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

by Heather Graham

  The facts; just the facts. The FBI team had become convinced—through archives—that they now knew where the body of the historical killer lay; it was important that they unearth it, because the theories regarding the current killings were all pointed in the direction of the killer believing he was following in the route of the man.

  Backtrack a bit.

  We were trying to draw out a cop—and a medical examiner. And both appear to be exactly what they are—Fullbright almost flippant but honest and earnest; Ellis Sayer as hardworking and hangdog as ever.

  That wouldn’t look good on paper. But it felt good to think.

  The offices were quiet. In the next room, he could see that a police officer had brought in two drunks who had apparently gone at one another in a bar.

  He gave his attention back to the report swimming before him.

  Expediency being the greatest necessity at the time, I deemed it best to dig, he wrote.

  A creeping chill started up and down his spine. He felt something nudge his thigh.

  Startled, Jude sat back. He didn’t see anything. He felt the nudge again.

  “What the hell?” He leaped to his feet.

  He blinked. He had been too intensely involved with the case. His mind was playing tricks on him. He blinked again, but it didn’t go away.

  It was the outline of a dog. A big dog. Some kind of shepherd mix. Oh, God, he’d been playing with the crazies too long. His mind…

  The dog looked at him and barked and kept barking. It padded away from him, and then ran back to him. The dog wanted him to follow.

  He hesitated, looking around. The drunks were still there; the officer was still there, the desk sergeant was still there. None of them seemed to be hearing a dog.

  He took a deep breath. And then he followed the dog, mumbling something to the desk sergeant on the way out.

  Each step of the way, the dog waited for him. He knew where Jude’s car was. He jumped through the door and waited for Jude to get into the driver’s seat.

  “Well, which way, boy?” Jude asked. “Or is this as far as the craziness takes us?”

  The dog barked. Jude eased the car out. Traffic was minimal, but he didn’t know where he was going. But each time he neared a turn, the dog went crazy until he veered his car into the right lane.

  He had just realized that the animal seemed to be leading him home, when his cell phone began to ring.

  He glanced at the caller ID. It was Judith Garner.

  “Jude, I got a hit off the hundred-dollar bill. You’re not going to believe it. I mean, I still can’t believe that, good as we are, I got a known fingerprint off that bill!”

  “Judith, you’re amazing,” he said. He’d just taken the turn down his street; the dog’s tail thumped happily but silently on the seat next to him. “I’m going to kiss your feet later. Who?”

  He didn’t say goodbye; after she answered, he hung up and called Jackson Crow as he stepped down full throttle on the gas pedal.

  The dog wanted him, and that meant…

  Oh, God.

  * * *

  She saw him standing at the doorway to Jude’s office, and she wondered if she was imagining a man again, because he was wearing black, with a dark brocade vest and a shoulder-caped cloak. His hat was a stovepipe.

  But he had no face.

  No. She wasn’t imagining him, and he wasn’t a ghost. If only he were. He had no face because he was wearing a white theatrical mask; it was the sad face of the duo that signified comedy and drama.

  “I’d never thought that anything could be so good!” he said, staring at her. She was aware, although she couldn’t see his lips, he was smiling. Gloating. “The others were really random. Well, I can tell you now, I guess—Angus picked the others. He said it was easy. People will do just about anything for a few minutes of fame. All he had to do was tell them that he could get them into the movies. And, of course, he didn’t run around finding brain surgeons! They fell for his lines so easily. They went where he wanted them to go. They did what he wanted them to do. Anything—just for a chance to be in the movies. But, you know, the last girl he killed in London—before coming to the States—was Mary Kelly. Prostitutes then, prostitutes now. All they want is fame and fortune, and they want to use you to get it. Jonathan picked up a little cutie, even if she was a prostitute. But, you see, you’re really no better. Young and gorgeous, and you’re really kind of a whore, too, huh, sleeping with the cop when you haven’t really known him long at all. You fit the bill nicely. And, imagine! You’ll be found in the lead investigator’s own apartment! Is that rich, or what?”

