Ghosted

Chapter One

“I’m afraid the ladies aren’t too pleased with me tonight,” John Perry said ruefully.

Special Agent Archie Crane shook off his preoccupation, reluctantly dragging his gaze from the elegant garden where delicate orange paper lanterns swayed gracefully from the branches of ancient trees. Soft golden light created intricate patterns on the ground, like the shadows of fireflies. The contrast between the darkness of the blue-black sky and the vivid glow of the electric lanterns intensified his sense of encroaching otherworldliness.

Jesus. Pull yourself together .

He said briskly, “Why’s that?” Studying John’s lean, handsome face, it occurred to him again that, despite the smile, John did not seem his usual cheerful self. Surely that wasn’t anything to do with Judith and Desiree. John was fond of his sister and niece, but he’d never seemed to place any undue importance on their opinions.

“Little Desiree had her heart set on formally announcing her engagement tonight, but I didn’t feel this was the appropriate…venue.”

Little Desiree was a year or two older than Archie, and Archie was pushing thirty. He said, “Desi wanted to announce her engagement in the middle of a ghost hunt?”

John looked ever-so-slightly pained. “It’s not a ghost hunt, A. It’s a formal ball and ghost walk . You know that.”

John was the only person alive who still called Archie “A.” Once upon a time that had meant a lot. Partly because his mom and dad had called him A. And partly because he had feared “Archie” was pretty much the most uncool name ever. Right there with George and Bertie.

He grinned at John. “Right. But either way…”

“Either way, it was a terrible idea,” John agreed. “But you know Desiree once she gets her heart set on something.”

Archie hadn’t spoken more than ten words in passing to Desi in the last decade, so no, not really. Though if she was anything like what she’d been as a teenager, stubborn didn’t begin to describe her.

“She’ll get over it.”

Maybe that sounded a little callous, judging by the way John’s silver eyebrows shot up.

“Head aching?” he asked kindly.

Yes. His head was thumping. After several weeks, that was starting to feel like business as usual.

Post-concussion syndrome. A fancy name for the after-effects of getting kicked in the head a couple of times.

“Nah, I took something a little while ago.”

John’s blue-gray eyes were troubled. “I do wish you’d let me look you over, my boy. You just got out of the hospital. Brain injuries are no joke.”

Yeah, Archie sure wasn’t laughing. He was smiling, though, trying to reassure John, despite his own worries over the slowness of his recovery. “You never know. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into me.”

John snorted. “If I could believe that was all it took to discourage you from joining the FBI, I’d have knocked you over the head a decade ago.”

Yeeah . Probably funnier before the ringing in his ears had become a constant refrain. But Archie made an obligatory “ ha ,” sound.

“Even as boy you were self-reliant in the extreme, but you’re not a doctor.”

What did that mean? Self-reliant in the extreme ? In what universe was self-reliance a character flaw?

Archie said, “That’s true. But like you said, I’ve been under medical care. I’m on sick leave because a doctor made that determination. That’s why I’m here now.”

He caught John’s expression, heard the echo of his words, and tried to amend that blunt truth. “I mean, not the only reason, obviously. I’d have been back long before now if I could have got the time off.”

Got the time off was a euphemism for If I hadn’t been sixteen months undercover in an extremist paramilitary group . But the fact was, they both knew if he hadn’t been placed on sick leave, he wouldn’t be standing on John’s terrace watching the breeze shake the shadows of roses onto the grass.

“I know that, A.,” John said quickly. “You’re here now and that’s all that matters.”

Probably not, and Archie would have taken back the thoughtless comment if he could have. John was the kindest person he’d ever met. He owed him a lot. Probably more than he knew. Certainly, more than he could possibly repay. The last thing he wanted was to seem ungrateful. Sure, not all his memories of Twinkleton were happy, but his main reason for not returning for so long—had it really been seven years?—was the job.

“I mean it,” Archie insisted. “I appreciate you letting me recuperate here.”

John said with unusual vehemence, “There’s no question of that. This is your home .”

Maybe. None of the various apartments and hotels Archie had lived in over the past several years had felt much like home.

