“Oh, God!” Jane said softly, “I’m so sorry, so, so sorry!”
13
The county officer on duty at the hospital acknowledged Sloan as he came in. “The doctor was just in with her. One of the nurses was the first to realize Ms. Layton was coming to. I haven’t spoken to her. She went from being in the coma to dozing on and off, but they say it’s all right if you speak with her.”
Sloan went in. When he entered the room, Jennie’s eyes were closed. She looked small and frail as she lay in the hospital bed. He noted the veins in her hands where they lay on the white sheets.
He just sat there for a minute, waiting. After some time, her eyes opened. She blinked, disoriented.
“Sloan,” she said weakly.
He leaned close to the bed and took one of her thin, delicate hands. She offered him a shaky smile.
“You’re awake,” he said, smiling. “They say you’re going to be fine.”
She nodded. “When I first opened my eyes, I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what had happened. I had no...memory.”
“And now?”
“Now, I remember that I went down to the basement. And I woke up here.”
“Why did you go down to the basement, Jennie? Do you remember? You were in the room with all the old props and mannequins. Why?”
Jennie was silent, and then she looked at him, hesitant.
“They were talking,” Jennie said at last.
“The mannequins?” Sloan asked in a carefully even tone.
“Oh, Sloan, don’t be silly! I got hit on the head, but I know mannequins don’t talk!” she told him.
He smiled again. “So someone was down there?”
“Yes, someone was in the room. Or more than one person, because I’d heard talking down there several times over the past week. I couldn’t figure out what the actors would be doing down there. I’m responsible for storage, props, costumes.... I wanted to know what was going on.”
“So you didn’t recognize anything about the voices?”
She shook her head. “But, Sloan, I heard them late at night, and once, very early in the morning. Yet whenever I went down, no one was there.”
“Did you tell Henri about it?” he asked her.
“No.” She ran the fingers of her free hand over the sheets, glanced at them for a minute and then back at Sloan. “I didn’t want Henri to think I was too old for my job—too old, or too crazy.”
“You’re not that old, Jennie,” Sloan said firmly. “And Henri likes your work very much. So you’d go down but not see anyone.”
“Yes. Of course, the light is pretty dim. All you’re getting is the overflow from the main room,” Jennie reminded him. “But no, I didn’t see anyone, and the only way out is the stairs that lead to the door by the bar. So I thought I was crazy myself.”
“But when you were attacked, did you see anything? Do you have any idea who swung that cane at you?”
“The clown,” she said suddenly. “It was a clown mannequin. I saw it! Sloan, maybe there are ghosts down there.”
Again, she was quiet. He didn’t press her; he realized she wasn’t sure how to say what she wanted to say.
When she spoke, it was in a rush. “There are spirits of all the people gunned down or murdered in or near the theater, and now those spirits are possessing the mannequins.”
Sloan felt disappointment streak through him. She’d sounded as if she’d come out of it with all her senses. Now he was worried.
Not that spirits didn’t exist. Not that people wouldn’t think he was crazy if he ever told the truth.
He just didn’t believe that spirits were possessing the mannequins. People were down there doing something. He wanted to know who and what. And why...
“Jennie, maybe someone pushed one of the mannequins at you,” he said. “Maybe one of those people, whoever they are, were in the midst of the mannequins, talking. And that’s probably why it looked like the clown mannequin came after you.”
“Yes, maybe... It can be so dark and shadowy down there. It’s funny. The theater’s always had that feeling. Of being haunted. Maybe being haunted is the same as being steeped in history. But I always felt good before. Now, I don’t.”
“You’re right not to feel safe—but it wasn’t ghosts of the old theater doing bad things.”
Tears stung her eyes. “Am I too old, Sloan?”
“No, Jennie. You’re not. You walked in on someone’s secret meeting. Listen, you do everything at the theater and you do it well. That has nothing to do with the fact that you stumbled on someone who’s killing people, and that someone needed to silence you.”
“But...I’m alive,” she said.
“Yes, you’re alive, and we’re keeping an officer in the hospital, so you’ll stay alive. I’ve given orders that no one else be told that you’re awake,” Sloan explained. He squeezed her hand. “Jennie, you’re going to be okay.”
She nodded. “I love that theater, Sloan. I was never an actress. But I love working with the actors. I love fixing the costumes, fixing the props.”
“That brings me to another question, Jennie. Henri told me you loaded the guns for the annual duel.”
“I did. With blanks.”
“One of the guns had live ammunition, Jennie.”
“Sloan, I did not load a gun with live ammunition. I don’t even have live ammunition!” she said indignantly.
“When did you load the guns and where did you leave them?”
“I always prepare for every day’s performance the night before,” she told him. “It might have been an hour or so before I went down to the basement.”
“Where did you leave the guns?”
“On the prop table. It’s backstage left, in one of the theater wings. Even if we—or the actors—are performing outside, we stick to protocol with the props and costumes.”
