Krewe of Hunters, Volume 3: The Night Is WatchingThe Night Is AliveThe Night Is Forever

by Heather Graham

  Actually, the whole situation was annoying. Because, like it or not, she found him extremely attractive—and she worked with a lot of extremely attractive men. She gritted her teeth; she hated the fact that she was drawn to him and that, despite all common sense, she found him compelling on many levels.

  Sexual among them.

  “I won’t be here that long!” she told herself. She was a federal agent with a good reputation. She wasn’t naive and she wasn’t going to accept unprofessional behavior from anyone, attractive or not.

  When she entered her room and closed the door, she said aloud, “So, the sheriff is an ass. I’ve put up with worse.”

  She was startled when her hairbrush came flying out of the dressing room and nearly smacked her in the head.

  Her regulation weapon was holstered and she instantly drew, flicking off the safety. She walked cautiously into the dressing room but there was no one there and nothing else was out of place. She walked into the bathroom, but again, saw nothing.

  Returning to the bedroom, she holstered her weapon. “Interesting,” she said aloud. “I assume you’re Sage McCormick, although, of course, I could be wrong. If I said anything that offended you, I’m sorry. I’ll keep my opinions to myself.”

  The room yielded nothing.

  She kicked off her shoes, removed her jacket and holster and plopped down on the bed. It had been a long day of travel, since she’d started off at the crack of dawn, East Coast time. She was tired. She lay there for a few minutes with her eyes half-open, wary now of the room. But nothing else happened. Finally, she decided she wanted a shower, and if she was going to have a shower and get something to eat, she needed to rise before she fell asleep and found herself waking, starved, at three or four in the morning.

  She placed her gun and holster in the bedside drawer, went through her closet for fresh clothing and hurried into the bathroom. The whirlpool was tempting, but it would send her right to sleep and she had to switch time zones. Instead, she got into the shower and emerged ten minutes later, feeling nicely refreshed.

  Still in the bathroom, she dried off, then wrapped the towel around herself and looked in the mirror. It was solidly misted from the steam. But as she picked up a facecloth to clear it, she paused. An eerie sensation swept over her.

  She wasn’t alone.

  And as she stood there, writing appeared in the mist.

  BEWARE

  She froze. She’d long accepted that there was a thin veil between life and death and that restless spirits could linger behind for any number of reasons. And yet, despite everything, despite every Krewe case she’d worked and those she’d been involved with for the San Antonio police, she still felt a moment’s primal fear. Her heart thudded. Her breath caught.

  The writing began again.

  TRICKSTER

  “Beware of a trickster,” she said, exhaling as she did. “Who is the trickster?” she asked softly.

  But, this time, she wasn’t to be answered. “Talk to me, please. If there’s something I should know...”

  No more writing appeared in the mist on the mirror.

  She didn’t touch it. She brushed her teeth and looked again. Nothing more than the two words she’d already seen.

  She left the bathroom, closing the door so the mist would remain awhile longer, and dressed in casual clothes for the evening to come. She debated staying in the room, but by the time she’d brushed her hair, the fog had cleared in the bathroom mirror and no other incidents had occurred.

  Jane figured she’d go downstairs for dinner. She stood in the middle of the room. “I know you’re here,” she said. “If you have something to tell me, please do.”

  No objects flew, the air didn’t grow cold, nothing happened at all.

  And still, Jane was certain that she was being watched. And judged.

  She made her way downstairs, and when she reached the lower level, she noticed that the velvet curtains were drawn and that laughter was coming from the theater section of the Gilded Lily. She turned and saw that there were still a few diners at the tables and a mix of locals and tourists at the bar; she assumed the locals were the men in work wear rather than the designer jeans and denim shirts or T-shirts and cutoffs the tourists tended to wear. Women, of course, were harder to peg. Several wore casual dresses and others were in pants or jeans and T-shirts.

