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

by Heather Graham

  “I heard about the latest,” Justin said, sitting. “The newscaster and Toby Keaton. He was all right. I was so sorry to hear about him. Eaten by gators. Well, hell, that’s just sad. The man grew up with the creatures, spent his life around them.”

  “We don’t believe he was killed by the gators,” Jackson said.

  “Neither does the media,” Justin said.

  “Well, we’re back to the usual question. Where were you night before last?” Jackson asked him.

  “Here. I took the girls to a live theater experience at Le Petit Theatre, and we and my mother-in-law went to dinner at Muriel’s. Then we were back at the hotel—and I had a stomach ache. I called down to room service for warm milk around one in the morning. I was seen by the waiter, and my mother-in-law will assure you I was with my family all night. Thank God I can prove that!”

  “What can’t you prove?” Jake asked.

  Justin met his gaze openly. “When the battle ended, I ‘skedaddled’ with Ramsay Clayton. That means we rode hard to the sugar-mill fences, up to the road and then back. Ramsay was with me—he kept telling me it was okay to play a Yankee. He liked being on the winning side. We rode back in time for the singing. When it first happened, I kept thinking that Ramsay had to be involved somehow—he was supposed to have been Marshall Donegal—but he was with me, then, and I could swear that I did see him in the crowd before we finally all wound up in the parlor at the house. And I was scared as hell, too, that I would be a suspect because we were staying at the plantation. I searched high and low with the others that night and wound up on a ride all the way over to Beaumont the next day. It was a nice ride—my girls loved it. But…”

  “But what?” Jake asked.

  “There was something strange about Ashley that day. Once we could see Beaumont across the bayou, she kept looking up at the windows. And she seemed to be afraid of something. She pretended it was nothing, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Don’t get me wrong—Ashley sure as hell isn’t guilty of anything. She was just about in tears about Charles being missing the day before, and she really came on the ride to keep searching the property. But—she saw something. She saw something that day at Beaumont.”

  * * *

  Ashley’s legs wobbled as she descended the stairs. Angela ran up to her quickly, frowning and setting a supporting arm around her shoulders. Whitney came over to her as well, her face a mask of concern.

  “What?” Angela asked anxiously.

  “I didn’t see who did it.”

  “Who did what?”

  Ashley looked at Angela. “I saw Marshall Donegal. He didn’t want to let me see the battle with him, but I insisted. Then—it was as if I lost him. I became Emma. She was raped, Angela—just days after her husband was killed.”

  “By the enemy? But I thought—” Whitney began.

  “Not by the enemy! By one of her husband’s men.”

  “Who? Which one?” Angela asked.

  “I couldn’t see, Angela. But—”

  “But what?” she prompted.

  “I think that Harold Boudreaux came to her rescue. I think that he pulled the rapist off of Emma, and that’s when they formed their real bond. I think that we never see Marshall and Emma together be cause he doesn’t know. It wasn’t her fault, but she’s ashamed, and she can’t go to Marshall or be with him because of what happened.”

  Angela was thoughtful. “Maybe we can help them. First, however, we have to find out who the man was. We have to find out what happened to him and figure out why one of his descendants would be after revenge now.”

  “What should we do next?” Ashley asked.

  “Records!” Angela turned to Ashley. “Can you get those accounts of the battle we were wondering about earlier? We’ll start on one of the ancestry sites and see what we can dig up on these men by name.”

  “I’m on it,” Whitney said.

  “Look, I should be doing this,” Ashley said.

  “Later. Let Whitney get started,” Angela said. “You come with me and find Jenna. She is in the cemetery. She’s—communing.” Angela looked at her and apparently decided that Ashley had figured out that Jenna did, indeed, see ghosts. “Jenna was meditating, in a way. She gets into a state, and if there are spirits around, even if they won’t communicate with her, she can usually see them, and we may see more clearly through her.” She took Ashley’s hand.

