PREVIOUSLY:

"A newspaper article that came out during the investigation hinted the following was the case: Charles Bellingham made his fortune from bootlegging... a lucrative, tax-free business venture, and one that would make him on par with the likes of Nucky Thompson and Al Capone. 

“Shit.” Luke sat back in his chair. “We've been thinking all along that bastard Charles Bellingham killed his wife in a fit of jealous rage. I wonder now if the murder might have served a dual purpose. What if his wife knew the truth and was going to leave him and join her French lover under the protection of the FEDS...”

“In exchange for information,” Emma finished. “Luke, you may have stumbled onto an angle the police never even considered!”
 
**********

Mike gulped the last inch of his iced tea. Leaning back in his chair, he laced his fingers behind his head. His features had a pulled-down, pensive look as though weighing the possibilities thrown out by the other members of MPS. He turned to where Emma sat at his side. “The article on Charles Bellingham… does it cite any reputable sources?”

“The original article alluded to sources in the police department,” she replied. “I did a cursory check, and there was no follow-up article by the reporter. Which makes me wonder if the man was forced to abandon exploring the allegation; perhaps, by some powerful people who were involved as well.”

“If he was involved, he’d have been in good company,” Luke interjected. “There’s been the lingering suspicion that the Kennedy family fortune came about, in part, through the Joe Kennedy Sr.’s bootlegging activities in partnership with the gangster, Frank Costello.”  

“Never substantiated,” Emma returned. “Kennedy did add to his fortune by securing sole rights to the importation of Scotch whiskey when Prohibition was repealed. And he wasn’t above using insider information on stock purchases. But I can’t imagine he’d associate with a wannabe like Bellingham.”

Luke stiffened in his chair in response to Emma's challenge. "Okay, maybe it’s a stretch to suggest Bellingham and Kennedy were in cahoots.” He planted his elbows on the table, causing his spoon to flip onto his plate. He flicked it sideways on the white table cloth while continuing his line of reasoning, “My point is that rich people never seem to have enough money, in their own minds. One scenario comes to my mind: Bellingham’s wealthy father back in England was tired of his son’s flashy lifestyle and threatened to cut him off. Bootlegging would be a way around the noose that was tightening on good old Charles. His home is less than a mile from the coast. Easy enough to construct a tunnel for illegal activities.”

Grabbing her purse from where it hung on the back of her chair, Emma retrieved a pad and pen. She pointed the tip of her pen at Luke and said, “A tunnel would be also the perfect place for Bellingham to hide until he could escape overseas. Perhaps that's why they never found his body.” She paused to scribble in her pad before continuing, “I’m going to re-visit the research material I’ve gathered and see if there’s any mention of one.”

Mike dropped his arms to grip the edges of his chair. “If there is a tunnel, we’re not likely to find any legal documents verifying its existence. The alternative method is to use infra-red film from an aerial view, looking for heat signatures.”

Luke scooped the last of his sandwich into his mouth just as their waitress re-appeared. She began stacking plates and observed, “Doesn’t look like you’ll be needing any take-out boxes.” Turning eyes artfully made up to enhance their unusual cobalt color, she locked her gaze with Luke’s. “It’s nice to see someone enjoying their food so much.” She shifted the plates so that she could smooth a hand over her flat belly. “My friends can’t believe how much I can pack away without gaining a pound. They don’t realize how much energy you burn on a busy evening here.” Then, in a voice like spun silk, she added, “Can I tempt you with dessert? This evening we’re featuring our amazing banana split cheesecake. It’s large enough to be shared three ways.” 

“Not this time. I think we’re ready for the bill,” Mike said.

“Sure thing. I’ll get that right over to you.”

When she’d disappeared into the crowd, Emma continued the line of conversation.

“An aerial view—that means an airplane. That’s going to take time, not to mention money.”

The waitress returned and set the check in front of Mike as requested, adding, “Whenever you’re ready, Sir.”

Slipping his credit card into the holder, Mike smiled and handed the bill back to the waitress. As she hurried away, he turned his attention to Emma’s comment. “Having a pilot’s license is one of the perks of keeping me around. But none of this may be necessary if the contractor we’re meeting can help. Jim may have knowledge of a tunnel or, at least, have heard rumors of its existence.”

“If one is found, I suppose it’ll be my job to do a sweep with the equipment,” Luke groaned. 
 
"You seriously have to get over your fear of bats, dude. The best way to do that is to challenge your fear.” Emma’s voice held a note of humor.

“I'm not afraid of them--just don't like them," Luke mumbled. "I consider it supremely wise to avoid any creature that carries rabies and enjoy the taste of human blood.”

"You've been watching too many cheesy vampire movies.” Emma's hands were busy re-working the braid that reached to her mid-back. “The type of bat you're likely to come across in local tunnels would be Eptesicus fuscus, a.k.a. Big Brown Bat. They're insectivores and are, likely, hibernating now - unless the tunnel is warm, then they might be breeding. So, unless they think you're a moth or another bat with the hots, you should be okay."

Luke rolled his eyes upward. “That makes me feel so much better.”

"I'm amazed that you know what kind of bats live in this area, let alone the genus name and their habitats." Mike twisted his torso to face in Emma's direction. "Granted you have a photographic memory... but bats? Why would you research them?"  