He glanced at his former guardian and saw, to his relief, that John’s attention had shifted to a set of car lights slowly gliding up the drive leading up to the house. It was not his imagination, John did look…strained. Tired? Older. Well, he was older. Pushing seventy.

They were all older.

“That will be Judith.” John glanced at Archie. “Don’t feel you need to spend any longer at the party than you want to.” His chuckle was wry. “I know you and Beau always found the ghost walk rather…amusing.”

There again, John showed his usual diplomacy. He knew perfectly well Archie and Beau had considered the Twinkleton Paranormal Society one big joke.

“What can you expect from a pair of teenage smartasses?”

“In fairness, we of the TPS found you two young rascals equally amusing.”

We of the TPS .

Archie smiled faintly. In some ways John seemed as antiquated as his Victorian home. But in others, not in the least. He had accepted fifteen-year-old Archie’s statement of sexuality without a blink. That said, probably not every member of the Twinkleton Paranormal Society found Archie and Beau’s adolescent antics entertaining. Archie could remember Professor Azizi threatening to drown Beau in the koi pond.

“How is Beau these days?” Archie inquired without emotion.

“Beau?” John’s tone was equally off-hand. “I don’t see much of Beau. I believe he’s well. He looks to be thriving. He’s chief of police now, you know.”

“That was always in the cards.” Which was true, but there had been a time when he’d have bet money against that card ever being played. Add that to the list of all the other things he’d been wrong about.

Maybe not completely wrong. But wrong in not understanding that nothing stayed the same forever. Just because you weren’t cop material at fifteen, didn’t mean you couldn’t grow into those tactical boots. Or spend years trying to achieve a goal, reach it, and then decide maybe it wasn’t—well, realize that it wasn’t impossible that your priorities might change. At some point.

John patted his shoulder. “Come and say hello when you feel like it. If you feel like it.” He left the terrace and went through the tall French doors into the house.

Archie watched him vanish inside and then turned back to the garden.

You sure as hell could have handled that better.

He sighed, rubbed his forehead.

He didn’t mean to be ungracious. He just really wished his trip back to Twinkleton hadn’t coincided with spook season. It wasn’t only the ghost hunting nonsense. Correction. Ghost walking nonsense. It was hard to feel sociable when all he really wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and pop painkillers. In no particular order. How much of that was concussion and how much was the result of nearly being killed—and all the rest of it?

Hard to say. Harder to think about.

He’d have preferred to figure it out in solitude. At the same time, the last thing he wanted was having too much time to think. He always preferred action to dwelling on what could not be changed.

Anyway.

He was here and he’d have to do his best not to make John regret insisting he recuperate at “home.”

He frowned, watching as the last rays of the sun reached shadow fingers toward the flowering shrubs and ancient statues. The melancholy twilight dissolved and darkness swallowed the meticulously kept garden of the Victorian mansion. Long, quiet minutes ticked by and then the evening seemed to stop, to still. The birds fell silent, the approaching car engines faded, the breeze died.

A strange hush seemed to envelop the world.

Despite the summery warmth, a weird chill slid down Archie’s spine. He turned, stared toward the east and the old gazebo. He caught movement.

Movement or light? Both? He squinted, trying to focus on that single area. His vision still got wavery when he was tired—and he was always tired.

What the hell?

Something... Was that flickery light his eyes or was there actually something there?

An ethereal figure, nearly imperceptible in the encroaching dark, seemed to be moving— fluttering?—within the confines of the gazebo. He blinked hard a couple of times, peered more closely. Whatever that was, it was too big to be a bird. The filmy outline suggested—well, frankly, it suggested a sheeted form. A female form? He was too far away to be sure. The reflection of lanterns in the surrounding trees created the illusion that she, the figure, was...

Come on. Admit it. She’s glowing.

The spell broke. Archie snorted. Okay, that was ridiculous. He left the terrace, and started down the flagstone walk toward the gazebo. Whoever she was, she was trespassing. Unless John had hired her to add to the evening’s festivities—which was not impossible. John had a mischievous sense of humor.

But, yeah, the lady was definitely glowing.

He was a little amused and very curious.

