The Dead Room (Harrison Investigation #4)

“A clunk on the head?” she repeated.

“From the ceiling,” Laymon explained. “A chunk of plaster fell on you. We need to install proper safety precautions in here.”

There was a commotion just outside, and suddenly Joe Connolly was pushing through the entrance. He rushed over to her, looking like a fullback ready to face the opponent’s starting line, and stared reproachfully at Brad and Laymon. She followed the direction of his accusing gaze to see Robert Adair standing nearby, looking acutely uncomfortable. And when she squinted toward the entrance, she saw a host of workers and more policemen, including Ken Dryer, looking in at her. Hank Smith was there, too, she noticed.

“What the hell happened?” Joe demanded gruffly.

“Time—and a weak chunk of ceiling,” Brad explained. He stared at Joe and apparently decided that he had some influence over her. “She should see a doctor. She took a real bump to her head.”

“I’ll see to it,” Joe agreed.

“No,” she protested, gritting her teeth as she got to her feet. Had she really been hit by a piece of the ceiling? Had she imagined the cold, and the sense of someone else being there? Whatever had really happened, she wasn’t about to protest their explanation. Not unless and until she had something to offer instead that wouldn’t make her sound crazy. Even so…“No,” she repeated. “I mean it.” She could hear anxious voices from outside, and she forced herself to take a step on her own. “I’m fine,” she insisted.

“You’re not fine,” Brad said.

“I am fine,” she assured him.

“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” Joe warned. He looked seriously worried. What was he doing there? she wondered. He’d stayed in his car all night to keep an eye on her, not to mention he undoubtedly wanted a shower and a change of clothing. Plus, he had a missing woman to find.

“He’s right, you know,” Robert Adair said.

“It couldn’t have been all that bad,” Laymon put in. “She seems fine to me.”

She looked at the professor. She knew that he cared about her. She also knew that he cared more about his work than about any human being. If she’d been hurt badly enough to require a doctor, the city might insist on shutting down the dig until their safety inspectors okayed it. Laymon would be fit to be tied. The ceiling undoubtedly had to be shored up, but he would want to supervise, to be in charge. He wouldn’t want his precious find contaminated in any way.

“The professor’s right. I really am absolutely fine,” she repeated firmly.

Robert shook his head. Laymon sighed. Brad stared at her.

Joe took her by the arm, turning her to face him. “Fine, huh? So you say. Let’s take a little trip back to Hastings House, get some ice, keep you moving…and maybe stop by a doctor’s, quietly, just so he can take a quick look at you, check you out.”

Brad spoke up in support of Joe.

“Leslie, you were flat on your back, out cold, when we found you.”

The light was blocked for a minute, and then she saw Ken Dryer—clearly not at all happy about what the dirt was doing to his clothing—slide carefully down to join them. “Leslie, what happened? Are you okay?”

She knew she should be grateful, but everyone’s concern was starting to get on her nerves. And in the back of her mind was a question. What had really happened? Had she turned to look around, been hit on the head by a falling piece of plaster, and fallen this far away from where she’d been standing?

For a moment, she once again felt that strange sense of fear that had prickled at her nape when she’d been alone in the room. She wasn’t accustomed to being afraid. The dark didn’t usually hold any terrors for her.

After all, she didn’t just see ghosts. She carried on conversations with them.

“I’ll walk you home,” Joe said gruffly. “And see you to the doctor.”

“She needs her head examined,” Brad said. Leslie looked at him, frowning. The way he’d said it, it sounded as if he thought more was wrong with her than a possible concussion.

“Guys…” she murmured uncomfortably.

“Leslie, the site isn’t going anywhere,” Laymon told her, his voice unusually gentle. Apparently there was a soul somewhere beneath that academic facade.

“You’ll have to go out the back or else face the music out front,” Brad said. He shrugged. “I don’t know how, but the minute anything happens, we get a flock of reporters.”

“Dryer can handle them, I’m sure,” Robert Adair said.

Brad grinned at her. “I’ll join him,” he said with a rueful smile.

“Go to it,” Leslie told him, smiling in return. “I’ll see you all later.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll take the day off,” Laymon said firmly Brad halted at the exit.

