Crossroads Shadowland Read Online Free PDF Page B

message. A sigh of relief left
his lips when You're dead, you're
dead disappeared. Rand might be scared
shitless if he saw it.
    Returning from the
washroom, he stopped in his tracks. In all its naked verity, glaring at him like an ominous portent,
the writing had returned. It solidified
his suspicion—if the spirit indeed possessed the ability to
wrench the boys from this realm, he'd be
dealing with a prevailing power. While lost between planes, a specter's energy intensified with every
passing year. This particular ghost's
force could be magnified over a hundred fold, thus explaining his ability to snatch people from this
realm and drag them into another.
    His mind crammed with
ruminations, and running late, Frank rushed from the room and almost ran smack through someone in the
hallway. "Whoa! Sorry man, my
apologies."
    The stranger brought a hand to his head, his
eyes dazed. "Have you seen Dr. Flanagan?"
    Frank put the brakes on and
took a better look at the man. Long, unruly hair framed his bearded
face. His chest was bare, and dull, gray pants straight from a Salvation Army bin hung from his emaciated
hips.
    Surprised by the question,
and his appearance, Frank said, "Sorry, I've been in my room." The man brought a hand up and scratched the
stubble on his chin. "Hey, are you all
right?
    The stranger shuffled down
the corridor mumbling under his breath. Beard? Drab, worn trousers? Frank sprinted down the hall,
hoping to catch him, but by the time he
reached the intersecting hallway the stranger had vanished. Damn, he'd just had a conversation with
the ghost… his ghost.
    Cursing his
slow-wittedness, he almost missed Martin standing near the ice machine alcove on his left. Engaged in
whispered conversation with another young
man, they nearly jumped from their skin when Frank stopped to speak with them.
    "Martin, did you just see a bare-chested man
pass by here?"
    "Good afternoon, Mr. McGuire. Sorry, sir,
Ringo and I were," he faltered. "We were talking and I didn't see
anyone walk by."
    Frank stole a quick look at
Martin's sidekick in the blue maintenance shirt. What in hell did their guilty expressions mean?
Certain they were up to no good—as in
ransacking guests' rooms the minute they left the hotel,
Frank had to shelve his inquisitiveness in
lieu of more important issues.
    "I nearly collided with a
man moments ago outside the door to my room. Shirtless, and dressed like a transient, he seemed
disoriented, asked me if I knew where he
could find Dr. Flanagan."
    The lopsided grin splitting
Martin's lips peeved Frank. Young people found humor in the damnedest things these days.
    "Dr. Flanagan? Remember
those ghosts I warned you about when you checked in, Mr. McGuire? If he asked you about Dr. Flanagan,
you just encountered one."
    "Who's Flanagan?"
    "The surgeon that ran the
temporary field hospital here during the war."
    "What war?" Frank asked his curiosity
piqued.
    "The Civil War. There's a
picture of Flanagan in one of the albums at the check-in desk." Behind Martin, Ringo shifted his weight from
one hip to the other, his eyes darting
left to right. "Stop by later," Martin added. "I'll scrounge it up."
    "I'll do that, thanks."
    Martin looked over Frank's
shoulder. "Hey, where's your sidekick today?"
    "On an errand," Frank
replied, still thinking about the specter. "Out of the hotel then?"
    Frank gathered his rambling
thoughts. "Yes, gone from the hotel as I should be."
    "What does he think of New Orleans so
far?"
    "I don't think he's had
much time to enjoy the sights yet." He looked down at his watch and realized he should have been in the
Courtyard five minutes ago. "We hope to
remedy that this afternoon when we meet up at Pat O'Brien's."
    "Home of the Hurricane, great choice."
    Frank uttered his thanks
and hustled down the hallway, acutely aware he wouldn't be making a great first impression by running
late.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Two couples, their backs
rigid, their expressions sullen, huddled around an umbrella table