Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside

by Heather Graham

“You know my story. You have the dossiers. I start the questions.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “What’s your background?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Obvious, I’d say.”

  “American Indian. What kind?”

  “Cheyenne.”

  “And what else?”

  “English—well, Scottish, originally, but my mom grew up in London.”

  “Cool. Are your parents alive?”

  “No. My mom died from cancer eight years ago, my father had a heart attack four weeks later.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. And you?”

  “My folks are gone. You know that. They died in a plane crash.”

  “And since the plane crash—”

  “My turn,” she interrupted. “Do you know your family—or families?”

  “Yes, of course, very well. I like family. You? What is your feeling for your brother?”

  “I adore him. My turn. Siblings?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. You’re an only child,” she said gravely.

  “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

  She shrugged, grinning. “I’ve met a few people who were an only child within their household, and they came out okay.”

  “Ouch. Preconceived notions.”

  “No, it’s just that, rich or poor, a person who has siblings has had to share upon occasion. There will always be a time when what happens in a sibling’s life is more important. That’s all.”

  “Ah, but I’m Cheyenne,” he said, a quirk of amusement on his lips.

  “And that means?”

  “We’re all about community, and the People.”

  “I see. Leaning back on your pedigree,” she said solemnly.

  “Don’t forget that part of me is clansman,” he said.

  “All for the good of the clan?” she asked.

  He laughed. “We’re big into standing up for one another in feuds,” he said. “Actually and honestly, I do play well with others.”

  Their server arrived with their food orders. She opted for another glass of wine and Jackson decided on a second scotch. He laughed and teased the pretty girl serving them, pleasantly, and not obnoxiously, Angela noted. He was still smiling when she left them at the table with their fresh drinks and plates of food.

  “Do you see ghosts?” Jackson asked her.

  She froze, startled by the sudden impact of the question. She had to force herself to swallow her bite of food.

  “Do you?” she replied.

  He took another sip of scotch, and his eyes met hers squarely. “I believe that the world is full of possibilities. Do I believe in ghosts like the ones on TV? No. I’m pretty sure that if ghosts exist they are around both by day and night, and that we don’t need to see a lot of people with their eyes wide open—deer-caught-in-the-headlights—jumping at every sound.”

  “Logical,” she told him.

  “Pardon?”

  “Logical. If they exist, they must exist in daylight as well as in the middle of the night.”

  “What about Griffin?” he asked her.

  Once again, she froze. He had a knack for throwing in a tough question just when she had relaxed.

  “What about him?” she asked dully. “He’s dead.”

  “Do you ever ‘see’ him?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “You two were together for years,” he commented.

  “Five, to be exact.”

  “You didn’t foresee his death?” he asked.

  She stared at him, every muscle in her body as tense as piano wire. “When they told us that the cancer had spread into every organ and riddled his bones, yes, I foresaw it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wondered if it made you—susceptible.”

  “Susceptible to what?” she demanded.

  “Seeing ghosts. I just wanted to make sure that you were over it, and that you were standing on even ground.”

  “Am I over it? Do we ever get over the loss of loved ones? No—I have never managed to do so. My parents, and Griffin, are always alive in my heart. Do I accept the reality of it? Yes. And they are all gone. Gone. They don’t come and take my hand and direct me to dead bodies—or to lost children, for that matter.” She paused, needing to wet her lips. She didn’t sip her wine, she chugged it. Most unattractive, she was sure; she didn’t care. He could be so completely courteous. He could make her comfortable, he could make her laugh. And then, he could home right in for the kill.

  “What about you?” she demanded more heatedly than she had intended. “Do your lost field agents come and speak to you in the night? Do they ask you how you didn’t happen to get there in time to save them?”

  There wasn’t so much as a crack in his expression, not a change whatsoever in the steady dark blue eyes that surveyed her.

  “No. They are gone. Like you, I accept that they are gone. Like you, I do remain haunted by the lives they once led.”

  She flushed. He should feel badly for badgering her about the losses in her life. She was left feeling similarly—but she had phrased her words in a much meaner manner.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured uncomfortably. Damn him! She didn’t need to be apologizing to him.

  “One thing is true—we can’t undo the past. We can only do our best in the present, and hope to find the answers in the future. Dessert? Coffee?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “Want to split a bread pudding? It’s out of this world here.”

  She sat back, still uneasy, and totally baffled by his ability to remain so unruffled. She had been tested throughout dinner, she realized.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Another glass of wine?” he asked.

  “Fine, why not?”

  He ordered brandy and bread pudding, and she had another glass of wine. His conversation turned casual. He talked about his love for the city; he had worked here for nearly a year when he had first joined the bureau. “Things are always just a little bit different in these parts. Louisiana laws are still based on Napoleonic Code—French law—while the majority of the country is based on English law. It’s not major, but there are some differences. You’ll note they have parishes instead of counties.”

  “I went to Tulane. I know that,” she told him. Inane. He had her dossier.

  “And majored in history and philosophy,” he said.

  She nodded. “And you?”

