Tomb With a View

21

“We’ve got a mountain of paperwork to fill out.” W Scott leaned over where I was sitting and looked me in the eye. “I hate to have to leave. You sure you’re going to be OK?”

“I’m fine. Honest.” I had my arms wrapped around myself to keep him from seeing that I was shaking like a leaf, but I did a pretty good job of sounding cool, calm, and collected. I had to. I’d already given my statement to the cops, but there was one more thing I had to do before I left the memorial that night, and I couldn’t do it with the FBI hanging around along with half the Cleveland Police Force and the paramedics who were tending to Studebaker’s gunshot wound. (I never did find out if Scott or Quinn was the hero.)

“Somebody’s got to lock up when you guys leave,” I told Scott, and Quinn, too, since he was standing right behind Scott glaring at me like nobody’s business.

“I can call Ella,” Quinn said. “She’ll come over here and—”

“You don’t have to.” I guess I wanted to prove to them both (and maybe to myself, too), that I could stand on my own two feet, so I hauled myself out of the chair. “I’m fine. Look.” I held my arms out at my sides. Yeah, my neck hurt from where Nick had tried to squeeze the life out of me, but other than that, I really was none the worse for wear. Well, except for my slushy knees and my heartbeat racing a couple miles a minute.

“Go.” I shooed them both toward the door. “I’ll lock up and be right behind you.”

Neither one of them liked being told what to do, but it was a testament to how much paperwork they both had to file after all that had happened that night: both Scott and Quinn walked out. I watched them and all their safety forces buddies troop out the front door, then waited a few minutes for the quiet to settle. When it had, I stepped into the rotunda and onto the dais.

“Mr. President?” I wasn’t sure how he was going to take the news I was about to deliver, and my voice was small and tentative.

“Won’t do,” I told myself, and I raised my chin. “Mr. President,” I said, my voice louder this time. “We have a matter of national import to discuss.”

He shimmered into shape not three feet in front of me, and now that he thought all the excitement was over, I guess he was feeling a little more relaxed and a lot more jovial. His blue eyes sparkled. “National import? I swear, Miss Martin, you are sounding more like a politician every day. If you were not a woman, I would suggest you might consider running for office.”

I had the letter to Lucia in my hand and I held it up so he could see it. “There’s something you need to know,” I said. “About those last days before you died.”

Apparently he got the message. He saw how serious I was, and his brows dropped over his eyes. “You have told me already of the letter I wrote to Lucia. What else can possibly—”

I didn’t know how to explain so I didn’t even try. I flipped over the letter and held it up for him to read, carefully watching his face as he did. At first he was mildly interested. Then puzzled. Then horrified.

When he was done, he took a step back and blinked, like he was trying to process it all. “If you see fit to pull some sort of antic on me, young lady,” he said, “you should know that it is neither amusing nor suitable.”

“No, it’s not funny at all.”

Convinced I was serious and that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, the president stepped forward, the better to see the paper in my hands. He read it over again, talking it through as he went. “It is a treaty. Between the United States of America and Federal Dominion of Canada, dated September 15, 1881. It sets forth to say that in exchange for the sum of fifteen million dollars in gold . . .” He paused, his head cocked. “That was a great deal of money in those days,” he commented before he went back to reading. “It says that in exchange for those fifteen million dollars, the United States would sign over to Canada all the lands of the Montana, Dakota, Idaho, and Wyoming territories. There is room there at the bottom where my signature is meant to go. Thank the good Lord . . .” His eyes bright, he looked up at me. “It is unsigned!”

“You got that right. And this . . .” I waved the paper, but carefully. After all, even I knew a document of historical significance when I saw one. “This is what Studebaker was really after, not your letter to Lucia.”

The president’s forehead was creased with thought. “But who could have done such a devilish thing?” he asked, and I didn’t need to supply the answer. I knew exactly when he figured it out. His eyes flew open. His face flushed. He threw back his shoulders and thundered into the darkness. “Jeremiah Stone! Your president needs you to attend him. Now!”

