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

by Heather Graham

  “I’m afraid the bones in the basement had nothing to do with your wife,” Angela told him. “That poor man was a victim, like many others in Madden C. Newton’s circle. Newton was a predator, swooping down on the misfortunes of others.” She segued back to the present. “So you came in by the front door? Didn’t your chauffeur let you off in the courtyard that day?”

  He shook his head. “No, I wasn’t in session. I have an office over in the CBD. I was working there, and I had Grable on call. I didn’t need him to hang at my side all day, so I told him just to pay attention to his cell phone.”

  There was no alibi for the chauffeur at the time Regina Holloway died.

  “So you entered through the front door?”

  “I used my key, and then I tapped in the code on the alarm pad.”

  “The alarm was set, you’re certain?”

  He nodded. “At least, I think I’m certain. Yes, I’m certain. I remember hearing the little chirps that warn you to key in the code.”

  “What next?”

  “I called out to Regina, but she didn’t answer. Obviously,” he added bitterly.

  “And then you went up the stairs and through the house?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Okay, let’s retrace your steps,” she said.

  He walked toward the grand staircase and she followed. He traversed the hall, turned at the ell and turned again at the last ell.

  Then he paused.

  There was absolutely no doubt in Angela’s mind that Senator David Holloway had truly loved his wife. He stood still, looking older than his years, his face a mask of grief and regret.

  “Are you all right?” she asked gently.

  He nodded and moved on. “I came to our room. I could see that she had been lying on the bed, resting. She loved this room. She was always so busy…she was industrious. That was why I wanted the house so badly. I knew she would work hard, embrace the project. And she did.”

  “What happened then? Did you go downstairs looking for your wife?” Angela asked. “Did you think she might have been in the kitchen, cooking, maybe?”

  He shook his head. “I saw the doors open to the balcony. It was a beautiful twilight, and I figured she had stepped out to catch the night breeze. I walked out to the balcony, and I called her name again. And then I looked down.”

  Grief, poignant and fresh, had slipped into his voice. He covered his face with his hands. Angela touched him gently on the shoulder, and stood silent, waiting. Anything she might have thought of to say would have been inane.

  He took a moment, and then looked at her, his features contorted with pain. “Her eyes were open,” he said, his voice ragged. “Her eyes were open. She lay on her back, her head at an awful angle, and blood was pooling beneath it. But her eyes were open, and she almost seemed to be staring at me. Or…”

  “Or what?” Angela asked.

  “As if she had seen something as she died. Something so horrible that she couldn’t bear it. Something terrifying. And, I’m afraid I know what it was.”

  Startled, Angela asked, “What?”

  “A ghost.”

  Confused, Angela stood still and quiet for a minute. “You said that you and your wife weren’t fanciful people. That you didn’t believe in ghosts,” she said.

  “I didn’t. Not until I owned this house.”

  “But—you believe your wife saw a ghost?”

  He let out a breath, staring at her. “There were places in the house she wouldn’t go when I wasn’t home. She said that they just made her uncomfortable. And I don’t really know what I saw, but when I was in the kitchen once, I felt as if someone was watching me. I looked at the door to the basement—and there was something there. I don’t know what. It seemed like a big black shadow. It was there, and then it was gone. Was it a ghost? Hell, I don’t know. I do know that I felt as cold as ice, and had rivulets of fear racing up and down my spine. I told myself I was being ridiculous, but, later, that night, Regina asked me if I believed in ghosts. I said no, and reminded her that neither did she. But, then, after she died…I started to think about it again. And when she died, people looked at me as if I had to be a monster—as if I had caused her suicide. I didn’t. I believe now that ghosts caused her suicide, and you people need to find out if they’re real—you need to prove it for me!”

  * * *

  Jackson sat on the counter, trying to remain casual and easy while questioning the trio that continually surrounded Senator Holloway. They’d chatted about the Saints and other local sports teams, and he learned that the hulk—Blake Conroy—had wrestled professionally. Grable Haines admitted to having done time in a juvenile detention center for petty larceny, and Martin DuPre had simply been in love with politics since he’d been a kid. “Politics and power, they go hand in hand. And the right people need to be in power. I’m lucky. I learn so much from Senator Holloway, it’s like a miracle, a present from God,” DuPre told him.

