to live, unfortunately. I didn’t commit a felony. I just had a really shitty night that made me remember why it’s no use falling in love. So go back to your room or the library or wherever and let me lick my wounds, all right?”

“You got dumped by that woman you’ve been seeing?”

“I haven’t been seeing anyone.” But he had. Just not in that way.

“Who is she?”

Ross came up on an elbow. “She,” he said, “is the ghost of a woman who was killed seventy years ago.” He had the satisfaction of watching Shelby’s jaw drop, and he sank back onto the pillows. “Exactly.”

“You saw a ghost?”

“I saw a ghost. I touched a ghost. I kissed a ghost.”

“You
kissed
a ghost?”

“I fell so hard for a ghost that everything inside me is still black and blue.”

“Ross, come on—”

“Don’t, Shelby. Just don’t. I’m absolutely, a hundred percent, totally aware of what did and did not happen to me out there.”

His voice was riding high, his eyes wild. “Ross,” she said gently, “there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

He turned on her. “How do you know? Maybe if you can’t see something, it doesn’t mean it’s not out there. It only means your eyes aren’t tuned quite right, or it’s too well camouflaged, or you just haven’t been lucky enough to find it yet.”

He was speaking of himself, but to Shelby, he might as well have been speaking of Ethan, and what the future might hold for the scientists searching for a cure to XP. She suddenly understood that whether or not Ross’s ghost was real, right now, it was what he needed to believe. What he needed
her
to believe.

She had been there, herself.

Ross pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “God, maybe I
am
crazy. Maybe I should have myself locked up.”

“You’re no crazier than anyone else. We all do it.”

“See ghosts?”

“Fall for someone who doesn’t exist.” Shelby stroked his hair. “Infatuation’s just another word for not seeing clearly. When you start to love a person—that’s when they become real.”

Ross turned toward his sister on a sob. “She left,” he choked out. “She left me.”

Shelby bent low, kissed him on the crown of his head. “Then find her,” she said.

Date: September 21, 1932
Time: 1:15 PM
Interview of: Mrs. Wilmetta Sizemore
Interview by: Officer Duley Wiggs
Location: Comtosook Police Department

Q. When did you last see Cissy Pike?

A. At the Ethan Allen Club, a week ago, when we were having dinner with our spouses and her father, Harry Beaumont. I’ve known Cissy for years; she was the perfect wife, so enamored of Professor Pike and so clearly anticipating the birth of her baby.

Q. Was there anything unusual about her that night?

A. I don’t think so . . . no, wait. There was a moment where poor Cissy spilled a glass of wine. One of the help, a Gypsy boy, came over to assist but took liberties, touching Cissy’s person while trying to clean up the mess. Professor Pike, well, he quite rightly ripped the waiter up one side and down the other. [Pause] I don’t know the Gypsy boy’s name. But you all might want to find out.

“God
damn
,” Eli said, when he heard the crash. He ran downstairs from the bathroom, half his face still lathered with shaving cream, to find Watson hiding under the coffee table. One quick look at the living room told him there either had been a recent B&E, or a 150-pound dog chasing something. The TV had been knocked off its stand, the pillows tossed from the couch, and one ladderback chair was now tipped over beside a broken window. Eli crouched down near the dog. “Give it up.” He held out his hand, and Watson sheepishly opened his mouth so that the mouse dropped into it.

Eli tossed it out of the shattered window. “Well, this is great, Watson. We can open a McDonald’s drive-through in our very own home.” The dog’s ears flattened. “I suppose you’re going to tell me it wasn’t your fault. Oh, that’s right, you’re smarter than that. You’re not going to say anything at all.”

The dog whined and snuffed his nose further into the carpet. Eli put the couch to rights, and then gently set the television back on its pedestal. This, at least, wasn’t smashed. Sighing, he walked to the window and moved the chair that had broken it. A rainbow of shattered glass lined the sill, but since the window had been broken from the inside, most of the shards had landed somewhere in the azalea bushes.

