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

by Heather Graham

  “What did you think you were doing?” Jenna demanded.

  “Aw, come on, I was playing with you. A little scare for Halloween!”

  Jenna stood and reached down a hand. The kid stood, and looked quickly to the side as if he was ready to bolt again.

  “Oh, no, no, no! Who are you, what are you doing and who set you up to do this?” she demanded.

  He made the slightest turn; she gripped his wrist in an iron vise.

  “Ow!” the kid wailed.

  “You’re not going anywhere. I’m getting the police.”

  A look of petrified alarm came to his face. “No, please! Please—please, please don’t do that.”

  “Then you’d better start talking.”

  She fumbled in her pocket for her phone. It wasn’t there. Cursing, she tried not to let on that it was going to be difficult to carry out her threat.

  The graveyard was empty now except for the two of them—and the hazy shadows that gathered around, anxious for excitement in their endless days and nights. Jenna kept her attention focused on the boy.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?” she asked.

  He looked away.

  “Don’t you?” she demanded, her fingers tightening again around his wrist.

  “Yeah,” he said dully. “You’re that whacked-out FBI lady who talks to ghosts—and who wants to let a crazy killer out on the streets!”

  She gritted her teeth. “No one is going to let a crazy killer out on the streets. But you, young man, are an idiot. You’re right. I am FBI. What if I’d been armed? I might have taken a shot at you!”

  “It’s plastic!” he protested.

  “You meant to scare me. If you’d scared me enough, plastic or no, I wouldn’t have known, and I might have shot you. It’s a damned good imitation of the real thing.”

  He was silent, his cheeks red. “Look, I’m sorry!” he pleaded.

  “Who are you?” She’d thought at first that it might be the bitter David Yates, or his comrade in accusation, Joshua Abbott. But this kid was too young to be either. Those two had to be seventeen now.

  “My mom will probably kill me,” he murmured.

  “Your name and your mom’s name, or I call the police. And I want to know why you’re doing this.”

  “Marty—Martin Keller. And…I just did it because I hear them talking. All the adults in town are talking about you and that Mr. Hall. They’re all angry. They say the cops have a killer and Mr. Hall is such a hotshot attorney he wants to prove that a crazy kid is innocent just because he can. He doesn’t care if they let Malachi out on the streets, because he lives in Boston. And the rest of us will all be hacked up in our beds.”

  Jenna took a deep breath. “What made you choose this costume?” she asked, somewhat calmer.

  He lowered his head. “We had it at the school for years. Every year, they do a play—about the witchcraft trials, you know? And about the city now, and how we all have to learn to like each other, whether we’re Jewish or witches or whatever. Nobody uses it after the first of the year. Nobody cares about it. I was going to put it back, honest, just as soon as Halloween is over.”

  “And that’s it? The costume was convenient?”

  “It is a scary costume. Please—scary, huh?”

  “What else?” Jenna asked.

  He looked away again.

  She shook his arm. “I can and will call the police!” she warned. Well, she would—when she found her phone.

  He let out a long sigh of surrender and aggravation. “Okay, I wanted to be a big shot. I wanted to tell the kids at school that I’d made you pass out or something.”

  “How long have you been chasing me?”

  He looked puzzled. “What do you mean—how long?”

  “How many days?”

  His frown of confusion deepened. “Just…just now. I saw when you left that shop—I followed you after that, and barely no one was in the cemetery, and…I just meant to scare you and disappear, that’s it, I swear it!”

  “How long have you had the costume?”

  He shook his head. “I just slipped it out of the drama room today, honest. I told the kids what I was going to do. You can ask—they just finished their like once-a-year cleanup thing yesterday. I wouldn’t have taken it before then. I’da been caught.”

  She stared at him long and hard. He was starting to shake.

  She was glad that he was afraid of her. He might be a couple of inches shorter, but she wondered how she’d make out in a brawl with him. He was an adolescent starting to gain broad shoulders and a frame.

