The Summoning Read online

  Dallas took a sip of his coffee thoughtfully. “Say there is something going on—let’s theorize that it’s the drug trade. Steroids, perhaps, painkillers and molly, cocaine, crack, whatever. I can see where Lachlan Plant might have been down on something he knew, if something was happening at his gym that he disapproved of—and the politician and the businesswoman might have known something. But how does Ian Murphy fall into this?”

  Dunhill groaned. “I don’t know. Thing is, with Ian Murphy, I’d met the old guy, you know? He was bright as hell. And if I’d been told he’d taken an overdose of morphine, I’d have thought, well, the old guy said that he’d die on his own time, and that’s what he did. But—that fall! I just don’t believe that’s the way he would have chosen to go. So maybe he overheard something. Thing is, he was always researching, learning, debating with Old Jed...”

  “And you think he might have learned the wrong thing?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “All right,” Dallas murmured. “Old Jed...you mean Jedidiah McLane who owned the place where I’m staying—McLane House?”

  Dunhill nodded. “I know that Jedidiah died peacefully, in his sleep. His friend was there—the old guy who works at the house, Jonah Whitney. And his great-niece, Kristi Stewart. Kristi loved him—she was with him. And the rest of the household, too. He just closed his eyes. Smiled—and died.”

  “But if he was such good friends with Ian Murphy, wouldn’t he have known if Murphy had found out something that suggested criminal activity?”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought of that, too. But maybe Ian hadn’t gotten around to telling him, or talking to him. They were both old as the hills. Like I said, I could be wrong. I could wind up fired, and I do love my job. But have you ever had a hunch? Like a feeling that something is really wrong, that we’re looking at a puzzle, and the pieces just have to be put together? Almost like there’s a ghost, whispering over your shoulder, something like that? Have you ever had that kind of feeling?”

  Dallas smiled. “Yeah, I’ve had that feeling,” he said. “So, you have it set up for me to have a conversation with the medical examiner?”

  “Yes!” Dunhill rose excitedly. “Yes, thank you...you believe me?”

  “I believe that I’ve got to start somewhere, and the medical examiner seems as good a place as any.”

  “Chatham County Medical Examiner’s and Coroner’s Office,” Dunhill clarified. “It’s on 67th Street. I’ll drive.”

  “You’ve gotten me here under unusual circumstances—don’t you need to report to work?” Dallas asked.

  “No, my captain knows I’m seeing a private eye, and he’s not a bad guy. Thinks it’s okay if someone goes on a chase if they’re not using up resources unnecessarily—he knows I’m helping you, though, as Adam suggested, you’re just here as a private investigator—privately investigating.”

  “All right then—I’ll be glad to hear what he has to say.”

  “Want to hear another odd one?”

  “What?” Dallas asked, frowning.

  “Another weird way to die. A chef in China was chopping up a snake—a cobra. It’s a delicacy. Anyway, the damned thing was decapitated—and bit him anyway.”

  “Reflexes, the brain being the last to die?” Dallas asked.

  “Got to be some of the best revenge I’ve ever heard about,” Dunhill said. “Now, that I’m sure a man couldn’t pull off, though there was a rumor that heads fresh off the guillotine moved and even spoke. Pity—it would help if some of our dead people would speak to us.”

  “It definitely helps when they speak,” Dallas muttered. “So, onward? Nothing like a sunny morning at the morgue.”

  * * *

  “She appears to be quite calm,” the ghost of Justin McLane informed the ghost of his great-grandson, Monty McLane.

  Calm? Sure, why not be calm through one’s own crazy illusion? Kristi wondered.

  “She wasn’t calm this morning—she was quite hysterical, I do assure you!” Monty replied.

  Kristi stared from one of them to the other. The family resemblance was impressive, and she took a moment to be proud: her ancestors had been tall and straight-backed, ruggedly dark and handsome. They also seemed to have fine characters, though how she was judging that from such little contact with her new friends—certainly imaginary—she didn’t know. She supposed if she was creating her illusions, she’d be creating them as she wanted them to be.

  Kristi spoke up, “Monty seems to think that I’m in some danger.”

  “We’re concerned,” Justin said.

  “Because?” Kristi asked.

  The two of them looked at one another again. “At first, we rather thought it was nothing,” Monty said.

  “We can be quite bored upon occasion, you know,” Justin said.

  “Which makes it ridiculously easy to come up with conspiracy theories,” Monty said.

  “Did they even... I mean, conspiracy theories? Did they even think of such things back...in your day? Or days? You—you never met in life. You couldn’t have.”

  Monty looked at Justin and grinned ruefully. “Thank the lord—our descendent knows something of mathematics.”

  “You’re quite a wiseass, if they had such a term way back when,” Kristi said irritably.

  “My dear child, we do learn through the ages—in fact, the invention of the television makes us incredibly well-educated. No, we did not know one another in life. We were born and died decades apart. We met only in death,” Justin said somberly. “A tragic death for me, I’m afraid. I was never ashamed of what I did—in fact—I’m quite proud, though I’d have preferred not to have been caught. However, I was, and thus, when I found that I was between worlds, I did my best to watch over my dear wife and son. And that son came back to this very property, and in time, he built this house. The thirteen colonies were quite different from the start, so I must admit, it was not much of a surprise when war raged between North and South—and I became witness to what befell my great-great-grandson. When I realized he had remained behind as well, I was saddened by his death, but again, did my best to comfort him in that death.”

