The Dead Room

Finally it was over.

Laymon had ordered pizzas for everyone who wanted to stay, so, still dirty and very tired, they crowded into the trailer, ate and called it a day.

“I’ll walk you home,” Brad told her.

“I live down the block,” she reminded him.

“I know. I’ll walk you.”

“I’m a New Yorker and can take care of myself,” she reminded him.

He looked straight ahead. “I don’t know. Matt always called you a rebel.”

“You remember that?”

“Sure. But I want to walk you home just because…well, I don’t care how street-smart you are. I’ll see you in, and then I can stand on the curb and pray for a cab or just wander over to Broadway and get one. And thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“You tossed all the press attention in my direction again.”

“We’re partners.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who always knows where to dig. Anyway, the limelight finds you no matter what. The reporters love you. You’re young and gorgeous, and you dig up the dead. That kind of thing fascinates people.”

“I don’t dig up the dead, I dig up history,” she said.

He shrugged.

“And besides, you’re young and gorgeous, too.”

“Thanks for noticing,” he told her, laughing.

She laughed, too, and they walked arm in arm to the house.

He saw her to the door and left her. The moment he was gone, she dialed Robert’s number.

“Are you all right?” he asked immediately.

“I’m fine.”

“Good. You home? Or at Hastings House, I mean.”

“Yup.”

“It was a zoo out there today. A good zoo, though.”

“Sure. I guess. So…what’s up?”

“Um…Robert…” She hesitated, trying to sound light. “You haven’t started seeing ghosts, have you?”

“What?” He sounded astonished—and then worried again. “Leslie, what are you talking about?”

“Who was that man?”

“What man?”

“The one you were talking to.”

“Leslie, I talked to dozens of men today.”

“This afternoon. Out on the sidewalk near the site.”

Did he hesitate for just a second? Was she imagining that he sounded suspicious when he answered?

“I think you know most of the people I talked to today. Hank, Dryer…maybe you saw me talking to him? Let’s see, I talked with Brad a couple of times, with Laymon…a really cute grad student—but she was no man. Hmm. A not-so-cute grad student, some other cops, a P.I., a nosy businessman…a guy driving a double-parked limo….”

“Okay, sorry. Never mind,” Leslie said.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m great. Actually, I’m tired and filthy, but at least I’m not hungry—we had pizza. I’m sorry I bothered you, Robert. I’m going to clean up and go to bed. But enough about me. How are you doing?”

“I’m great. No, no, I’m not,” he said, and she could hear the rueful humor in his voice. “Half the time I’m so frustrated I could scream, but then again, I’m an old cop, and I’m accustomed to that feeling. I’ll tell you what. When I take you to dinner, I’ll pour my heart out, how’s that?”

“Sounds fine,” she assured him.

“Good night, then. You call me if you need me. And ask me anything. Anytime.”

“You’re a doll. And you know I will. Thank you.”

She clicked off, then stood in the entryway and looked around. The house was so quiet it seemed almost unnatural.

“Someone has to be here,” she said aloud. But if they were, apparently they had no intention of showing themselves to her.

She went upstairs and showered. Afterward, drying her hair, she turned on the television. She’d no idea it had gotten quite so late, but the ten o’clock news was on. She got to see herself, Brad, Laymon, a few of the excited grad students and Dryer, who announced that the police were excited by the discovery, like everyone else, and that there would be a large police presence in the area. New York would be preserved for New Yorkers. The city wouldn’t stand for vandalism or interference.

At last, with the television on, she fell asleep.

And that was when he came to her.

In dreams.

She slept, and he was there.

She knew that she dreamed, but the dreaming was sweet and real. She felt his presence as he spooned his body around her, just as they had so often slept when he was alive. His arms were around her, and she could feel the soft seduction of his breath against her nape. She smiled. “I knew that you would come. But—”

“Shh,” he said softly.

He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, caressed the length of her back, stroked soothingly along her spine.

She turned into his arms, felt his kiss. Hungry, erotic, just as it had always been when they were apart for any length of time. A kiss that spoke volumes. Strong and powerful, liquid and ardent. His embrace was strong, reassuring, somehow gentle, like the power of his passion, and she slid into that embrace as if they had never been apart. She returned his kiss with the love that had lain dormant in the painful corridors of her heart ever since…

But she knew she was only dreaming.

