suffer by engineers who better understood the way the earth moved.
Boone Jennings’s gallows spot hadn’t fared so well. It was now an office building with gray walls and little cubes where people worked. It was just like a prison, except they had doughnuts in the break room and whispers among the workers to stay out of the basement.
Jennings’s rage kept him anchored there, unable to move to a new home as Ambrose and Ezra had, unable to find peace, unable to roam long or far. And his rage kept Ambrose and Ezra busy. Even in death, they were able to do what they’d loved in life: save lives.
Ambrose sat with his feet up on the table, his boots on the tablecloth making the dishes and silverware rattle whenever he laughed or moved. Ezra retained more of his propriety, legs crossed genteelly as they sat side by side, watching the hotel patrons bustle about the Palm Court.
It was a grand room, one that had seen almost as much history as Ambrose and Ezra had. In this room they’d listened in on speeches from presidents. Seen the birth of the United Nations. Heard from the Soviet premier and then poked him with a palm frond later that night just to make him curse in drunken Russian.
They’d tried and failed to save Warren G. Harding in room 8064 during his Voyage of Understanding in the 1920s. Boone Jennings hadn’t been able to pass up the chance to add an American president to his bone orchard, and they’d gotten there too late.
They were now well into the new millennium. Ezra had been enthralled by the end-of-the-world scare of 2012, wondering what would happen to the spirits of the dead if the Mayan prophecy was correct. Ambrose hadn’t cared either way, and he’d taken great pleasure in poking fun at Ezra’s fascination.
Boone Jennings had been quiet for some time. So long, in fact, that Ambrose was pushing Ezra to let him go to that office building and hunt Jennings down to see what he was up to.
“I say enjoy the peace while we’ve got it. Don’t go prodding him if he’s not hurting anything.”
Ambrose huffed at that, crossing his arms over his chest.
Ezra gazed upon him for several seconds, smiling fondly. “You’re quite charming when you’re sulking.”
Ambrose cut his eyes toward Ezra, trying not to smile. His mustache hid the twitching of his lips, but it twitched instead and made him look like a bunny flexing its whiskers.
Ezra took his hand, squeezing affectionately. “You’re just bored,” he said with a smile. “This too shall pass.”
“But it passes so damn slow sometimes. At least when he’s up and roaming, I feel like I have a purpose.” Ambrose groaned and flopped his head back. The chair dislodged his hat and it fluttered to the floor, giving off a cloud of dust before it disappeared. “Well, hell.”
Ezra chuckled as Ambrose ran his fingers through his hair. The man looked absolutely naked without his hat. It was a good look for him.
Ambrose frowned and cocked his head at the entry to the gleaming marble lobby. A group of men had walked in, glancing around the Palm Court and waiting until the hostess showed them to a table at which to dine.
Ezra watched them curiously, wondering why they’d caught Ambrose’s attention.
“That boy favors you a bit,” Ambrose murmured. He removed his feet from the table and leaned forward.
“Which?”
“The one in front, the one leading the others.”
Ezra adjusted his eyeglasses. The man did look quite a bit like him. Same light brown hair, same shape of the face. He was roughly Ezra’s height and weight, too, and though his eyes appeared to be a lighter color than Ezra’s brown, they had the same downward turn to the corners.
As Ezra examined the man, he saw that he was holding a small leather journal against his chest, clutching it in his hand even though he had a satchel slung over his shoulder.
Ezra gasped when he recognized it.
“What, what’s wrong?”
“My journal!”
“Your what now?” Ambrose asked, and
Boone Jennings’s gallows spot hadn’t fared so well. It was now an office building with gray walls and little cubes where people worked. It was just like a prison, except they had doughnuts in the break room and whispers among the workers to stay out of the basement.
Jennings’s rage kept him anchored there, unable to move to a new home as Ambrose and Ezra had, unable to find peace, unable to roam long or far. And his rage kept Ambrose and Ezra busy. Even in death, they were able to do what they’d loved in life: save lives.
Ambrose sat with his feet up on the table, his boots on the tablecloth making the dishes and silverware rattle whenever he laughed or moved. Ezra retained more of his propriety, legs crossed genteelly as they sat side by side, watching the hotel patrons bustle about the Palm Court.
It was a grand room, one that had seen almost as much history as Ambrose and Ezra had. In this room they’d listened in on speeches from presidents. Seen the birth of the United Nations. Heard from the Soviet premier and then poked him with a palm frond later that night just to make him curse in drunken Russian.
They’d tried and failed to save Warren G. Harding in room 8064 during his Voyage of Understanding in the 1920s. Boone Jennings hadn’t been able to pass up the chance to add an American president to his bone orchard, and they’d gotten there too late.
They were now well into the new millennium. Ezra had been enthralled by the end-of-the-world scare of 2012, wondering what would happen to the spirits of the dead if the Mayan prophecy was correct. Ambrose hadn’t cared either way, and he’d taken great pleasure in poking fun at Ezra’s fascination.
Boone Jennings had been quiet for some time. So long, in fact, that Ambrose was pushing Ezra to let him go to that office building and hunt Jennings down to see what he was up to.
“I say enjoy the peace while we’ve got it. Don’t go prodding him if he’s not hurting anything.”
Ambrose huffed at that, crossing his arms over his chest.
Ezra gazed upon him for several seconds, smiling fondly. “You’re quite charming when you’re sulking.”
Ambrose cut his eyes toward Ezra, trying not to smile. His mustache hid the twitching of his lips, but it twitched instead and made him look like a bunny flexing its whiskers.
Ezra took his hand, squeezing affectionately. “You’re just bored,” he said with a smile. “This too shall pass.”
“But it passes so damn slow sometimes. At least when he’s up and roaming, I feel like I have a purpose.” Ambrose groaned and flopped his head back. The chair dislodged his hat and it fluttered to the floor, giving off a cloud of dust before it disappeared. “Well, hell.”
Ezra chuckled as Ambrose ran his fingers through his hair. The man looked absolutely naked without his hat. It was a good look for him.
Ambrose frowned and cocked his head at the entry to the gleaming marble lobby. A group of men had walked in, glancing around the Palm Court and waiting until the hostess showed them to a table at which to dine.
Ezra watched them curiously, wondering why they’d caught Ambrose’s attention.
“That boy favors you a bit,” Ambrose murmured. He removed his feet from the table and leaned forward.
“Which?”
“The one in front, the one leading the others.”
Ezra adjusted his eyeglasses. The man did look quite a bit like him. Same light brown hair, same shape of the face. He was roughly Ezra’s height and weight, too, and though his eyes appeared to be a lighter color than Ezra’s brown, they had the same downward turn to the corners.
As Ezra examined the man, he saw that he was holding a small leather journal against his chest, clutching it in his hand even though he had a satchel slung over his shoulder.
Ezra gasped when he recognized it.
“What, what’s wrong?”
“My journal!”
“Your what now?” Ambrose asked, and
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