  Whitney told herself that she hadn’t had that much of the coffee; she could move. She had to move. She had to draw her gun from her holster, and shoot the bastard.

  But she couldn’t make her limbs work. He dropped his medical bag in the hallway, walked to her and stooped down and drew out her gun, studying it. “Yep, FBI issue. Not that it’s going to do you any good now.” He reached out and touched her cheek with his gloved hands. “Pretty, pretty, pretty thing! But you’re really just a weirdo, you know.”

  He tossed her gun under the desk, still hunched down at her side.

  Whitney was amazed when she was able to almost form a word. “Why?”

  He grinned. “Angus Avery is going to make my career skyrocket. And all the Sherry Blancos of the world will be nothing but dirt beneath my feet!” he said. “And, of course, he taught me all about Jonathan Black—and the power of Satan.” He gave a little shudder. “Can’t believe you figured out where Jonathan was buried. But Angus got it all right a long time ago. He is a New Yorker, and you’re not, but…”

  He stood again. “Time’s a-wasting, girl! Your lover-boy cop won’t take forever writing up that report.” He looked at his watch and shrugged. “I should have had hours, but…well, I’ll make do with the time I have.”

  “But…how?” Whitney managed to say.

  “Ah, how, you ask? You never figured that out? You just don’t understand the power of fame, and you should. Of all people, you should have understood. It was easy. I worked downtown on that movie. I knew the police station. I hung around as near to it as I could, and I watched who came and went, and I listened to everything said by everyone who came from the building and passed me by. All I had to do was a little flirting with a pathetic computer nerd.”

  “Computer nerd?”

  “Hannah. She was the easiest. I met her at a coffee shop. I flirted with her. I told her I was going to make movies. She was so easy…I never let on who I was. I always pretended to be so flattered that she thought I looked like the Bobby Walden. I said I knew directors—I said I could get her extras work, that I’d done extras work…she was so gullible. She never knew how much she gave away!”

  He couldn’t resist bending down by her again. “She never will know. And if she begins to suspect that I’m not the man she thought I was…well, I’ve gotten really good at this. Angus taught me well. I know how to find little Miss Hannah, and make sure she disappears. If fact, when I finish with you, I think I’ll pay a call on her.”

  He walked back to the hallway and picked up his medical bag. He opened it, and then held up a long, sharp knife. He glanced back over at her. “It’s a Japanese carving blade, if you’re interested. Light steel, and one of the finest.”

  He studied it with appreciation for a moment.

  Whitney felt the seconds of her life dwindling away. Mind over matter wasn’t working; the world was out of focus and she couldn’t will her limbs to work.

  But as he stood there, still admiring the glint of the steel, the door that separated the apartments suddenly flew open. Andrew Crosby—blood dripping from his head—reached for her, dragging her through the open doorway and into his apartment.

  He slammed the door. Whitney felt pain in her hand as he stepped on her fingers. “Sorry, sorry, oh, God, he got your gun! I can’t call for help, he smashed my cell. And yours…where the hell is your cell phone?” H
e patted her body. “Shit! It’s on the floor in there somewhere. Whitney, do you hear me?”

  She struggled to sit up and was intensely gratified to see that she could move again; the more she tried to move, the more she could.

  “Help me up!” she told him.

  He struggled and did so. As she gained her feet, they heard the force of Bobby Walden’s body slam against the dividing door. It shuddered, and held, but he slammed against it again.

  A second later, the door splintered and broke. Whitney struggled for the buffalo skull hanging on the wall. Andrew didn’t protest as she dragged it down. As Bobby crashed like a bull into the room, she cracked it with all her strength on his head.

  He fell between her and Andrew, and he quickly staggered up, the knife still in his hands. He let out a bellow and turned on Andrew.

