“Watch for herons!” Justin said.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing a cougar,” Meg announced.
“They’re shy, too. But we’ll see what we see,” Ashley assured them.
They counted seven herons, two raccoons, an armadillo and three owls up in the trees. When they came to the bayou, Ashley pointed out two alligators sunning on the opposite bank. As she did so, she saw that staff members at Beaumont were engaged in their work already. A man dressed in a droop hat, cutoff denim and a dotted cotton shirt was standing by a wagon that showed freshly hewn sugarcane. Another, dressed more like an early nineteenth-century Louisiana French businessman, was giving a tour.
She looked up toward the second story of the plantation house, where the family had lived. A man was standing there, dressed in a Confederate uniform frock coat.
Ashley blinked against the light. He looked like…
Like her ancestor, Marshall Donegal.
The man lifted a hand to her.
Yet when she blinked again, he was gone. Her imagination at work again. Of course, she was still concerned about Charles Osgood. But he was due back to work the next morning. If he didn’t turn up by then, the police would have to get involved at a serious level.
She realized that Justin was watching her.
“Are you okay, Ashley?” he asked.
“I’m fine. The light is playing tricks, that’s all. I thought I saw a Confederate soldier at the window. Toby Keaton does workshops and tours on the real workings of a sugar plantation over there. We do the Civil War—keeps me sending tourists to him, and him sending them to Donegal Plantation,” she said. Would she have told the truth if Jake were here? Jake, who seemed to know what the dead were saying.
“You have Charles Osgood on your mind,” Justin said.
“I do. I can’t help it.”
They rode along the bayou for a while, and then Ashley led them around the second trail to head back to the house. The girls chattered the whole time.
Justin nudged Jeff and the horse trotted up next to Ashley again. “I know you were hoping to find Charles,” he said.
“I am worried, Justin, really worried,” she said.
“He’ll show up. But let him know how worried you were. That will make him feel good,” Justin told her.
Ashley offered him a smile. “Sure, thanks.”
Back at the stable, Ashley tried to keep her mind busy, letting the girls help her with the saddles and bridle and tack. She taught them how to groom their horses.
As she put away the last of the brushes, Justin strode over to her. “Great. Now Jeanine doesn’t want a puppy anymore. She wants a horse.”
Ashley laughed. “Maybe you better look into the puppy thing, fast. Of course, there’s always kittens, you know.”
Restless, she returned to the house, showered again and went down to join Beth, who was planning the offerings for the restaurant’s evening meal.
* * *
Jackson Crow was nothing if not a man of incredible thought and organization; there were six folders on the table awaiting them all.
Jake and Whitney were precisely on time, but he was the last to slide into his seat at Le Café, the Hotel Monteleone’s bright and charming dining facility for breakfast and lunch. There were other diners about, but they’d been given a table in the far corner, near the windows to Royal Street, and they were certainly far enough from others to carry on a meeting in normal tones.
Jackson, ever the gentleman, had risen while Whitney took her seat, which meant that Will did, too. They were both tall, and the kind of men who drew attention. Jackson had the rugged, square-jawed history of Native Americans in his face, while Will’s Trinidadian mix of English, Indian, Chinese and African ancestry gave him a fascinating appeal.
“Thank you all for being on time,” Jackson said. “Though I want you all to know that we’re not in an emergency situation.”
“What is our situation?” Will asked.
“As you know, we’d been due to leave here and set up shop in our headquarters in Alexandria. But instead we’re going to stay here, in the area, a few more days,” Jackson said.
Whitney kicked Jake under the table. He scowled at her.
Jackson continued, “This may be absolutely nothing, but since we were already in the vicinity, we’ve been asked to check out a disappearance.”
“Oh, no, not a child?” Jenna asked softly.
“No, no, a man named Charles Osgood, thirty-eight years old,” Jackson said. “As you may or may not know, Adam Harrison is quite the philanthropist, and he’s friends with a Louisiana legend with whom he’s worked on many committees to improve education in the Southern states, housing reform, storm relief and so on. Apparently, although the local police aren’t terribly concerned, Osgood disappeared right after a battle reenactment.”
Jake knew; he already knew. There had been the dreams; there had been the woman he had seen when he’d been out with Whitney.
There had been those images of Ashley calling to him.
He knew, damn it, knew….
“A what?” Jenna asked.
Jackson glanced at her, remembered she had spent most of her own school years in Ireland, and explained. “A Civil War reenactment. We do tons of them in this country. Many battlefields are now national parks, and many of those that aren’t are owned by people who don’t mind reliving the Revolutionary War and the Civil War. It’s ‘living history,’ and a good thing, in my opinion. We learn from our mistakes.”
“True, or else you’ll die,” Jenna said. She looked around and shrugged. “Survival of the fittest. But, yes, they do reenactments everywhere, of course.”
The others smiled at her tone. Jake felt the unease sweeping through him. Déjà vu.
“How long has he been missing?” Whitney asked.
“Not even twenty-four hours,” Jackson said.
“Are we even sure he’s missing?” Jenna asked.
