Grimly, he enlightened Aubrey with facts she did not know. Facts connected to the explosion that Aubrey had warned a security guard about twenty minutes before it occurred. As she listened, her mood shifted too, from distress to concern to guilt. She closed her eyes, a swell in her throat rising. In spite of her preemptive warning, which had prompted a complex-wide evacuation, Aubrey had been too late. Hanlin informed her that two civilians were dead, the result of a basement blast that could not be prevented.
“Damn it.” Aubrey pressed her hands flat onto the cool tabletop.
Opening the envelope, the agent placed two photocopied driver’s licenses in front of Aubrey—Patricia Lawrence from Madison, Wisconsin, and Anthony Revere from Swampscott, Massachusetts. Jack Hanlin drew her attention. “They were cousins, Miss Ellis—just ordinary folks, spending the day in Boston. Mrs. Lawrence was visiting with her husband and four children. Thank God only she and Mr. Revere went to use the restroom located on the lower level. He was nice enough to escort the family into the city, do the tourist thing with them. I highly doubt either cousin figured they’d end up dead today.”
Aubrey’s stomach knotted. She touched the photocopy image of Anthony Revere and his cousin Patricia, who now had four motherless children. A wave of obligation rode her, the impersonal driver’s licenses taking on the look of treasured family photos. In the face of Anthony Revere, she saw something familiar, a resemblance. She stretched her fingers, making contact with the printed pages. Heat emanated, and a voice filtered through. It was the same specter she’d communicated with right before the deadly blast.
“Madame, do not be melancholy . . . Messages can be challenging to deliver . . . let my own hurried attempt to forewarn be a reference . . . My sincerest regrets if they remove you to the sponging house . . .”
“What the hell is a sponging house?”
“What?” Hanlin said.
“Uh, nothing.” The specter’s voice was gone, and Aubrey wondered if the nineteenth century had its own version of waterboarding. “I told you . . .” She sat taller and reverted to what she assumed was the safest explanation. “I was supposed to meet a friend—”
Agent Hanlin flipped through several pages of notes. “Right, a Zeke Dublin. Last known address, a post office box in Las Vegas. Not terribly reassuring, Miss Ellis. What little info we could obtain, the guy’s like a ghost, a grifter for sure. Dublin’s background is—”
“Oh my God. How many times do I have to say it? I’ve known Zeke since I was a girl. He’s always moved around a lot. That doesn’t make him a terrorist.”
“And during your last phone conversation, tell me again what you talked about.”
She answered through gritted teeth. “Zeke called weeks ago. He said he might be taking a trip east.” She splayed her hands wide and clenched her fists, which landed in her lap. “It was a business trip. It had nothing to do with what happened today. I never even saw him.” She paused. “Look, do . . . do you know if anyone’s heard from Deputy Chief Sullivan? Piper Sullivan.” He shook his head, and Aubrey was unable to decipher whether it was a reply or disgust.
“I want you to look at something.” Agent Hanlin tapped on the iPad. “Here’s the security feed from outside the Grind.” He spun the device toward her. “Would you agree this is you, seated there this morning?”
It was grainy, but it would be difficult to argue with the time-stamped security camera footage: Aubrey dressed in the same distinct houndstooth jumper and black tights she currently wore. It was a wardrobe choice that was not specter friendly, apparitions being partial to bright colors. Clearly, today it hadn’t mattered. That morning she had ventured into Boston—partly in need of a distraction, partly enticed by Zeke’s text. The two were supposed to meet near the waterfall wall inside the Prudential Tower. The train schedule choices meant Aubrey could be an hour early or a half hour late. She’d chosen early.
In the security footage, she sat alone at an outdoor table a half block away from the southwest entrance to the massive tower complex. The emptiness of the surrounding tables had made for a lonely setting, enhancing a sense of foreboding. Obviously, Agent Hanlin saw the scene differently, her story vanishing like any good ghost: there were no men in the footage, no conversation to be overheard. Aubrey continued to watch her lie unravel. The initial images revealed nothing but a woman drinking a cup of tea on a sunny Friday morning. Her disposition, she thought, was readable: introspective, maybe sad. In truth, Aubrey’s focus had been on Levi and twelve-year-old Pete. How much their lives had changed in recent months.
