“Wow! I slept longer than I realized. Come in. I can be ready in five minutes. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. I’m just relieved you’re all right. I’ll make some coffee while you get ready.”
Mo was upstairs, in the shower, dressed and back downstairs in the five minutes she’d promised. Aidan was in the kitchen, holding a cup of coffee. Judging by his expression, he was trying to work out some deep puzzle.
She headed to the coffeepot. “At least it’s only about a twenty-minute drive from here.” He nodded absently.
“What is it?” she asked.
“There’s just something about this house,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I felt like I was being watched. And when I turned to look down the hallway, I thought I saw a shadow. But I guess it’s nothing. Rollo’s been just fine.”
Mo looked down the hallway herself. She saw a sweep of skirts and smiled. “Candy,” she said.
“Candy?”
“She lives here. Exists here, I mean. She was a slave. This house wound up being used as a hospital during the Civil War, and they even cared for some Confederate prisoners. Candy was escaping the South and helping in the hospital. She fell in love with one of the Confederate officers who’d had been brought here—Colonel Daniel Parker. Daniel is around, too, but Candy is more curious.”
He was staring at her again, just staring at her.
He’d asked her to try to speak with a dead man. And now they were about to go and look for a ghost—at his request. He couldn’t think she was...
Weird. Different. Cursed. To be avoided.
“Oh,” he said simply. “Should we go?”
“Rollo, come on,” she called, finishing her coffee and collecting the dog’s leash and service vest. “We’re going on an outing.”
Rollo bounded over to her. They were quickly on the road, and for a while, they drove in silence—but this time their silence wasn’t awkward.
Mo gazed out as they crossed the Hudson over the Tappan Zee Bridge, which extended across one of the widest parts of the river. She’d always loved the view from the bridge. She saw the sign that told her it was officially the Governor Malcolm Wilson Tappan Zee Bridge. Tappan was the name of a Native American tribe. Zee was the Dutch word for sea.
“It’s beautiful,” Aidan said, smiling. “As often as I’ve come over this bridge, I still love the drive.”
Was it just her? Or did the memory of his kiss seem to linger on the air, just as it lingered on her lips?
It had just been a kiss. Offered in gratitude—nothing more.
“Yeah, Tappan really is beautiful,” Mo murmured. “There’s such interesting history there, too. The first Orange County courthouse was built here in 1691. And Major Andre was held at Yoast Mabie’s house—now a restaurant. Not only that, Washington had his headquarters here four times during the war,” she said enthusiastically. She glanced at Aidan, who looked back at her with a wry grin.
He knew all that, of course. He was from the area.
“Yup. And I know exactly where the Andre memorial is. Are we going there?” he asked.
“Yes, let’s do that.”
They drove over to where the memorial to Major John Andre had been erected—a stone that briefly described his deeds, his part in persuading Benedict Arnold to become a traitor to the American cause—and the plan to turn West Point over to the British.
The memorial, surrounded by a fence, was on a roundabout in a suburban area. Aidan pulled off the road to reach it. “I think the first time someone tried to create this memorial, there was an outcry over commemorating a British spy. Some people tried to destroy the first memorial to him. As I recall, there used to be a pedestal, but it was blown up one too many times. Now I suppose we remember him mainly for dying young,” Aidan said as they stood in front of the memorial.
Mo read the inscription aloud. “‘His death, though according to the stern rule of war, moved even his enemies to pity, and both armies mourned the fate of one so young and brave.’”
Aidan nodded.
“A lot of people desperately wanted to save him,” Mo went on. “They wanted to have a prisoner exchange—but he’d been a prisoner and part of an exchange once before. And as much as Washington admired him, he decided he had to abide by the rules of war, just like it says here. Yet his death pleased no one.”
“‘He was more unfortunate than criminal. He was an accomplished man and gallant officer.’ That’s a quote from George Washington,” Aidan said. “You’re right, his death pleased no one. But the British hanged Nathan Hale. It was war. Still, a sad note in history.”
Mo nodded, then looked around. It was another beautiful fall day, with the sun high overhead and a few white clouds coasting across a brilliant blue sky.
Cars drove around the monument.
“Do you...see anything?” Aidan asked Mo.
“No,” she replied.
“This is about ten miles from the Sleepy Hollow–Tarrytown area,” Aidan said. “It isn’t much of a distance now, but it was quite a ride back in the seventeen hundreds. We believe that Lizzie, our Woman in White, lived on the other side of the bridge, yet she must’ve come here to see Andre. Maybe she had friends on this side. Maybe she was buried here.”
“Ghosts seldom hang around their own graves. Who wants to think about their bodies rotting?”
“You have another idea?”
“What about where the Old Dutch Church is in Sleepy Hollow? Or the place that used to be the Mabie house, since that’s where Andre was held,” Mo said.
“I’m ready for some lunch, anyway,” Aidan told her.
They went back to the car, Rollo trotting happily beside them.
Like a kid out with Mom and Dad for the day! Mo thought.
