Ghost Walk (12 page)

Jamie
winced a bit at that image.

Grace
barely noticed.  Her mind was back in the familiar rhythms of collecting
evidence.  She looped her camera around her neck, documenting everything she
saw.  As hopeless as this assignment seemed, she wanted to do everything she
possibly could to solve Lucinda’s murder.  Grace was good at her job.  (Her
ex
-job.) 
Maybe there was some scrap of evidence left that she could find.

Only
what kind of evidence lasted two centuries?

“DNA
and fingerprints won’t help us at a scene this old.”  She mused out loud.  “Who
could we compare it to?  Fibers are going to be useless, for the same reason. 
That’s assuming anything even survived twenty-three decades of cleanings and
furniture changes.  Window’s new, so we can’t check the lock.”  She looked down
and blinked.  “Hang on.”  Grace crouched to examine the floorboards.  Some of
the planks had been replaced, but, like downstairs, most were original.  Her
brain went “cha-ching!”  “Jamie, was there a rug in here?”

“Why
are the living in this town so fixated on floor cloths?”

“Just
answer the question.”

He
sighed like a martyr.  “I donea know if Lucinda had a bloody rug.”

“How
can you not know?”

“It
was two hundred and thirty years ago!”

Grace
made an aggravated sound and moved towards the alcove by the window.  It was
the natural place to fit a mattress.  “Is this about where the bed was?”

“Aye. 
Right there.”

“Of
course you remember
that
part.”  It irrationally annoyed her that he’d
had sex with Lucinda in this very room.  The floor here looked good, though. 
It had mostly been protected by various beds, so there had probably never been
a rug covering it.  “Hand me that screwdriver, will you?”

Jamie
didn’t move.

It
took Grace a second to realize why.

“Crap. 
I keep forgetting the whole ‘you can’t touch anything’ thing.”  She quickly got
it from her kit herself.  “Sorry about that.”

He
ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated.  “No,
I’m
sorry.  It’s
my failing, not yours.  I’m sorry I can’t help you do this.  I’m sorry I’m not
really here.”

She
blinked at that phrasing.  “But, you are helping and you
are
here. 
Trust me, I spent all night trying to convince myself otherwise, but there’s no
denying that you’re standing right in front of me.”

“Or
I could still be a brain tumor.”

“You’re
way too handsome to be a brain tumor.”  She said before she thought better of
it.  Something about Jamie had her blurting out things she’d normally keep to
herself.  Like she could just say anything and it would be okay.

Like
he made her feel… safe.

Jamie
slowly smiled at her.  “I like it when you call me handsome.”

Grace
self-consciously swept her hair behind her ears.  “Well, we both know it’s true.” 
She muttered, feeling her cheeks heat up under his intense stare.

For
some reason her blushes always seemed to fascinate him.  He studied her for a
long moment and then shook his head.  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Robert must be
daft to want another woman.”

Grace
appreciated that sentiment, even if outrageous flirting was his default setting. 
“The compliments are pretty, but not necessary.”  She knelt by an original
section of floor.  “And I’m already doing what you want, so there’s no need to
badmouth Robert to win points.”

“I’ll
badmouth the wanker for fun, then.”  Jamie decided good-naturedly.  “I wish
nothing but curses upon his bland and balding head.”  He paused.  “And you’re
surely not doing
everything
I want, lass.  You closed your bedroom door,
last night.”

“Because
you would have watched me get undressed.”

He
didn’t even bother to deny that.  “I think ya even locked it, which is bloody
adorable.”

She
made a face, because that
had
been kind of brainless.  “Yeah, I keep
forgetting the ‘you can walk right through walls’ thing, too.”

“I
like that you forget.”  He crouched down so they were at eyelevel.  “I like that
you see me as man.  I sure as hell see you as a woman.”

“Probably
because I’m the first one you’ve talked to in over two hundred years.”

“No. 
That’s not the reason a’tall.”

Grace
cleared her throat and looked away.  Since high school she’d been fantasizing
about the painting of this pirate and now he was gazing at her like she was the
most magical being he’d ever met.  It was no wonder she was losing her mind. 
How was she supposed to think straight when he was so incredibly… Jamie?  “Can
we just get back to our crime spree, please?”

Jamie
chuckled at the subject change.  “You know, I donea think I’ve ever fancied a
shy lass before.  ‘Tis quite a delightful thing to see you get discomposed.”

“I
don’t even think that’s a word anymore.”  Grace pried up the floorboards,
refusing to be taken in by his Scottish-accented appeal.  He’d no doubt honed
it on every girl in Revolution, from Betsy Ross on down.  “And I’m
not
shy.  I’m just cautious around womanizing ghosts.”

