by Trisha Telep
Another chill skittered across her body and, for a moment, almost seemed to wrap itself around her in an embrace. She shuddered, tossing off her apprehension. Craziness, she thought.
She walked to the French doors and threw them open, allowing the warm spring breeze into the room. It was just a case of a drafty old house, much like her family’s inn. She lingered by the doors, lifting her face up to the bright sunshine until the chill in her body disappeared. Then she returned to her suitcase and unpacked her notes and assorted research materials. She took them to the simple mahogany desk at one side of the room and laid them out. As she did so, she quickly reviewed the notes. She remained convinced that she was on the right trail to prove what had actually happened that night.
She hoped that over the weekend she’d find the last little bits of information she needed to realize the truth about Francis Ryan, determine if Peter’s dad could be his descendant and, of course, win the prize.
His lawyer son would definitely not approve, but Frank could not resist watching his assorted guests on the laptop in his bedroom. Although as Nancy Finch began to undress, he quickly flipped away.
Frank Angelo was more a student of human nature than an actual voyeur. It was why he had decided to assemble such a diverse cast of characters to solve the mystery of the Ryan family.
His family, he reminded himself as he laid his hand on the old leather journal beside him on the bed. Its cover had the rich patina of having been held often, but was warped from the water that had damaged it. A goodly portion of the pages were curled and hopelessly stuck together, but those that remained hinted at quite a different story than the one that was publicly known about Skippy Ryan.
In fact, if the writer of the diary was to be believed, Anna Dolan Ryan and baby Francesca had left the mansion alive and well that night and gone into hiding to await a reunion with Skippy. A reunion that, sadly, had never occurred.
Anna had assumed another name to protect her family and eventually remarried a local Italian laborer who had adopted little Francesca as his own.
Frank had been named after his mother Francesca, Peter’s grandmother. Francesca Angelo was long since gone and if she had known her history, she’d never said a word. Frank was determined to find out the truth if it was the last thing he did.
Which it might be, he thought, as pressure gripped his chest and made breathing difficult. The congestive heart failure grew worse each day and none of his medicines were working to stem its progress.
The pressure increased, worrying him that he would not last to see the results of the contest. But then a gentle hand passed over his face and down to the center of his chest. “Rest, my child,” he heard a voice say and, as if by magic, the weight stifling his life lifted slightly.
When the knock came at the door, he was able to muster a “Come in”, but fumbled with clumsy hands to close the laptop.
His son entered and was immediately at his side, concern obvious on his handsome face. From his initial investigations, Frank had discovered that his son’s face was very much like Skippy Ryan’s.
“Are you OK, Dad?” Peter grasped his hand.
“Fine. Excited,” he said, unable to manage more than single words as his breath failed him and his heart drummed rapidly in his chest. Once again a gentle pass of an invisible hand across his face brought calm and some relief.
Peter smiled indulgently and nodded. “I know, Dad. I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Tracy. Win,” he said, more convinced than ever that the young writer would be the one to solve the mystery. Months earlier, he had heard her give a workshop at a local library and had been impressed. Something about her determination had reminded him of what little he remembered of his grandmother.
The smile on his son’s face brightened and spread up into his eyes at the mention of the young writer. “Yeah, I think she might have what it takes.”
Frank suspected the comment wasn’t solely about the contest, and inside of him something lightened, releasing the vicious hold illness had on his heart.
“Go. Visit,” he prompted with a strong squeeze of Peter’s hand.
His son chuckled. “Playing matchmaker? Really, Dad?”
“Want babies.” He wished to see his son happily married and with children before he died. For some inexplicable reason, Tracy Gomez seemed like the kind of woman who could handle his sometimes obstinate and workaholic son. There had been something about her that Frank had connected with from the moment he had first laid eyes on her.
“Ms Gomez is pretty, I’ll give you that.”
“Smart,” Frank added.
Peter shrugged and rose from the chair beside Frank’s bed. “Get some rest, Dad. And let me have the laptop while you’re at it. I’d hate for you to get all worked up watching the seance.”
Caught red-handed, he thought, but he reached out and feebly passed the computer in his son’s direction. In reality, he was feeling too tired to imagine staying up for the outcome of the seance anyhow. Plus, he didn’t think it would accomplish much.
He’d been in the mansion for well on a week now, thanks to the strings he’d pulled, and, in all that time, there had been nothing to support the idea that the mansion was haunted. Well, nothing except what had happened just moments before. That alone wasn’t enough to convince him, however.
“No ghosts,” he said, but Peter only shook his head and chuckled once more.
“Finally something we can agree on.”
Four
Tracy could safely say that she had never seen anything quite like the bedlam that had overwhelmed the gracefully elegant parlor room.
Tommy Smith darted from one piece of equipment to the next to make sure everything was in order to film the big metaphysical event. Cables and wires slithered along the floor like snakes as his crew connected them to a number of different cameras and monitors.
“This new puppy here is a tri-axial EMF meter to record any disruptions in the electromagnetic forces in the room,” he said as he shot a glance at her over his shoulder.