“Let’s go,” Joe said, equally firm.

Maybe they were right. But she didn’t feel at death’s door. She had one hell of a headache, but she could handle that with aspirin. Mostly, she realized, she was angry at being unable to figure out what the hell had happened.

“Leslie, I’ll bring in my own engineers, and I’ll sit on top of them like a fly on roadkill,” Laymon said.

“Leslie, let’s go,” Joe repeated quietly.

For a minute she was tempted to remind him that she wasn’t a child, and that even though he looked like Matt, he wasn’t Matt. They didn’t have a relationship that stretched back forever. But she knew they were probably right. An exam or an X-ray wouldn’t hurt. It would be the mature and sensible thing to do.

As she headed for the exit, Robert set a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”

As she emerged from the crypt, a group of workers backed away in a single body. She smiled and waved. “I’m fine,” she said reassuringly. “Go on back to work—we’ve got a lot to do.”

With Joe holding her arm and Brad on the other side of her, they walked across the site in the direction of the back exit. Suddenly she stopped, pulling him to a halt with her.

“Wait!” she demanded.

“What?” Joe asked.

She looked around. “Who found me?” she asked quietly.

Brad frowned. “Laymon and I. You were flat on the ground, unconscious. We were really scared, Leslie.”

“You were together?”

“Yes, why?” Brad asked.

“No one else was in there with me, right?”

“No. Why?” Brad asked, looking puzzled.

“Right. Of course.” She forced a smile, said goodbye to Brad as he joined Dryer and started walking again.

Joe and Leslie departed via the rear and in a few minutes they were approaching Hastings House.

The morning rush was on and the sidewalks were full. Odd. Around the site, she couldn’t move without someone stopping her. Here—even dirty and tousled—she was barely noticed. Serious, almost grim-faced businessmen and women were headed to their financial district offices. One man looked so depressed that she wanted to tell him to lighten up.

She looked at Joe, who wore a frown, as well. She smiled. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t shower yet,” she told him.

He glanced at her and seemed surprised by her easy grin. “What happened in there?” he asked.

She frowned. “A chunk of ceiling fell. Hey, that place has been buried for a century. Not even the Pyramids have survived without some damage, and this place was nowhere near that well built.” She was trying to make him smile. No dice.

“I wonder if you should be working that dig.”

“What are you talking about? It’s what I do.”

He shook his head.

“In fact,” she said thoughtfully, staring at him, “how did you happen to be there?”

He stared straight ahead and didn’t answer.

“Joe?”

“I don’t know,” he said at last, almost unwillingly.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I mean, I don’t know. I just…” He stopped speaking, shook his head again. “I just had a feeling I should go find you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Instinct, fluke—I don’t know.”

“Well, that was really sweet of you,” she said.

“Sweet?” He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“Yes, it was very nice of you to worry.”

He didn’t reply to that, but his strides increased.

“Hey, slow down. I’m a fast walker, but I’m practically running to keep up with you,” she said.

“Sorry.”

Then they were at the house. It wasn’t officially open yet, but the door was ajar and Melissa popped out just as they started up the steps.

“Leslie, are you all right?” she cried anxiously, hurrying out to greet her.

“Fine,” Leslie said, frowning. “What—”

“The news announced that there had been an accident,” Melissa said, then gave Joe a strange look. “You went from here to the site?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow,” Melissa said, looking at him in wonder.

“Hey there, is everyone all right?”

Leslie looked toward the entrance. Jeff Green, in complete Colonial grab, was standing in the doorway, his face wearing an expression of concern. Leslie had to smile. He could have been an eighteenth-century gentleman, standing on his porch to survey his domain. He reminded her a little bit of Ichabod Crane at that moment, rather than Washington, because, seen from below, he was so tall and lean.

“Everything’s fine,” she said as he, too, stepped outside. He ruined the impression of historical perfection when he reached into his Colonial jacket pocket and produced a pack of Marlboros. He lit up, still frowning. “Melissa and I had the TV in the office on and we heard what happened. That policeman—Dryer—came on to say that everything was all right, but that’s what the cops always say. We couldn’t help being worried.”