“No
need be cautious.  It’s not as if I can do much more than talk to you.”

“With
you, talking is plenty.”

“Kind
of you to say so.”

Grace
shot him an exasperated look.  “Would you be quiet and let me do this?”

“Alright,
alright.”  He obediently left her alone, watching her work.  “What in Christ’s
name are you doing?”  He asked after about thirty seconds.  That was the
longest he’d stayed silent since they’d met, so it must have taken some real
effort for him.

“This
is the same floor Lucinda died on.  The surface has been cleaned a thousand
times since then, but not the sides.  Wood is porous.”  She finally wrenched a
board loose and set it sideways, so she could look at the unfinished edge. 
“You see?”  She pointed at the telltale black stains.  “Blood seeps through the
cracks and gets absorbed.  Two hundred years and it’s there.”  She began
yanking up more boards, trying to see how big the pool had been.

Jamie’s
teasing smile faded.  He stared at the growing size of the hole, looking grim. 
“It might not be blood.”  He decided at little desperately.  “I might be old
varnish.  Aye, it looks like varnish.  There’s too much for it to be blood.”

Grace
didn’t take offence.  Victim’s families and friends often went into denial, at
first.  Somehow it was easier for Jamie to imagine that Lucinda was alive when
she left the bedroom.  Maybe because of their time together.  His mind kept
trying to find a way to escape the truth.

She
knew the feeling.

“The
human body has more blood in it than you think.”  Grace kept her voice calm.  “Trust
me.  She bled to death right here.”

Jamie
squeezed his eyes shut.  “Fucking hell.”

“I’m
sorry.”  And she was.  Lucinda might have been a mean girl, but Jamie had cared
for her and she died far too young.

Grace
reached over to touch his hand in comfort.  Her palm passed through his and she
left it there, linking them as best she could.  The sizzle of energy sparked,
again.  She couldn’t feel his skin, but she could feel
Jamie
.  The
little jolts of power ran up and down her arm, growing stronger the longer they
stayed linked.

His
gaze slashed up to hers.  “How do you do that?”  He whispered in awe.

“Don’t
ask me.  You’re the ghost here.”

Jamie
shook his head.  “I’ve tried to touch more people than you can imagine over the
years and you’re the only one I’ve ever been able to feel.  It
you
,
Grace.”  He curved his long, elegant fingers around hers, like he wanted to
hold on.  “I was meant to find
you
.”

She
stared back at him, dazed and a little scared.  Holy
cow
but the man was
trouble.  He could make her forget that he was actually dead.  Forget that they
were at a crime scene.  Forget that she was
normal
.  Forget everything
except the blue of his eyes and the musical sound of his voice.

She
swallowed hard.  “Do you want me to be sure about the blood?”  She blurted out,
desperate to get the back on track.

“I
do, but…”

“Good.” 
She pulled her hand back from him, refusing to notice the way his fingers made
an instinctive move to cling to hers.  “I might be able to tell for sure if
it’s blood or varnish.  I don’t think it’s ever been tested on anything
this
old, but theoretically it should work.”

He
sighed and gave a jerky nod.  “Do whatever you can.”

“Alright.” 
Grace got to her feet and pulled down the window shade, so the room got
darker.  She grabbed her squirt bottle full of luminal and sprayed an even coat
across the wood.  The chemical reacted with biological materials, making them
glow.  If someone had bled onto this floor, they were going to be able to tell pretty
quickly.

Grace
clicked on her UV flashlight and wasn’t surprised at all when the wood lit up like
Harrisonburg’s annual fireworks display.  “Blood.”  She said simply.

Jamie
cursed in Gaelic.

The
evidence was unmistakable to anyone who’d ever watched
Dateline
. 
Lucinda had died right there, bleeding onto the floor.  The pool of blood had
been several feet across, running under the bed and straight back to the wall. 
The wound that killed her must have been deep and massive.  Either that or she’d
suffered dozens of smaller wounds, before she finally succumbed.  Someone had
then used the bedclothes to clean up the mess and dumped her body out the
window.  It was all tragically, terrible, irrefutably clear even to an ex-forensic
investigator.

Apparently,
Grace been wrong earlier.  Even two hundred years later, there
was
still
evidence of murder left in this house.  She snapped some pictures of the scene,
falling into the familiar rhythm of the job.

“It’s
like magic.”  Jamie glanced at her.  “You can do something like
this
and
you choose to give dull tours of this dull town?  Why?”

Grace
focused on the camera controls.  “I told you, I burned out.”