  “Everybody loves the senator,” Blake said, nodding.

  “But he needs a bodyguard,” Jackson pointed out.

  “He’s a politician—and no wishy-washy yes-man, either. He sticks to his guns. If he ever changes his stance on something, it’s because he’s received new information,” Conroy said. He was drinking a soda—the regular-size bottle dwarfed by his mitts.

  “Mostly, some of the really right-wing religious groups are against him,” DuPre told him.

  “I heard about a few earlier,” Jackson said. “The Aryans and the Church of Christ Arisen.”

  “The Aryans are assholes,” Grable said.

  “Freedom of speech in this country—nothing we can do about them,” DuPre reminded him.

  “Yeah, well, thank God they don’t have much of a hold here, not in New Orleans,” Blake said. He slammed a fist against his palm. “They are neo-Nazis at their worst. Of course, it would be illegal to euthanize anyone with impure blood, so they use words as weapons. And they do it well. If God had wanted us to be all one race, we would have come that way, they say. God had separations in color for a reason.”

  “Um—we come as one single race at the beginning, as far as I understand anthropology,” Jackson said.

  “Yeah, go figure,” DuPre said. “Thing is, the senator, he’s always politically correct. No matter what those—” he stopped for a moment, glancing at Grable “—assholes do, the senator is calm and soft-spoken, just holding his own.”

  “What about the Church of Christ Arisen?” Jackson asked.

  “Well, now, they’re just really weird,” Grable told him. “They have some secret rituals, like the Masonic Lodge.”

  “Don’t compare them to Masons!” Blake protested. “My dad was a Mason. And a Shriner. Those guys got together and supported kids in hospitals. Don’t even compare.”

  “Well, you have to be a member of the church to attend their meetings. There’s a bishop, name’s Richard Gull,” Blake told him. “And there’s a high council, with five members. They’re protected by law, but I don’t think they should be.”

  “Hey, there’s an enormous church in this country where people worship aliens, for God’s sake,” DuPre put in. “It’s a free country, with separation of church and state.”

  “You can have all the laws in the world—and that don’t stop the Santeria groups from practicing animal sacrifice,” Blake said.

  “Or voodoo priestesses from torturing snakes!” Grable asserted, shuddering as he made a face.

  “You feeling sorry for the priestess or the snake?” Blake asked him, grinning.

  “Well, anyway, can you all tell me about the day Regina Holloway died?” Jackson asked. They’d been talking, the three of them, easily, coworkers who might not have a lot in common, except for their love for their boss.

  But they sobered and went silent at the question.

  “Should have been a good day,” Grable said, shaking his head. “I was off most of the day. I gambled at the casino and won. Then the senator called me, and I picked h
im up and dropped him off. Wasn’t half an hour later that I got the call about Regina. I got back here, but…by then, the coroner’s office had been called in, cops and yellow tape were everywhere, and the senator was in the entertainment room, with DuPre.”

  Martin DuPre sighed softly. “It was horrible. Senator Holloway cried. Sobbed. I had to get him away from people.”

  “Why weren’t you with him?” Jackson asked Blake. “Sorry— I mean, you are his bodyguard.”

  He shook his head. “He was just working in his office in the CBD that day. Going in and coming out. He said that he didn’t need me.”

  “So where were you all day, Mr. Conroy?” Jackson asked.

  “At home. I don’t have much time to call my own, and it was like a picnic! I have a place uptown and I just worked out all day. But I came when I got the call, too. DuPre let me know what was going on, and I got here as fast as I could. I felt helpless as a baby, though. Never saw anything like the senator,” Blake said. “The next week, it was like he didn’t care if he died himself. I was working hard then, I’ll tell you. Running after him, keeping up with him,” the bodyguard said. “He’d start working, he’d want to walk. He’d start working again, he’d want coffee, he’d need something at the apartment—he was all over the place.”