In one giant step, Hanlin was on her side of the table. Aubrey felt his breath in her ear as he peered over her shoulder. “I’m a good judge of demeanor, Miss Ellis. I’d say that’s the look of a woman with a lot on her mind.”
“I don’t get much quiet time.” She glanced back at him. “I was thinking about my son. My . . .” Aubrey stopped. She and Levi—Aubrey wasn’t sure about the label anymore.
She refocused on the Huntington Ave footage, where a breeze picked up and a stray newspaper page took flight. A coffee cup rolled out of view, and prefall leaves skirted across the pavement. Aubrey’s dark hair blew back. Not visible to the camera was the taste of chai tea, which had turned metallic. She watched herself swallow, making a sour face. Aubrey appeared blind to scattering debris, deaf to whipping wind. The sudden presence of an epic entity had caught her off guard.
You never knew what Boston would unearth; few places offered such a rich array of history and the dead. On the grainy feed, Aubrey looked across the table. Her back pulled stiff as history sat down across from her, a man who’d been dead for more than two hundred years.
Sitting in the interrogation room now, Aubrey resumed the tense position. Jack Hanlin sighed. On the screen, she reached across the wrought iron table, gripping something—the way a carnie might finesse a sleight of hand. The specter had handed her the usual offering—a token ghost gift. Of course, it’s not what Agent Hanlin would see. The low-grade video made the object difficult to decipher. Aubrey tipped her chin upward. She’d never watched herself communicate with a spirit. Of course, to the average eye she appeared to be carrying on a conversation with no one.
“Did you dump the earpiece?” Hanlin asked. “We’ve checked every receptacle you passed, but maybe you tossed it in a sewer drain.”
“What?” Aubrey’s attention was rapt on the empty café chair as she dropped the spirit’s ghost gift in her Burberry bag. The one they’d confiscated the moment she was taken into custody.
“An earpiece. Clearly you’re wearing a communication device of some sort, talking to your contact.”
“Oh my God. No!” She wove her fingers through her hair, gripping tightly at the crown. Naturally, that would be the agent’s perception, and any mention of a ghost gift would sound like lunacy. Short of Piper coming to her rescue, Aubrey was out of ways to convince him. “That’s absurd. I’m talking to . . .” Lowering her hand, she squeezed her eyes shut and fabricated yet another lie. “I was, um . . . I was rehearsing a pseudo-conversation with my son. We’ve been having some trouble with him lately.”
“Ma’am, that’s quite a rehearsal.”
Aubrey’s videotaped reaction grew more animated, an obvious exchange of dialogue. Take your pick: unstable individual or anti-American, maybe a good dose of both. With a gaping hole in the lower level of the Prudential Tower, she guessed either accusation would hold up in court.
Agent Hanlin darted back around the table. The military emblem on his forearm caught Aubrey’s eye. “Personally,” he said, “I might buy a pseudo-conversation. Maybe even a pep talk with yourself—but this?” He tipped the iPad toward her. Aubrey’s recorded expression shifted once more, now radiating panic. Seconds later, she lurched from the café chair and hurried toward the nearest tower entrance, exiting the camera’s frame.
Hanlin sat. They’d arrived at a crossroads. Aubrey’s gaze dipped, and she focused on his decorated arm. She went for a long shot
and the heavy-duty ghostly presence connected to the former Navy SEAL since he’d hustled her into the room. The entity had been circling, wanting in each time the interrogation hit a lull. Maybe a little shock therapy would alter Hanlin’s take and give Aubrey a chance to confide the truth. She eyeballed Hanlin and granted the specter access; the ghost’s response was immediate. “Shaun says hel—” She stopped. He was a fast talker. “No, he says, ‘Hola, Lead Dog.’”
And just like that, the tables turned.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“Shaun . . . Ramirez . . . wait. You call him . . . the, um . . . ‘the Irish spic.’” Aubrey stared at the agent’s arm. “He says, ‘SEAL Team Six on deck.’” Jack Hanlin yanked back his inked arm, like the tattoo contained a coded bio. “He, uh . . .” Aubrey briefly closed her eyes. Granted, the upset of the circumstance was not making for the most fluid pathway. Her nose filled with the scent of spent ammunition, dirt . . . blood. She heard the heartbeats of ten . . . twelve men, cautionary silence, then bedlam. A dog barked sharply in her ear; crystal clear, she saw a German shepherd pace.