That
answer didn’t satisfy him.  Huge surprise.  “And I told
you
, I have no
idea what that means.  Were you injured?”

“No.” 
She hesitated.  “Not physically.”

Jamie’s
head tilted, seeing far too much.  “So much brutality must have been hard to
witness.”  He finally said.  “Hard to forget.”

Her
lips compressed, refusing to be lulled in by his gentle tone.  “The job was
important and I was good at it.  The stress just got to be too much for me.  I
started… seeing things.”

“Seeing
things?”  He tried an encouraging smile.  “Like ghosts?”

“Kind
of.”  For no reason except she had a hard time guarding what she said around
this man, Grace found herself telling him the truth.  “I saw a victim before
she died.  I relived the whole crime scene, just as it was the night of the
murder.”  Her eyes flicked up to his.  “I was
there
, Jamie.”

His
brows compressed like he didn’t have answer for that.

He
wasn’t the only one floundering for a response.  Grace crouched down, her
fingers turning the board so she could get a better look at the Luminal-y
glow.  Her thumb touched the ancient bloodstain and she barely noticed.  “For
the past year, I’ve been trying to explain how it happened, but I keep coming
up…”

She
stopped short as Lucinda’s bedroom vanished around her.

Grace
was suddenly outside.  Like
outside
outside.

It
was night, with candle-lit lanterns flickering along cobblestone streets, and
no sounds except the quiet chirping of insects.

Grace’s
lips parted in amazement.  It seemed like she was still in Harrisonburg, but no
hybrid cars or signs for WiFi hotspots were in sight.  This was Harrisonburg
with all the plastic, hipster, tourist-mania burned away.

Harrisonburg
when it was new.

The
building right in front of her looked exactly like a dirtier, smellier,
high-def version of The Raven.  In fact, it
was
The Raven.  …Or at least
how the tavern must have appeared, just a few years out of the Colonial era.  Because
she knew in her heart that’s where she was:

Smack
dab in the middle of the 1789, on the night Lucinda Wentworth died.

June
23
^,
1789-  How I wish women could walk into taverns and drink!  I
was standing outside The Raven today, wondering if I’d ever have the courage to
enter right through the front door.  Mother and Father would faint dead away. 
How wonderfully shocked the whole world would be!  And I just know all the best
gossip happens inside those walls.  Alas, I have my reputation to consider and
there are some things a lady does not do.

…At
least not publically.

From
the Journal of Miss Lucinda Wentworth

Grace
slowly got to her feet, dread filling her.  “Oh crap…”

Just
like that night in the alleyway, somehow she was back at a murderer scene,
reliving everything in IMAX-like reality.  This was not normal.  This was very,
very
not frigging normal
.  Grace’s breath wheezed in and out as she
tried to get her bearings.  It didn’t feel like a delusion.  It felt like it
was really happening.  Like she was really and truly standing in the middle of
another era.  What the hell was she…?

“Bloody
hell.”  A familiar voice said very distinctly from behind her.  “Either I’m far
drunker than I thought or you just appeared out of nowhere, lass.”

Grace’s
head whipped around, her chaotic thoughts screeching to a halt.  “Jamie?”

It
was really him!

Kind
of.

This
wasn’t
her
Jamie, from the twenty-first century.  This was Jamie, before
he became a ghost.  A solid, three-dimensional Jamie, wearing an even gaudier
outfit than his usual super-colorful mix of fabrics and holding a pewter mug
full of ale.  She gaped up at him, staggered to see him alive and breathing.

And
even more gorgeous.

The
flickering light from the oil lamps did great things for the shine of his hair
and his already exceptional cheekbones.  He tipped his tri-corner hat farther
back on his head, looking like the cover shot for some Patriot-themed “Hunk of
the Day” calendar.  Despite her possible insanity, Grace found herself
whispering the word “Wow!” under her breath.  God, he looked amazing.

His
eyebrows shot up when she called him by name.  “Do I know you?”

“I
know
you
.”  She blurted out, staggered by the (maybe) reality of what
was happening.  Jesus, this was (maybe)
actually happening
.  “We met
yesterday, right over there.”  She pointed to the spot where she’d fallen on
the tour.  In this time period, the curb was made of stone and not cement, but
everything around it was eerily the same.  “You don’t remember?”

“No.”

Of
course he didn’t.  It hadn’t happened yet.

“Strange,
because you would be a difficult lady to forget.”  Jamie stepped off the porch
of the tavern.  “I used to see the fay, back in Scotland, and I’m thinking you
might be one of them.  One minute the street was empty and the next you were
here
. 
Appearing out of thin air.”