  “Are you afraid?” she asked her softly. “Everyone is afraid at first—it’s having to believe the unbelievable. It’s accepting that there is a greater power.”

  Ashley shook her head firmly. “No. I’m not afraid anymore. I want the truth.”

  * * *

  Griffin Grant’s office was in a massive building in the Central Business District, all beautiful glass and chrome. It was furnished with ultramodern pieces—but a picture of a Civil War cavalryman hung on a far wall of the reception area, with a pair of crossed swords above it. “Must be his ancestor,” Jackson said.

  Jake walked over to the painting. The man had one hand behind his back in the painting; he held his sword in front of him. There was something a little bit odd about him.

  “Henry Hilton!” Griffin’s secretary told them. “Interesting painting, isn’t it? Well, it should be. It was done from a death likeness. Creepy, if you ask me, but these boys do enjoy their reenactments and their roundtables. Henry was killed at Manassas, but he was already wounded.”

  “Uh—he was—an admirable soldier,” Jake said. As he spoke, Griffin came out of his office.

  “I know, I know, it’s a strange painting, but it’s a family heirloom,” he said dryly. “Please, come in.” Griffin ushered them into his office, quickly dismissing his secretary and offering them coffee or drinks from the handsome marble wet bar set to the far left of his desk. “Soda, whiskey, water—anything?”

  Jackson declined. Jake accepted a bottle of water, thanking him and taking a seat in one of the executive chairs in front of the desk.

  “I heard about Toby,” Griffin said gravely. “Do you know anything about funeral arrangements? Had his son been told about his death?”

  “Detective Mack Colby was notifying the family,” Jackson told him. “And they won’t release the body until a full autopsy has been done.”

  Griffin nodded and frowned. “They believe that these murders were related to Charles Osgood’s death? But…well, a man in a cemetery in full uniform and two people killed after a strange assignation near the bayou? Seems a stretch, doesn’t it?”

  “Not really. Toby Keaton took part in the reenactment. Marty Dean wanted news on it so desperately I think she would have met anyone anywhere,” Jake said.

  “Oh. I suppose you’re right.” Griffin drummed his fingers on his desk. “I wish I could help you. I don’t think there’s anything at all I could tell you about the newscaster. I didn’t know her. I knew Toby well, of course. We’ve all been friends forever. But I keep thinking that I should have remembered something about the night Charles disappeared. I mean, I was right there! Right there, in the midst of those rushing forward when we heard that Marshall Donegal was being beset in the cemetery—outside the cemetery for the reenactment, of course. I think I saw…maybe it was John Ashton? Helping him to his feet. But we were all there standing around when it ended. Charles was so proud! He wore his battle wounds and fake blood with such pleasure. I kept thinking that Ramsay had done him a real favor, helping him out that day. He made something of a man out of him, if only for a few hours. I swear, I keep trying to remember,” he said. He leaned forward. “It haunts me, you know? Thinking about it. First Charles, now Toby…”

  “Who do you think might have done it? Any idea of anyone with a grudge?” Jake asked.

  Griffin Grant shook his head. “We all had opinions, spats, disagreements, but they were all good guys.” He grimaced. “Even the Yankees. I mean, we do seriously like to argue tactics, but that’s not even a matter of sides. We’ve all done this so many times, with changes here and there
through the years. The Yanks are good guys. I can’t imagine that any one of us would have ever done such a thing.”

  “Well, here’s the usual—where were you the night before last?” Jake asked him.

  He seemed surprised. “Right here. You can ask my secretary. I worked forever—we have a new lineup coming out, and it’s a bitch, making sure your shows and your sponsors are all aligned just so.”

  “Thank you,” Jackson said, rising. He offered Griffin his hand. “Thank you for your time and your help.”

  “I’d do more if I could,” Griffin told them.

  They left his office and stopped by his secretary’s desk. “Miss Tierney” read the nameplate in front of her. “Miss Tierney,” Jackson said politely, “can you verify that Mr. Grant was in his office late the night before last?”