Twinkly lights, woven through bushes, strung through the trees, guided him through the maze of short shrubs and round boxwood topiaries, up the flat stone steps to the second level where once again he had a clear line of sight to the gazebo.

Which was now empty.

Archie stopped in his tracks. That hadn’t been a trick of the light. He wasn’t having hallucinations. And he still did not believe in ghosts.

Sure as hell, someone had been wafting around this gazebo in what looked a lot like a thousand-thread-count silver bed sheet, but was probably supposed to represent burial shrouds. Even if Archie didn’t believe in ghosts, he’d heard plenty of ghost stories growing up. He’d lived with the founder of the Twinkleton Paranormal Society, for god sakes—in a, theoretically, haunted house. He got the joke.

If it was a joke.

Either someone was gate crashing John’s ghost walk—uncomfortable memories of a couple of his and Beau’s less finer moments returned to him—or John had hired someone to play Jacqueline McCabe. Jacqueline McCabe being the resident ghost of the Victorian domicile formerly known as McCabe House.

Either scenario seemed dubious. Yes, John had a sense of humor, but he was a true believer; it was unlikely he’d fake a ghost at his own ghost walk—and Archie could more easily buy a kid pulling a prank than Jacqueline finally making an appearance.

He walked slowly up the steps to the gazebo, switched his phone flashlight on and had a quick look around. Nothing seemed out of the place. No footprints from the wet grass other than his own. No conveniently discarded matchbook or lace hankie embroidered with initials. There was not so much as a dead blossom or stray leaf on the bare wood floor. Nor was there an abnormal chill in the air or a mysterious ghostly fragrance.

The eerie hush had given way to evening birdsong and the sound of music drifting from the house.

Stan Getz. Getz Au Go Go . His mother had loved that album.

It was peculiar for sure, but the figure was gone now, no doubt having spotted him advancing across the garden.

Archie checked his watch. 8:51. Yeah, no well-bred lady ghost would be seen dead making an entrance before midnight. Some dumbass kid for sure.

He grimaced. Clicked off the cell’s flashlight.

Speaking of entrances, it was time he made his, lest he seem like an even more ungrateful prodigal shit than he already did.

“Oh, my God! Archie. It is you!”

A voice that could disintegrate a forcefield greeted Archie as he slipped through the French doors and entered the large formal dining room. He was startled to realize the space was already crowded with guests. He’d been so lost in thought he’d somehow missed what had to have been a caravan of arriving cars.

He rearranged his features into a pleasant, okay, benign, expression. “Hi, Desi. Nice to see you.”

Desi was a younger, softer version of John’s sister, Judith. Same light eyes and fair hair, though Desi’s features were prettier and less patrician. Her long-deceased father was supposed to have been short and stocky, but on Desi the genetic code had translated to cute and curvy.

“You haven’t changed at all!” Desi managed to balance both a plate of hors d’oeuvres and a glass of champagne while leaning in for an air kiss. “ Why were you out there skulking in the garden?”

“I wasn’t skulking—” Archie let it go and kissed her cheek.

Pretty much every conversation he’d ever had with her had been some variation on this brand of barbed friendliness. As a kid, he’d been confused. Now he recognized that Desi had probably been a little resentful of his place in John’s life. It hadn’t mattered that Archie had wanted to take that place as little as Desi had wanted him to have it.

“You’re still in the FBI?” She sounded skeptical.

Like, surely the FBI would have seen through him by now?

Before Archie could answer, a bald, tanned, broad-shouldered man in his late sixties forged his way through the crowd to them. “Archie, my boy! Great to see you! And looking so well.” He pumped Archie’s hand, beaming warmly.

Three minutes in and Archie was starting to feel like he’d wandered onto the set of a Coen Brothers film.

He smiled feebly. “Hey, Leo. How are you?”

Leo Baker’s face was flushed. His hazel eyes sparkled with excitement. “Never better! Do you think we’ll see Jacqueline tonight?”

So tempting. But no.

Leo was John’s oldest friend, financial advisor, and another original member of the Twinkleton Paranormal Society. They shared a love of golf, yachting, and all things paranormal, which pretty much described every founding member of the society, with the possible exception of Professor Azizi. Hard to picture Azizi on a golf course. Or in broad daylight.