“I suppose you’ll take baseline readings,” Tracy replied, creating an instant flurry of activity in Tommy who rushed over to one of his three technicians to give a spate of orders, including one for a reference point.
“Cruel,” Peter said from beside her, causing her heartbeat to jump in both surprise and awareness of the non-existent distance between them.
“Just analytical,” she answered, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
He had changed out of the formal suit and tie into a pale-blue polo shirt and faded denim. The color only intensified his eyes and brought out blue-black highlights in his dark hair. The short sleeves on the shirt exposed wickedly ripped arms, which he crossed, shifting her attention to the equally sculpted muscles of his broad chest. She couldn’t avoid the temptation to look downward past his flat midsection to where the soft fabric of his jeans hugged long, lean legs.
“Done analysing?” he said with a sinful chuckle and arch of his brow.
She was spared from answering as Nancy Finch chose that moment to make her entrance, the diaphanous fabric of her low-cut gown floating around her. Trailing her like little lapdogs were Hank Jenkins, Detective Daly and John Marcovic.
It surprised Tracy that during the course of their earlier dinner the men seemed to have become so taken with the psychic, especially the gruff NYPD detective.
Peter leaned close and said, “She seems to have them tamed. It will make her little show that much easier.”
Tracy was slightly taken aback and peered at him. “So you don’t believe in her abilities?”
He shoved the tips of his fingers in the pockets of his jeans, rocked back on his heels a moment and then shrugged. “Let’s just say that in my world I’m used to dealing in facts. And you?”
“My stock-in-trade is facts. Not this.” She waved her hand in the direction of the circus occurring before her eyes. Tommy and his crew had gathered, with an assortment of
equipment, at the far side of the room before what looked like a control panel. Nancy had assumed a spot at the head of a small table, which had been placed in the center of the room. The three men jockeyed for spots around her and finally settled down, leaving empty seats for Tracy, Peter and Tommy.
Nancy glanced her way, lifted an artfully waxed brow and fluttered her hand, beckoning to them with perfectly manicured fingers. “Come. It’s time to get started.”
Tommy raced to a seat at the table, but Tracy and Peter proceeded more slowly. As they took seats beside one another, Nancy glanced toward Peter’s assistant, who stood by the door. At her nod, he lowered the lights, bathing them in the warm glow of the candles Nancy had insisted be placed at strategic locations around the room.
Tracy had to give it to the psychic. The lighting created an immediate sense of intimacy given their close proximity around the small table.
“Please reach out to your neighbors and grasp their hand.”
Hold Peter’s hand. She should have seen it coming, but suddenly found herself scrubbing her wet palm against her jeans before grasping Tommy’s hand and then Peter’s.
Warmth. Strength. An unexpected tingle that snared her attention and had her shooting him a half-glance.
His attention was likewise diverted, his gaze on her instead of Nancy. The psychic pressed forward, calling on the spirits in the room to show themselves. Asking for some sign that they were there.
Nothing happened with the ghosts, but Tracy was definitely getting signs from Peter. His blue eyes were bright with interest as he examined her face, and that tingle where she was holding his hand grew steadily until . . .
A chill snaked around her ankles, but in a mansion as old as this one, that wasn’t unexpected. Then a low, almost masculine moan erupted from Nancy as her eyes rolled back in her head.
“Oh man, the EMF meter is going wild,” one of Tommy’s technicians murmured and clapped his hands gleefully.
Nancy’s head lolled against the back of the dining chair and the two men on either side of her released her hands to come to her assistance, but she shook her head. “No, hold on,” Nancy warned. “Someone is here. They are trying to reach us.”
The chill, which had seemed like nothing more than a draft, grew bolder, traveling upward and wrapping around Tracy’s legs. Insistent. Her heartbeat raced in her chest and pressure built inside her skull. She shook her head, trying to drive away the sensation overtaking her.
“Tracy. Tracy, are you OK?” she heard from beside her. But it came as if from a distance and echoed within her brain.
The cold had now embraced her entire body. She tried to speak, but nothing came out of her mouth. A hand brushed the side of her face. Lovingly. Somehow grounding her as she struggled to free herself of the consciousness taking control of her body.
Peter ran his hand along her cheek and met her gaze, but the vibrant and intelligent gleam in her eyes had changed somehow. Her eyes were blank, dark, lifeless orbs staring back at him. The edges of her lips moved. Barely. And as he examined her face more carefully, it was almost as if the blurry image of someone else had been superimposed on her features.
A beautiful woman, he thought, and inside of him, awareness flared brightly. Warmth blazed more intensely, especially where he held Tracy’s hand.
“They’re here,” Nancy said in an eerie sing-song, mimicking the famous movie line.
He looked around the table and realized all eyes were on him and Tracy.
“No,” he said, but wasn’t sure whether anyone had heard him, not even Tracy, since at that moment she broke contact with Tommy, raised her hand and laid it on Peter’s cheek.
Her touch was electric, racing through him so powerfully that he jumped.
“Francis,” she said, the name filled with such longing that it hurt his heart.
“Anna,” he replied and jerked back again.
