She glanced up, and they met each other’s gazes. At least, he imagined they did.
“Did you see that?’’ she said.
“What’s it mean?’’ Steel asked.
“It’s detected a trace of Ray’s radiation burst!’’
“Where?’’
“I don’t know.’’ She picked up the sensor and started moving. Ray backed away, and the static and activity on the screen stopped. Gadgeteer shook the machine.
“What happened?’’ Jetstream said.
“I don’t know.’’
Ray had a suspicion. The sensor by itself wasn’t enough. Him by himself wasn’t enough. Slowly, she panned the device over the space by the work bench. He stood next to her and held the device with her, as much as he could. His hands, her hands, both over the machine, making contact. That was the key, he was sure of it.
Again the device gave off a signal.
Gadgeteer laughed. “It’s working! He’s here! I told you!’’
Then, something else happened. They both saw it because they were both staring at the device. Gadgeteer watched the sensors, and Ray was watched their hands—which had started to glow.
“Annie, what’s that?’’ Steel had donned his commanderly voice. It happened whenever he confronted something he didn’t understand, that he thought was dangerous.
“I don’t know,’’ Gadgeteer said, watching the glow, a white light that surrounded both their hands and the device. “Maybe the sensor is overheating. He must be really close.’’
Right beside you, Ray thought. Holding you. He recognized that silver, super-hot glow. It was part of him. “No, Annie,’’ he said by her ear. “It’s not the sensor doing this.’’
He felt the familiar surge, the well of power growing in him, ready to be released. But now, he felt it through her. He still had the power—but he needed someone else’s life to energize it. Hers.
“Okay, Annie, hold on, here it goes!’’ He stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her, held her hands in his, and braced. Just like before, just like the old days, he felt the power surge through him, and her. The energy collected in her hands and blasted away from them, a burst of light that struck the steel wall on the other side of the workshop.
They stared at the blackened, smoking space on the wall, where part of the metal had melted, dripping to the floor.
“Holy . . .’’ Jetstream muttered, trailing off.
“That machine, it’s duplicating Ray’s powers,’’ Steel said.
“No, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s Ray. He’s here!’’ She was both crying and smiling. She put down the device and offered her hands. Ray cupped them in his, and they glowed. They’d practice, she’d get the hang of it. And he was back in the game.
“Oh, Ray,’’ Tessa said.
“It’s great to be back,’’ Ray answered. Gadgeteer laughed. The glow in her hands reflected back to her face. Maybe she’d even learn to hear him, one of these days.
Then the alarm rang.
Steel rushed to the networked computer terminal in the workshop and called up the report. Full of determination, he reported to the others. “Zombies are attacking the city power plant.’’
Jetstream said, “Good timing. Ray’s powers always worked great against zombies.’’
“Annie,’’ Steel said. “Can you handle it? Can he handle it?’’
“Yes yes yes,’’ Ray said. “Of course we can!’’
“Yes sir,’’ Gadgeteer said. “I think we can.’’
“Then let’s move it!’’
When Gadgeteer raced for the hangar with the others, Ray was right beside her.
MUSEUM HAUNTINGS
Irene Radford
David Walker Stanley IV woke up. The first fluttering of his eyelids showed him the attic bedroom of his grandfather’s house. He’d curled up, dripping wet, into a fetal position. One little stretch of his stiff legs ended abruptly at the foot rail of the small iron bedstead.
“I’m still alive,’’ he said aloud, to test his voice. He pinched his thigh to make sure he wasn’t still dreaming the nightmare of jumping off a cliff into the river.
“Failed again. I have got to be the most incompetent suicide ever.’’ He grinned. Just the way he planned it.
“And I’m free of the old biddies. They might have declared me incompetent when I graduated from college, just to keep my money, but they can’t control me any more.’’
He’d mailed his lawyer a will bequeathing any remaining assets to himself, under a different identity he’d spent five years building.