  “Oh, yes!” she said. “Why, that poor man has just been working all hours.”

  “How late were you here?” Jake asked her.

  “Late—seven,” she said dryly. “So much for nine to five. And when I left, I could still hear him on the phone in there, placating a diaper company!”

  Jackson thanked her.

  Out on the street, Jake sighed wearily. “Time to find Ramsay Clayton,” he said.

  Ramsay wasn’t in his hotel room. The desk clerk told them that they could probably locate him on the square, displaying his art.

  * * *

  Jenna sat on one of the few individual white sarcophagi in the cemetery; it belonged to the Donegal brother-in-law who had been killed during World War I.

  At first, walking toward her with Angela, Ashley saw nothing. Will was leaning against her family tomb, and he spoke gently to Ashley. “She has brought them out. Sit quietly, and you will see them.”

  No longer hesitant, Ashley took a seat next to Jenna. Jenna took her hand and gripped it tightly.

  And in a minute, they began to appear to her as well.

  There were four of them there, soldiers in blue. They walked in a procession, pacing the cemetery right in front of the family tomb. She could see clearly through them, and then she could not. They began to form something that appeared of real substance.

  “They are illusions,” Will said quietly, “but illusions of the mind. That is the place where we know another sense: of the living, and of the dead.”

  As she sat there, Marshall Donegal appeared as well. She tensed, thinking that there would be some kind of a confrontation.

  But though they recognized one another, acknowledged one another, it was merely with sorrow.

  “Talk to them,” Jenna said. “They will hear you.”

  “I need help,” she said. “Please.”

  Marshall walked to one. “We were sad enemies. No more. We are united in death, and the country is united now, through our deaths. We have made peace. Help my girl, please. Help her.”

  The one who seemed to be a captain turned from Marshall to Ashley.

  “I would help you, if I could. What do you need?”

  “I need to know…Emma came to her husband as he lay dying. She was dragged away, taken to the house. Who took her? Which soldier? Please, it’s so important to know.”

  “I was dying then,” he said. “I was dying then myself. But, I saw her. I saw her tears. I saw the uniform. I saw…the man was blond. He had blond curls.

  I didn’t know his name.”

  “Can anyone help?” Marshall called out.

  One of them stopped by him, setting a hand on his shoulder. “I was gone, Marshall. I was gone when she came to the cemetery. We were hotheaded as were you—we’d never have hurt your wife or your children. What man would do so?”

  Not a man, a monster, Ashley thought. She wasn’t afraid of ghosts, she realized. She had learned to fear monsters instead.

  The captain spoke softly. “One will know,” he said.

  “Who?” Marshall asked.

  “Emma,” the captain said.

  Marshall shook his head. “She is gone,” he said softly.

  “No,” the captain said. “I see her at the attic window.”

  The ghost of Marshall Donegal fell to his knees in the cemetery and wept.

  * * *

  “Why, hey, you!” Beth said, surprised to see the man who was looking into the shop window along with her.

  “Beth!” he said, equally surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “Leaving,” she admitted. “I’ve got to get away for a while.”

  “Donegal Plantation will be missing the world’s finest chef,” he said gallantly.

  “I’ll be back,” she said.

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “So…”

  “So, I’ve got some time. Do you need a ride to the airport?”

  “Well, that would be great. But I can just take a cab—”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve got a car.”

  “My things are at the hotel—”

  “We’ll stop and get them. Come on, no big deal, I promise.”

  “It’s a half hour drive there, and back.”

  “Worth it, if I can imagine you’ll return and cook again!”

  As the breeze moved her hair and she pulled a strand from her face, she remembered that he had been on the original suspect list. But that had been before.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  They were going to get in a car; they were going to get coffee. No danger in that. Besides, she didn’t believe it. She just didn’t believe it.

  They walked to his car. She noted, as she started to get in, that he had a little case, like the kind kept by a diabetic. Was he diabetic? She couldn’t remember.