  He shrugged. “I spent six years in college. I liked it. I might have stayed a college student all my life, but it doesn’t pay the bills. World religions, history and psychology.”

  Angela frowned. “Psychology, of course. You were with a Behavioral Science Unit. So, tell me, because I was thinking today that someone as involved as Regina was in preparing that home to be the perfect welcoming point for her husband wouldn’t have committed suicide. And to be honest, suicide had sounded like an entirely rational explanation to me before.”

  “It’s hard to say. I didn’t know her,” Jackson said.

  Dessert and drinks arrived. He was persuasive; she did try the bread pudding, and it was delicious. And it felt oddly intimate to share a dessert. She hadn’t done so in years. Since Griffin had died.

  He sipped his brandy. “It does seem as if she was devoted to her husband, and as if she had determined to put her life to good use. That speaks against suicide. But then again, the loss of a child might have made her snap.”

  “But that kind of snap? Going over a balcony?” Regina asked.

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” he told her.

  They left soon after. The walk back down Chartres Street was quiet; they took St. Peter’s up to Dauphine and crossed Bourbon once again. They were at the more subdued end of Bourbon there, but distracted, Angela had been walking a few steps ahead.

  “Hey, honey, wanna party?” someone asked.

  He was a blond frat boy. He looked harmless. He was with other blond fra
t boys.

  She could take care of herself, she knew. But Jackson stepped forward easily, slipping an arm around her. “Not tonight, but you all have a good time, and take care,” he said pleasantly.

  The frat boys waved and went on. Jackson’s hold on her eased, but they walked next to each other.

  He didn’t say anything; neither did she. He knew she could have managed on her own; she knew that he had quickly defused the situation.

  And then they were back. They’d left lights on, and the house on Dauphine stood white and dignified in the moonlight, captured in shadow and in a soft glow. The windows might have been eyes, and, Angela thought, the ghosts of dozens of lost souls might have looked out from behind them, gazing at the world they had left behind. The house wasn’t evil, but evil had lived behind the facade.

  Angela was suddenly certain that Regina Holloway had not committed suicide.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Before retiring for the night, Jackson had done a survey of the house, studying the alarm system.

  He’d learned two things: every window in the house was properly wired; and though the gate to the courtyard was wired as well, only the gate was wired. It would have been possible for someone to climb the wall into the courtyard. However, once that happened, they’d have to have the code to get through the alarm.

  Even so, it was possible and probable—no matter how excellent a police force might be—that someone had come over the wall. After that…

  It had been twilight when Regina Holloway died. A time when someone might have slipped over the wall. A time when she might have had the alarm off, since she had been out on the balcony. She might have had the doors locked, but if she had opened her bedroom doors to the balcony—or if anything had been left open by one of the maids—there would have been access to the house.

  The night, however, was uneventful.

  Angela Hawkins was still asleep when he came down to the kitchen. There was little there, but someone had seen to it that some basics had been stocked, so he was able to brew coffee and munch on one of the English muffins that had been left in a package in the refrigerator.

  He called to set up an interview with the senator. First, he reached a secretary, and then was put through to the senator’s aide, Martin DuPre, and while he was asking DuPre if the senator would be available for an appointment, DuPre’s protective hedging came to a quick halt when the senator himself came on the line. He assured Jackson that he’d be there that evening around five or five-thirty, and that their investigation was the most important issue in his life at the moment. He was glad to be in New Orleans at the moment, since the state legislature wasn’t in session. He hadn’t lived at the house since his wife had died; he had taken an apartment in the city.

  Jackson was in the kitchen, working on notes for the investigation, when the doorbell rang.

  Answering it, he discovered a young man with a guitar case strung over his shoulder and an overnight bag in his hand.

  “Hi,” the visitor said.

  “Can I help you?” Jackson asked.

  The young man extended a hand. “You have to be Jackson Crow. I’m Jake Mallory. I know it’s kind of early, but I grew up in the Garden District, and I was awake—and here I am.”

  “Jake. Good to meet you. Come on in.”

  Jackson kept his tone level, his greeting polite.

  But he wondered what the hell Adam Harrison had been thinking.

  Jake Mallory was tall, probably half an inch short of his own height. He had auburn, slightly long hair, an angular, well-defined face and light green eyes. His build was more lanky than bulky, but he looked as if he was about to play guitar on the streets for money. It wasn’t that he looked unkempt; he was fastidious and probably extremely attractive to young women. He just didn’t have the look of someone about to become part of an elite investigation unit. If this was, in truth, an elite investigation unit.

  Then, again, maybe he looked exactly the part, just because he didn’t offer the customary appearance.

  Jake walked in and whistled at the great entry slash ballroom. “Wow. I’ve heard about this place all my life. I’ve never been in it.” He set down his bag and let the guitar case slide slowly to the parquet.

  “It’s quite a house,” Jackson said.

  Jake met his gaze. “Amazing. Huge, so it seems. How was your night?”

  “Uneventful,” Jackson assured him. “Want the grand tour? Or did you want to take it alone?”