  “And you’re still here,” Kristi murmured.

  “As am I,” Monty added. “I have a reason, I believe.”

  “He did not kill his beloved Trinity,” Justin said. “You see, here is the thing—history is always written by the victors. Now, don’t get me wrong—there were many fine men fighting and dying for the Union. The world should know now that slavery is entirely wrong—even though it does still exist in parts of the world—”

  “And you know that...how?” Kristi asked.

  “Television, child, television,” Justin said. He waved a hand in the air. “My point is... I tried to stop what happened to Monty... I didn’t have the power. Colonel Albert Huntington was not a good man. When he came to the house, Monty had just arrived back—and Monty was caught. Trinity screamed and cried and told him to surrender. For her, he was willing to give himself up. He tried to reach her, and Huntington—who had a fool’s infatuation for Trinity—shot at him. Except that at the same time, Trinity ran to Monty, and the shot hit and killed her. Then Huntington gunned down Monty and his father, Samuel. I think a number of Huntington’s men were horrified, but they were also afraid of Huntington—and perhaps, shamed by what had been done. And so the story went out that Monty killed his wife and father rather than see them in the hands of the enemy.”

  “And I am left to haunt the place,” Monty said softly. “Without the woman I loved.”

  Kristi let out a breath, still doubting her state of sanity. But whether her ghosts were figments of a pressured imagination or real—as real as ghosts could be—they were sympathetic ghosts.

  And her family.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Have you seen Trinity?” Monty asked her hopefully.

 
; “No, I have not. I didn’t see either of you until after the séance.”

  “Well, we were not summoned by that silly woman,” Justin said impatiently. “We’ve been here. Maybe you weren’t ready to see us.”

  “And maybe we didn’t feel such a pressing need for her to see us—until lately,” Monty suggested softly.

  Kristi didn’t have a chance to answer him. There was a knock at her door. “Excuse me,” she murmured, walking to the door. She hesitated before opening it, but when she turned around, the two had disappeared.

  As if they had never been.

  She opened the door. The young actor, Carl Brentwood, stood confidently in the hall. “I’m so sorry to bother you here, but I was hoping we could talk. Downstairs, of course. I didn’t mean to be so rude—coming right to your door. But I didn’t know how to reach you otherwise.”

  She smiled. “It’s fine. We can head down to the back parlor.”

  “Thank you so much,” he told her earnestly.

  She didn’t want to do a televised séance, but it would probably be good for the business. Everyone loved “haunted” Savannah, and, it seemed, everyone loved a haunted house.

  She looked back into her room one last time; it was empty.

  She closed the door, wondering what her deceased ancestors got up to when she couldn’t see them.

  * * *

  “The brain is astounding. The finest ‘computer’ ever built, and such a creation that even I, a scientist, believe in God above to have made something so magnificent,” Dr. Perry, the medical examiner, told Dallas with enthusiasm.

  Dallas glanced over at Joe Dunhill, who had accompanied him to the morgue. Joe’s shrug indicated that they just might get a lecture.

  Despite the days since his death and the completion of his death certificate, the body of Lachlan Plant remained at the morgue; friends were getting the money together to claim the body and arrange for a funeral and burial.

  From a distance, Plant looked as if he slept peacefully on the slab, as if he were the picture of health—despite being dead. The icy morgue temperature had kept him from decay thus far. He had been tall, lean and, as was expected for a fitness expert, well-built.

  But close up, one could see the gray pallor of death upon him, nature’s way of claiming its own—dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

  Dr. Perry shook his head, mumbling, “Shame, shame, what a fine man he was—no family, but friends aplenty.”

  “And his death—” Dallas said.

  “Now, in itself, the brain is incredibly fragile, and that’s why we have the human skull. Good, strong, tough piece of equipment, the human skull. It can take all kinds of blows—and still protect the brain.” The lecture began.

  “Doc,” Joe Dunhill said quietly.

  “Yes, yes,” Perry said, “but you’re asking about my opinion right? Or you’re asking about the facts that could lead to an opinion. So you must understand. The skull is a wonderful thing. Actually composed of many bones, all within the cranium and the face. But as wonderful as it is, the skull can be penetrated, and a hard blow often brings about death by damage to the brain itself, and by causing the brain to bounce around and take a vicious bruise. I’m using layman’s terms, naturally—”

  “Layman’s terms are fine,” Dallas assured him. “But could this really have happened by a simple fall?”

  “Freak accident, but yes.”

  “What if someone struck him on the head—would the same damage occur?” Dallas asked.