He angled his body differently and stretched again. This time his knees straightened and his feet dangled off the side of the thin mattress. Bright sunlight filtered into the room through the cracked shutters on the dormer window. He watched dust motes drifting in the sunbeams. They spotlighted the faded and peeling red wallpaper.
He’d awakened this way in this room for most of his first ten years of life. Then Grumpy had died, leaving him the house and a generous trust fund, and only the bank as his guardian.
A door banged somewhere below him. He risked peeking out through the broken slat on the shutter. The side yard below him, now a paved parking lot, had a small red sedan parked in the back corner. Blackberry vines crept over it.
“Damn, they’re opening the museum today.’’ He thought every small museum in the state closed on Mondays. “Why’d the aunts sell this place, anyway?’’
Aunt Betty and Aunt Freda didn’t believe the stories about Grumpy’s hidden treasure. David did. He’d seen it once, on his eighth birthday, and sort of remembered its hiding place.
He’d been fifteen when they sold. His aunts had partied away most of his trust fund by that time and needed the cash from the only remaining asset in order to maintain their lifestyle.
They’d justified their expenditures on David’s education, sending him to one boarding school after another, always inflating the tuition and expenses by a factor of ten. Their drinking, wild parties, and sycophant husbands—four for Betty and three for Freda—were why he’d gone to his grandfather and not them when his missionary parents died of some exotic fever before he turned three.
The town of Stanley Mills had made the only bid on the house, well below the inflated asking price. Five years of neglect on a one-hundred-fifty-year-old house with six bedrooms, four stories—counting the attic—and two acres of land had taken its toll. Repairs to roof and plumbing, updating the furnace and electricity, restoring overgrown landscaping and roses gone wild cost more than the difference between the asking price and the town’s offer.
Two years later Grumpy’s house became an official museum. The town had even hired a hotshot workaholic curator with a Ph.D. in U.S. history. More important, she knew how to write grants for operating funds.
Too bad her abusive husband killed her the following year. Multiple stab wounds. David had read everything concerning Grumpy’s house.
“I thought I had twenty-four hours to search for the stash,’’ he muttered. “Guess I’ll just have to hide out and sleep for another twelve hours until she leaves.’’
Ten years of renovations and tourist traffic had probably repaired creaking stair treads, opened walls, changed doorways and who knew what else.
Tonight he’d reacquaint himself with his childhood home. If lights showed through the windows, the locals would believe his trespass just another ghost. The place was supposed to be filled with them.
He loosed a long yawn that started in his toes and stretched upward. Another nap. He opened a low cupboard door that let into a triangular storage space beneath the eaves and curled up in the sleeping bag he’d stashed there a month ago.
Keely Kora Ramsey unrolled the morning newspaper and spread it out on her antique rolltop desk as she had every morning for the past ten years. She stopped skimming the headlines, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth, and read the sidebar on the left with community news.
“Heir to the
Stanley fortune succeeds at suicide after two failed attempts.’’
Then, in smaller type she read on:
David Walker Stanley IV, 27, was seen jumping from the top of Cemetery Ridge into the Whistling River last night around midnight. Chief George Miller, head of the water rescue division of the Stanley Mills Fire Department, said he’d never heard of anyone surviving that jump. Stanley’s body has not been found. His companions said he’d been drinking.
Stanley is survived by two aunts, Elizabeth Stanley Bronson and Frederica Stanley Carlisle. Mrs. Bronson told local authorities that her nephew had tried to commit suicide twice before, once by an overdose of pain medication the day he graduated from college, and again by slitting his wrists on his twenty-fourth birthday. “I guess he really didn’t want to live,” she said. “He’s been on medication for depression for years.”
A private memorial service is planned for Thursday.
“Poor fool.’’ Keely shook her head and continued reading, coffee forgotten. But her eyes kept coming back to the sidebar.
“Wonder if he’ll come back to haunt this place?’’ she muttered. “Along with his damned cat.’’