  “Either way,” Jake said, shrugging and shoving his hands in his back pockets. He laughed. “We used to come and stare at the place when we were kids. Dare each other to go up close and all that. There were great ghost stories about it.”

  “I know what the ghost stories say, and I’ve got blueprints, but you might know a lot that I don’t,” Jackson said.

  Jake laughed ruefully. “Yep. Forgot that you probably know just about everything about me, too. I have to admit, it’s amazing to be here. To actually sleep here.”

  “So, you’re not afraid of ghosts,” Jackson said.

  “I’m fascinated by the possibilities!” Jake said.

  Jackson had read that Jake was a local boy by birth; he’d also gone to school here, and gotten a music degree from Yale. He’d returned to New Orleans and worked with a musicians’ coalition in the city.

  Adam had apparently found him fascinating because of his ability to find people. He’d been responsible for finding both survivors and those who had not survived after the summer of storms wrought their havoc on the city and its residents. Jackson wasn’t sure just what his specialty was, beyond an uncanny ability to find the dead. There didn’t seem to be a real investigator in his group, Angela’s police training notwithstanding.

  Jake looked at Jackson with a sharp and steely look in his eyes. “We’re all being tested, though, I assume.”

  “Tested?”

  “Look, I’m called frequently to find the lost. So, I have to admit, I’m curious about exactly why I’m here. Regina Holloway isn’t lost, she’s dead. Everyone knows where she is. But then, you found a body last night, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t find it. Angela Hawkins found it. And how do you know about that already?” Jackson asked.

  “I don’t believe you’ve turned on a television or read the local paper today,” Jake said.

  Jackson frowned. “Reporters got in on it?”

  “Don’t kid yourself. This is the Deep South, and it’s Louisiana. Though we have a history of corrupt politicians, sweet tea and a slow, steady lifestyle, our reporters are sharks—just like everywhere else in the country. You had police and forensics experts in here last night. That kind of thing doesn’t go unnoticed, especially when it’s the second time it’s happened. Detective Devereaux had the police spokesperson give an official statement. But…well, the speculation on what happened is far more intriguing.”

  “I’m going to need a newspaper.”

  “Don’t worry…there’s one in my bag,” Jake said. “I’ll call and get a paper delivered here every morning. That way, you’ll know what we’re up against as far as gossip goes.”

  “What’s been written about us being in the house?” Jackson asked.

  “Oh, just that the senator has brought in a team of investigators. People believe that he’s so heartbroken, he had to do something to try to prove that his wife didn’t commit suicide.”

  “Did you know her?” Jackson asked.

  “No. But, I’ve seen her. She was really loved here—just like the senator. Hey, he’s like a breath of fresh air. Especially in Louisiana.” Jake’s wry grin deepened. “The people loved Huey Long because he shook things up and worked for every one despite his carousing. Senator Holloway, he’s loved the same way. He wants big money to take care of big-money problems, and he wants to create work for everyone. And he was an honest-to-God family man.”

  There was a sharp intelligence beneath the laid-back exterior of the man, Jackson thought. He might prove to be a fa
r greater asset than Jackson had imagined at first sight.

  “Politicians, in one way, seem perfectly understandable, but then it’s always hard to tell what is lurking in their minds, they’re so accustomed to wearing masks,” Jackson said.

  “True, but I do know New Orleans, and a lot of the players here,” Jake offered.

  Conversation paused. Jackson had the curious feeling that they were being watched, and he turned to see why.

  Angela Hawkins looked down at them from the second-floor landing. It struck him again that she was an exceptionally beautiful woman, far too angelic looking, really, to have been a cop. Despite last night, she retained a reserve that was no less daunting than a suit of armor. Though beneath it all, he sensed her capable of a smile that would light the world. Studying her personality was an intriguing and appealing concept.

  “Hi, there!” Jake called to her.

  “Angela, Jake, Jake, Angela.”

  “So, how did you sleep? Any ghosts prowling the halls?” Jake asked. He might have been asking her if a shopping mall had been busy.

  “I was out like a light last night,” she told him. “Welcome to the crew!”

  Jake smiled at her. And Angela returned it. They seemed to have an instant, easy rapport. He was surprised to find himself envious.

  “Thanks. It’s good to be here.”

  “I can get Jake up to speed on what I know about the house,” Angela offered.

  “Sure.” Hmm. He heard the tension in his voice. What he was feeling was ridiculous; they were peers. He knew better than to feel a macho, ego-driven need to be the divine leader, most respected and most admired—and liked. He found himself thinking about his last team; they had worked so well together for so long. Each member with his or her own specialty and all of them learning to work like a well-oiled machine. But, he had to remember, they’d been together five years. This was a new team; despite his lingering feelings of pain for his last coworkers, he had to make himself start fresh, and give each member of this new team a chance to fall in—just as he had to learn to lead again, as smoothly as he had in the past.

  “Sure,” he said again. “That will be great.”

  He almost managed to laugh at himself as he headed back to the kitchen, to finish the notes he had been making after his conversation with Andy Devereaux, and after they had discovered the bones of Madden C. Newton’s probable first New Orleans victim.