Oh yeah, Stone showed up, all right, and I don’t think I was imagining it: behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were troubled. But then, I bet he’d never seen anyone as pissed as the president was. James A. Garfield’s broad shoulders trembled. His jaw was so tight, I thought it might snap. His eyes flashed as he stood as straight as an arrow and listened to Stone.

“Mr. President.” Jeremiah Stone bowed slightly. The overhead light gleamed off the part in the center of his hair. “We are not scheduled for another cabinet meeting until tomorrow, sir. Yet you sound as if you need my help on a matter of some consequence. We shall certainly attend to it, sir. But first . . .” He was carrying his leather portfolio. Of course he was carrying his leather portfolio. This was one ghost on a mission, and he intended to carry it out. Even if it took him more than a hundred years. “There are some papers that require your signature, sir, and—”

“Papers!” President Garfield was a sight to behold! Remember how I once said that if I was casting a Biblical epic, I’d give him the starring role as God? Well, this was an Old Testament God, all right. Furious, and raging like Lake Erie when a sudden storm kicked up. He closed in on Stone, who by this time, was shaking in his boots. The president poked a finger at Stone’s chest. “You are the blackguard who engineered this infernal treaty with our Canadian friends to the north.” The President poked him again. Stone backed up another step.

“You are the one who sought to profit by it.” Another poke. Another step.

“You knew in those last days I was not thinking clearly. You fully intended me to sign the paper without knowing what it was I put my name on and I have no doubt you intended to profit from the perfidy.” He poked yet again, and by this time, Stone’s heels skirted the edge of the shadows that surrounded the dais. “Even after all these years, your diabolical deed haunts your wretched soul. That is why you still insist I put my signature on the treaty. You have sought, over and again, to make me a partner to your despicable deed. You, sir . . .” The president pulled himself up to his full height, and I swear, in the play of light and shadow, he looked bigger and more imposing than that statue of him nearby.

“You are a vile and pathetic devil, and I want you out of my sight.”

With a little yelp, Stone folded in on himself. “But sir, I thought . . . I thought . . .”

“I neither know nor care what you thought then or now, Stone. I know simply that you are a traitor to your president and to your country.” The president pointed into the darkness beyond the shadows. “Leave my sight. Now and forever. There is no more cowardly or mean-spirited creature upon the earth than a man who betrays his nation.”

“But Mr. President, I—”

“Be gone!” Like a lightning strike, the command shook the foundations of the memorial, and Stone had no choice but to obey it. He slunk off into the darkness, and just as he stepped into the shadows, I saw him pop into nothingness. I knew I’d never see him again.

The president must have known it, too. By the time he turned back to me, he looked like his old self again. He was worn out, but satisfied, too. A small smile played over his lips. “It seems that, after all, I did have unfinished business to attend to. I owe you my thanks, Miss Martin.”

“Does this mean you’ll go? I mean, over to the Other Side?”

The president looked around the memorial, from the high glittering dome above our heads to those stained glass windows, their colors muted by the nighttime sky outside. “I think I rather enjoy being president,” he said. “And without Stone’s infernal badgering . . .” His eyes twinkled and he allowed a full-fledged smile to break through his stony expression. “I will no doubt see you now and again,” he said. “Good night, Miss Martin.”

The light around him was phosphorescent when he shimmered away. I realized that I was smiling, too, when I said, “Good night, Mr. President.”

My work was done. One bully of an IT geek taken care of. One murderer caught. One low-down dirty aide to a president finally put in his place after more than a hundred years.

As evenings went, this was a productive one.

With a sigh of contentment and the promise of a nice hot shower, my jammies, and a glass of wine I figured I’d more than earned, I locked up the memorial, started across the wide veranda and toward the steps, and—

Ran right into Ball Cap Guy.

Startled, I jumped back and pressed a hand to my heart. “Oh!” It was hardly up there with clever or even productive things to say, but after all that had already happened that night, I was not thinking clearly. I swallowed my surprise and scrambled to gather the last shreds of a patience that had been long since worn thin by the events of the last few hours.