  “Are you on the football team?” she asked him.

  “Uh, yeah—junior varsity.”

  “So you were trying to impress the seniors, huh?” He squirmed.

  “Like David Yates and Joshua Abbott.”

  “Hey, that kid hurt David Yates. He really hurt him!” Marty protested.

  “And you’d be big man on the field if you scared the FBI agent, huh?”

  He lowered his head. “Please don’t get me in trouble. Please.”

  “You are in trouble. Give me the costume. Get out of it.”

  “Here? In the cemetery?”

  “You bet. Now. It’s not getting out of my sight. It’s a cape and cowl, kid. You’ve got to have something on beneath it.”

  “Boxers and a T-shirt.”

  “Then you’re going home in boxers and a T-shirt.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

  “Find out if what you’re telling me is the truth. And I’m going to have this costume inspected.”

  “For what?”

  “For blood, Marty, for blood,” she said.

  “But—”

  “If it’s clean, I’ll see that it gets back where it’s supposed to be without anyone knowing. And if I find out that you’ve told me the truth, then this whole event will be our little secret.

  “But, Marty, if this was ever used to hurt anyone, there won’t be anything I can do about telling the truth.”

  “I didn’t hurt anyone!” he protested, sliding out of the cape and handing it to her. At least, he was wearing decent boxers. On a beach, he might have looked ready for a swim.

  “Jenna!”

  She whirled around at the sound of her name. Sam’s voice. And there was a hint of panic in it, of relief—and of anger.

  Marty was going to use it as a chance to bolt. With her free hand, she caught his wrist again.

  Sam leaped the little fence from the street side of the cemetery and came striding in.

  “What the hell…?”

  He looked as if he wanted to pull her into his arms.

  And shake her.

  He eyed her hold on Marty, the costume in her hands.

  “Marty wanted to scare me,” she said.

  Sam seemed to tower over the boy. His shoulders were far broader, and he just had that look of Sam—authoritative and something like a well-tailored and groomed bulldozer. “I’m sorry!”

  She thought that Marty would cry any minute.

  “We’ll call the police,” Sam said, reaching for his phone.

  “No,” Jenna said softly. “We’ve already been through this. Marty and I have an agreement. I’m going to get this costume to our lab, and find out if there is anything on it. Marty has apologized to me. He just borrowed the costume from the drama department today because he’s heard how much we’re loathed for what we’re doing, Sam. Seems that most people believe that Malachi is guilty, and they want us to stop doing what we’re doing.”

  Sam stared at Marty. “Why this costume?”

  “Because,” Marty said, his voice filled with exasperation and fear. “It was there. Every kid in town knows it. It’s just a creepy costume and mask from our school events!” he said.

  Marty was shaking. Jenna was certain that he was repeating what he had heard the adults around him say over and over.

  She almost felt sorry for him. And she was surprised when Sam sp
oke sternly but evenly.

  “Marty, think about it. What if Malachi is just different? If he’s just a skinny kid who is super religious because that’s the way he was raised. What if he didn’t do it?”

  “But—but he did do it,” Marty said.

  “How do you know? How do you know that for a fact?”

  “I’ve seen the TV. Hey, I know they all thought that he killed old man Andres—and that Covington guy, too,” Marty said. “And then his crazy dad—hey, we don’t even blame him for killing his crazy dad, but he could kill us!”

  “We know that he didn’t kill Mr. Covington,” Sam said flatly.

  Marty shook his head. “No, no—David and Josh, they said that he killed Covington.”

  “Marty, David Yates is afraid of Malachi. Don’t you think that he might make up a story—or that maybe he even thought that he saw Malachi?”

  Marty’s eyes darted from Sam to Jenna. “He—he’s afraid of him for a good reason!”

  “Oh, come on, Marty! You’re a smart kid. You don’t believe in the ‘evil eye,’ do you?” Sam asked him.

  Marty was confused and still very scared. “I—I…I don’t know….”

