When they were done, her eyes were closed, and he leaned on an elbow looking down at her. She smiled slowly, a little wistfully, somehow feeling his gaze.
Her eyes opened.
“You used to do that all the time,” she told him.
“What?”
“Watch me. It’s a bit unnerving, you know.”
He kissed her lips lightly. “I used to watch you and wonder that you were with me.”
She was quiet, not meeting his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “That’s crazy. It was a wonder that you were with me.”
“You were the one who ended it.”
“I was…scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of what you seemed to know,” she said.
He pulled her to him. “And are you still scared? Nothing about me has changed.”
“But something about me has.” She rolled away from him and rose. “It’s going to be time to eat, and as awful as it seems after today, my stomach is beginning to growl fiercely.”
He nodded. “It’s just biology.”
She reached for her jeans, closing her eyes briefly. He could clearly imagine the pictures in her mind; he had seen them, too.
She looked at him and tried to smile. “Get up! They’ll all know where we are and what we’re doing, but I’d just as soon they don’t have to come find us.”
“They know?” he said, frowning.
“Cameras, remember?”
He groaned softly; he hadn’t thought of that aspect.
“Well, they’ll know we’re safe together, and these days, that’s a good thing. I just feel a little guilty….”
“Because of me?”
“Because of Frazier.”
Her grin turned real. “If we weren’t in the middle of a horrible mystery, I’d even suspect that Frazier knew exactly what you were doing and who you were working for—and called Adam just to get you back here.” She paused and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Come on down, Mr. Mallory, please.”
Buttoning her blouse, she headed for the door.
He watched her go, worried. Images flashed through his mind.
Charles Osgood, hanging from the statue.
Toby Keaton and Marty Dean…what was left of them.
He stared at the ceiling, trying to let the logic in his mind take over. Toxicology reports would affirm, he was certain, that both victims had received a similar cocktail to that which had been given to Charles Osgood to keep him compliant until the time of his death.
This time, though, it seemed that the killer hadn’t had any intention of keeping his victims alive for long. He had probably discovered that a good shot of his drug cocktail immediately disabled his victims.
He knew, just as predatory alligators did, that he could be hurt himself in a fight. That was why alligators drowned their prey; they disabled them before they could be attacked in turn.
The killer was basically a coward. But he was changing his method, like a man with an agenda. He didn’t fit the profile of a killer who sought out a certain type of victim; he didn’t molest his victims. He was there for the kill itself, and it was beginning to look like the kill itself was the goal.
Jake’s head jerked up. A killer who had started with an agenda, and now had discovered how much he liked killing.
He would hunger for more and would strike again. Eventually, his need would make him careless. Eventually—but how many would have to die first?
* * *
Downstairs, Ashley found Will and Whitney speaking quietly to one another as they watched the monitors. Jackson, Angela and Jenna were holed up in the study with Frazier. Cliff hadn’t come in yet, and Beth was watching her marinara sauce simmer.
“Ten minutes,” Beth told her. She shivered, looking back at the stove.
Ashley decided that she’d take a walk up to the attic.
There, she looked around. They were definitely going to need all their household help back when the killer was caught, she decided. Black dust covered just about everything; all the cases that held family bibles, period weapons, jewelry, buttons and other odd objects that had been owned by the family over the years.
She walked over to the empty case, wondering whether they would get the Enfield back, and then wondering if she wanted it back.
She felt someone behind her and turned quickly, but there was no one there.
“Marshall?” she asked.
But her ancestor didn’t appear. A sense of discomfort and aloneness filled her. She had never felt so in her own house. She hurried back out to the small attic hallways and made her way down the narrow wooden stairs.
As she walked toward the grand staircase that led to both parlors, she paused. She saw that her ghost was now making an appearance before her on the landing.
There was no one on the second floor then; Jake’s door—the door to the Jeb Stuart room—was open, but no one was inside.
She walked up to Marshall, who looked tormented.
“Were you just in that room behind me, trying to scare me?”
“No. Why would I try to scare you?”
“Well, I don’t know. You led me out last night to show me the gravestone, and I might have been killed.”
“Good God, I didn’t know anyone was in the woods. And what descendant of mine would fall off a horse? You should be a better rider, young woman,” he said gruffly.
“Did you see anything last night?” she demanded.
“You,” he said softly.
“Me?”
“I followed you when I heard the thud.”
“You’ve heard what happened today, of course.”
“Of course. I’m damned good at being a ghost. My senses are highly attuned,” he informed her indignantly.
“I might have been killed!” she told him.
“Indeed. So you must cease behaving so senselessly.”
“But you led me out! What good are you doing me?” she asked him. “Other than making me talk to myself—or my imagination, or whatever is going on.”
“I will protect you—even from yourself!” he vowed valiantly.
“And you weren’t behind me in the attic?” she demanded again.
He looked toward the stairs. She was startled by the look of agony that seemed to come over his misty countenance.
“No. I—I can’t go in the attic,” he said.
“What?”