She broke the kiss, lips moving the slightest distance away.

“I love you so much,” he whispered.

“Why won’t you come to me? Speak to me? Why has it taken you so long? Why can I only dream about you?” she whispered. “I see so many others….”

“But I’m not like any of the others,” he told her, and he smiled, that rakish, rueful smile. He was such a combination of assurance and humility.

“Matt…”

“Shh…”

And then his lips were against hers once again. So loving, so passionate.

As their lips locked, their hands bumped as they drew her nightgown over her head, both of them working to get the garment out of the way. And then she was against him, flesh against flesh, and he was warm and vital, hard muscle and taut sinew, his heartbeat thundering in rhythm with her own. She let her fingers play over his shoulders, slide down his back, clasp his buttocks. In turn, he drew her even closer, fitting her body to his own. It seemed as if they kissed forever, lips locked, bodies straining to be ever closer, as if they could crawl inside each other. She touched him…and touched him….

It was sweet and aching and poignant.

And it was a dream….

At last he pulled away, an apparition in her mind, but one that seemed so real. She met his eyes for a moment, the deep, dark, dazzling blue eyes that had so teased and loved her throughout most of her life. “Rebel,” he breathed. “Damn, I’ve missed you.”

She stroked a strand of hair away from his eyes.

“There really is no life without you,” she murmured.

He shook his head. “Yes, there is. There has to be,” he told her. And then his lips curved into that smile that always took her breath away. “But not tonight.”

And then he began to make love to her, his lips caressing her flesh, tender, provocative. His fingertips danced along her arms, her collarbone, her breasts. Delicate kisses followed, growing more forceful, teasing…the stroke of his tongue, the brush of his teeth, his lips…barely there, so that she strained toward him in search of sensation.

He moved against her, her wraith of the night, his flesh and vitality eliciting her own growing arousal. As intimate as he had always been, his kisses found her abdomen, the brush of his hair teasing her midriff. His hands moved down her inner thighs, spreading them wide as he lowered his head, leaving a whisper of sweet wet fire everywhere his mouth fell. She felt the spiraling ache of longing grow until it approached madness, and she strained against him, whispered his name, threaded her fingers through his hair. He made love to her with the hot wired tension of his body and the searing caress of his lips and tongue, until she was writhing and whispering and finally all but sobbing his name.

And then he rose above her again before driving into her with the passion she had never forgotten.

Her arms were locked around him, her hips rocking with his. His hands cradled her buttocks, pulling her against him, until it seemed they really had become one. She arched, quivered, her heart thundering as she strove to get even closer to him, soaring on a cloud of dreams and ecstasy. His mouth found hers again, melding against it just as she melded into him. He stroked and drove deeper, until the fire seemed to consume her. She wanted it go on forever, wanted to reach the promised climax, to know that shattering moment of completion once again….

Finally it came. She cried out his name, shuddering as the world seemed to explode around her, within her. And she felt him, felt him, as he tensed, frame hard as steel, haunches taut and straining. She heard the hoarse cry that fell from his lips, felt him as he fell against her, drawing her fully into his arms once again, holding her.

“Matt?”

“Shh.”

“But, Matt…”

His arms were still around her. His fingers smoothed back the dampness of her hair. “Sleep,” he whispered. “Dream.”

And there in his arms, she did.

In the morning, of course, she woke alone.

But the dream was fresh in her mind.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe dreams were better than nothing, than the loss, the ache of loneliness, that never seemed to leave her.

Or maybe, as Brad had told her, she needed to come to terms with the past, to get on with her life.

She rose, showered and dressed for a day in the trenches in jeans, a blue denim shirt and sneakers. They were on to a treasure. But even the excitement of discovery seemed to lie dormant in her heart compared to the dream, which, she had to admit, had shaken her badly.

Downstairs, she was greeted by humming. Cheerful humming. Perky, cheerful humming. When she entered the kitchen, she got her first glance of Melissa Turner. The young woman was busy at the coffeepot. She had short brown hair and was a little on the stout side, comfortably dressed in serviceable deck shoes, a calf-length skirt and a white blouse. The tune she was humming was “Yankee Doodle.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">