  He shut the door as she sat.

  He came around and got in beside her.

  And then, of course, she realized.

  She put her hand on the door; she opened her mouth to scream.

  He slammed her head against the car window as he picked up a needle; she felt it piercing through her skin, and then she felt no more.

  13

  Jackson and Jake walked the square over and over looking for Ramsay Clayton.

  He wasn’t to be found.

  “Strange. The bastard answered me this morning when I called him and said we’d find him at his hotel,” Jackson said.

  Jake stopped to ask a young woman selling paintings of the square if she had seen Ramsay Clayton that morning.

  “Oh, yes, he was here for a while,” she said. “He said that he had to get back to his hotel room to meet some friends. I haven’t seen him since, but he is usually right here. Says lately he likes to be where there are lots and lots of people! The guy is as nice as can be, and darned good-looking, too, but he’s sure gotten strange, always looking as if he’s about to run! Such a scaredy-cat.”

  Jake thanked her for the information.

  “He’s either scared—or guilty,” Jake said.

  “We’ll head to the hotel again,” Jackson said. “But first I’m going to buy a couple of Lucky Dogs and some sodas. I’m starving. We’ll get the car and head to the hotel. I have a feeling we’re not going to find Ramsay, though. Where the hell did he go? If he’s such a damned scaredy-cat?”

  “Maybe he’s not—maybe it’s all an act, down to his kindness,” Jake suggested.

  “Justin said that Ramsay was with him, and that Ramsay said that he had fun playing a Yankee,” Jackson reminded him.

  “But he’s not here,” Jake said. He walked back to the woman. “I’m sorry to bother you again,” he told her. “Did you see Ramsay Clayton here the day before yesterday?”

  She frowned, going into deep thought. He thought she might have smoked a little bit too much weed in her teen years. Her mind seemed a little misty.

  “The day before yesterday… Oh, yes! He was here. He was here. In fact, we were both here until dusk.”

  “And then you both left?”

  “Well, I left. I think he left soon after.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  She smiled. “Because I was gone. I told
you—he likes to be around people. Some of the artists stay out late in the night, but by then people really want music and tarot readings. So he must have left. He’s not like you.”

  “Pardon?”

  He hadn’t realized that his Glock, a standard FBI issue—he knew how to shoot, but he wasn’t fond of guns—was visible since his hand was on his hip, pushing his jacket back and exposing the belt holster.

  “Maybe he should carry a gun, too. Are you a cop? Is he in trouble?”

  He smiled. “I just need to speak with him, that’s all.”

  “Maybe you can give him some courage!” she said cheerfully.

  “Well, thank you,” Jake said, striding back to Jackson, frustrated. “He was here until dusk the day that Marty and Toby died. I think.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m not sure she knows what day it is today,” Jake said.

  Jackson nodded. “Okay, let’s get food and try the hotel. Then we can head back. I’ll get the dogs, you get the car.”

  Jackson stopped at a cart and bought them both a soda and a couple of hot dogs while Jake walked down to the car. He had just eased it out of their parking spot when Jackson caught up with him. He reached for the food; Jackson slid into his seat, a Lucky Dog halfway in his mouth. “Sorry—I’m really hungry. We’re all going to miss Beth.”

  “Yes, but she wanted to be away—maybe needed to be away,” Jake said. He found that he felt oddly uncomfortable once he had spoken.

  “What’s wrong?” Jackson asked him.

  “I don’t know. I think we should have taken her straight to the airport in the morning.”

  “Call her.”

  Jake did. He got her voice mail right away.

  “She’s probably on an airplane,” Jackson said.

  “Probably,” Jake agreed.

  A feeling of unease had begun in him; it wasn’t lessened any when they reached the hotel and found no sign of Ramsay Clayton.

  * * *

  They sat around in the roadside parlor. Ashley was on the registration-desk computer, and Will was working with her. Angela and Whitney were poring through content files on Whitney’s laptop.