  “Mr. DuPre?” Jackson asked. “Where were you that day?”

  “Me? I was at the office most of the day. I was going to come back here with the senator, but he said that he didn’t need my help, he wanted to try to have a nice night with Regina,” DuPre said sadly.

  None of them had an alibi, except for DuPre.

  Blake Conroy was just about the size of a yeti—doubtful he had leaped down from any brick walls. Both DuPre and Haines were probably more agile.

  Didn’t matter. He needed to chase down the alibis on all three of the men.

  He looked to the doorway. Angela was back down with the senator.

  The senator handed Jackson a card. “My office address, and my business phone and cell phone are on that card. I’ve taken an apartment in the complex down on Decatur Street, overlooking the river. I’d just as soon we talk there from now on,” he said.

  DuPre, Haines and Blake stood, clearly aware that they were leaving.

  “I know it was hard for you. Thank you for coming here today,” Jackson told the senator.

  “Thank you for being here,” the senator told him sincerely. “Find out the truth. Maybe I can let Regina rest if I can just know the truth.” He was quiet for a minute. “I didn’t believe in ghosts, dammit. But, I might have been the fool, and, of course, I couldn’t say that to the police. There is something about this house. If I would have taken more time with Regina…but maybe that wouldn’t have changed anything. Maybe there are ghosts. And maybe the ghosts were too much for her.”

  Jackson was startled by his statement, and looked at Angela. Her eyes widened and she subtly shook her head.

  “You now believe that there are ghosts in here, Senator?”

  “Don’t you people confirm that sort of thing?” the senator asked. “I mean, Miss Hawkins was here one night, and she dug bones out of the basement. If my wife went over that balcony, something made her do it. God alone knows—maybe it was a ghost.”

  “Sir, I have a book on Madden C. Newton. Reading it led me to the bones,” Angela said.

  “When was this book written?” he asked, frowning.

  “Years and years ago,” Angela assured him.

  “Why didn’t the author find the bones?” the senator asked. “Because he didn’t have a sixth sense,” he said, nodding sagely.

  “Actually, in the book, there was a mention of the fact that Madden C. Newton used to tell people that his basement was an amazing place, and that he loved the shadows beneath the stairs,” Angela said. “So, I’m afraid it was the book that led me to the skeleton.”

  “Probably,” Jackson said, a slight edge to his voice, “the author of the book didn’t dig up the bones because he didn’t have access to the house, and if he had had access, he might not have had Angela’s ability to work inside the mind of a victim—and a killer.”

  “Of course,” the senator said softly. “Well, I’ll leave it all in your capable hands, and, of course, these gentlemen are at your disposal,” the senator said. He offered his hand to shake with Jackson, and then headed out the kitchen door to the courtyard. His trio waved and murmured goodbyes, following him.

  Jackson slipped down from the counter to follow them out. Angela came behind him.

  It was evident that Senator Holloway was eager to find a killer—living or dead—as long as it meant that Regina Holloway had not killed herself. Grable Haines opened one side of the back door of the black sedan for the senator; DuPre entered before Blake Conroy, letting the massive bodyguard maneuver his bulk into the car last.

  The gate opened; the car backed out carefully onto the street.

  “There’s a pecking order,” he noted. “DuPre is the closest to the senator. Then Conroy, and then the chauffeur, Haines. DuPre considers himself highest in the senator’s esteem, and he’s very aware he’s the most educated. Probably the only bright future among them.”

  “Do they get along?” Angela asked him.

  “Yes. They seem to do well enough.” He turned to look at Angela. “What made him suddenly turn to ghosts?”

  “I was surprised, too,” Angela said. “He talked about the way that Regina had died,” she said. “He said that he could see that her neck was broken—or that her head was at an angle—and that her eyes were open. She was staring, wide-eyed, as if she had been in terror of something. And he told me that he’d seen a shadow in the kitchen that had given him the creeps, but that he had still denied it to his wife. He wants ghosts to have killed his wife. And he feels that people hated him after she died, because they believed that it was his coldness that had led his wife to suicide. I think he wants someone else to blame—and he wants it to be a ghost. If we can prove that there are ghosts in this house, he’ll be vindicated.”