  She sat at a table that she thought must be in Liz’s station, since she was delivering food to a family at a nearby table. She was right. As she studied the menu, Liz breezed by with a smile. “Hi, glad you came down! Okay,” she said, lowering her voice, “I don’t suggest the fish. We have farm-raised tilapia and it’s kind of blah. Are you a vegetarian? We do a cheese and broccoli risotto that’s absolutely delicious. But, hey, we’re in meat country. The beefalo is pretty darned good, either as a steak or in a burger. And then, of course, there’s Tex-Mex. We have excellent fajitas, tacos, burritos...”

  “The risotto sounds great,” Jane said.

  “Oh, you are a vegetarian.”

  “No.” Jane shook her head. “It just sounds good for tonight.”

  Liz was going to give her the full list of wine choices to complement her meal but Jane didn’t think she wanted her perceptions dulled in the least that night. “I’ll have an iced tea, thanks.”

  “Sure thing!” Liz said. “Be right back. Oh, take a peek at the show if you like—just slip through the curtain. We’ve all been told that you have free rein of the place and to make you as happy as we can.”

  “That’s really nice. Thank you,” Jane told her.

  Liz grinned and hurried off, and Jane decided to check out the show. As she stepped through the divide in the curtain, she saw that there was a full house and moved to the side to hover in the background.

  “Oh, no, oh, no! What shall I do, what shall I do?” Valerie Mystro was crying out as Jane entered. Valerie was tied to the train tracks on the stage, struggling against the ropes that held her there while a train whistle sounded in the background.

  “I’m coming, my heart, I’m coming!” Cy Tyburn cried in return. He’d been tied to the old stagecoach across from the tracks.

  “Save her! Save her!” someone from the audience called out enthusiastically.

  Cy stopped and looked at the audience, arching his brows. “Well, duh!” he said, bringing a rise of laughter from the crowd.

  Jane laughed herself as he tried to drag the stagecoach toward Valerie.

  “The knife!” Valerie shrieked.

  “The knife?” Cy asked.

  “The one strapped to your ankle, idiot!” someone yelled from the audience.

  “Oh, yeah...yeah!” Cy said.

  The play was ridiculous, Jane could see, but tremendous fun, and the audience seemed to love it. Cy cut himself loose, then ran over and freed Valerie as the audience urged him on.

  Valerie spoke loving words of appreciation, while he gazed into her eyes adoringly. The two ran offstage together just as a train pulled out from behind the curtains. Alice, in full vamp mode, was standing in the front of the locomotive, hissing as she saw that she’d lost her victims. The audience booed her until she stepped down, played with them, telling them she was really a good girl caught in terrible circumstances. Then she launched into a musical number in which she told the audience why everyone should love a vamp. Watching, Jane smiled. It was a cute show, suitable for all ages. The physical humor had broad appeal and the sets were impressive.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder. Liz had come in to get her.

  “Take your time, but your food is on the table,” she said cheerfully. “And,” she whispered, “all hell breaks loose when the show lets out!”

  Jane whispered a thank-you and watched a few more minutes of the show. As Alice’s musical number ended, Cy Tyburn, naive and innocent hero, came back
onstage. He tried to warn Alice about the evil machinations of the villain, Brian Highsmith, and Alice listened with wide-eyed adoration. They shared the number “You Make a Bad Girl Even Better at Being Badder.”

  It was clever, and Jane decided that the next night she’d make a point of seeing the whole show. She quietly left the theater and returned to her table. A metal cover had been placed over her plate to keep her meal warm and, as she lifted it, she glanced at the stairs.

  A woman was standing on the upper landing, her hand resting on the stair rail. She was dressed in late-Victorian attire, in a dark green travel suit with a slight bustle and a tailored jacket over a high-buttoned blouse. A green hat was worn at an artistic angle, her dark hair neatly tied at her nape. Her facial structure was elegant, handsome. She stared down at Jane, and for a moment, Jane thought she was an employee who worked in the bar or food area—or perhaps sold tickets or souvenirs. But as she watched Jane, she raised her hand from the rail, adjusted a glove and slowly faded away, her eyes on Jane all the while.

