In the background. Watching. Not coming forward. Waiting?
For what?
Josh, where are you? Why can’t you help me in here? She thought.
No answer. She spoke aloud. “Josh?”
It wasn’t that she’d ever had complete control of finding him. He was her spirit guide. John, a Shoshoni friend and another of Adam’s employees, had once tried to explain to her. There beside her, with her, because he had loved her so dearly as a friend when he had lived.
And because, somehow, with his death, he had passed his strange gift—or curse—on to her.
“Josh, you helped me in the forest, why not here?”
But she knew. The sense of violence and bitterness that lingered in this room was too strong. Suddenly, she was anxious to get out herself.
Strange, Matt just being in the room had changed it so much….
She wasn’t here to feel secure and safe. She was here to solve the puzzle.
She rose, unnerved, and wondering why. She had long ago accustomed herself to ghosts.
It was the living who could hurt you!
She had heard that often enough. And she had believed it, still believed it.
But then again…
She had never experienced things quite the way they were happening in the Lee Room.
There was no way not to talk to Max Aubry. Though Matt didn’t return the call, Aubry caught him at one o’clock sharp, right when he was heading out to the Wayside Inn to get some lunch.
“Matt! Hey, I’ve been trying to get you on the phone.”
“Yeah, sorry, I had a late night,” Matt said. Aubry reminded him of a weasel. The guy was an inch or so taller than he was, which made him around six-four, but he was so skinny he appeared taller. Maybe because he couldn’t seem to get an inch of either fat or muscle on his bones, he shaved his head for a fiercer look. Didn’t help. He just looked like a hungry ferret.
“Tell me about the skull.”
“I’m just heading out for some lunch.”
“Great. I’ll join you.”
Max stared at him.
“Business appointment, huh?” Aubry said. He knew Matt didn’t like him. It wasn’t really a personal thing. Matt just thought that journalists were supposed to report the news, and not make up what they’d like to be the story that went with it.
“Give me something. I’m going to head out and interview that young lady working for you. I just thought that you might want to give me a word or two first.”
“Sure.” Matt stood still, feeling the summer sun. “Miss Tremayne is working for a firm called Harrison Investigations. They look into so-called hauntings. They do research on an area—and reveal when those who call themselves psychics are using fog machines to create ghostly images. We have a lot of folklore around here, which is usually based on fact. Every schoolkid in the area has heard about the headless girl in the forest. Miss Tremayne made use of the library to investigate the murder, determined where it must have taken place, and found the missing skull.”
“So the ghost will no longer haunt the forest, is that right, Sheriff?”
“I was never of the persuasion that a ghost did haunt the forest,” he said firmly. “And if you write anything different, Aubry, you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands.”
“Ah, come on, Matt!”
“I mean it, Aubry. You caused a poison scare here when Julie Cristopher had a stomachache one afternoon. The donut shop nearly had to shut down because you stated it was the last place she had eaten.”
“It was the last place she had eaten.”
“But she hadn’t been poisoned! She told the doctor at the hospital that she’d drunk milk she probably shouldn’t have because her brother had left it out on the table overnight!”
“Kids! What are you going to do?” Aubry said, brushing the complaint aside.
“I’m not a kid. And if you print a bunch of fiction, Aubry, I’ll see you in court.”
“All right, all right! You sure have got some hang-ups, Sheriff. Ghosts are good for a place like Melody House.”
“Why in hell does everyone believe that?”
“Because the rest of the world has a sense of romance! But excuse me, go have your lunch. I’m sure your Yankee investigator will be a lot nicer. Sheesh!”
Aubry turned and walked away. Matt was tempted to call him back and somehow tell him not to go after Darcy.
But he couldn’t.
Aubry had every legal right in the world to interview whoever he wanted.
He watched Aubry go, damning himself. He should have given the man some time, given him a better story, and he might have left Darcy alone. He considered calling Darcy to warn her. Tell her…what? Tell her that no matter what the hell she really believed, she had to tell Aubry that she didn’t believe in ghosts?
Swearing, he headed for his car. As he slid into the driver’s seat, he was startled to feel a strange urge to head somewhere, other than the Wayside Inn.
Library.
His fingers froze around the keys in the ignition. He could have sworn that he heard the word as clearly as if someone had spoken out loud to him.
Matt groaned, leaning his head against the steering wheel. They were all going to make him crazy. Had to be something on the back burner of his mind coming forward. And now, for some stupid reason, he kept hearing it echo.
Hell, no, he wasn’t getting caught up in all this.
Angry with himself, he started to drive toward the Wayside Inn.
Then turned.
Darcy hadn’t intended to go back to the library that day, but Penny was so determined to talk about the skull that she didn’t think she could stay in the house. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Penny, and like her very much. She simply didn’t want to try to explain just what her “extrasensory” perceptions were. She didn’t understand it all herself—how on earth could she explain it all to another person?
Then, as well, both Clint and Carter had been in the house. And they had wanted to talk. Clint had been charming, but too curious, winking and asking her if she could help him find the cuff links he had lost last Christmas. Carter had simply wanted to talk, to know her past, what other mysteries she had unraveled. Both had seemed to want to probe her mind, and though she liked them both so very much, she had wanted equally to escape.