  “The injury was at the cranial base—a basal fracture forced splinters into the brain and brought about death. He was found on the sidewalk by the curb—no one saw any kind of violence toward him. Could he have hit his head hard enough falling? Yes. He was a big man. A medical examiner calls the method of death, but we also use what officers are able to tell us. I did label the cause of death as inconclusive—because yes, he could have been hit on the head. So...” Dr. Perry lifted his hands. “His death has been presumed accidental—fatality from an accidental fall. There are two things we are looking at—cause of death and manner of death. Manner of death was the blow to his head. Cause of his death? Presumed to be a fall. However...nothing in my expertise can give a pat answer to the cause for the manner of his death. I can’t rule out homicide, and I can’t say that what occurred wasn’t an accident. No matter how absurd it seems, that does seem to be the answer.”

  To Dallas, a freak accident seemed on the far side of plausible.

  “What about the other man?” Dallas asked.

  Perry looked at Dunhill. “Another man tripped and fell on the sidewalk?”

  “No, sir, I’m talking about the elderly gentleman—Mr. Murphy.”

  “Ian Murphy?” Dunhill seemed honestly surprised.

  “Yes, sir,” Dallas said.

  “Well, the poor fellow...he jumped. I’m afraid I did rule that a suicide. Again, my responsibility is manner of death—broken to bits, I don’t need to describe it all to you—but it was widely known that he’d decided he would choose his own time to go,” he said softly.

  “There are much easier ways—especially for a suffering elderly man. Overdoses of medicine—a lot of sleeping pills,” Dallas said.

  “Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t do the job,” Perry said. “He was alone in his house at the time. Everyone was saddened, though no one was surprised.”

  “Was his house searched?” Dallas asked Joe.

  Joe nodded. “We went in after the event. Thing is...the initial reaction was for first responders to head to the body, try to help, and then the patrol officers who came on had to control the crowd, had to call it in, get the ME out...”

  “So, if someone had been in the house with him, they could have been long gone before the house was actually searched. And, since a suicide wasn’t unexpected, it wasn’t much of a search.”

  “I came in on it late—we had to investigate because of the way he was found, but it wasn’t seen as a dangerous situation. No one thought that he might have been pushed.”

  “Pushed!” Perry exclaimed. “Why would anyone push a man already dying? Ah...a mercy killing?”

  “Not really what I was thinking,” Dallas murmured.

  “Why the hell would anyone kill a dying man?” Perry repeated. “He would have been dead within months.”

  “Maybe not soon enough,” Dallas said.

  “Soon enough for...what?” Joe asked, puzzled.

  “I don’t know—but we need to find out. What is the only thing you don’t leave behind after you die?” Dallas asked quietly. He turned and looked at Perry and then at Joe, who were both looking at him in confusion.

  Dallas smiled grimly and said, “That which you have in the mind—in the brain, that wonderful computer you talked about. Things, papers, books—all could be stolen and destroyed. But the only way to destroy knowledge is to destroy the brain it’s in—kill the carrier.”

  “You’re suggesting that Ian Murphy knew something that got him killed?” Joe asked.

  “Exactly,” Dallas told him.

  * * *

  Kristi could well understand the star appeal of Carl Brentwood: his enthusiasm was contagious, and he seemed to really like people. He was earnest and more—courteous at every turn.

  “We can be almost entirely undisruptive to the property,” he told her, leaning on the arm of a chair as they spoke, making his point. “Two cameramen with self-contained rigs including lighting, two sound people working mics at two angles. Nothing would have to be removed. Other than that crew of four, you’d have no one who wasn’t already here. I’ve already spoken with the Knox family—Kristi, they love it. Their daughter is considering a career in film, and this is flattering, of course, but she thinks that being in a video with me would help her in the future. So—”

  “There’s another guest in the house at the moment,” Kris
ti reminded him.

  “Yes, yes, and I will get his blessing. Please say yes? Here’s what I believe it can do for you—make the house the most popular inn in Savannah. Okay, one of the most popular in Savannah.”

  He grinned, blond and boyish in his appeal.

  She smiled tightly in return.

  “A private eye may not be so happy about being in a video,” she warned.

  “Oh, well, he doesn’t have to be in it—we’ll basically be filming just in the parlor, where Shelley does her séances.”

  “Basically?”

  “Well, if a ghost was to lead us somewhere...”

  She could offer him a real smile at that.

  “Trust me,” Kristi told him, “there is no great treasure hidden in the house anywhere, or buried in the basement. The family was never rich. We weren’t hiding Confederate gold or anything like that. The ghosts aren’t going to lead us to any riches.”

  He lowered his head, still grinning. “I’m not after riches. But you never know. Ghosts just might lead us to...um... I don’t know, ghostly secrets?”

  “You can’t go invading people’s bedrooms.”

  “Never! Oh, please, Kristi—it will be just a few hours that we’re actually filming. And it could be so good!”

  She glanced over at the stairway; Carl’s retinue—his agent, Murray Meyer, and his manager, Claire Danson—had come down just to the back-parlor landing.

  She looked in the other direction; Jonah was there, nodding his approval.

  Kristi shrugged. “Okay. I can call Shelley—”

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  “And you’ll make sure that it’s all right with our other guest.”

  It was her house; she could do what she wanted and just tell Mr. Dallas Wicker that he’d need to avoid certain areas if he didn’t wish to become involved with the project.