“Who are you?” I asked the man. “What do you want?”

When I jumped back, I’d left what was still a less-than-comfortable space between us. He shuffled toward me and closed it.

“Pepper.” His eyes were on me in a way that made a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. I had my keys in my hand and I poked them through my fingers the way those defend-yourself articles in the ladies magazine always advise. I hoped Ball Cap Guy didn’t hear the keys clinking together when my hands shook.

“Pepper,” he said again, and his voice was soft and reminded me of the sound a too-ripe tomato makes when it gets squished. “Pepper, I want you.”

If it wasn’t so dark and I wasn’t so alone, I might have tried for a smile and tossed off some cute comment like, “That’s what all the boys say, but sorry, I’m booked solid.”

But it was dark. And I was alone. And I didn’t feel much like being cute.

I stepped to my left.

Ball Cap Guy stepped to his right. The security light glimmered against the blade of the knife in his hands.

Honestly, hadn’t I had enough excitement for one night? Choked, shot at, now stabbed? It was enough to make me laugh.

Except that it wasn’t the least little bit funny.

I swallowed. Or at least I tried. My mouth was dry and sandy. My smile was anemic, but hey, I had to try.

“That’s really nice,” I said, and I wondered if he could hear me over the noise my heart was making as it slammed against my ribs. “But I—”

“No buts. Not this time.” He took another step closer. I gauged the distance to the steps and from the steps to the wide lawn in front of the memorial, and from the lawn to my car. I braced myself and wondered how fast a doughy guy in sneakers could run. “You’re coming home with me,” he said, and shivers of panic raced up my spine. “I’m going to take care of you, Pepper. I’m going to show you how much I love you.”

Oh yeah, this was creepy. I wished my phone wasn’t in my purse, but when I made an attempt to fumble for it, he raised the knife. “You have to come with me,” he said, and his words were like ice on my skin. “If I can’t have you, nobody can.”

“You can’t.” Brave words. Too bad I sounded like a scared little kid. I tried reinforcing the idea with a shake of my head. “You have to go now. Before the cops come back. You saw them here earlier, right? Well, one of them—the guy with the really big gun—he’s coming back to pick me up and he’ll be here in just a couple minutes. He’s kind of cranky. You don’t want him to find you here with that knife. If he does—”

“If I can’t have you, nobody can!” The words gushed out of him in one breath, and as he said them, he moved at me so fast, all I could do was stumble back against the building. I found myself with my back against the front door and that gleaming knife just inches from my neck.

“When he comes back, he’ll find you here,” the man purred. “But he’s going to find you dead.”

Just as I shot to my right and fell to my knees, I saw the flash of the knife. But then I saw another flash, too, one that was brighter and crackled with electricity.

President Garfield popped out of thin air and materialized at my side.

Ball Cap Guy’s jaw dropped. His eyes were as round as baseballs and his hands hung loose at his sides. He backed up a step.

“You must leave the premises this very moment,” the president thundered. “You must stay far from Miss Martin now and forever. Do you hear me, sir? She does not desire your inappropriate attentions, and she will tolerate them no further. I will tolerate them no further!” The words boomed around us like jet engines, and believe me, Ball Cap Guy got the message.

By this time, he was blubbering. He backed up another step, then another, before he took off running. But it was dark, and he was so busy staring over his shoulder at the president’s ghost, he didn’t watch where he was going. He hit the top step and tripped, and when he rolled down the wide stairway, I heard a wild cry. Even before he crumpled at the bottom, I saw the dark stain of blood on his T-shirt where he’d fallen on his knife.

I scrambled for my phone, and it might have been easier to get my hands on it if I didn’t realize that over on my right, the president was winking in and out, his face pulled tight with agony, his arms thrown out at his sides.

I forgot about the phone and looked around for my keys, and when I couldn’t put my hands on either, I spilled my purse on the stone veranda and rooted through it.

“Not . . . to . . . worry . . . about . . . me.”