Anna? Not Anna. Tracy, he thought, battling the weird almost out-of-body sensation gripping him. It was as if someone else had dominion over his being and he was just a visitor, watching what was happening from the sidelines.
“I miss you, Francis,” Tracy said and ran her thumb across his lips. “Come home to me.”
Peter was pulled toward her, but something held him back. Kept him immobile. Fear, he realized. Gut-wrenching, heart-pounding fear.
Death. Death was near, he thought, his gut clenching. A cold sweat erupted on his body.
“Can’t,” he replied, shaking his head. He ripped away from her touch and something popped free inside of him.
Like a soap bubble bursting, whatever had taken hold of Tracy disappeared. Awareness rippled across her face of where she was and what was happening. She shook her body like a dog tossing water from wet fur, forcing away the last of whatever had gripped her.
Tommy burst from his chair. “That was amazing. Did you get that?” he shouted at his technicians.
“Don’t know,” the crew member replied.
“Tracy? Are you OK?” Peter asked, his hand shaking as he brought it to her face and gently stroked the smoothness of her cheek.
“I think so.” She glanced away from him to the others gathered around the table.
“That was something,” said Hank Jenkins and wrapped his arm around Nancy’s shoulders as she sagged into her chair.
“But what was it?” questioned Daly. He rose and jammed his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket, something he did often judging from the way they bulged even when empty.
He walked over to where Tommy stood with his technicians, who were busily playing with the equipment. Judging from the puzzled looks on their faces, something was not working as it should have been.
“Well, Tommy?” the detective pressed.
“We’re working on it,” Tommy replied with irritation.
“Technical difficulties. Not unexpected, given what we’re dealing with,” said Marcovic, his tone almost condescending.
“What we’re dealing with?” Peter challenged and scooted his chair closer to Tracy, who still seemed a little shaken. When she leaned her head against his shoulder, he wrapped his arm around her, offering his support.
“Ghosts,” said Marcovic.
“Ghosts?” Tracy replied weakly and rubbed her hands along her arms.
“They were here. I could feel them. Feel their pain,” Nancy replied and glanced at Hank. “You saw them, right?”
“Them?” Peter asked, quickly replaying in his brain what he had seen, but recalling only the change in Tracy.
“You don’t realize, do you?” Hank said, his gaze focusing on Peter and Tracy.
“Realize what?” Peter asked.
“You were him,” said Detective Daly as he waved dismissively at Tommy and his people, who still appeared to be having problems with their equipment.
“Him? Who?”
“You were Francis,” said Tracy, glancing up at him as if seeing him with new eyes.
Not possible, Peter thought, shaking his head. “How do you know?”
“Because I was Anna,” Tracy replied.
Five
Tracy couldn’t shake the chill that had gripped her earlier nor the lingering presence within her. It was if she was no longer alone. As if someone else was with her. Tucked into her heart.
Peter, she thought, only not. The connection she had experienced in the parlor room hadn’t been with Peter. It had been with someone else.
Francis Ryan.
Except that was impossible, Tracy thought, as she paced back and forth in front of the French doors leading to the garden, before stopping to appreciate the beauty outside. The night was bright, the moonlight bathing everything with cold hoary light. Beyond the gardens, the ocean’s wash shimmered along the shore as bright whitecaps broke the dark of the water’s surface.
In her mind’s eye the image changed. Darkened.
It had been a moonless night. Perfect for running rum. Perfect for running away.
She knew that now. Anna had been e
scaping with her baby that night.
But Tracy also knew something else – Anna hadn’t been fleeing her husband. She had loved him. Deeply. Leaving him had cost her . . .
A knock came at her door, and although the last thing she wanted was company, she sensed he was there.
Peter.
She walked to the door and opened it. He waited, looking a bit sheepish. His hands jammed into the pockets of those well-worn jeans. She knew from the look on his face that he still didn’t believe, but then again, she wasn’t quite sure she did either.
“May I come in?”
She stepped aside and motioned him in.
He stood in the middle of the space, clearly uneasy. As if searching for something to do, he walked to the desk where she had laid out her research notes.
“May I?” he asked and, at her nod, leaned one hand on the edge of the desk as he flipped through the papers.
“Fascinating,” he said when he finished, turned and leaned his butt on the edge of the desk.
“Not as interesting as what happened before,” she said, crossing her arms and coming to stand in front of him.
“What did happen before?” he asked, mimicking her pose, both of them obviously in defensive mode.
“I was hoping you could tell me. Did Tommy and his people get anything?”
“Nothing visible on the videotape. But he did get some drastic changes in temperature and wild EMF readings.”
“All of which means . . .”
Peter shrugged and the action pulled the fabric of his shirt across the broad muscles of his shoulders. “I wish I knew, Tracy.”
But she did know something, even if she couldn’t explain the why of it. “Anna loved her husband. She was afraid that night, but not of him.”
Peter nodded, but it was reluctant. “If I believe that I tapped into something from the beyond . . . I felt fear. Deadly fear.”
“I think I may know why,” she said and brushed past him to the surface of her desk. Shuffling the papers around as he had earlier, she dug up some notes and photocopies.