She had enjoyed the library and Mrs. O’Hara, and decided to take refuge there where she could research Amy Clayton’s family. She was sure that someone in the area had to know where the family graveyard could be found, but the library, she was certain, would have local records.
She knew the minute she saw Mrs. O’Hara that the woman had heard she had found the skull. It was a small town. News traveled quickly. But Mrs. O’Hara didn’t question her, other than to ask if she wanted tea. Darcy decided to accept a cup. Mrs. O’Hara had a nice sense of perception herself—she found the record book Darcy wanted behind the desk, as if she’d searched for it as soon as she’d heard the news.
“If you’re looking for anything else local,” Mrs. O’Hara told her, “just head up to the loft level.” She pointed to stairs which led to the walkway that circled the perimeter of the upper floor. The intricately carved railings made it seem almost as if the library had originally been built as a grand old home, rather than as a public facility. Mrs. O’Hara grinned, seeing her look up and around. “Originally, this was part of an old plantation. It belonged to a man named Geoffrey Huntington, and he was very good friends with Thomas Jefferson, among other notable men. But he was a Loyalist, and the main house was burned during the Revolution. Luckily, he had this structure planned as an outbuilding, his own private retreat, and the furious Patriots were happy to keep his book collection alive and well, since he was forced out of the country. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? And everything is original. Except for some of the books, of course. Thankfully, the place was very large, because over the years we’ve accumulated many fine collections of books.”
“It’s an extraordi
nary library,” Darcy told her sincerely.
“On the National Register of Historic Buildings,” Mrs. O’Hara said proudly. “We may have to add on soon, though.”
“I imagine that it’s far better for a library to have too many books than too few,” Darcy said.
“Naturally!” Mrs. O’Hara agreed.
With her cup of tea and the old book Mrs. O’Hara had already found for her, Darcy curled up in one of the stuffed armchairs on the ground floor and began to read.
The Clayton family had left the area in the late-eighteen hundreds. They had, however, arrived in the mid-seventeen hundreds, and had maintained a family plot in the Christ’s Church burial ground. The record book—a horribly boring tome—listed family names, occupations, marriages, baptisms, deaths, and little more, but it actually offered a plot map of Christ’s Church and the surrounding graveyard. It wasn’t far from Melody House at all. Once the skull was deemed ancient by the proper authorities, Darcy assumed there would be no difficulty seeing that it was buried along with the rest of poor Amy Clayton.
She set the book down and looked up the stairway, noting again just how exceptionally fine the building was. Naturally, since a wealthy and influential man—who had apparently loved reading and books—had planned it for himself. But still, few towns could possibly have such a gem of a library. The stairway was winding, the wood old and polished, and it appeared that even the runner on the stairs was as old as the facility.
She decided that it was time to set the record book aside and head up to see what else she could find.
At the top of the stairway she discovered that the flooring of the loft was really little more than scaffolding. The runner extended only up the stairs, then curved into an arch at the landing, while the flooring itself then became polished wood, apparently very well tended.
Darcy began to peruse the different books. Some would be of little interest to anyone other than people who found their own family names, and yet she thought that it was quite wonderful that so many people from the area might come here and find out about ancestors. There were books with nothing more than family names on them, or titles that explained their contents exactly, such as Marriages among the Grangers of Stoneyville, and The Murtons Who Attended Grace Church. She smiled, slipping out a volume now and then, and finding most to be very old. It seemed that people hadn’t kept such simple record books in a very long time. Or maybe, life just hadn’t been that simple in a very long time.
A book on a high shelf caught her eye. The Stones of Melody House. She was delighted to see it, and once again, touched by the people of decades past who had found every little detail of life worthy of recording.
Deciding it was one volume she definitely needed to read, Darcy started to reach up for it. She was tall but she really had to stretch.
As she balanced on both toes, she heard a sudden creaking sound from the boards under her feet. Even as she frowned, the floorboard directly beneath her suddenly gave.
She grabbed frantically for the shelf in front of her. Too late, because it had all happened too quickly. For a second frozen in time, she staggered where she stood, knowing that the wood beneath her had failed, and that she was going to crash into a sheer drop. She was disbelieving, even as the simple rules of physics tore at the weight of her body.
She cried out, a whoosh of air escaping from her lungs as she felt herself suddenly plunge downward.
She grasped out desperately for any hold, all the while wondering, How? Why? Mrs. O’Hara would never have sent anyone upstairs if it wasn’t safe—
The sound of wood crashing to the floor below came to her ears just as she managed to reach out and grasp hold of the nearest crosswise support beam. Her downward impetus was so strong that her desperate scramble for hold caused instant agony in her shoulder sockets, and yet, there was an instant of relief and incredulity when she realized that she had stopped herself.
For the moment.
For the moment, yes, only the moment, her grasp upon the crossbeam was so tenuous, and it already seemed that her fingers were slick with perspiration and slipping.
Another scream sounded, and not from her own lips.
It was Mrs. O’Hara, crying out from beneath her.