  “Here, you bastard! I’m the one you want!” Whitney screamed.

  He turned, the white theatrical mask he wore seemingly cast in a puzzled expression.

  “Andrew!” Whitney cried. He understood her. Bobby Walden did not. Nor did he seem to realize that now, even if he killed them both, he was caught. He was never going to move on to superstardom—his skin and blood were in the horns of the buffalo skull and Forensics would discover his identity for certain.

  Andrew bolted for the door. Whitney tore back into Jude’s apartment and dived beneath the desk. She couldn’t reach her gun. It had skittered too far back.

  And Bobby was coming.

  For a moment, stars burst before her eyes, followed by blackness. She blinked. She came out from beneath the desk.

  She was dimly aware that she heard a dog barking again, but she didn’t know from where.

  And a ghost dog couldn’t help her now!

  As Bobby Walden came in, pausing for balance against the door frame, Whitney stumbled into the living room, desperately seeking a weapon. She stood for a moment, swaying herself, darkness before her eyes. She blinked furiously. He was now stumbling his way after her.

  She hurried for the rear den, falling against the door and then righting herself. There was only one bolt on the fire escape window.

  It was like moving a thousand-pound steel object, but desperation, the fight for her life, sent adrenaline into her system, giving her strength. She got the window opened just as Bobby fell into the room.

  She almost made it out the window; he caught her arm.

  The barking was louder now.

  He ripped her back into the room. He showed her his hands. “Was Mary Kelly strangled first—or did he just slice her throat? Your choice, Agent Tremont!”

  She saw stars beginning to pop out in front of her eyes again, but when she blinked, they were gone.

  And something was different.

  The room was filled with women. Ghostly shades and figures, in contemporary and period dress. Bobby must have felt them somehow, because he hesitated.

  “They’re all here, Bobby,” she told him. “They’re all here, all the women you and Angus Avery killed. They’re here to see that you’re dragged to hell.”

  He let out a roar of anger, looking around.

  He could see them, she thought.

  “Bitches, whores!” he railed. “You got what you deserved! And she’s going to join you, and we’re all going to hell!”

  He fell down on top of Whitney and his fingers wound around her throat.

  Andrew, his face and scalp bloodied, was just running out the front door when Jude arrived, screaming for help at the top of his lungs.

  Jude caught him. “Dad!”

  “I’m all right, I’m all right. You’ve got to get in there—”

  “Whitney?” he said desperately.

  “Your place.”

  “Alive?”

  “When I left. Hurry!”

  The dog was ahead of him, barking insanely, as he raced up the stairs. Jude followed two steps at a time and tried to burst into his apartment. The bolts were solid; he’d seen to it.

  Swearing, he rushed to his father’s door, burst in and dashed through the splintered door to his own apartment.

  The dog was ahead. He followed the dog.

  Bobby Walden pressed his full weight into Whitney; she was tearing and ripping at his fingers, struggling desperately against him.

  He would happily have shot the man, but the way that they were struggling… Whitney suddenly twisted and blocked his shot. He sheathed the gun and tackled the man who was on top of her, bringing them both off Whitney and rolling across his den floor.

  Bobby Walden knew how to fight, but he didn’t have Jude’s size or strength, nor did he spend his free hours with a punching bag, learning how to burn off frustration.

  Bobby only got in one good jab; Jude was furious, seeing red, and he pummeled the man. Until he felt Whitney’s fingers, weak, but tugging at his shirt.

  “Jude…no. He’s got to stand trial. He’s got to help us sort through it all.”

  He eased back; his hands were bloody. For a moment, Bobby Walden, wound in the cloak, the mask ripped away, lay on the floor. His face was swollen, his eyes were nearly closed. He was alive—Jude could see him breathing.

  He stood up, reaching to drag the man to his feet.

  “Bobby Walden, you’re under arrest for the murder—”

  To his amazement, the man suddenly screamed—a piercing, bone-chilling scream that sounded louder than anything Jude had ever heard.