Suddenly, he turned and charged up the stairs, this time with the dog at his heels. In his bedroom, Eli overturned a pile of folders on his nightstand until he found the manila envelope containing the crime-scene photos. The photographs taken after the Pike homicide were seventy years old, but they had been made with 4x5 negatives—still the best source around for excellent detail. Eli squinted at the shot taken inside Cissy Pike’s bedroom. The focal point of the picture was the bed, but the window was just behind. Something sparkled on the sill. What about the floor?

Eli scratched his jaw, surprised to remember he was still covered with shaving cream. “When I finish, Watson,” he said, “we’re going for a drive.”

Rod van Vleet put his face very close to Ross’s. “Let me get this straight,” he enunciated. “You actually found a ghost?”

Ross nodded. “Isn’t that what you asked me to do?”

“No!” Rod threw up his hands and walked away. “I asked you to come check out the property. I never actually expected you to
find
anything.” He sat down across from Ross in the narrow on-site trailer. “So what am I supposed to do now? Douse the place with Holy Water? Wait until my foreman’s head starts doing 360s?”

“It’s not a demonic possession. Just a ghost.”

“Oh, well, fabulous,” Rod said. “I’m glad you’ve cleared that up. And what do I do when it starts coming after my workers?”

“That probably won’t happen. Curtis Warburton always said that ghosts tend to do their own thing.”

“Then she should be willing to move somewhere else.”

Ross shook his head. “According to Curtis, human spirits only leave if they want to. If they’re comfortable where they are, or emotionally tied to the place, or just stubborn, they don’t budge.”

“
Curtis
said. According to
Curtis
. What do
you
think?”

For a long moment, Ross was silent. “I don’t really know anymore,” he said finally.

“Well, let me tell you what
I
think, then. If a judge happens to believe in this crap and thinks there’s a spirit floating around here, I lose my permit to build. That means one of us is going to have to disappear . . . and for a nominal fee, I’m sure I can count on both of you to do that.”

The color drained from Ross’s face. “I can’t make her leave.”

“Then I’ll find someone who can.”

They stared at each other, and then, without another word, Ross slammed out of the trailer. Rod stood in the doorway and watched him go. The workers he passed didn’t even bat an eye. Then again, they were being paid to do a job—and minor setbacks like frozen ground in August, or shovel handles that split at the touch of a hand, or nails that simply would not burrow straight, were all just a path to fat overtime checks. So he had a ghost in his strip mall. So what? Maybe he could even capitalize on it. Launch a breakfast café called “Restaurant In Peace,” and sell boo-gels and scream cheese. When the press interviewed him, he’d deadpan and say the place was a great undertaking.

Or maybe . . . he wouldn’t build a strip mall at all. New England was full of creepy old B&Bs stuffed to their dusty rafters with stories of hauntings. If he already had a ghost, why not build a hotel around it?

After, of course, he had found someone to officially evict the thing.

Just in case.

Rod whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 411. “Angel Quarry,” a voice answered.

He checked the number, then hung up and redialed. When the operator picked up on the other end, Rod exhaled. In truth, he’d been expecting the quarry again. “Yes,” he said. “I’m trying to find a Mr. Curtis Warburton.”

The Forensic Lab in Montpelier prioritized cases depending on severity. Which meant that although evidence from a homicide that needed processing might be returned in just a day’s time, a simple burglary might not yield results for several weeks. Eli knew this well, which was why he was even now holding a conversation with Tuck Boorhies, a technician he’d worked with in the past. “A murder?” Tuck said. “In Comtosook?”

“That’s right,” Eli said. He did not mention that the event had occurred seventy years ago.

Tuck took the print from Eli. “Jeez. What’s with the black-and-white?”

“Crime-scene photographer is a purist. How long is this going to take?”

“How long are you going to stand there breathing down my neck?” Tuck answered, but he scanned the print into the computer programmed with Adobe Photoshop. “Now, what part do you want blown up?”