Then she went about her day, dusting, fluffing feather tick mattresses, setting out change in the till, and cataloguing new acquisitions.
Strange, she didn’t remember the beaver felt top hat or the silk opera cape coming through the normal donations. “1870s. Good condition, only a little shattered around the hem of the cape. Beaver felt worn on crown. Grosgrain ribbon at brim modern replacement.’’
She automatically recorded her notes on a standardized form. For now she had to leave the donor and the estimated value blank. One of the high school work-study students could transcribe it later with that information. Keely didn’t trust computer records. Too many hard drives crashed and floppy disks degraded. She liked the tactile sensation of writing on paper with a favored pen.
A fleeting shadow darted from the butler’s pantry through the kitchen to behind the dining room drapes, setting the heavy brocade to swooshing. Dust bunnies the size of her fist skittered in the wake of the lilac point Siamese cat that refused to die. Or stay dead.
Keely frowned. She didn’t like cats. Sneaky beasts, too smart for their own good and always behaving as if they owned their humans instead of the other way around.
No sense in chasing after an animal that wasn’t really there.
The shadows grew longer as the sun dropped behind the line of hills to the west of town. Keely waved her dust cloth a little more frantically. Her heart beat faster in agitation. Night was coming.
She was supposed to lock up the museum at five and go home.
“If I’m quiet and don’t turn on any lights, who will know if I don’t leave? I’ll just heat up a frozen dinner in the employee microwave,’’ she reassured herself as she had every night for many, many nights. “I’m safe during the day when people are around. Will pretends to be very loving and solicitous then. But at night, he’ll . . .’’
She wouldn’t think about the bruises on her body, or the broken ribs, or the threats with a wickedly sharp knife.
Even with her education and sophistication she hadn’t chosen love wisely. Never again would she trust love at first sight. And so she hid every night where Will Ramsey couldn’t find her, wouldn’t think to look for her.
“I’ll just move my car down to the theater parking lot and walk back.’’
David woke up cold, achy, and still damp on the short iron bedstead. Darkness reigned in the small attic room. He stretched until his foot banged into the foot rail. Then he angled his legs sideways to dangle off the thin mattress.
After several minutes, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he picked out the shapes and shadows of the child-sized furniture, the toys piled around a painted chest and the beloved, threadbare teddy bear that had comforted him through many nights. Grumpy had owned the bear first, then David’s father, and finally David himself. The aunts had insisted he leave it behind when he moved in with them. They bought him a new one that didn’t shed fur and had hypoallergenic stuffing. But it had no personality, no history, no sense of family, and tradition.
He walked across the room and reached for the bear. The sound of footsteps on the stairs stopped him dead in his tracks. Who was in the house? Everyone should have gone home hours ago. He edged quietly over to stand against the wall, behind the door.
The door creaked open a few inches. It stuck halfway open; the settling house had thrown the frame out of alignment.
A small, round, fur-covered face with long white whiskers peeked in.
“Lilac!’’ he cried, forgetting to be quiet. “Oh, kitty, I thought you’d died long ago.’’
“Mew?’’ The delicate lilac point Siamese cat looked up at him. “Meower,’’ she continued, letting him know that he’d been gone far too long and she resented him, and longed to be held because she was lonely.
“Oh, Lilac, I missed you, too.’’ He stooped and picked her up, cradling her against his chest. “You must be the oldest cat on record, Lilac.’’ She’d been old and slow, no longer interested in hunting, only in warm laps and a puddle of sunshine to sleep in, when he moved in with Grumpy. The aunts had tried to put her to sleep but she ran away, as old cats are wont to do.
The cat began purring as she rubbed her face against his arm.
He held her tighter, letting her animal warmth fill him with the love he’d been missing for a long, long time.
“Who’s there?’’ a woman asked from right outside the door.
David and Lilac stilled, going cold with fear.