Comfortable rich people living comfortable lives.

Not that there was anything wrong with that. Archie had certainly benefited from having a wealthy guardian. It was just that all of this was in such stark contrast to, well, his life as of late. Granted, everything felt a little surreal after a concussion.

“John told us you were injured in the line of duty, but you’ve obviously bounced right back.” As Archie managed to detach himself from Leo’s grip, Leo leaned past him to shout, “Pris! Look who’s here!”

Archie tried not to wince. Loud noises were still difficult. Loud noises and bright lights, and this room with its sparkling chandeliers and walls of mirrors and polished windows—so many shining surfaces—crowded with guests all talking at once, was feeling less and less like a social occasion and more and more like running a gauntlet.

“Archie, how wonderful to see you!” Priscilla Beckham joined them. Pris was tall and trim. Her red hair had darkened to a chestnut brown, but her eyes remained a dazzling green. She was in her late sixties and still very beautiful. She hugged him warmly. “John said you might pop in and say hi.”

“ Hi! ” Archie said.

Leo and Priscilla laughed, but then Priscilla’s perfectly shaped brows drew together. “I think you should be in bed, kiddo. Am I allowed to tell an FBI agent to go to bed?”

No. That would be felony fussing. Archie kept his mouth shut.

Leo laughed. “I just told him he looks great.”

“He doesn’t look great. He looks like he should be in bed. He just got out of the hospital.”

This was...a lot. In fact, it was too much.

“Where’s John?” Archie glanced around.

Priscilla glanced around, too. “He’s here somewhere. I saw him just a little while ago.” She squeezed his arm. “It’s so good to see you. How long has it been? You look so…so…”

Please don’t say grown up.

Nope, Priscilla said, “John’s missed you so much.”

“Yes, he has,” Leo confirmed, looking suddenly serious.

Yeah, Archie didn’t want to hear that, either. Didn’t like the idea he had let John down, inadvertently inflicted pain.

“Have you seen Beau yet?” Desi popped back into the conversation. Her expression was sly, knowing.

Archie’s smile seemed to freeze along with his heart. “ Beau ? Is Beau here?”

Desi trilled a little laugh. “God, no . I just wondered if you’d seen him since you got back.”

“No.”

He’d only arrived in Twinkleton the day before. But had he arrived six months earlier, it was doubtful he and Beau would have reconnected—unless Beau had changed a whole helluva lot in seven years.

Desi was gurgling, “Oh, my God . Remember when you two were the talk of Heceta High?”

It was unexpectedly brutal, that casual reference. Like that frantic, feverish first love—complete with Beau’s fear of being outed and Archie’s pain at being dumped—had all been one big, long-running joke?

He drawled, “We were all hard up for entertainment back then.”

“Ooooh. Ouch . Poor Beau.” Desi’s smile was malicious. “You know, you have dust on the back of your collar.”

Archie started to respond, but seriously, what was there to say? He didn’t have the interest or energy for resuming their adolescent sparring.

“Archie? You made it after all!”

He managed not to jump, but Jesus Christ. Gauntlet was right. He turned to face yet another ghost from the past: a tall, very thin, striking brunette in her well-preserved sixties. This one took him a moment.

Dr. Mila Monig. She had been John’s partner in his medical practice and they’d dated for a time.

“Mila. How are you?”

He didn’t catch her answer over the thumpety-thump of the blood throbbing in his temples. He kept smiling, staring at the blank oval of her face, wondering what the fuck he was doing there.

He hadn’t seen or even thought of these people in seven—in most cases, over ten—years and, nothing personal, he’d have been fine going another ten without a reunion. He’d told himself it might be a good idea to be forced out of his thoughts for a while, but he wasn’t ready for this. Not physically. Not emotionally.

“Have you seen John?”

Mila broke off what she was saying, glancing around the crowded room. “I think Mrs. Simms said he had a phone call?”

“Right. Thanks.”

“Are you feeling all right, dear?”

He didn’t bother to answer, edging past her, working his way through the crush of people. Tempting though it was, he couldn’t just bail without letting John know he was calling it a night. He moved from room to room, keeping his expression pleasant, shaking hands and bumping cheeks as required—mostly it was not required. The majority of guests didn’t know him from Adam. Which was ideal, in Archie’s opinion.