“No,” Jackson said. “But we’re going to hang in a bit—wait here in New Orleans. You have a day entirely to yourselves. If he’s still missing after this evening, we’ll become involved with the search. Adam is making sure that we’re officially invited in. I have folders regarding Osgood’s situation—when he was last seen, the location and why the people at Donegal are so concerned.”
Donegal.
Jake picked up his folder, his fingers feeling oddly numb and too big. When he flipped the page, he felt a sweep of old emotion.
Donegal. The computer printout offered a beautiful shot of a large and majestic plantation house, complete with sweeping oaks, pine forest, outbuildings, horses in a paddock and the low wall and gates of an historic family cemetery.
He didn’t need the computer printout. He could see the plantation clearly in his mind’s eye at any time.
He looked up.
Jackson was staring at him.
“Adam mentioned that Frazier Donegal told him that one of the team members had a history with the family and the plantation. That’s not a problem for you in any way, is it, Jake?”
“No,” Jake said.
Jackson was still staring at him.
“No,” he repeated quietly. “Our families are old friends, that’s all. But I haven’t been out there in ages,” he explained. “Ashley Donegal and I spent a lot of time together when we were kids. I saw her at her father’s funeral, and I stayed on a few days after. She was pretty devastated when he died. She’d lost her mom just a few years earlier.”
We were more than friends. Somehow, he kept his gaze steady as he met Jackson’s eyes.
Every word he had said was absolutely the truth.
“Then, be advised, we’re officially on hold,” Jackson said. “If this fellow turns up at work tomorrow, green from celebratory alcohol, we’ll be clear to head up to Alexandria. If not, we’ll start working on the disappearance. Take your folders and read up—we’ll need to be ready either way.”
The official part of the meeting was over. They all chatted casua
lly and ordered breakfast as the restaurant was about to close for the break before lunch. Jake joined in. But he opted not to go to the World War II museum with Will, Jenna and Whitney, or join Angela and Jackson on a trip to the aquarium with a hop over to the casino. He shrugged off both groups, saying that he had woken early and thought he’d get in some sleep, just in case they were on call.
He didn’t take a nap.
Hell, he’d never sleep. He didn’t want to sleep.
He wandered the city, looking for the woman in the historic costume.
No, he knew exactly who he was looking for: Emma Donegal.
He didn’t find her, but he hadn’t expected to.
Ghosts never seemed to appear when they were needed. It was aggravating. They reached out—and then stepped back and disappeared, assuming that they had gotten the living working on whatever it was that they wanted them working on.
“You know, you could be helpful,” he said out loud, standing on Jackson Square near the spot he had first seen her. All he received for his effort was a worried glance from a woman passing by. She gripped her husband’s arm tighter.
It really wasn’t prudent to attempt speaking to ghosts when others were near. They just thought you were crazy or worse—dangerous.
Had Ashley thought that he was dangerous?
He stopped for coffee at C.C.’s, then returned to his room, where he did lie down.
Ashley. Donegal Plantation. The light was fading; night had come.
He couldn’t stand it. He would be crawling the walls by morning. He stood up and looked around at his room. Packing up would take him all of ten minutes.
He picked up his phone and dialed Jackson. When Jackson answered, he said, “I’m heading out tonight, if that’s all right. If this fellow shows up in the morning, I’ll come right back. Frazier Donegal is not a spring chicken. If they’re worried, I’d just like to be there.”
“You read your folder?”
“I’m doing so right now. I’ll pack up and be out of this room in another few hours. I’ll get to the plantation really late, but I’ll give Frazier a call and tell him I’m coming in.”
“Fine. Just be careful, Jake. If you have a personal stake in this…”
“It may be nothing,” Jake reminded him.
“If it’s not, wait for the team before rushing into danger.”
“Of course.”
He hung up and finished packing, the same two words running through his mind over and over again.
Ashley. Donegal. Ashley. Donegal.
Ashley….
Interlude
Nighttime—the haunting time…
When all the earth was still.
And old Charles, while still breathing, was getting a little ripe.
Unconscious now for over twenty-four hours, he had a certain… Well, honestly, there was a stink about him. The man was still dressed in wool, for God’s sake, and since he’d never had a chance to regain consciousness, he hadn’t managed to handle personal hygiene, and, well…
But that was all right. He didn’t blame poor old Charles for the way he smelled.
With any luck, no one would see him. He’d sail through this, and it would be easy, as easy as luring the man to his car, as easy as that first solid blow against his head, as easy as the injection of the needle into his flesh. Not long now…
He anticipated the horror when others found the body.
Of course, when they found the body, he’d be as horrified, stunned and confused as all the others.
He grunted, picking him up. Damned Charles—the man was no lightweight.
He didn’t go through the gate, and crawling over the wall with his victim’s dead weight was no easy feat.
“You should have laid off the andouille, fried chicken and Cajun rice, buddy!” he whispered aloud, struggling. He was careful, of course. His shoes were encased in plastic shower caps, and he wore thin latex hospital gloves. Now, well, hell, if someone caught him now…
“I was by the water, searching for a buckle I lost, and I couldn’t just stick my hands in the muck….”
That one didn’t fly. Not at all. Not even to him. Didn’t matter. He was near the end.