The prop table. Not helpful. Anyone could’ve gotten to them. But no, that wasn’t really true; it had to be someone who could move through the theater unnoticed. The cast and crew had been working outside most of the day, but they certainly went in and out. The housekeeping staff went in—and anyone might duck their head in. But only someone who knew the theater would know where to look for the props.
“Sloan, I would never, ever hurt an actor! Please, you have to believe me,” Jennie begged.
He squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Maybe Jennie wouldn’t, but someone would.
He stood. “Jennie, anything you can think of, please call me.”
“It was the clown, Sloan. I’m telling you. It was the clown.”
“Thanks, Jennie. Now rest. Get better,” he said, and left.
He reiterated to the staff and the officer on duty that he didn’t want anyone else knowing that Jennie was conscious. He checked in on Jimmy and Zoe Hough, but both were soundly asleep. The resident told Sloan that the Houghs were both doing fine and could be released; Sloan asked that they be kept at least one more night, giving him time to talk to Newsome about arrangements for their protection.
He finally walked out of the hospital and headed for his car. The moon was high, the landscape glowing with its silvery light. But as he drove out, the desert seemed cast in shadow and mystery. The sand, he knew, hid many secrets of the past. Not some of humanity’s finer moments, he thought drily. Moments of brutality and bloodshed.
He was eager to get back to town.
* * *
The show had let out when Jane returned downstairs from her room at the Gilded Lily, her bag stuffed with an oversize T-shirt for the night and the few toiletries she’d need.
She hadn’t heard from Sloan yet, and she knew Kelsey and Logan would remain at the theater, alert to all possibilities, so she called Logan and told him she was going o
ver to the Old Jail. He gave her his customary admonition to be careful; she promised she would be.
One of Mike Addison’s night managers was on duty when she entered the Old Jail. He greeted her cheerfully, but she felt she was being watched. She wondered if Mike had warned that the “agent” who had rented Trey Hardy’s cell had already caused trouble.
There were Do Not Disturb signs on the other cell doors she passed; she was obviously the last one in for the night. Turning her key in the door, she stepped in, then sat on the bed. “I’m here. I wish you’d talk to me. I wish I could understand what you want me to know.”
There was no response. She stood, brushed her teeth and prepared for bed. She left only the small night-light on in the bathroom and lay down in the bed. Everything was quiet. She waited. Lack of sleep took its toll and she dozed off long before she intended.
She became aware of a weight settling by her side. Half-asleep, she assumed that Sloan had returned from the hospital and decided to join her. When she rolled over to touch him, she felt as though she’d slipped her hand into something thick and icy, and she jolted awake, barely managing to suppress a scream.
He was back. Trey Hardy.
He was at her side. He watched her gravely for a minute.
“I see you,” she told him. “I see you clearly.”
He reached out a hand, as if he wanted to stroke her face. She felt the sensation of something there—and not there. But the room was dark, and he suddenly seemed as solid as any breathing, living human being. He got up, waiting for her. She did the same. He walked back into the bathroom.
“Please!” she whispered urgently. “Don’t bang the walls!”
He placed his hand on the wall by the sink, then leaned against it. He moved his lips to speak.
“Here,” the ghost said. It was a croak—dry, brittle. It was the rough, sandpapery whisper that others sometimes heard, and when they did, they’d get that eerie feeling that a place was really haunted.
“In the wall,” she said softly.
He nodded.
She started, hearing a knock at the door. Hardy wavered and was gone.
She hurried to her door, expecting Sloan. She was surprised to see Mike Addison. He hadn’t even been at the desk; she’d assumed he’d gone home for the night.
She opened the door. “Mike. What’s the problem?”
“I came to make sure you’re okay—and ask you to be quiet again,” he said.
She frowned at him, startled. “Mike, I haven’t made any noise. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She realized that beneath his Western denim jacket he was wearing a holster. He was armed, while her Glock was on the bedside table.
“That pounding. The guest two cells down called me about it,” Mike said.
He was just standing there, a little belligerently, talking to her. She didn’t know why he suddenly made her nervous.
“Let me see what’s going on in here.”
She wanted to slam the door, which would have been ridiculous. But she didn’t want to let him into the room. She wished she’d gotten her gun before opening the door.
“Mike, there’s nothing going on in here. I’m alone,” she told him. “If any of the guests are hearing things, the sounds have to be coming from the theater.”
“The theater is closed.”
He seemed to be moving toward her. She assured herself that the man couldn’t possibly be enough of a fool to offer harm to a federal agent, especially when it was known that she was at the Old Jail.
Thankfully, she didn’t have to let him in or slam the door. She heard a creak, and the barred door separating the office from the cells opened and closed.
Sloan was coming down the hallway.
“Hey, Mike. What’s up?” Sloan asked. “What are you doing here so late?”
“I was over at the theater—thought I’d stop in,” Mike said. “And I got here just in time. The guests are complaining about the noise Agent Everett is making.”
“I’m not making any noise,” Jane said with exasperation.
Sloan stared at Mike. “If Agent Everett says she isn’t making any noise, I certainly believe her.”