He was having a surprisingly difficult time tracking down John.

John took pleasure in entertaining, took pleasure in hosting these ghostly get-togethers. He was usually front and center, making sure his guests felt welcome, had everything they needed to enjoy their evening.

How funny was it that everyone dressed for a black-tie event in order to spend most of the evening traipsing around the damp garden hoping Jacqueline McCabe would show up? It seemed as ridiculous to Archie now as it had when he’d been a kid.

Where the hell was John?

At last, he located Mrs. Simms, having a quiet word with one of the caterers.

“We were very clear that we needed to have vegetarian options.”

The caterer opened his mouth, and promptly closed it at Archie’s approach.

“Mrs. Simms—”

Simmy, as John called her, turned to him at once. She was a small, spare woman with short silver hair and very blue eyes. Her look of inquiry turned to instant concern.

“Are you all right, Archie? Are you ill?”

“Have you seen John?”

Simmy looked surprised. “Isn’t he back?”

“Back from where?”

Simmy was craning her head, trying to see through the crowd. “He said he was going out to the gazebo for a minute.”

Archie could feel the hard, alarmed pound of his heart echoing in his temples, even as he told himself there was no reason to be concerned.

“Why?”

Simmy blinked at his tone. “I-I’m not sure. There was a message—”

“What kind of message?”

“I didn’t read it.”

Archie’s brows drew together. “It wasn’t a phone message? It came in the mail?”

“Yes. No. No, it must have been hand delivered. It was lying on the—”

“Never mind.” Archie turned, pushing his way through the crowd, ignoring the surprised or irritated looks he received. His head, keeping time with his heart, was pounding so hard he could barely see.

He reached John’s study door, opened it, slipped inside the dark room, crossing either by instinct or long-forgotten memory, straight to the French doors. He unlatched them and stepped out once more onto the terrace.

It was much cooler outside. The fragrance of the night-blooming flowers hung heavily in the still air.

He could see the gazebo, dark and silent, silhouetted against the full moon.

What in God’s name was he freaking out over?

Who hand delivers notes? Who takes a meeting in the middle of a party? Who takes a meeting in a gazebo? Why did he look that way tonight? Something’s off.

He left the terrace and half-walked, half-jogged up the path, unable to shake the growing sense of dread that something was terribly wrong.

“John?” he called, reaching the short flight of steps to the second level.

A faint, almost imperceptible noise reached him.

Archie sprinted up the steps, raced across the grass to the gazebo. “John?”

The harsh light of the full moon turned the world a comic strip black and white. In fact, the first thing Archie saw was straight out of a cartoon: a pair of feet in dress shoes sticking out from behind the iron latticework of the gazebo.

But there was nothing funny about that eerie motionlessness. His nostrils twitched at the metallic tang in the night air. Alarm gave way to numbing, almost visceral dread as he stumbled up the weathered steps.

John lay sprawled on his back, one hand pressed to the snowy front of his shirt in a vain attempt to stanch the black trickling up and bubbling between his fingers.

“Jesus, John.” Archie dropped to his knees.

John’s glazed eyes stared up. His mouth opened, releasing a rivulet of blood from each comer. His lips moved but no sound came out.

“Don’t try to move. I’ll get help.”

“No…” John’s protest was faint.

“I’ll be right back...” But Archie didn’t rise. He clasped John’s blindly groping hand. He had seen this too many times to pretend he didn’t know what was happening, to pretend it wasn’t already too late.

“John...” His voice shook. “Lie still. I promise you—everything’s going to be okay.”

Yeah, everything’s going to be fucking brilliant.

John’s clammy hand squeezed Archie’s tighter.

John struggled again to speak. “A...”

Archie bent down to hear. “I’m here.”

And what a lot of help you’ve been so far.

John’s face twisted with the effort to speak. “Some... “

“Some what? Someone?” Belatedly, his training kicked in. “John, who did this? Did you see who—”

“Some...” John choked and gasped. His eyes widened with strain. His crimson-stained mouth gaped. Then the hand holding Archie’s, relaxed.