I looked up to find the president with his head thrown back and his eyes bulging. “The living . . .” The words were ripped from him. “More important . . . more important than the dead.”

He was right. I looked down the steps and saw that, even though the bloodstain on Ball Cap Guy’s shirt was bigger than ever, his chest heaved. I finally managed to find my phone and dialed 911, and yes, I did have to explain that it was the same presidential monument they’d already been to twice that night, and yes, there really was another person there who needed help and needed it bad.

By the time I hung up, I saw that Ball Cap Guy wasn’t the only one who needed help. I dragged myself to my feet and hurried to the president’s side.

“I’ll get the door open,” I told him, desperately looking through the dark for my keys. “We’ll get you inside and—”

“Too late.” Though his face was haggard, the president’s eyes were calm. “There’s no time, and it hardly matters. Mr. Stone . . .” He grunted in pain. “Mr. Stone was not my unfinished business, your stalker was. I had to . . .” He winked away, and I searched the darkness, praying he’d come back. He did, like the flash of a camera. “I had to face your stalker because I never did deal with mine.” The president’s expression was calm, angelic. “I do believe I must say good-bye to you now, Miss Martin.”

And he disappeared forever.

Nick had an assault charge slapped on his record, and ended up getting a couple years probation. Ted Studebaker went to jail for a whole bunch of years. Ball Cap Guy died in surgery, and I never realized just how tense I was knowing he was around until he wasn’t.

My stress levels settled down, and so did my life.

At least my emotional life.

There was still the commemoration to take care of, and Ella and I worked like fiends getting it ready. By opening night, every nook and cranny in the memorial gleamed, and a crowd of interested and enthusiastic visitors couldn’t say enough good things about all we’d done. The folks from the National Archives had already come and left with what was being called the Mystery Treaty, the better to make sure it was put on display and preserved with the proper temperature and humidity and all that jazz.

I was glad to have the letter and the treaty gone, but sorry the president wasn’t there to watch the way the admiring crowds oohed and aahed over the memorabilia of his life. I did my part, talking up his service in the Civil War and all he’d accomplished as a congressman and as president. Even though he was on death’s doorstep, he never gave in and signed that treaty, and that made him something of a new national hero.

He was my personal hero, too.

Rather than get all mushy thinking about it, I headed for the far side of the ballroom that had been opened for one night only in honor of the occasion, where tuxedoed waiters were helping our patrons to fancy-schmancy appetizers and glasses of champagne.

Unfortunately, I guess I hadn’t learned to look before I moved. I almost smashed my nose right into an expensive Italian silk tie and the chest of the detective wearing it.

“I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to check out your display,” Quinn said, and I don’t think he was talking about anything presidential since he was giving me and my new off-the-shoulder dress the once-over. I’d bought it to celebrate living through the summer, and I guess I’d made the right choice. When he skimmed a look from my satin pumps to the slim-skirted, blackberry-colored dress, Quinn’s eyes lit up. “I thought we could talk. Over drinks. That is, if you’re not busy later.”

Three cheers for good timing. At that very moment, Scott showed up with a glass of champagne for me. I wrapped one arm through his. “That’s so nice of you,” I told Quinn, “but I’m going to be busy later.” Scott and I turned to walk away, but I wasn’t done. I gave Quinn a look over my shoulder. “Besides,” I told him, all sweetness and light, “I don’t think we have anything left to say.”

Scott knew better than to comment. Or maybe he wasn’t paying all that much attention. He smiled and pointed to the waiter who was walking around the room, a tray of food in one hand. “That guy over there was telling me about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum. I’ve always wanted to see it. Would you like to go tomorrow? I can’t wait to see the exhibits. I’m a huge Beatles fan!”

I agreed because, honestly, I was looking forward to it.

Of course, that didn’t explain why even as I sipped my champagne and chatted with our visitors, I kept hearing a song playing from somewhere in the darkest corners of the ballroom. It sounded a whole lot like “A Hard Day’s Night.”