  Sage McCormick? Jane wondered. And if so, what had happened to her?

  Judging by the way the woman had stared at her, Jane wasn’t at all certain that Sage—if that was indeed who it was—liked her or felt happy to have her there.

  She didn’t ponder the question long. She felt a real presence nearby and turned.

  Sheriff Trent was back. She glanced up at him, thinking again that he fit his Western town very well. He had the rugged good looks of a cowboy, a frontiersman. She was disturbed at feeling her heart rate increase as he stood before her; she was afraid she was going to blush. But, like it or not, he was a very attractive man, masculine, rugged, exuding casual confidence.

  “May I?” he asked her.

  “Please,” she said, indicating the seat across from her.

  “Tables are at a premium right now,” he told her. “The show’s almost over.”

  “I don’t suppose it would be a neighborly thing to do, refusing you a chair,” Jane said. Sloan Trent had made it fairly evident that he didn’t approve of her any more than the ghost seemed to.

  “How do you like staying here?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Well, I’ve only had a few hours. But the room is both historic and lovely, the employees and the theater people all seem very pleasant, and I’m about to judge the food.”

  “Sorry, please, eat!” he urged. “Liz.” He greeted the waitress who’d seen him and she came over.

  “Sloan, nice to see you!” Liz said with her natural warmth and enthusiasm. “What would you like?”

  “Whatever our guest is having. It looks good,” he said.

  “Sure.” Liz nodded and moved away.

  “So, I guess you really were desperate for a chair—since you don’t seem to want me in this town,” Jane said lightly.

  He grinned at that and shrugged. “Have I been an ass?”

  “Yes. I would say so. Especially since you’re the one who called Logan and asked if he knew a forensic artist he could recommend.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal. And yes, I called Logan. I wanted the skull sent out, say, to the Smithsonian or something. But when Henri, as mayor, said no...” Sloan shook his head. “I don’t understand Henri Coque’s motivations. I’m worried that he wants to use a dead woman’s skull as a tourist attraction, a ghost story...a fabrication.”

  “Maybe he’s just clinging to history,” Jane suggested.

  “He’s got a notion that he can create some kind of great romantic story that will make the theater and the town even more appealing. You know, hit up the travel sites and magazines and so on.”

  “Is that really such a bad thing?” Jane asked.

  Liz delivered an iced tea to Sloan and he thanked her. “I don’t know. I just think that there are labs better situated to deal with this.”

  “In my brief, I read that no one has any idea how the skull got where it was.”

  “That’s right. Henri is always saying that one day he’ll get all the ‘treasures’ in the basement organized. Some of the things down there really are priceless. Old cutouts for advertising and promo, dressmakers’ dummies, mannequins—some are wire, some are wooden, some are cardboard. Some are junk and some are certainly collector’s items. The problem is, it’s such a hodgepodge, the actors seldom go down there. Now, the wigs are used, but they hadn’t been in about a year. What happened was that the show was about to open and Valerie’s wig had been damaged, so she went to see what else they had down there until it could be fixed. But...if she hadn’t needed a wig, the skull could have sat there for weeks or months or who knows how much longer. They hadn’t been touched in ages, so...”

  “There was powder residue on it so I assume you tested for prints?” Jane asked. “Or was it just seen as an act of mischief—not really worth investigating—since no real crime was committed? At least, not a current crime.”

  “Mischief, but the kind of mischief that infuriated Henri. Yes, we tested for prints and found none. It had been wiped clean. I mean, there weren’t even prints from way back when. Nothing at all. Someone wore gloves and knew enough to wipe it down.”

  “So, you’re thinking maybe it was someone who’d been in law enforcement?” Jane asked skeptically.