  “Let him go for now,” Jenna said softly. “Marty needs to learn that everything he hears isn’t true. Come on, Sam. Let’s let him go.”

  “How am I going to explain going home in my underwear?” Marty asked.

  “How were you going to explain going home in a stolen costume?” Sam asked him in return.

  Marty looked at them both. Jenna was no longer holding him.

  He turned and ran.

  They watched him for a moment, and then Sam turned to Jenna. She thought for a minute that he was going to put his hands on her and shake her. He looked as if he wanted to do that, but with supreme effort refrained.

  “Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?” he demanded. “I thought that something serious had happened to you. Your uncle is in a panic. Your uncle!”

  Without another word, he pulled out his own phone. He dialed Jamie, staring at Jenna.

  “Found her.”

  She could hear Jamie’s reply. “Where?”

  “In the cemetery.”

  “What?”

  “She’s fine, Jamie. We’ll see you soon.”

  “Why didn’t she answer her phone?”

  “Because I lost it!” Jenna said loudly. “And I think probably in here—probably against the back wall.”

  “Did you hear that, Jamie?” Sam asked.

  “Aye. I’ll meet you at the new barbecue. It’s two blocks from the graveyard. Lost her phone! Eh, my heart’s not old enough for all this fibrillatin’!”

  Sam pocketed his phone, staring at her. “You did just cost us about ten years of life, you know.”

  “Sam, I dropped my phone. It’s in here somewhere. I have to find it.”

  “Jenna, it’s almost dark.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Retrace your steps.”

  She nodded, and explained where she’d been, not explaining exactly why. They split up by about twenty feet, trying to cover more ground.

  “You should never be alone,” he called to her.

  “Oh, please, Sam! It was a kid trying to scare me, and I handled it.”

  Night was on them; the only light came from the street, and she wondered herself if she had a prayer in hell of finding her phone.

  “You could ask the ghosts for help!” he called.

  “Maybe I will!”

  She was surprised when she felt a soft touch on her arm.

  It was a young woman. She had large eyes and soft flyaway hair, and she couldn’t have been more than twenty years old when she had passed away. She managed a gentle smile and led the way.

  Jenna found her phone against the back wall.

  “Found it!” she called to Sam.

  “That’s a miracle!” he told her.

  “Oh, well, you know, a ghost helped me!” she called cheerfully. “Of course, if we were smarter, we could have just had you call it….”

  He came to her and took her arm. She wished she didn’t get such a feeling of heat every time he touched her. She hoped her cheeks didn’t redden, or if they did, that the shadows of the night hid her reaction.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said huskily.

  “Sam, I want to get this costume to a lab right away. If we can find a twenty-four-hour FedEx or post office—”

  “Want to head to Boston?” he asked drily. “You know, the Massachusetts police aren’t the Feds, but they are pretty damned good.”

  “Sam, I’d have to explain that in my mind’s eye, I see someone dressed like this killing people. And I’d have to explain how I got it.”

  “Legalese, Miss Duffy. I can work it out with John Alden. He’s a good guy.”

  “Sam, we may be letting loose of a piece of evidence—”

  He sighed. “And you have no jurisdiction here at the moment. You weren’t invited in. If the costume goes to an FBI lab and something is found, I might wind up with a chain of evidence issue in court, or a judge could find some other reason to have it thrown out. We’ll just head to the station and call John.”

  As he spoke, they heard the single wong of a siren. They had reached the low wall to the street; suddenly, a flashlight blazed into their faces.

  “Graveyard is closed! Gate locked. What are you two doing in there?” An officer, his face shielded in the shadows cast by the glare of the light, demanded.

  “Sorry! We were just leaving,” Sam said.

  “What’s that you’ve got?” the officer demanded.

  “It’s just a costume,” Jenna offered.

  “It’s a serious offense here to tamper with the graves! To vandalize!” the officer said angrily.

  “We weren’t vandalizing!” Jenna protested indignantly.