“Fay?” 
It was so hard to think.  “You mean fairies?”  Oh for God’s sake…  Grace nearly
hit him in general frustration.  “I’m not a frigging fairy, Jamie!”

“Well,
what other beings just materialize out of the ether?  Where do you come from?  And
what in God’s name has happened to your gown?”  He gestured to her striped
skirt.  “You’re practically unclothed.”

Grace
looked down at her sundress.  The maxi length and spaghetti straps were perfect
for a summer day back in reality, but it seemed like Jamie wasn’t sure what to
make of her anachronistic outfit.  No wonder.  In this century, “Old Navy”
meant nothing more than a bunch of British war ships.

“I…” 
She swallowed.  “I’m just a regular human, who’s little bit lost, alright?”  Really,
really lost.  As in this-slightly-inebriated-pirate-was-the-only-person-on-the-
planet
-she-knew
lost.  What if she never got home?

“Lost
from where?”  Jamie persisted, seeing her distress.  “Do you want me to fetch
someone to aid you?”

“No.” 
She whispered with a quick shake of her head.  There was no one but him.  “I need
you
.”

“No
one needs me.”  The words were instant and certain, but she’d clearly captured
his attention.  “I can summon the Watch, if you’re…”

Grace
cut him off.  “I don’t want the Watch or the police or the National Guard! 
You
have to help me, Jamie!  Just stay right there and help me figure this out.” 
She just needed to frigging
think
.

He
edged closer to her, at a loss as to how to proceed.  “Are you hurt?”

“No. 
I’m just not sure how I got here.  Or why.  Or how to get back.  Or…”  She trailed
off, trying to process this madness.  “What day is it?”

“Sunday.”

“Sunday,
the twenty-eight of June?”

“Aye.” 
He checked the position of the moon.  “For another hour or so.  Although, if
anyone should ask, I’m not one for drinking on the Sabbath.”  He raised his mug
at her with a wicked grin, trying to lighten the mood.

It
didn’t work.

Holy
cow.

Holy
cow
, this was honest-to-God the night Lucinda Wentworth died.

Grace
was used to weirdness.  Growing up, she’d lived above a store that sold chicken
heads and a “magical” number-shaped pasta, which was supposed to somehow reveal
winning lotto combinations.  But this…  This was just totally off the lunacy charts,
even for a Rivera.

Grace
bent over with her hands on her knees, trying to calm her racing heart.  Okay. 
(Peaceful green cornfields.  Peaceful green cornfield.)  If this was really
real, (peaceful green cornfields) then she didn’t have the luxury of panic. 
She’d panicked the last time and it had gotten her locked up in padded cell.  (Peaceful
green cornfields.)  This time she had to stay calm and focus on what was
important.

Like
the fact that Jamie was still alive.

Grace
switched her full attention to him, breathing hard.  “This isn’t a delusion. 
It wasn’t before, either.  I
haven’t
been going crazy, all this time. 
I’m… really here.”  She’d
actually
been traveling through time, to the
night of the murders, and reliving it all.  There was no “maybe” about it.  It
was
seriously
happening to her.  “And you’re here, too.”

“None
of which explains why a fairy needs my help.”  Jamie reported, still looking
baffled.  Who could blame him?

She
gave a high-pitched laugh that boarded on hysteria.  “Actually, now that I think
about it,
you’re
the one who needs
my
help.”

“Aye,
that seems more likely.”

Grace
ran a hand through her hair, close to hyperventilating.  “You’re in a hell of a
lot of trouble.”  She paused.  “And I’m not a fairy!  Jesus, can you focus,
please?”

Jamie
must be why this had happened. 
He
was why she was here.  Through the
frantic pounding of her heart, she seized on that explanation for her current
predicament.  She was stuck back in time, because she was supposed to save
Jamie.

Not
that he deserved it.

The
man wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to the looming disaster. 
Instead, his gaze was scanning her body as if he liked what he saw.  Despite everything,
the heat of all that masculine focus had a hot, tight feeling building inside
of her.  Jamie was alive and feeling her up with his eyes.

“You’re
going to aid me, then?”  Having established she wasn’t in dire need of saving,
he’d moved onto the business of flirting.  “Well that sounds promising.  I’ve
got quite a few ideas on how you can be of service.”  He winked at her, not at
all concerned about his own safety.  When he suspected
she
was the one
in trouble, he’d been willing to lend a hand.  With regard to his
own
life, though, he was mind-blowingly caviler.  “I’ll get you a pint and you can
regale me with tales of how you plan to rescue me from my dire fate.”

Grace
waved that aside.  “Just tell me…  Are you
one hundred percent
certain
that it’s 1789?”

