The blast had been investigated. Backward and forward and inside out. But in the end, there had been no explanation other than that there had been a gas buildup in the line. The innocent flicking of a furnace switch had caused a spark, which had triggered the explosion and the tragedy.
Hastings House was back now. It was open to the public, other than the private rooms in back, some of which were maintained as offices and others as accommodations for archaeologists working on historical sites around downtown. It seemed that these days, every construction project uncovered some remnant of the past, a clear illustration of the contrast between those dedicated to preservation and those dedicated to moving on. Hastings House had been a worthy project, he was sure. But he could never forget what had happened there, and he found himself turning quickly away for a moment to compose himself before looking back at the building. He couldn’t help the bitterness that seemed to assail him every time he saw the house. He understood Eileen Brideswell, because it seemed to him, too, that pain was only endurable with knowledge or a conclusion; he realized that the rage that filled him each time he came here had more to do with his feelings of helplessness and failure than the natural pain of loss. He couldn’t help but believe, no matter what conclusion the extensive investigations had led to, that something more had gone on here. That they had missed something.
That someone had gotten away with murder.
Had Matt been the target?
He’d done some investigating himself, hitting dead end after dead end. He was sure it was frustration that kept him coming back to stand here, impotently staring at the house.
People walked past him. Tourists, with their guidebooks out. He wondered if he should warn them that wandering around on their own wasn’t such a great thing to be doing at that hour of the night.
A few teenagers walked by the house, and then a couple with two children somewhere around the age of ten. More tourists.
“Is it haunted?” the boy asked eagerly.
“Could be,” the father said. “Patriots met here during the Revolutionary War, and others met here during the War of 1812. It was even a stop on the Underground Railroad during the Civil War. Lots of people could be haunting the place.” The father winked.
His wife nudged him. “Don’t go telling him that, Herbert,” she said firmly, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “People died here just last year.”
The father sighed. “Marina, we’re seeing New York. Can’t we just let the kids have some fun along with their education?”
“Fun?” the wife repeated icily.
“I’m sorry,” the father said with a sigh.
Joe couldn’t help himself. “Good evening,” he said, approaching the group. “It’s a little late. Not much open around here at this hour. Actually…nothing open. But bars.”
The father puffed up. But the wife agreed.
“Yes,” she murmured, staring at Joe a little suspiciously, then tugged at her husband’s arm. “We should get back to the hotel.”
“We only have two days here with the kids,” the husband said.
“You might notice that the street is pretty deserted,” Joe said politely.
“Are you a cop?” the wife asked.
“I was.”
“I read in the newspaper that there have been unexplained disappearances in this area,” the wife said.
“Are we prostitutes?” the husband hissed.
“I want to go,” the wife insisted.
They moved on, looking back now and then to see that they weren’t being followed.
“Catch a taxi down the block—they’ll be going north,” Joe called.
Then he put the house and its memories behind him and started down the street in the opposite direction, shrugging his shoulders, as if he could shrug away the feelings that seized him every time he came to Hastings House.
Strange. He felt as if the house itself were beckoning to him.
As if something—someone?—inside was calling him back, unwilling to let him go.
He gritted his teeth and moved on. He wasn’t given to fantasy. The real world was tough enough.
Still, he stopped halfway down the block and stared back at the house. Then, almost angrily, he moved on.
A house simply could not call out to him, as if asking for some kind of help….
3
It was evening when they arrived at Hastings House. To the left there was a large pit, along with the partially demolished miniskyscraper that was being torn down to be replaced by a megabuilding. Downtown was coming back in a big way.