“Just my imagination. These old houses creak and settle. The wind in the trees always sounds like whispering,’’ the woman continued. She rattled the door latch and pushed against the door.
David closed his eyes and willed himself to invisibility. When he opened them he found the woman—shapely and slender, in her late twenties with curly brown hair that made her look like a poodle—staring at him with big hazel eyes. Her mouth fell agape, showing a few straight white teeth.
All he could think was that she’d had expensive orthodontia. So had he.
Lilac pushed at his chest and leaped away. Her hind claws scratched his arm painfully. He rubbed the raw wound, surprised that his fingers came away clear of blood.
“Don’t come near me, I’m going to call the police,’’ the woman said. She deepened her voice and tried to sound stern, but it came out shaky and frightened.
“Don’t do that. Please.’’ David reached an imploring hand, stopping just short of touching her.
She flinched.
“I won’t hurt you. I just need a place to hide out for a few days.’’
“Why?’’ She backed toward the window. A bit of moonlight filtering through the broken shutter slats outlined her trim body, but masked her face in shadow.
“I’m David Stanley. I used to live here. Please let me stay here.’’
“David Walker Stanley? The paper said you jumped off Cemetery Ridge last night.’’
She sounded more curious than frightened now.
“I faked it. I’m trying to escape my family. They poisoned me and made it look like failed suicide six years ago and they’ve tried twice more since. Now they’re trying to put me in an asylum so they can control my money without question.’’
“You can’t take it with you,’’ she quipped, almost laughing.
“In this case I can. And will.’’
“Smart trick if you can pull it off.’’
A bit of light glinted off the whites of her eyes as she opened them wide.
“Tell me how? That might be just the trick to get away from Will.’’
“Will?’’ David didn’t like the idea of this lovely woman belonging to another man. He couldn’t explain the sudden flare of jealousy over someone he’d just met, didn’t even know her name. It was just there, filling him with rage, as if he had a right to the emotion.
“My . .
. my husband.’’ She turned her head away, as if embarrassed.
“You need to get away from him,’’ David said flatly. “Does he hurt you?’’
She gulped and nodded, still looking at the cobwebs in the corner.
“I’ll kill the bastard!’’
“No, please. He’s dangerous.’’
“I can take care of myself.’’ David took two determined steps toward the closed door.
“He’s got a very large hunting knife. He knows how to use it.’’
Something clicked in David’s brain. He went cold all over. Colder than he’d been when he woke up damp and cramped. “How’d you get through the door without opening it?’’
Keely had to pause a moment to follow David’s leap of topics. “Why did you ask that? I don’t follow.’’
He shrugged and looked pointedly at the small gap between the door and frame.
“Just answer my question. You not opening the door means a lot. To me. It should have stuck half way open.’’
“I planed off the bottom during the restoration. It doesn’t stick any more. I also oiled the hinges. It opens and closes easily.’’
“Oh.’’ He looked so disappointed, as if he’d hoped she’d walked through the closed door.
“I’m not a ghost, if that’s what you’re wondering.’’
“If you aren’t a ghost, then who are you?’’ He bent over and petted the cat that stropped his legs.
It purred loudly. A real cat. Not the ghost reported by her interns and docents. She’d have to get someone to take it to the shelter. She couldn’t have a real cat scratching fine wood and shedding all over priceless antique furniture.
“I’m Dr. Keely Ramsey, the curator.’’
“Aren’t you kind of young?’’
“That, sir, is none of your business. Now will you leave my bedroom or should I call the police and have you removed?’’
“Your bedroom!’’ He sounded outraged at the thought.
“It’s the only place I have to hide from Will.’’ She hated the frightened whine in her voice. “This floor is closed to the public. No one comes up here any more, not even to dust.’’ She swiped at a cobweb in the corner. “I leave it dusty in case someone does look. And I keep some clothing in that cupboard.’’ She pointed to the triangular space below the dormer.
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