Read The Ghost and the Femme Fatale for Free Online Page B

covers, set my black- framed glasses on the nightstand, and clicked off
    the light.
    Inside my head, however, the light remained on.
    Looking at my sleeping son had raised my spirits, filled me with joy and certainty. But in the darkness, something else took over: a vision of what had happened less than an hour earlier, an image of danger and near death.
    That huge, black audio speaker had fallen onto the theater stage like the grim reaper looking for a soul. The calm of the audience, followed by the shock, the screams, the chaos . . . it reminded me of my late husband all over again: of his being right there in our quiet bedroom one moment, and down on the sidewalk the next. I could still hear the shrieks on the street, the squealing of brakes, the sirens.
    “There was a flash,” I mumbled beneath my bedcovers. “And sparks. Why were there so many sparks? And then that awful smashing noise. Why? Why did it fall?”
    My bedroom felt warm, but the temperature rapidly changed. An icy breeze began swirling around me. I opened my eyes. My flowered curtains weren’t moving. There was no breeze. No wind; not outside, anyway. Beyond the open window, the black branches of the hundred- year oak appeared still as the grave.
    “Jack?” I whispered into the chilly darkness. “Is that you?”
    Miss me, baby?
    “Where were you?”
    Where do you think? I was back here, waiting for you. I’m going to take you out on the town...
    “I don’t know what you mean...”
    Yeah, you do, baby. We’ve done it before.
    “But I want to discuss what happened earlier at the theater. What did you mean by Hedda being ‘one accident- prone dame’?”
    I’m going to show you. It’s something I witnessed years ago, and I want you to see it, too. But you have to close your eyes.
    Once more, I tried to argue, but a giant yawn stifled my words. I began to feel incredibly groggy. My eyelids drifted lower, and then everything went black...
    ***
    “EVERYTHING’S SO BRIGHT!”
    Hearing the giggly voice of a teenaged girl, I opened my eyes. People surrounded me, raucous noise, honking car horns, and lights—thousands of lights.
    “Where am I?” I whispered.
    “Lady, you’ve got to be kidding!” exclaimed that giggly teenaged girl. “You’re in Times Square! Sheesh!”
    The girl scampered off with a group of her friends. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, but the bright mirage failed to fade. I was standing in New York’s Times Square—only this wasn’t the Times Square I remembered. The surrounding buildings were much lower than during my time, the billboards more primitive, with flashing lightbulbs instead of digital images, and most of them were advertising products I’d never heard of... Kinsey Blended Whiskey? Rupert Beer?
    The marquees and landmarks were all wrong, too, I realized. Automat? Hotel Astor Dining? Capitol Theater? Where was the Virgin Rec ords Store? The Bertelsmann Building? The Toys ’R’ Us, McDonald’s, and towering Marriott?
    Streetcars ran on tracks up and down Broadway. Cars the size of small army tanks spewed leaded gasoline fumes; and the men and women jostling me on the sidewalk were attired so formally—suits and fedoras, Sunday- best dresses, and white gloves. Not a pair of shorts, baggy jeans, or sneakers in sight. Not one mini skirt or belly- baring top.
    I looked down at my own clothing and gasped. The eve ning gown I was wearing resembled nothing in my closet. The dress was a strapless, slinky number, a form- fitting golden yellow with black embroidery along the top edge of a shockingly low bodice. Opera gloves, dyed to match the gown, covered three-quarters of my arms, and black, peep- toe pumps with four- inch heels were on my feet.
    “What in the name of Sam Hill am I wearing?!”
    As a few passersby turned their heads, I felt a sharp tap on my bare shoulder.
    “What’s the matter, baby? Don’t you like it?”
    The deep, gravelly voice was one I knew well. It was the voice of Jack Shepard, now