And it was then that she fully realized herself that she was dangling from the crossbeam, her legs swinging a good twenty feet above the floor below.
She rued the long-ago wealthy plantation owner who had designed such a library.
“Hang on! Hang on!” Mrs. O’Hara cried out to her. “I’ve called 911. Books! I’ll pile some books, the cushions from the chairs, just hold on dear, hold on!”
No other thought had occurred to Darcy, but even as the woman called out, Darcy could feel the terrible pressure on her arms and shoulder blades. She hadn’t really realized her own imminent danger until that minute—she had only congratulated herself on catching hold of the crossbeam.
But how long could she hold on?
Mrs. O’Hara had dialed 911. Darcy wasn’t certain that help could be there momentarily. And still….
It had been seconds, surely. No more than minutes. Her arms ached as if she had been stretched on a medieval rack. She wasn’t a total weakling, but neither was she ready for championship wrestling.
“Darcy, oh, dear! Hang on, dear! There’s help coming!” Mrs. O’Hara called to her.
Darcy looked down. She shouldn’t have. The distance between her and the ground floor seemed gaping. Looking downward seemed to create a greater burden on her arms. She winced, grated her teeth, and began to fear that her fingers would slip no matter how she strained to hang on.
“I can’t imagine how this has happened!” Mrs. O’Hara cried anxiously. “Please, please…hang on.” There had been no one else in the small library at that time. Too early for the schoolchildren, and perhaps too late for any legal assistants or local researchers. Darcy felt faint, looking at the distance between her own dangling body and the puny little cushion Mrs. O’Hara was trying to arrange beneath her.
She closed her eyes, in agony, wondering if she would just break most of her bones if she gave up her hold, or if she’d break her neck and die as well. Despite the pain in her arms and the fear that any second they were simply going to wrench from their sockets, it seemed as if a haze of blackness was beginning to take over. She wondered desperately if she still had the strength to try to swing her legs upward and find a hold with her ankles and calves on the torn-up floor above her.
“Darcy?” Mrs. O’Hara called.
“I always knew I should have trained for Cirque du Soleil!” Darcy tossed back, wondering why she felt that she had to sound light and okay even though she definitely wasn’t. She looked up at the hole in the floor. She’d have to kick through other boards to get back up. But if the one had given, then maybe…
Fingers, hands, and arms in anguish, she gave a swing, kicking at the boards above. She nearly broke her toes.
All the other floorboards were as tight as could be. The effort nearly cost her the tenuous hold she had on the crossbeam. Black dots were forming before her eyes. She clenched her eyes tightly, knowing she would lose her grip any second.
“Darcy!”
She was startled to hear Matt’s voice. So much so that she thought she was losing her grip on reality.
“Darcy, it’s me, Matt. Just let go. I’m going to catch you. Trust me.”
Trust him. Just let go.
“Darcy, I’m below you. Let go. I won’t let you get hurt.”
Trust him…it had nothing to do with trust. She couldn’t hold on any longer.
Her fingers were too stiffly wound around the crossbeam, but it didn’t matter. They were slipping. She never really let go.
She simply fell, because her fingers lost their grasp.
And a scream of instinctive terror tore from her lips.
In the split second in which she fell, she anticipated her bones crushing, her blood splattering across the floor, her head…
; “Darcy!”
8
Matt didn’t fall, but staggered back as Darcy fell into his arms. The distance hadn’t been so great, but she was naturally trying to resist the impetus of the fall upon her body, and she flailed wildly, desperately grabbing him as he caught her.
For a moment, they wavered, then he lost his balance, even if he did so with a certain amount of coordination. He went down upon his knees, cradling her against him. For several seconds, she had a death grip on him, and then her eyes met his, wide, those of a startled rabbit, and a shudder of relief went through her.
“You all right?” he asked quickly.
She nodded. Then her fingers went through his hair and she smiled. “You’re covered in dust.”
“Your shirt is ripped and your arm is bleeding,” he told her.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” Mrs. O’Hara said, hovering over them both. They could hear a siren then. A car from the station. “This was all so impossible! We have building inspectors in regularly! I walk on that floor all the time and I know that it’s sound. Was sound. Oh, my God, I had thought that it was sound. The schoolchildren go up there when they’re studying. Lord, it could have been a child, a little boy or girl who couldn’t get a grasp to save themselves…oh, Darcy! I am so sorry! Matt, thank God that you arrived when you did.”
Thank God that he had arrived when he did.
Strange chills ripped through him, and he stared at Darcy, still in his tense grip as they both lay sprawled on the floor.
Darcy eased her hold from around Matt’s neck, stumbling to her feet, offering him a hand to rise as well. He took her hand, but stood up on his own power. She was still shaking. She might be smiling, ready to make light of the whole thing, but it wasn’t an incident that could be dismissed.
“Go ahead and put a Closed sign on the door, Mrs. O’Hara,” Matt said.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mrs. O’Hara said, but still stood looking at Darcy. “The police car is coming but we need an ambulance.”
“No!” Darcy protested. “I’m fine.”
“Your arm is bleeding,” Matt informed her firmly.
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