  He laughed. “No! I was thinking someone who’s seen a cop or forensic show at some time during his or her life—and that’s practically everyone. The woman’s been dead for over a hundred years, so as you said, we’re not looking at current crime. Also, Henri wants to exploit the skull—great for tourism. I also think he wants to know who it belonged to. That might help him figure out who put a wig on the skull, and he wants to know that so he can fire his or her ass.”

  “You believe whoever did it had to be an actor or crew member or Gilded Lily employee?”

  “It’s not like the place is locked up tight all the time. It’s unlikely that anyone not associated with the theater would have wandered in with a skull in hand to hide it under a wig in the basement,” he told her, shrugging. “So, yes, it had to be someone already here, someone trying to cause trouble.”

  “Someone like...a trickster,” Jane murmured.

  “A trickster?” Sloan asked, looking at her curiously. “Yes, I guess.”

  “Ah, beware tricksters.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing, just thinking out loud,” she said. “It’s hardly a good...joke when you consider that the skull once belonged to someone living and breathing.”

  “Maybe after so many years that didn’t matter much to whoever put it there.”

  “Are you investigating?”

  “We did investigate,” Sloan replied. “Like I said, we dusted for prints. We checked out the basement area. Naturally, we did a thorough search. We wanted to make sure there were no more bones down there. But whoever messed around with the skull wiped it clean, and prints in the basement would mean little because everyone goes down there from time to time. Not necessarily for a wig, but there are boxes of fabric, costumes pieces, props, you name it. So, other than me questioning the cast, crew and staff, there wasn’t all that far we could go. Everyone here denied ever seeing the skull before.”

  “I guess you’re at a dead end, if you’ll forgive the pun. And I understand that Henri Coque might want to know who put the skull there.”

  “Everyone—other than the person who put it there, of course—wants to know who did it. Who the trickster, as you called him, might have been.”

  “Someone with a warped sense of humor, I guess.”

  Sloan frowned at her. “I’m surprised Logan let you come here. Don’t you and your group usually deal with felonies, serial killers, major crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how could he spare you?”

  “I’m an artist. You needed an artist. If something maj
or occurs, he’ll call me back in. Frankly, I’m surprised myself. You don’t want me here, for whatever reason, but you called Logan.”

  “I thought I explained that,” he said, a little testily. “I know Logan. I trust him. If we had to have someone in here, I’d prefer to go with a professional sent by someone I know.”

  “Power struggle!” she teased.

  “Not at all. Henri is a politician, I’m just a lawman. But I wanted it done right.” He hesitated. “Henri wanted to call in a local artist who does landscapes, caricatures and the like. When I suggested calling a friend who could recommend a legitimate forensic artist, we came to a compromise.”

  “Ah,” she said.

  “So, I wound up with a member of Logan’s own Krewe.”

  “So you did.”

  He didn’t offer an opinion as to whether that was what he’d wanted or not. He knew Logan, so he had to know something about their Krewes. She’d already guessed as much. But he didn’t ask the questions they usually got. Questions like “Aren’t you known as the bureau’s ‘ghost-busters’?” Or “Shouldn’t you be off chasing ghosts somewhere?” Or one of her personal favorites: “Did the ghost do it? Or was it the butler? Or the butler’s ghost? Ha-ha!”

  Yes, he had to realize that Krewe units were considered “special” or “specific.”

  But he didn’t ask her another question. Liz arrived with his meal and they both began to eat, concentrating on their food. After a while, the silence grew awkward, even though there seemed to be an expectant quality in the very air between them. He was definitely way too attractive, and the sexual draw she felt toward him made her uneasy.

  Jane felt that she had to speak. “You were close to Logan?” she asked.

  “Logan didn’t tell you anything about me?”

  “Just that you were a friend he knew from Texas, and you needed a forensic artist here in Lily. He gave me a short brief on the situation, on the Gilded Lily and the town.”

  “We worked well together. I was with the police force in Houston. He was a Ranger, which, of course, you know. We met when we ended up combining forces to capture a spree killer who was making his way through the state,” Sloan told her. “That was before Logan joined the bureau. But I take it you worked with him before then, too?”