  “Look, hey, the gates were locked when we were in here!” Sam said.

  “Bad enough dealing with kids and whackos during the season, but it’s worse when wiseass adults are playing around in the cemetery!” he said.

  Sam looked at Jenna. “Okay,” he told the officer. “Take us in.”

  “Take you in?” the officer was surprised. “I wasn’t arresting you—I was giving you a serious warning. You’re to come here to learn and have a good time and not destroy what is historic and can never be replaced.”

  “I know,” Sam said. “And you’re doing a great job. Go ahead and bring us in, though. I’ll call Detective Alden while we’re on the way. He might just be sitting down to his supper.”

  * * *

  John arrived right after Sam and Jenna had been seated in his office, in the middle of her call to Jamie. He was perplexed as to why it was so important to have the costume brought to the lab.

  Jenna leaned forward to speak to John Alden, but Sam thought they were going to be in much better shape if he did the speaking.

  “John, bear with me on this. You’re a good guy. You’re really one of the good guys. And I know that you find it hard to believe that the evidence before your eyes is telling you the wrong story. I have a theory, and it may be crazy, but hear me out. No matter that you’re only charging the boy for some of the murders, you think the same person killed everyone, and I agree with you. You believe it was Malachi Smith. I don’t. And it’s not just because I’m defending him in court. I don’t believe the kid did it. You’re a cop, and yes, you work with the prosecutor. But prosecutors don’t want to prosecute the wrong person. No officer of the court wants to be responsible for a miscarriage of justice. That’s what we’re looking for here, John, justice.”

  “Why this costume?” John asked, willing to listen to them but undeniably confused.

  “The kid wearing it—?” He paused, looking at Jenna.

  “Martin Keller,” she said. Her voice was tight, her jaw set. She wasn’t happy with him. But they were playing on the same side in a precarious game, and she had to see that.

  “Martin Keller ‘borr
owed’ the costume from the drama room. He was using it to scare Jenna. I believe that our killer is dressing up when he or she sets out to commit murder. It may be slim, but there is a possibility that the person is dressing up not just in a similar costume, but one borrowed from the drama department.”

  “He or she? You think it might be a woman?” John said. “This much violence perpetuated by a woman is pretty rare.”

  “I didn’t say it was a woman,” Sam said. “I don’t know. But, yes, look back. In the Tate/LaBianca murders, Manson’s stable of idol-worshipping followers were mainly women, and they were capable of extreme brutality. Karla Homolka seduced the victims when she and her husband went on a killing rage—she was responsible for the rape and murder of her own sister.”

  “So, you do think it’s a woman?” John asked.

  “No, John, honestly, I don’t know yet. I’m just pointing out the fact that even if statistically men have committed more murders with this kind of violence, it’s more than possible that a woman could be responsible,” Sam said. He waved a hand in the air. “At this point, John, what I’m trying to explain is this: wear a costume, and you’re someone else. Wear a costume, and you can walk around unnoticed. Or even, wear a costume, and it might mean something specifically to you.”

  “You think they were ritual killings?” John asked.

  Sam lowered his head, fighting the frustration. “I know that a kid in this costume tried to scare Jenna tonight. I know it comes from the school’s drama department. I believe someone is wearing a costume like this—an encompassing costume, one to hide identity—to commit the killings. Please—hey, Jenna wanted to take this to the FBI.”

  John stared at Jenna. “The FBI has not been invited in.”

  Jenna stood, irritated. “Would it be such a bad thing? No one wants to take over. Obviously, we respect the Massachusetts police. No one wants to take charge of the investigation. But if you have help, please use it! Use us! The world is working on lower budgets. Why not charge a Federal lab? But Sam said that you were a good and honest cop and we could keep a chain of evidence. If you think we’re just being silly, then please, give the damned thing back to me!”

  Sam noted that John just stared at Jenna for a moment, his jaw fallen. Then he smiled and looked at Sam.