for a moment, staring at that door. Then shivered and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.
“You okay, pal?”
“Yeah. Sure, fine. C’mon.”
Sheriff O’Donnell headed into a bedroom farther down the hall, snapped on a light and waved his arm with a flourish when they entered.
Jane caught her breath. “My God,” she whispered, blinking at the portrait on the far wall. “It looks like a Rockwell!” She moved closer, ran her fingertips lovingly over the ornate frame, then touched the work itself. “But it can’t be. This has to be at least a hundred years old.”
“You have a fine eye, Jane.”
“I know antiques,” she said with a shrug. “It’s my business. This is unsigned. Do you know who did it?”
“Ayuh, unsigned, and no, I don’t know who the artist was,” O’Donnell said. “But it’s yours, along with everything else in the house. Including the old safe in the attic, still locked up. Might even be some of Zachariah Bolton’s old notes and such tucked away in there. Yours to do with as you please, just as your grandmother’s will specified.”
Jane couldn’t take her eyes from the portrait on the wall. A very Rockwellian painting of a dark-haired man, eyes passionate and intense, hair rumpled, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. In one hand he held a small contraption with springs and wires sprouting in all directions, and in the other a tiny screwdriver. Gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and those piercing, deep brown eyes stared through them at his work. And beside him, right beside him, dressed in identical clothes—though in a much smaller size—sat a little boy who couldn’t be more than five or six. He had carrot-colored curls and bright green eyes, and he was tinkering with a tiny screwdriver of his own. The two sat so close they had to be touching. And the connection between them was so strong it was palpable, though they weren’t even looking at one another. At the bottom of the painting was a single word: Inventor.
“That there is Zachariah Bolton, ma’am,” Sheriff O’Donnell told her. “And the boy is his son, Benjamin.”
“Benjamin,” she whispered. “That was my grandfather’s name and this child looks enough like Cody to be his…” Jane’s voice trailed off.
“Little brother,” Cody finished, stepping farther into the room.
“Bolton was a friend and colleague to Wilhelm Bausch and Eli Waterson. In fact, they both said publicly that they considered him one of the greatest scientific minds of their time. One of the few things they agreed on, it was. Well, sir, when little Benjamin died of quinaria fever—”
Jane gasped, her eyes snapping back to the mischievous green ones in the painting. “Oh, no. That sweet little boy?”
“Yes, ma’am. And the day the boy passed, Zachariah Bolton went plumb out of his mind. The grief was too much for him, they say. Locked himself in the boy’s bedroom and refused to let anyone in. When they finally forced the door, he was long gone. And he’d taken the poor little fellow’s body right along with him. Bolton was never heard from again. Now, Bausch and Waterson were distraught enough over it that they vowed to find a cure for the disease that took little Benjamin. And by heaven, that’s just what they did.”
Jane blinked away the inexplicable tears that came to her eyes as she heard the story. “That’s so incredibly sad.”
“Yes, ma’am, that it is. I can take that painting down, store it somewhere, if it’s going to bother you.”
“No,” she answered quickly. “No, leave it right here.” Her eyes found those of the inventor again, and she could almost feel his pain.
“The place hasn’t changed much over the years,” the sheriff mused. “Aside from some fresh paint and paper, it’s almost exactly the way Bolton left it. Almost as if it’s been…waiting…or something.”
Jane frowned at the man. “But it’s been a century.”
“Ayuh. After Bolton vanished, his friends, Bausch and Waterson looked after the place. Kept the taxes paid up and so on, always insisting Bolton would come back someday. Course, he never did.” Quigly shrugged and heaved a sigh. “The house was left alone for a short while, of course, after the two men passed. Went to the town for taxes, and naturally the town kept it up, hoping to sell it one day. Never did, though. Not until your Grandma Kate came along. And even when she bought it, she refused to change a thing.”
Jane could understand that reluctance to change this place. It had a soul to it, as if it were a living entity—or was that the lingering presence of the long-dead scientist she felt in every room?
“Hey, Mom?”
She turned, surprised that Cody’s voice came from a distance and not right behind her, where he’d been standing only seconds ago. “Codester? Where are you?” She stepped out of the master bedroom, into the hall. Cody stood two doors down, in front of that room at the top of the stairs. The one that seemed to have given him a scare before.
“I want this room, if it’s okay with you,” he said. Frowning, Jane went to where he stood near the now open door. He looked in at a rather ordinary-looking bedroom, with no furniture to speak of, and nothing exceptional about it except for the huge marble fireplace on one wall.
“I kind of thought this room…gave you the willies. Isn’t this where you thought you saw something before?”
“That’s why I want it,” Cody said. He looked at her and shrugged. “If there is some kind of ghost hanging out around here, I want to know about it.”
“Gonna analyze it until you convince it it can’t possibly exist?”
“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “So when are the movers gonna get here with my Nintendo?”
Two
1897
T hunder rumbled and growled in the distance, and Zachariah got up from the chair where he’d been keeping constant vigil to light the oil lamp on his son’s bedside table. Benjamin had always been afraid of thunderstorms. Just as Zach fitted the glass chimney into place, Ben stirred, as Zach had known he would.
“Father… Oh. You’re right here.”
“Where else would I be?”
“Working on the device, of course. You waste an awful lot of time sitting here with me, you know.”
“I like sitting with you.” Thunder cracked again, and Benjamin reached for his father’s hand, found it, and held tight.
“There, now. No need to be afraid, son. You know thunder can’t hurt you.”
“That doesn’t make it any less noisy, though,” Benjamin said, quite reasonably. “How much longer will it last, Father? It’s been storming all night.”
Zachariah pulled the gold watch from his vest pocket, opened it and then turned its face toward his son. “It’s only 9:08, my boy. It hasn’t been storming all night, only a couple of hours. And it will end any time now, I’m cer—”
His words were cut off by the loudest,