Since Rollo was wearing an official service-dog vest, they had no problem taking him into the old Mabie house, now the 76 Restaurant.
Mo had been there before, and she loved it. It was old and heavily timbered, and the decor had been influenced by history. Andre and Benedict Arnold were represented in likenesses on the wall, with the portrait of Benedict Arnold upside down.
A friendly hostess seated them. But as soon as she’d ordered, Mo got up and went to what was now a banquet hall. It was where Andre had been held.
She tried to feel the history here.
But she knew that Andre was back at Sleepy Hollow where he’d been seen through the centuries on dark and misty nights.
He was fond of the area, perhaps drawn there by the time when his life had been an adventure and he’d been on a quest—and in love.
And what about the Woman in White?
Did she mourn here, where her lover had died, for all eternity?
“Anything?” Aidan asked when she returned to the table.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I might have wasted your time today.”
“Well, we have to eat. And the local police and the rest of my Krewe are working all the angles that have to do with the various leads we have.”
“Did they get anything out of the vault?”
“They’re still testing trace evidence, but of course, the killer wore gloves. He left his beheading tools in plain sight, but he wore gloves the entire time. They haven’t got a decent fingerprint. All they found were prints that matched J.J.’s.”
“How do you know you’ll ever catch him?” Mo asked.
“Because I won’t stop until I do,” he answered. “And one of the killers will have made a mistake somewhere. Two people are involved, we’re sure of that. And when two people are involved, it’s actually easier for us. One of them is going to slip up. Or there’ll be a falling-out.”
“I do wonder, though, if there’s really a connection between our Lizzie
and this crime. Did you ask if there was a stripper named Lizzie Grave?”
“There’s not.”
Their waitress arrived with their food, and they enjoyed their meal then left, with Aidan asking her again, “Anything?”
“We can try the area where she was killed—the Old Dutch Church isn’t there anymore but there’s a new building. Well, middle-of-the-1800s new. Maybe...”
“We’ve come this far,” he said. “We might as well.”
As they drove, Mo was intensely aware of everything about him. The way his hands held the wheel. The texture of his sweater. The scent of his soap or aftershave. His snug jeans...
She looked out the window.
When they reached the Old Dutch Church and the relatively new church and its grounds, they took a leisurely walk with Rollo.
“Quite different from Manhattan,” Aidan commented. “Although it’s equally historic.”
She nodded. “I love New York City, too. Wall Street, the churches, figuring out exactly where the old drained pond and the Five Points were...”
She let her voice trail off.
“You worked with the police there,” he said. “Searching for missing people. You found a lot of them. Dead.”
She drew in a breath. “Yes. I wish I could explain it to you. I can...hear the dead. Obviously not all the time. And I can hear—or figure out, using logic, which is half of it!—where the missing might be. It started when I was young. I had Rollo’s mom then. She was a beautiful female wolfhound named Heidi. I heard a lost child crying one day—that was in Sleepy Hollow—and I told my mom what I heard. She thought she was humoring me. We found a little boy lost in the woods. I told the truth, I said it was Heidi who’d led me to the child. Anyway, it happened again. And that time the police came to me, and we found the girl who’d gone missing. A few years later, I offered my services and Heidi’s when a woman disappeared in the city.”
“And?” he asked when she didn’t immediately continue. “You found her?”
She nodded. “Only we didn’t find her alive. She’d been killed in the park. But after that...I was called fairly frequently. And, most of the time, I was finding the dead. But what I really wanted to do was help the living. There are so many wooded places that get so dark around here, and people, especially visitors, easily become lost. That made more sense to me. I decided to live in Tarrytown. Of course, it made a difference that I already loved the area. I got to know Purbeck when I was a kid, and now, if someone goes missing anywhere around here, he calls on me.”
“You’re very special,” he said.
She flushed and turned away. “I just have...voices, I guess. And, yes, I see the dead. Sometimes. And talk to them. When they’re willing to talk to me. When they can talk to me.”
He didn’t express his feelings on her ability. He asked, “Anything here?”
She shook her head. “One last try?” he suggested.
“Where?”
“The graveyard. I can’t think of anything else.”
Rollo barked, as if agreeing it was the right thing to do.
The Tappan cemetery was established in 1694, according to the inscription at the gates, and still accepting burials. The place offered a veritable time-traveler’s tour of burial sites, with stones dating back to the founding of the area, markers from the Revolution, and soldiers’ monuments from every war in U.S. history. The Victorian era had brought in the grandiose, and during the Great Depression, many had been buried with no markers at all; only the master plan stated where their remains could be found. Aidan wandered off to look at a historic stone that had been re-etched.
“‘Sleep my child, rest in love’s embrace; And know that I will join thee soon. In sweet earth together then, ’til judgment come with our Sweet Lord’s grace,’” he read out loud.
Listening to him, Mo stopped abruptly.
She could see a woman. At times, especially Halloween, there were costumed interpreters at historic sites. But she knew she wasn’t seeing the living.
The woman peered at Mo from around a tomb—much as Mo did to frighten visitors at the Haunted Mausoleum.