  The ghost dog started barking insanely again.

  Jude twisted around, wondering what could cause such a shriek of pure terror.

  He thought that he heard the swish of fabric. It seemed that there were shadows and strange forms in the air; he thought he caught a whiff of perfume.

  “No! No! No!” Bobby suddenly screamed. He broke loose from Jude and ripped his clothing and his flesh, bolting through the window to the fire escape. “Ah, hell!” Jude raged, trying to fling himself after the man.

  But it seemed that he couldn’t get through the figures, as if the air had become water or rich honey, impossible to penetrate. But it wasn’t the air; it was the women moving after Bobby Walden.

  He made his way to the window, but Bobby’s back arched against the metal rungs of the fire escape.

  Before Jude could reach him, he fell…

  He didn’t hit the ground.

  He was caught on the metal rungs of the fire escape, and there were sickening moments in which the man sputtered and choked…until he strangled to death on the heavy rawhide loop he had around his neck. A talisman was attached to the rope.

  The relic that held the finger bone of Gilles de Rais.

  The barking stopped.

  The room seemed to be freshened by a sudden rush of clean air.

  Jackson Crow and Jake Mallory burst into the room, guns in position, followed by members of the NYPD.

  Jude came to where Whitney was slumped on the floor and fell down at her side. He took her into his arms.

  There was a great deal more to be done by law enforcement at that moment.

  But…

  No man was an island. Law enforcement wasn’t one man. There was a task force working this case.

  They could deal with the situation now….

  No way he was writing another report tonight.

  Epilogue

  Whitney had been dosed with a powerful combination of drugs, all available to any good-looking marquee name. Jude was horrified to realize that the man had been using Hannah for information on what was going on with the case. Jude knew he’d have to talk to her, and he sat for long periods of time wondering about people in general. Some of the victims Angus Avery and Bobby Walden had chosen had been hungry for fame and a better life.

  But Hannah had just been hungry for attention from a man who had really seemed to care about her.

  Whitney was kept in the hospital overnight.

  Jude stayed by her side.

  He had a feeling they would one day discover that Bobby Walden had employed knowledge he’d l
earned about date-rape drugs earlier. He’d been an up-and-coming star, and those women he had accosted before he had fallen in with Angus Avery—and his particular form of the devil—had probably never reported that he’d raped them, if they’d realized it. Who would have believed them?

  It was good that Ellis was just what he seemed. A good cop.

  And it was good that Wally Fullbright was what he seemed, too. An eccentric little man with a keen interest in mysteries and a talent at autopsy.

  He left Ellis to deal with Angus Avery as they used what they had learned from Bobby Walden to try to piece together exactly what had happened.

  Avery’s house arrest was revoked. He answered a few questions, and they learned that he was proud of all that he had accomplished. He’d known about Jonathan Black and been fascinated with theories about Jack the Ripper and Black since he’d been a child growing up by the seaport. He’d written the movie years before, and he’d known that he had to re-create the fear of the late 1890s.

  Jonathan Black had told him so.

  They didn’t learn much more about the details of who had done what because Angus Avery strangled himself to death in his cell at Rikers Island with the sheet from his bed. His death surprised everyone; he hadn’t been on suicide watch.

  Whitney and Jude knew, of course, that he’d been prompted to his action by a different power.

  Cops were supposed to believe in justice, not vengeance, Jude knew.

  But he’d seen the bodies of their victims on the autopsy tables.

  He couldn’t feel any sorrow.

  He was due to receive a commendation that he didn’t feel he deserved. What he did deserve, and what he was taking, was a long vacation.

  Ellis Sayer was one damn good detective, and the world of New York would be just as well served with Ellis holding down the high-profile realm.

  He didn’t know when Whitney’s team would be called to another investigation; he just wanted every day with her that he could have. The team wasn’t in a hurry to leave—they still felt there was unfinished business at Blair House.