Crossroads Shadowland Read Free Page B

the caretaker found lying next to some tombstones,
and Mr. Burroughs, Charlie's dad,
recognized a tennis shoe his son was wearing when he left the house
that night."
    "No blood, no bodies, that's it? A
flashlight and a shoe?"
    "Nada on the blood, zilch
on the bodies, and the police have searched the cemetery and the surrounding property with cadaver
dogs."
    Rand leaned forward, his
voice low. "Have you done your thing, you know, the perfection thing?"
    "Some, and to answer your
next question before you ask, nothing substantial came through."
    Enthusiastically, Rand asked. "When do we
leave?"
    "I already booked the
flights." He pulled the tickets from the pocket of his shirt and opened one. "Tomorrow,
noon."
    Glancing up, Rand focused
on his face. "If you're done eating, let's go. I have to pack, although I suppose I have all night
to do that. Too excited to sleep."
    Frank downed the rest of
his wine, set the goblet next to the wrinkled napkin and held his gaze while returning the tickets to his
shirt pocket. "I can think of a thing or
two to relax you."
    Frank caught the gleam in Rand's eyes. "Like
I said, let's ditch this place."
     
    * * * * *
     
    The trip from Baltimore to
New Orleans was uneventful. Rand dozed during the Southwest non-stop flight, and how Frank envied
him. He'd also intended to catch a few winks, but every time he
closed his eyes, disturbing revelations
filtered into his brain. Snippets, nothing more than broken
threads and Byzantine snapshots he knew
belonged to a much larger collage.
    Damn, he wasn't in
meditation mode right now, hadn't willed his sixth chakra to open, and yet numinous entities
lingered on the fringe of his subconscious. The exploitation pissed him off.
    He'd always decided when his consciousness would shift and slip
into a dreamlike state. He'd chosen the place and
time to connect with his inner spirit
before shifting into a higher level of consciousness. Not once
since he'd learned the technique had the
dead tried to reach him unsolicited. One couldn't call the
naggings an outright attempt to invade his mind, but the subtle pestering to nudge it left him
unsettled.
    Rand's soft snores drew his
glance, and a vision of his father, Quinn, surfaced. Up until his ex-partner had died in a freak bank
robbery, Frank hadn't thought about
leaving Baltimore's men in blue. He knew he possessed the ability to connect with other worlds, and in
private had on occasion. He didn't like hiring out his services to
police forces or government agencies. Parents grieving hard and
deep was a different story.
    Tired of the politics of
catering to criminals, Frank had a strong desire at the time to mete out his own justice when it came
to drug lords, dealers and mobsters—anonymously, down and dirty. But like many things in
life, the new path he'd chosen veered off
course.
    He hadn't anticipated his
phone would ring off the hook with calls from hysterical parents whose children were missing, hadn't
counted on crumbling beneath their
heartfelt pleas to help find them. Now, he couldn't think of
a single occupation in the world more
rewarding, or at times, more heartbreaking
if the child turned up dead.
    When the plane's engines
shifted and eased into descent mode, Frank nudged Rand. "We're
about to land. Thought you might want to get your first look at New Orleans from the air."
    "Hey, thanks," Rand said with a sleepy yawn
and looked out the window.
    They took a taxi from the
airport to the Provincial Hotel and checked in with a desk clerk whose nametag claimed he went by Martin.
"Welcome to New Orleans, Mr. McGuire
and...." He looked at Rand.
    "Rand Brennan," Frank said.
"So, Martin, they tell me if I really want my stay in New Orleans to be memorable I should ask for a room
in Building Five."
    Martin's hazel eyes
lingered on Rand before he turned to Frank. "If you're looking to make lasting memories, you should be here
during Mardi Gras."
    "Next year, perhaps."
    After punching some numbers
into the keyboard,