“But I had a complaint,” Mike protested.
“Tell the complainers the ghosts must really like them,” Sloan said.
Mike’s eyes narrowed and he cast his head at an inquisitive angle. “You gonna be here, Sheriff?”
“I’m going to be here. I’ll see that nothing is going on,” Sloan told him.
“Oh. Oh!” Mike said. “Okay, um, fine. Well, then. Just, uh, keep it down!” He turned and left abruptly.
Sloan looked at Jane, amusement in his eyes. “What was that all about?”
“I don’t know. There really wasn’t any noise coming from the room. But I did see Trey Hardy. And he put his hand on the wall again—right by the mirror. But, more importantly, how is Jennie?”
“She’s doing well.”
“What did she say?”
“She said the clown did it,” he told her wearily. “She kept hearing voices from the room in the basement. She started to think that the spirits of people murdered in Lily had inhabited the mannequins. I think someone goes down there to talk and plot or...I don’t know. But I do think we need to get in that room and find out what’s down there. Anything happen here?”
“Happen? Not really. But, Sloan, we’re getting closer. In the morning, I’ll do a two-dimensional sketch of the skull from the desert. I’m willing to bet it’s Red Marston. I’m almost positive Red and Sage were killed because they knew too much—and the same with Trey Hardy. I saw Sage tonight and...” She paused.
“And?”
“She’d had her tongue cut out. And just like we discussed earlier this evening, you have your tongue cut out when you’ve said too much or spoken against someone—or when it’s a warning not to talk.”
“Or if you want to make sure your victims suffer before they die.”
He walked past her into the bathroom and ran his hand over the painted plaster of the wall. “So, the ghost insists there’s something back there?” he asked.
She nodded. Sloan raised his brows, hands on hips. “I think your agency’s budget is bigger than mine.”
“Meaning?”
“Tomorrow, we’ll dig out that wall,” he said. “We’ll just have to replace it. Logan and Kelsey are at the Gilded Lily, right?”
“Yes.”
“From now on, one of us is at both of these places every night. But for now, we really need to get some sleep.”
“I agree.”
“I’ll take that chair,” he told her.
“Why would you do that when we’ve been sleeping together?” she asked.
“Ghosts.”
She smiled. “Just because we’re in the same bed doesn’t mean that we have to fool around in it.”
“If we’re in the same bed, I’d want to fool around. I’m great at sleeping in chairs.”
“That’s ridiculous, and you’re going to make me feel bad.”
This time he smiled. “So, you’re saying you can keep your hands off me?”
“With ghosts in the room, I can.”
“Get in there. I’ll be fine.”
Sloan was determined. He pulled the chair up, stretched his legs out on the bed and settled in. Jane crawled into the bed and tossed him a pillow. “You know, I’m going to worry about you all night.”
“Don’t. I’ll be sleeping.”
He was stubborn and Jane could tell she wasn’t going to change his mind, she crawled into bed. Sloan’s head was thrown back; his eyes were closed. For a moment, she thought he’d already drifted off.
“Ironic,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“O
ur relationship is going to be all over town tomorrow—because of the one evening we slept apart.”
She curled her arms around the remaining pillow. He was in the room with her and she let herself fall into a deep and peaceful sleep.
If Trey Hardy came again that night, she didn’t know it. When she woke, Sloan was in the bathroom. The door was open; he’d showered and he was frowning at the mirror.
He turned to her. “He’s here. Trey Hardy is here. And there is something in that wall.”
* * *
“I’ve been looking up the history of mannequins,” Kelsey told Jane as they drove to the station. “Great stuff. They found a torso carved out of wood in King Tut’s tomb, which shows that the use of mannequins goes back thousands of years. Kings and queens gave them as gifts to fellow royals and to inform other countries of the latest fashion trends. In the 1700s they were often wicker, and a lot of them had no heads, but by 1870—right around the time all the trauma was going on here—the fashion-conscious French started making them elaborate again and you know how it goes with the world imitating French fashion.”
“Whenever I’ve finished this drawing,” Jane said, “we’ll get down into that basement.”
“Didn’t a whole crime-scene unit go through it?” Kelsey asked.
“Yes, but I think we’re looking for something a crime-scene unit isn’t going to find.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know—but that’s what we do, right? Find what we don’t know we’re looking for,” Jane said, adding, “in a way.”
“Yeah, in a way. We could really use physical evidence against someone, too.”
They reached the office. Chet Morgan and Lamont Atkins were still working in town; Betty greeted them at the desk. Kelsey followed along behind Jane and helped her set the skull on the Franklin plane, take the photographs and do the scanning. Betty came in now and then to see how they were doing. “Wow!” she said, watching Jane work first with the computer and then do her sketch from the overlays. “I’m impressed.”
In fact, Betty was in the room when she’d almost finished. “It’s him, all right. It’s him!” Betty said excitedly.
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 3: The Night Is WatchingThe Night Is AliveThe Night Is Forever Page 26