“I can’t go in the attic!” he repeated. “Leave it be, damn you. I can’t go in the attic!”
He must have been really angry with her; he disappeared in a blink.
“I’m sane, and I have a ghost,” she mused. “Or I’m totally insane. Or my mind is trying to make me recall something.”
As she walked down the stairs, she wondered if she had ever heard a story about Emma having had an affair with an ex-slave and producing the child who would be one of Cliff’s ancestors.
For the life of her, she was certain that she’d never heard such a story before.
* * *
Dinner was a solemn affair. When it was over, Jackson called Jake into the study, and they took out their list once again; they were down a suspect.
“What about Hank Trebly? He did want to buy the property when the Donegal family was down,” Jackson suggested. “And, he’s one rude ass.”
Jake said, “Yes, but being a rude ass doesn’t make a man a killer. Maybe the forensics lab will give us something.”
“Alligator saliva,” Jackson said.
Jake smiled tightly. “We’ll know if they were drugged, the same as Charles Osgood.” He leaned forward. “You know, though, I don’t think that Toby was the intended victim. He was in the woods with his shotgun when we saw him, and I was pretty damned skeptical of him then. But he said he was over to check out noises he had heard. His dog had been going crazy. I believe Marty Dean was the intended victim, lured out because the killer wanted her dead for some reason in his head, and Toby stumbled on her killer.”
“Sadly, that means Toby
Keaton is cleared,” Jackson said. “All right. So…we have Ramsay Clayton, Griffin Grant, Cliff. The one remaining ‘Yankee’ who hasn’t been cleared, Justin Binder. Justin was here for the reenactment, and he stayed at the plantation after.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “What the hell am I missing?” he asked.
“The doctor and the sutler,” Jake reminded him.
“All right. We’ll interview those two tomorrow,” Jackson said. He shook his head. “I’m still not seeing a clear motive. The killer went after Charles—but was Charles the victim because he was Charles, or because he was playing Marshall Donegal? Why go after Marty Dean either way?”
Jake thought for a moment. “He wanted another kill. I think that he felt compelled to create a real reenactment of the death at Donegal Plantation. But then, maybe, in his head, Marty posed a danger. He needed that first kill associated with Donegal, but he’s smart enough to know that the grounds here are being watched. He killed Marty Dean because she would do anything for a story. He lured her out to a place where he could kill her and where her body might not have been found for ages—if ever. I’ve seen what alligators can do with prey. In three months, someone might have stumbled upon a foot bone.”
Jackson nodded. “But if the body wasn’t found, how would that have hurt Donegal Plantation?”
“She was a news anchor. People would definitely have gone insane looking for her. Somewhere nearby, the police are going to find her car. They’re checking the switchboard, so they may even be able to trace the call that led her out here. They might have looked forever, and it would have just added to the sensationalism and mystery regarding Charles. But I think he killed her because he had to kill her. And I think that Toby just stumbled upon him.”
“You know that this killer either called from a pay phone or from a prepaid cell that can’t be traced. He would have purchased it with cash,” Jackson reminded him.
“Yes, but they may be able to find a satellite locator—at least tell us where the call originated,” Jake said.
“That’s possible,” Jackson agreed. “All right. Will and Jenna will head out and speak with the sutler and his wife, John and Matty Martin. We can’t afford to wait on the reports. Tonight, you need to get going on the computer again—find out who might have access to those drugs—”
He broke off.
“Yeah, I was thinking that earlier,” Jake said.
“The doctor,” Jackson said. “Well, he was already on the list.”
* * *
Ashley played chess with Frazier for a while, worried about how her grandfather was bearing up under the strain.
But though Frazier was grave and obviously thinking about their problems, he appeared strong—and was delighted when he beat her.
She watched the screens off and on with Whitney, Will and Jenna. Frazier tired and went to bed, and Ashley walked over to sit with Beth as she leafed through magazines. Beth set hers down. “Ashley.”
Ashley looked up at her. Beth’s large dark eyes were sorrowful. “Ashley, I—forgive me. I can’t stand this. I have to go. I’m not quitting, mind you. I love this place. I love you and Frazier, and I love Cliff— I don’t believe for a second that he did it—and I’ve tried, honestly, I’ve tried, but…oh, God, bodies consumed by alligators? I have to leave—just for a while. There’s a crash course in vegetarian entrees being taught next week at a cooking school in New York City, and I thought I’d run up and spend a week learning something that will help us in the future. You could go with me, you know. You and Frazier!” Beth added excitedly.
Ashley thought about the dwindling coffers that held the plantation together.
And she thought about Jake. She was safe here; she had a government team living at her house.
And it was her home. She just might be part of the answer, when they kept digging to find the twists and turns of the great riddle.
“I can’t go, Beth.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“But I want you to go, and learn well, and we’ll get the restaurant back up and running. God knows, once we do, we can hire a full-time security guard. People will flock back.”
Beth kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll probably leave tomorrow. I’ll have to see what kind of a flight I can get out.”
“Good night—and it’s all right, Beth. It’s really all right.”