Like all Navy SEALs, Shaun Ramirez was determined. He followed his training and acted on opportunity the second Aubrey allowed it. She tipped her head, separating expletives from content. “Shaun said to stop with the effing nightmares already—that you would have done the same thing.” Hanlin stood, wide-eyed, his mouth gaping. It struck Aubrey as his first unrehearsed expression. “Our meeting isn’t under pleasant circumstances,” she said. “But I can see that you’re a dedicated, loyal kind of man, Agent Hanlin.” Aubrey honed in on his live emotions, which now provided a solid connection to his dead SEAL team member. “The IED—Shaun says Cairo sniffed it out first, too fast. He followed Cairo, and the device exploded. They’re glad they took the brunt of the blast for the team. ‘Zero regrets . . . ,’” she quoted. “And, um . . .” Aubrey rolled her eyes. “Woof,” she said dully. “Afghanistan, was it?”
The agent’s startled look dropped like a fallen solider. “All kinds of soldiers are well trained, Miss Ellis—particularly covert ones. Speaking of teams, there must be a formidable one behind you. You must have profiled every agent on this detail, come prepared to encounter any one of us. We’re done with the ‘good cop’ portion of the program.”
Shaun Ramirez’s presence vanished like desert dust, and Aubrey’s heart began to pound like those twelve men’s. Maybe an ethereal approach wasn’t the best idea. Hanlin’s fists curled; it was no longer the tattoo that stuck out but the veins in his forearms.
“Let me be perfectly clear. Director Kirkpatrick has no issue with the use of physical force in a situation like this. Man, woman . . .” He shrugged. “Makes no difference to him. Personally, I don’t condone it.” Aubrey blinked at his cement-like pose and the locked door. “But if you don’t start saying something of value, I will have no choice but to take a coffee break that you will regret. I’m part of what we call ‘the greeting card team.’ Be assured, there are agents who would have abandoned my friendlier approach hours ago.”
Aubrey was out of subterfuge and viable explanations for a warning about the Prudential Tower explosion. An explosion conveyed by Boston’s own Paul Revere. Paul Revere. She imagined how absurd it would sound. A knock at the door interrupted her borderline panic. Agent Hanlin exchanged a few hushed words with another man. The door opened wider. He turned to Aubrey. “Seems your Deputy Chief Sullivan has arrived.”
“Oh, thank God.” Aubrey lurched from the seat as a woman in a tan overcoat rushed into the room.
“Sit down!” Agent Hanlin barked, and Aubrey followed the order.
“Aubrey, are you all right?”
The peril and upset sank in. Her chin quivered, and her hand moved across her mouth, feeling the half-moon scar on her chin. It’d taken decades, but today Aubrey had managed to end up in a moment almost as frightening as the one that had caused the scar.
“Aubrey?” the woman asked again.
“And beyond Deputy Chief Sullivan, you would be . . . ?” Agent Hanlin asked.
“Assigned to a special government task force, based in the New England region. Your superiors have my full credentials.”
Hanlin looked Piper over, and Aubrey could see his usual spot-on assessment hit a wall. Piper was like that—external Southern sweetness, like she should be saying “Bless your heart” while pouring you a glass of iced tea.
In reality, any iced tea recipients would quickly find themselves hog-tied and at her mercy. Piper had been among the first female Army Rangers and, like Hanlin, now made the most of her repurposed skill set. “I’ve worked with Miss Ellis in the past,” Piper said. “She’s been most beneficial, aiding us with a number of cases.”
“Okay, you must have checked out, or you wouldn’t be in here. But we did a thorough search of Miss Ellis’s background. She might have a decade-old bestseller to her name, but she has nothing to do with law enforcement.”
“Did you miss the special task force part? Surely you’re aware that not everything in government can be found in a file.” She glanced at Aubrey. “Cut from a Levi kind of cloth, isn’t he?”
“He’s a show-me kind of guy, for sure.” Aubrey thudded back in her seat.
Piper turned back to Agent Hanlin. “Miss Ellis works with us in a civilian capacity, on a case-by-case basis. My task force works with the Center for Missing and Exploited Children.”