But this woman wasn’t seeking to frighten anyone. She saw Mo looking at her and seemed surprised. She stood very still for a minute, then turned, as though she intended to hurry away.
Rollo made a whining sound and came to stand by Mo; she knew the dog saw the apparition just as clearly as she did.
“Please!” Mo whispered.
Aidan was busy reading another tomb. “‘Death’s hold shall not my spirit still, For I shall rise as is His will, I rest not here, nor should ye weep, For I live now in my Lord’s gentle Keep.’”
Mo ignored him and moved quickly toward the woman. “Lizzie?” she said softly.
The woman paused. She had beautiful features and a gentle smile and she was young—or had been young when she died.
“Lizzie?” Mo repeated.
“I am Lizzie, yes. I am Lizzie,” the young woman said.
* * *
At first glance, Mo appeared to be talking to herself. The dog lay attentively beside her.
Aidan stood completely still, just watching her. But, as he did, he began to see something. A faint outline in the air, white and misty. He blinked, but the image remained.
He found himself looking around the cemetery.
Yes, that’s right. He was looking around, he admitted to himself, to see if anyone else was watching. To see if he needed to be embarrassed because he and Mo probably looked as if they’d lost their minds. Talking to imaginary friends from childhood, perhaps.
He closed his eyes, fighting something inside him. Was that it? Had that been the problem his whole life? He’d been embarrassed? He’d become an agent because he believed in the law, in his country—and in helping victims. But he’d thrown away what might have been his biggest asset because, at heart, he’d been a coward. Afraid of what others would think. Afraid that he couldn’t shrug it off and just go his own way. Still, as Logan had made clear, the Krewe had recognized in him what he hadn’t wanted to recognize himself.
He focused on the wispy form and on Mo. He decided not to move forward; he was going to let her discover what she could. His stumbling half sight might ruin everything.
Mo spoke softly now and then. He wasn’t sure what she was saying. He noted, though, that when she wasn’t speaking, she was listening. Really listening, as few people did anymore.
She turned suddenly, beckoning to him. He walked toward her, thinking that the cloudlike image would vanish completely when he came too close.
But it was still there.
“This is Lizzie—Elizabeth Hampton,” Mo said.
Even though he felt a little stupid, he didn’t allow himself to look around. Not this time.
He nodded politely. “How do you do?”
Mo, he realized, knew that he wasn’t seeing the woman as distinctly as she did.
“She’s going to ride back with us. I’ve told her where I’ve seen John Andre and that John has been searching for her. She’s desperate to see him. And I saw him at the Haunted Mausoleum, so if you don’t mind, we’ll take her there.”
A hitchhiking ghost! Aidan thought.
“We’ll leave right away,” he said aloud.
“She confirmed that she had a daughter, also named Elizabeth. Elizabeth—this Elizabeth, Lizzie—kept out of sight—stayed in, and no one ever knew she had a child. A second cousin, Lizzie’s best friend, helped her, then took the child and raised her. Lizzie never let on that she’d had the baby. She was too afraid someone might figure out that her child had been John Andre’s. Back then, she didn’t dare admit the association.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Lizzie was killed by Ashley Gunter, her onetime suitor, and two of his friends. T
hey claimed they executed her for being a traitor. Lizzie tells me they were cowards who weren’t with an army themselves—either army—and she knows she was killed because Gunter was bitter that she’d rejected him. And,” she added, “Lizzie says that the brief time she shared with Andre was sweeter than a lifetime with any other man. But if we could connect the two of them now...well, that would be wonderful.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “Shall we go, then?”
They walked to the car. He wondered if he should be opening the door for the ghost, but it wasn’t really much of a question. He had to open the door for Rollo, anyway. The indistinct white shape seemed to move past him; he felt as though a hand rested on his for a brief moment. Mo was watching him and she smiled.
“That was a thank-you,” she told him.
He nodded, let Mo in and got into the driver’s seat.
“Tell her I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry about what was done to her. I hope her killers were caught and punished.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. Lizzie was there, a gentle, wafting shape lingering beside Rollo.
“Lizzie said they weren’t caught. Too many people still felt so bitter about the British army at the time. If they knew—or suspected—they didn’t speak up. But Gunter didn’t last long. He was killed in an accident with a wheat-grinding stone. Crushed to death. And his two accomplices drowned in the Hudson River. So perhaps they were judged. And punished. All Lizzie really cared about was her daughter—and the child was loved by her cousin and well raised.”
“And she spent her days here? Happily?” Aidan asked.
“She did, and so did her children. And her children’s children. But after that, they moved away. Our Lizzie had at least twenty great-grandchildren that she knew about. Then, around the time of the Civil War, they all scattered to various cities.”
“I’m glad she got to see her family grow,” Aidan said.
“That’s always both good and bad,” Mo said after a moment. “You see the triumphs, and you see the sadness. Children dying young of disease. Accidents striking down others. The pain of unrequited love. Just as you see the joy at the birth of a child or at a wedding.”