Emma's full lips curled into a wide grin. “I’ve done some spelunking in the caves along the coast with my friend, Travis. He hates bats, too, and insists I check out every cave before he’ll set foot inside.”

A cell phone went off, which turned out to be Emma's. Despite the disapproving looks from the couple wrapped around each other at the next table, she took the call.

"Hi, Mia. We're ready to leave the restaurant. Are you feeling well enough to come along to the Manor?" After listening for a minute, she gave an affirmative nod to her partners. "We’ll pick you up in front of The Tipsy Butler in about twenty minutes. Oh, and dress warm. The temperature's already dropped into the teens."
 
                              ***

Bellingham Manor, February 7, 2010

On the short drive over to the Manor, Emma apprised Mia on the theory regarding the late Charles Bellingham’s illicit activities. Mia listened without comment, only nodding agreement at the suggestion he’d used the tunnel to make his escape after the murders.

Emma went silent when her seatmate's body jerked, and her head fell back against the seat. Oh, crap, she's going into a trance state.

“I’m getting flashes of scenes—those tunnels were used for more than bootlegging,” Mia whispered. Wrapping her arms about her body, she used the physical sensation to keep from losing herself in the images that came, one after the other, of mangled corpses and men in black capes whose eyes blazed with hatred and lust.

Emma reached over and cupped Mia’s hands in her own. “Come back,” she said, then watched for her eyes to open. When they did, she brushed a finger across Mia’s cheek, adding, “Whatever you’re seeing, now’s not the time to deal with it. You're still trying to re-group your energy after that nasty fall."

Mia looked into her friend’s eyes and tried to raise a smile to her lips. But what she’d just witnessed in trance held her in a grip of disgust and fear. “I wish I had that kind of control. Life would be, at least, bearable.” 

“It's hard to watch you suffer because of your gift--if that's what it can be called. It really bothers me, y’know.”

“I know, dear Emma. And I love you for it.”

                              ***  
      
At the wheel of the van, Mike strained to hear the thread of the conversation coming from the back seat without success. Due to his divided attention, he almost missed the turn-off for Bellingham Manor. He was both surprised and relieved to find the gates open as the caretaker, Jenkins Porter, had shown utter disdain for the paranormal team’s presence on the estate. 

Mike kept going at a low rate of speed, following the lane leading to the Manor. Someone had plowed it, which was fortunate, as an additional two inches had fallen since their visit earlier in the day.

"Jeez, I feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter," Luke remarked. "Why would Porter clear the driveway for us when it's obvious he hates the fact we're even here?"

“My guess is that Jim Norris called him in advance and ordered him to cooperate. He has the backing of the company that owns the Manor, and if Porter wants to keep his job, he’ll have to start towing the line.”

“Watch out!” Mia’s warning from the back seat set Mike in motion. He slammed on the breaks in time to avoid hitting a large, shaggy animal that leaped onto the lane and ran off across an open area. The van hit a patch of thick ice and skidded forward another five feet before stopping.

Luke pounded his fist on the dashboard. “That was Porter’s deerhound. What the hell is he doing outside alone at this time of night?”

A crunching sound had come from the back of the van with the sudden stop. Before checking it out, Mike turned his attention to the back seat.

"Everyone okay?”

With the assurance no one was injured, he hurried to examine the equipment stowed in the vehicle’s rear compartment. He examined each piece until he found the source of the sound: a shovel had been jammed against the roof of the trunk, leaving a visible scrape mark. That’s going to need repair, but at least our new surveillance equipment is safe.

After reporting his finding to the others, he continued along the lane until they reached the Manor. A Lexus SUV sat in the center of the oval driveway. Behind the wheel was a figure holding a cigarette away from his face through a rolled-down window. His head jerked in their direction as they pulled to a stop behind him.

"Must be our tour guide," Luke said.

“Yup, I’d say you’re right.”

The two men exited and approached the other vehicle, leaving Mia and Emma behind in the van’s warmth.

                              ***

Mia's eyes searched the façade of the Manor. There was only a bit of light from a waxing moon, but her eyes were drawn to a window on the third floor. Leaning forward, she blinked her eyes to clear her vision and once she was certain of what she was seeing, grasped Emma’s wrist.

“There's a woman standing in a window on the second floor. She looks like she's wearing a high-collard gown of some sort." She pointed to the east wing of the Manor and said, "Can you see her?"

"Yes, I do! But how is that possible.? The rest of the house is black, yet she appears to be glowing. It takes a lot of  energy for a ghost to manifest like that. What could be the source?"

"I don't have an answer for that, but if you want to get a picture, I'd suggest you hurry."

"Tell the ghost to stay put," Emma quipped, then rushed from the van, slamming the door in her wake.

Mia remained in her seat, watching the scene unfold.

An unformed black mass rose up behind the woman's figure, swallowing all trace of her. As if fed by the energy it consumed, the mass's edges coalesced into the figure of a man, and there was no mistaking the image of Charles Bellingham or escaping his evil laugh. His eyes burned like live coals, piercing the darkness and pinning Mia to her seat.   

~~to be continued~~