He found the right place. Now he needed all his strength and the aid of the broken stone marker he’d made note of earlier. He heard himself grunting with exertion and paused, making sure that he wasn’t sweating—it was all no good if someone could pull sweat off of old Charles. God, he hated contemporary forensics, though he was sure he had studied enough manuals on the subject to make sure that he was doing it all the right way. After all, he had planned this for years.
Finally, he had Charles where he wanted him. And it was time; Charles was still heavily sedated. He’d never know exactly how he reached the pearly gates.
He loved his weapon of choice.
For a moment, he admired his handiwork. And then he struck.
His victim never uttered so much as a whimper.
4
Ashley opened her eyes. Pale and surreal moonlight flowed through the gauze curtains and into her room, soft and evocative in the night. The white curtains shifted in the breeze. She had awakened in the middle of the night, not at all sure why. There should have been something, a loud noise, a gust of wind, a scream in the darkness, something.
She hadn’t even been dreaming.
Thank God!
She was sure that there hadn’t been any kind of commotion or noise. It was disturbing that she was so suddenly wide-awake, with no clue as to why.
She stood, curious, and walked to French doors that opened out to the wraparound porch, slipped by the hauntingly sheer curtains and out to the balcony, where she held the rail, as she had as a child, and looked over the beauty of the grounds. The moon was a crescent in the sky, and stars sparkled beautifully if opaquely. Rain might be coming, she thought. The ethereal light of the stars and moon—and the large lanterns at the front and rear doors of the grand old house—created a scene of misted and mysterious beauty.
So what had wakened her so swiftly and completely?
“Worry!” she whispered aloud. “‘Hmm, Sherlock,’ said Watson, ‘there shouldn’t be any werewolves out tonight. Werewolves need a full moon, so I believe!’ Oh, God, I’m talking to myself again!” she moaned.
But—what?
Charles Osgood was still missing.
Jake was coming. That was certainly something that had to be haunting her mind—and maybe the mere thought of Jake, in the flesh, had never really allowed her sleep.
She began to wonder if Charles Osgood was really alive and well, and had returned tonight, wanting to play some kind of demented joke on everyone to prove that he really had been the right choice to play Marshall Donegal. The thought of Charles Osgood running around the property in the perpetuation of some kind of a hoax was irritating—but left her hopeful as well.
She found herself looking out to the graveyard.
She thought she saw a light flickering there.
“Damn it!” she whispered.
From her vantage point on the second-floor porch, she could see the ghostly white tombs and vaults, the weeping angels, mournful cherubs, praying saints and all the exquisite mortuary art to be found here.
She needed to put the nonsense regarding Charles out of her head and start remembering that she ran a business, a bed-and-breakfast and living museum. And, yes, Charles was on her mind, but there were still other problems that could arise.
Ah, yes, Jake always kept her grounded, and he always had that half smile on his face, the charming light in his eyes, and when he was there, she was whole.
Somehow, knowing that Jake was coming gave her that strength!
Brilliant woman! So, push the man away!
Still, just thinking about him…
Something was going on out there. It was her property, and it was going to stop. She was sick of wondering what had happened and what was going on. She was going out to discover just what the hell that flic
ker of light might be.
Indignant, she turned back and put on the pair of sandals by her bedside, found her white robe and hurried out of her room. She could hear the horses whinnying and neighing, as if something in the night had disturbed them as well. But she didn’t head for the stables—they’d had problems before with local teens thinking it would be great to get high and play in the old Donegal graveyard. And although guests were always asked not to tramp around the grounds after eleven, every once in while they had a ghost hunter who just had to be in the cemetery at midnight or beyond.
She crossed the stretch of lawn that led toward the old cast-iron graveyard gate. The gate, of course, meant nothing, since the stone wall surrounding the family “city of the dead” was only four feet tall.
The gate was open.
Kids would be kids. When she had been young, she had held some great slumber parties, and her guests had gone into the family cemetery at night, and they’d told ghost stories with flashlights aimed at their faces. But it was her home; her family graveyard. They had never been destructive.
Perhaps such an old, private cemetery on a property now run as an inn was just too big a temptation for people.
A few years ago, some young people from the local high school had broken one of the cherubs that had graced the walk near the gate. That might have been an accident; they’d caught the culprits, and the boys had said that they’d been terrified—chased by the ghost of a Confederate soldier. Their imaginations at work, Ashley was certain, and she hadn’t particularly wanted that group severely punished—she was angrier with the teens who had left beer cans, cigarette butts, the tail ends of joints lying around…and had written a bunch of voodoo symbols on the tombs. Once caught, they, too, had claimed that ghosts had chased them out, but in that instance, Ashley was damned sure that the only ghosts had been the spirits they’d imbibed, and the weed.
She realized how ridiculous she must look, wandering toward a cemetery in a white nightgown and robe; if there were kids there, she’d probably scare them to death herself. The gate was open wide enough to let a body slip through. She did so, careful not to touch it as the old iron creaked.
Even she, who had lived here all her life, imagined that a cherub ever-so-slightly turned its head to watch her walk by.
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside Page 37