Jamie
paused, his head tilting to one side.  “Aye.”  His tone suggested he now
thought she’d had enough pints for the day.  His face grew serious, again.  “On
second thought, we’ll forgo the drinks and I’ll simply walk you home.  You’re
in no condition to be dealing with the likes of me.”  He looked her up and down
again with genuine regret.  “Bloody shame.”

“Jamie,
this isn’t a joke!  You need to listen to me.”

“Oh,
I’m listening to ya.”  He gave a long-suffering sigh.  “Jesus, Mary, and
Joseph, the batty woman thinks she’s come to save me and looks like a fay
creature of moonlight… and I’m just going to walk her home.  Why am I forever
trying to be a bloody gentleman?”

“I’m
not
crazy.”  She repeated, ignoring his muttering.  “I don’t know
whether to be relieved or disappointed about that, but it’s true.”

“This
whole evening is becoming a bit strange.”  He agreed humoringly.  “I donea
blame ya for being a bit confused.  Where is it you live, now?  Somewhere here
in town?”

“No. 
Yes.  I mean, I live here, but I don’t live
here
.  You see?”

“Aye,
that clears it all up.”  He smiled like she really was batty.  Or drunk.  …Or
possibly like he was still half-convinced she was from some alternate fairyland
dimension.  “Just point in the general direction of your home.”

“Trust
me, we can’t walk there.”

“Well,
I know it’s not exactly proper, but it isn’t safe for you to be wandering about
at this hour.”  He stopped in front of her and held out an elegant palm.  “I’ll
admit to being a bit of a cad, but I’m not a man who would leave a lady in your
condition all alone on the street.  There are too many bad sorts in that tavern.” 
He pointed towards The Raven.  “This is Ned Hunicutt’s establishment and he’s
an ass.  He attracts
other
asses around him, like flies to a latrine.”

That
diverted her for a beat.  “You seriously
never
like that guy, do you?”

“The
maps he sells are bloody awful, he treats the serving girls poorly, and he
waters down his ale.  I’m sure he was secretly a Tory.”  Jamie assured her. 
“Now, I just want to see you home and then I’ll be on my way.  I give you my
word.”

“Listen
to me: 
I can’t go home, yet.
”  Shock was fading and a new idea was
forming in her mind.  For the first time in years, the pessimistic voice in her
head faded and optimism took its place.

The
best way to save Jamie was to prevent the killings.

Maybe
she was supposed to rewrite history.  Maybe that was why she’d been dropped in
this specific moment in time.  Maybe she could really do this.  Maybe it was all
that simple.

Grace
took a deep breath.  “I have to try and stop him, before it’s too late.”

“Stop
who now?”

There
was no way she could answer that.  Instead, she grabbed hold of Jamie’s beautiful
hand, wrapping her fingers around his.  “I know it sounds nuts, but you have to
get out of Harrisonburg.  Tonight.”  In case she failed, she needed to make
sure he wasn’t around to hang.  If he wasn’t here, they couldn’t blame him for
the murders.  “Trust me.  You need to get on your ship and sail far, far away. 
Right now.”

Except
he didn’t seem eager to go.

The
sparks when they touched were even stronger when they were both tangible. 
Jamie gasped, his face growing taunt.  Desire throbbed between them.  His palm
twisted, so he could seize her fingers and press them tight.  He seemed more
stunned by the sensation of her skin against his than by her agitated words.

Grace
knew how he felt.  She could actually
touch
him and it made tears burn
the back of her eyes.  The connection that bound them was real, whether he was
alive or dead.  And right now he was
alive
.  Really, really alive.  She
intended to keep him that way.

God,
he really was her Partner.

What
the hell was she going to do about that?

He
glanced down at their joined hands, then back up to her eyes.  A new awareness
lit his face, like he somehow recognized her.  “Who are you really?”  It was
barely a whisper.

Grace
smiled, elation filling her despite this newest detour into weirdness.  She was
sane and Jamie was alive and she (sort of) had her job back.  What more could
she ask for, really?  Positivity roared through her, reminding her of her life
before the alleyway.  “I’m the girl who’s going to save you, Jamie Riordan.”

And
then --Because when was she ever going to get the chance again?-- Grace kissed
him.  Her free hand seized the front of his super-patterny green coat and she
dragged his lips down to hers.  Not that it took a lot of dragging, which was
gratifying.  Jamie lowered his head without even a smidgen of hesitation.  His lips
slanted over hers, drinking deep.  The man tasted like magic and oceans and
wicked intent.  Since she was fifteen years old, she’d been daydreaming about
this pirate and he was sooooo worth the wait