“No. The cops are coming, right, Katie?”
“Yes,” she said. She didn’t really know if they were coming or not. She was struggling up from the broken pieces of the Artist House.
Pete would come. For the moment, though, they were in the house, alone, with Sam. And she didn’t know for the life of her if he was telling the truth or not!
“I’ll help you up,” Bartholomew said. “Hey, did you like that stop? Did you see it? Don’t tell me you didn’t see it. I stopped him like a brick wall.”
“I saw it,” she assured Bartholomew. He had extended his hand. She took it, not expecting much real help. But she could feel him-she could actually feel him, as she got to her feet.
“What’s she doing, who’s she talking to?” Sam cried out, as if he were in mortal terror.
“My sister talks to ghosts,” Sean said, eyes widening, waving his arms in the air. “And guess what, asshole? The ghosts aren’t saying good things about you.”
“What?” Sam cried.
“The spirits are assembling!” Sean said.
“Sean!” Katie protested, stunned. But Sam was scared. It was the place, it was her brother’s fury. Maybe it was a combination.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Sam swore. “Yeah, all right, I broke in here, but I just needed to see the place. I needed to see the place again where my sister died.”
There was something forming in the shadows behind Sam and her brother. The two were still talking, but Katie didn’t hear them.
It was Danny. Danny Zigler. And once again, just as in her dream, the girls were with him. Tanya and Stella. They flanked him, looking over at her with sorrowful expressions.
Danny pointed upward. She frowned, and realized that he was referring to the exhibits above them. She thought briefly, and she knew which tableau stood right above them, on the second floor.
The hanging tree.
They heard the door open.
“What the hell is going on in here?” Pete Dryer demanded in his husky, authoritative voice.
“Thank God!” Sean breathed. “Pete, we found this bastard lurking around in here,” Sean said.
“Is that a fact?” Pete demanded. “What are you, some kind of a sicko? You killed your own sister, and now you’re back at the scene of the crime?”
“No!” Sam cried out. “Get this jerk off me, for God’s sake.”
Sean stood. Pete pulled out his cuffs. “Time to pay the piper, you little snot-nose creep!” Pete said.
Pete was here. It was all under control.
“Whether he killed anyone or not, Pete, he was breaking and entering here,” Katie said.
“Oh, what, it’s your place because you’re sleeping with Beckett?” Sam demanded. “That asshole-my sister dies over him and he’s still out there poking everything in a skirt!”
Katie ignored him. “I have to run upstairs for just a minute. It’s important. Pete, you’ve got Sam, right? Sean, you can fill Pete in? I’ll be right back.”
She didn’t give them a chance to answer. Danny was beckoning, and he looked worried, as if speed might be of the essence.
“I’m calling it in,” Pete said, “but I’ll drag the little goon in myself. Tell me exactly what happened, Sean.”
“Katie, what the hell…?” Sean demanded angrily.
“I’ll be right back down!” she swore.
She wasn’t afraid. Her brother was there, and Pete had Sam Barnard-he’d be cuffed any minute, and safe.
She came out upstairs. The auxiliary lights had come on, giving her a footpath to follow. In the very strange orange-and-purple light that filtered in from the sky of the dying day, figures rose all around her. Pirates, smugglers, scalawags. Navy men and soldiers, Union soldiers, Confederate soldiers. They posed, ready to speak, ready to move.
She made her way to the hanging tree.
The figure there was posed with its back to her as it dangled from the tree. She stepped up. There was a large plaque on the floor, noting the tree, telling its present location, stating its grim utility as a means of execution.
On the wall, closer to the exhibit, was a small handwritten explanation. Craig Beckett had lovingly written up small wall plaques when the place had been younger, when no velvet ropes had barred visitors from getting too close.
“The hanging of Eli Smith,” the plaque read. “Justice was hard; another man hanged for his crimes, lynched by a mob. But truth caught up with a reckless killer.”
Underneath it Craig Beckett had noted that Smith still had descendants living in the city today. He had left behind a daughter.
The cursive handwriting was difficult to read. Katie leaned closer.
As she did so, there was a tremendous thud from down below.
The auxiliary lights went out.
As they did so, her mind comprehended Craig’s cursive handwriting, and she gasped as the room fell into a shadow land of darkness.
She knew the killer.
And she knew he was in the museum with her.
He already had Sean.
17
“Everything is fine,” Liam assured David, snapping his phone shut.