  “Ghosts don’t kill people,” Jackson said flatly.

  “And I’m not sure how we’ll prove—beyond the scientific eye—that ghosts exist. Maybe he believes that if he can get a crack team of paranormal investigators just to say that the house is haunted and there are ghosts here manipulating and terrifying people, that will be enough.”

  “I need to study the coroner’s photos,” he said, turning and heading into the kitchen. He opened his computer, still on the table from that morning, and accessed a number of the files he had downloaded.

  She was standing behind him. He realized that he was drawing up a grisly death scene—and that he was still aware of the subtle and alluring scent of her perfume. He was seated; a strand of her wheat-gold hair fell on his shoulder. She didn’t notice. She was looking at the screen.

  He had looked at the various photos—Regina Holloway taken in death from several different vantage points—several times. Now he looked again, studying the dead woman’s eyes.

  “Once, science actually studied the eyes in forensics—believing the last thing a person had seen was preserved, like film, on the retinas,” Angela murmured. “It does look as if she was terrified.”

  “Terrified—and looking at someone or something,” Jackson mused. He moved the photos around and stood up, nearly knocking her over. He caught her by the arm, steadying her. “Sorry!” he said gruffly. “Let’s get up to the room.”

  She was a distraction. He was concentrated on the position of a body, and he was still aware that touching her, he felt the softness of her flesh, and the vitality beneath it.

  He gave himself a mental shake. They were becoming a team, he reminded himself.

  And…and he didn’t like the fact that though she didn’t say so, she was convinced that ghosts walked around, and maybe even that ghosts would talk to her in Regina Holloway’s bedroom.

  He paused, gritting his teeth. Was he afraid, maybe just a little, that everything he wanted to
deny was true?

  No, reality and truth lay at the heart of this death. There was a human being out there responsible.

  He took the center stairs up to the second floor, aware that she was following him. He strode straight to the balcony in Regina’s room and looked down to the courtyard, envisioning the position of the body. “She didn’t dive forward,” he said after a moment. “She went over backward.”

  Angela walked to the balcony and turned around, placing her palms on the railing. “She was standing like this.”

  “Yes. Do you think that a suicide would have stood here, and flung herself over backward?” Jackson asked. “It’s not impossible,” Angela said.

  “Right. But you agree with me. It’s highly improbable.”

  “Yes, but remember the old Sir Arthur Conan Doyle slash Sherlock Holmes adage?” Angela asked him. “When you get rid of the impossible, what’s left is the only answer, no matter how improbable.”

  “Conan Doyle believed in ghosts, and Senator Holloway sure seems to think we hunt them,” Jackson said.

  She stared back at him. “We do, don’t we?” she asked quietly after a minute.

  “I used to be with a respected Behavioral Science Unit.”

  She laughed. “And I was a cop, looking to eventually become a detective. Jackson, apparently there are people out there who believe ghost hunting is a respected talent. Adam Harrison put us all together because he believes in us. He believes in our ability to prove that ghosts aren’t responsible, just as much as he does in our ability to let our minds discover what really was in the past. What is a ghost? To some people, a ghost is a memory. To others, a paranormal experience might be a way of dealing with a loss, or something else terrible. If we can open our minds to all kinds of possibilities, accepting the fact that science hadn’t really even begun to discover the incredible machinations of the human brain, we strip away whatever it is about this assignment that’s embarrassing you.”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” he protested. He had been, he realized. He winced.

  What were ghosts? Memories?

  Face it. He’d seen a ghost in his mind’s eye—or the machinations of his brain had brought a ghost to him—and he had saved two lives because of it. Angela, looking at him so earnestly, was right. As a child, he’d been saved by a ghost. A memory. Or a man who had become a ghost memory, because he’d seen a portrait in a hallway of a medieval warrior.