Beth left her. She hadn’t realized that Angela had been curled in one of the wingback chairs near them, reading as well.
When Beth had gone, Angela walked over to Ashley. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I love Beth. I’m happy that she’s going to leave and do something useful,” Ashley assured her.
“What a cook we’re losing,” Angela said lightly.
“True.”
“Don’t worry—we’re actually pretty good in the kitchen as a team,” Angela said.
Ashley tried to smile. The effort fell flat.
Angela took Beth’s chair and spoke to Ashley seriously. “Ashley, the answer here may really lie in the past.”
“Really? Do you think the four dead Yanks are rising to get revenge on the South? Or are my Southern ancestors getting revenge—on themselves?” Ashley knew she sounded skeptical, but it was just too much!
Angela shook her head. “No, there’s a flesh-and-blood killer out there. But he has something on his mind. Something he plotted out for years, maybe. And it just may have something to do with the past. You need to start thinking about that. Go back and trace the ancestry of everyone involved and see if we’ve missed anything.”
“That may be easier said than done. You want me to trace the lives of nine men and their offspring through over a hundred and fifty years?” Ashley asked. “We have records on the men who fought, and Daughters of the Confederacy probably has similar records on their lineage, but you’re talking about a number of offspring through the centuries!”
Angela stood. “Yes. And if anyone can do it, it’s you.”
She bid her good-night and started for the stairs, then paused, looking back. “I believe that both Emma and Marshall Donegal are trapped here. Their souls are trapped. For some reason, they are unable to communicate with one another. If we can find out why, perhaps we can find out the truth.”
Ashley nodded, feeling a pang in her heart.
The door to the study was still closed. Will and Whitney still watched the screens, while Jenna had gone up to catch a few hours of sleep before taking over for the pair. Cliff had long ago returned to his apartment in the stables.
Ashley stood and stretched; she was about to say good-night to Will and Whitney but she saw that they were resting themselves: open-eyed, but resting. Apparently, they were accustomed to watching the screens, and after today, they weren’t going to rely on tapes—they were going to watch every movement on the property by night.
She didn’t make it to her room; she stopped in front of Jake’s. She smiled. The hell with the screens. She waved to Will and Whitney and went into Jake’s room to wait.
He arrived an hour later.
She didn’t speak; neither did he. She curled into his arms, and they started to kiss.
It was definitely life-affirming.
Interlude
He watched the news. Of course, a different newscaster talked about the grisly discovery of the two bodies in the bayou separating Beaumont and Donegal Plantations.
Viewers would recall, of course, that police and the FBI still had an open investigation on the case of Charles Osgood, so recently murdered in the old cemetery at Donegal.
Ah, yes, despite the fact that the murders had occurred in plantation country, it was important that viewers take extreme care in the days to come, since police and marine biologists alike thought it unlikely that the newscaster and the plantation owner found dead in the bayou had been killed by the alligators; the alligators had more likely been attracted by the scent of the deceased.
An animal expert came on for a minute to talk about alligators, and the u
nlikelihood of viewers being attacked by one.
Then the anchor was back on.
Handsome man—as plastic as the woman. Frankly, he liked the other channel better.
But he couldn’t take his eyes from the newscast. The anchor was now talking about the extreme loss the station was feeling, and that in their pain, they were proud, certain that Marty Dean had died in the pursuit of answers, as a good investigative reporter. Funeral arrangements were pending the arrival of family members and the release of the remains.
“Good investigative reporter, my ass!” he said aloud, and it made him laugh.
Oh, what a lovely kill!
He wished he could have stayed. He hadn’t even thought about the gators; he had simply left the bodies facedown in the water, caught on straggling branches from a fallen old oak. He had never really imagined that his crimes would be so delightfully…mutated, mauled—dissected!
More clever than he himself had known. They’d just never get it. They’d never really appreciated his amazing ability to move quickly and decisively!
He leaned back, swallowing down a delightful sip of hundred-year-old cognac.
His phone rang; regretfully, he answered it.
A problem at work. With his crisp voice, he quickly barked out commands, changing gears as cleanly and swiftly as the transmission of a Rolls-Royce.
When he hung up, he smiled. He looked at himself in the mirror.
Down, down, down, everybody was going down, down, down.
He had his next move to plan, of course. But he would do so, easily and well.
As he walked to his bedroom, he noted one of the pictures on his wall. A picture taken nearly a decade ago after a reenactment.
He paused to look at it. Patrick Donegal, Ashley’s father, had still been alive. He’d been playing the role of Marshall Donegal that day.
Too bad he hadn’t been so clever back then! Taking down Patrick Donegal would have been a coup! But now…
There she was. Ashley. Beautiful as a teenager, not quite as refined as she was now, but beautiful, even in a quick snapshot.
The boy was in the picture, too. Jake. Jake Mallory. Hell, he’d heard the damned name so much he was sick. He was a savior. A tireless benefactor to the city. So damned good, the feds had wanted him, and he’d gone to them and brought down the mighty. Staring at the photo, he frowned.
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside Page 51