“Good for you.” Hanlin looked her over. “But that has nothing to do with this morning, when she rushed into the Prudential Tower and forewarned a security guard about an explosion. An explosion that occurred twenty minutes later. It took two lives, Miss Sullivan.”
“Deputy Chief Sullivan,” she corrected.
“I believe the Federal Bureau of Investigation and terrorist activity will trump any credentials you can offer, Chief.”
“I can vouch for Aubrey’s good standing. I assure you, she’s in no way mixed up in any terrorist plot.”
“Really? Do you have a better explanation for her curious café exchange with what had to be an earpiece counterpart?”
“I’ve seen the footage.” He looked surprised. “Be assured, Agent Hanlin, my resources rival yours.” She smiled, a crooked thing that was hard to read. “Aubrey, on the other hand, has resources that make ours rather pedestrian. While I understand your concern, what you need to know is that you’re wasting your time here. Whoever is responsible for today’s tragedy gets further away every moment you spend interrogating her.”
Another knock interrupted. “We may need to move this to a larger venue.” Agent Hanlin opened the door, and two more jacket-wearing FBI personnel walked through, carrying a clipboard of papers and Aubrey’s empty purse, the bagged and tagged items taken from it. “Gentlemen?”
A muscular man who looked like he could split wood with his teeth spoke first. “The team’s completed its initial testing of the blast area.”
“And?” Hanlin glanced at Aubrey and Piper, appearing surprised that the conversation was taking place in front of them.
“No trace of explosive devices was found. Apparently there was a maintenance crew here a few months back. They replaced a hydraulic valve on a large generator. The manufacturer contacted us when they heard about the explosion.”
The second agent, boasting a numbers-kind-of-guy look, pushed spectacles higher on his nose. “Seems a pressure regulator on the newly installed valve was found to have a faulty connector. It’s a defect the manufacturer just discovered. They were in the process of tracking down sites where those regulators were installed. Unfortunately, they hadn’t gotten to this one. If the faulty connector were triggered, the manufacturer stated the pressure could build to a deadly level.”
“A deadly level . . . hydraulic valves. What are you saying?” Agent Hanlin asked.
“The explosion was an accident.” The numbers guy adjusted his glasses again. “The manufacturer is taking full responsibility. They’re making a statement right now. Considering
present-day terrorist concerns, they felt it their duty to come forward immediately.” Hanlin didn’t budge physically, probably not mentally either, as the reporting agent continued his update. “Kirkpatrick’s been informed of everything. He’s spoken with all parties involved. Our team and Kirkpatrick, they’re concurring with the valve manufacturer.” The agents glanced at Aubrey and Piper, who was now seated, holding Aubrey’s hand. “She’s not involved. Kirkpatrick said to cut her loose.”
Hanlin pointed to Aubrey. “Then how the fuck do you explain her warning to the security guard?”
The bulkier agent shrugged. “We interviewed the guard again, told him about the accident. Says now that he’s thought about it, maybe the woman wasn’t so specific. He said maybe it was more of a hunch on his part, a bad feeling. And lucky for most of the building that he went with it. Without that early warning, who knows how many people would have been injured or worse in a panic.”
“I see.” Agent Hanlin shook his head. “Good to be the hero who saves a couple of thousand lives. Especially when the blast turns out to be a mechanical malfunction.” The irritation in Agent Hanlin’s voice didn’t ease. “And so that’s it?”
“As far as she’s concerned.” The eyeglass-wearing agent looked at Aubrey. “Believe me, Director Kirkpatrick’s wholly relieved it was no more than an accident on his watch.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” Hanlin pointed a finger at Aubrey. “But it doesn’t explain how she could have possibly . . .” He slapped his arm against his side. “Great. That’s just great. Thanks for the update.” The exiting agents handed Hanlin the bagged items taken from Aubrey’s purse, along with the brand-new Burberry accessory. It looked like it’d spent a week on the luggage carousel at Logan.
“Satisfied, Agent Hanlin?” Piper said. “I told you, Aubrey Ellis’s only connection to law enforcement is a positive one. I’d like her released as quickly as possible. If you have follow-up questions, I’m sure you have her Surrey address on file, if not staked out.”
Foretold (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 2) Page 5