Sacred Evil (Krewe of Hunters)

by Heather Graham

  “That’s not much of a shock,” Jackson called back to her. “Not if the so-called House of Spiritualism began as a haven for Satanists.”

  “I suppose not.” She hesitated, but Jude couldn’t have gotten in there yet. “Jackson, that black miasma seems to emanate from it.”

  Jake was standing not far from Jackson, still, and listening. “There’s someone out on the street,” he told Jackson.

  “It’s Jude—he’s on his way over,” Whitney informed them.

  A minute later, she saw Jude coming down the steps. He had made quick time, but she had learned that his strides were long and that he walked fast.

  “It is a pentagram,” Jude said, looking at Jackson and Jake before beginning to follow the broken markings on the floor. “It looks like it was drawn with some kind of chalky brick substance or dye. There might have been some kind of flooring placed over it at one time.”

  “The people here when it was called the House of Spiritualism might have kept a false floor over it, something that they could easily roll out if the police came—not that having it would have been illegal. Freedom of religion applies to Satanists as well,” Jake said.

  “But I doubt they wanted it known that they were welcoming Satanists,” Jude said. “Or that, perhaps, the ‘spiritualism’ in the name was their own euphemism for Satanism. To the best of my knowledge, it can often mean many different beliefs and practices, but in Lower Manhattan at the end of the eighteen hundreds, most of the population was Christian, and worshipping Satan would have meant, to them, sinful orgies, all manner of debauchery—and blood sacrifices. Many killers throughout the years, such as Gilles de Rais, as far back as the fourteen hundreds, committed hundreds of brutal murders with some excuse that a demon or the devil had demanded the blood sacrifice. And, of course, as the years pass, new groups make idols of such men as Gilles de Rais, Jack the Ripper and other killers.”

  Will looked at Whitney, startled by Jude’s speech. Whitney shrugged. “His father has a huge crime library,” she told Will.

  “Hey, it’s good to understand history, as we all know,” he said.

  “So they had a pentagram on the floor. They seemed to worship evil. I wonder what else was down here, and if someone today knew exactly what was here, and what was going on. Do you see any signs that anyone has been…down there lately?” Whitney asked.

  All three faces stared at the camera, as if they could see her and didn’t understand such an obvious question.

  “I mean…does it look as if someone has been down there practicing any kind of Satanic rituals? Is there any sign of blood?” she asked.

  “Not visibly or obviously,” Jackson said.

  “We can get a forensics team down here,” Jude said. “Check it out.”

  The forensics team isn’t going to tell us why it seems that there’s a black fog that lies low to the ground on film, Whitney thought.

  But she wondered if bad things had gone on down there—recently—as well as in the past, and she knew that they were all wondering if Sarah, Jane Doe wet, had been killed in the night in the darkness of the abyss before her body had wound up in the river.

  “Well, we’re coming up,” Jackson said. “It’s late. We’ll look at everything with rested minds in the morning.”

  Jude returned with Jackson and Jake to Blair House, then bid them good-night, reminding them to lock themselves in and be wary.

  Jackson didn’t reply that he was an armed federal agent, to Whitney’s surprise. As such, he knew that it was never amiss to remember to be careful.

  Whitney wanted to walk to the door to tell him good-night; she didn’t allow herself to do so. Actually, she didn’t want him to leave.

  Or, if he was leaving again, she wanted to go with him.

  But that was ridiculous, of course. They had barely met; they were both part of a task force. They hadn’t met at a social function, or a bar—or even dating online.

  Even so, she felt that she knew him. If she didn’t know him, she knew him well enough to know that she wanted to know him better. The sexual attraction she was feeling was almost overwhelming, and since that was the case, it was a good thing that she didn’t walk to the door.

  “We’ll all hope it’s a quiet night,” Jackson said, bidding Jude good-night. When the door was locked, Jake looked at Whitney, giving her an odd smile.

  “Go ahead, kid, and get some rest. I’ll watch the screens tonight.”

  “I should do some of the staring at the screens,” she said. “Film is my forte. I really should—”

  “Get some rest,” Jake finished for her. “You’ve been on this a day longer than the rest of us, and these are long days.”

  She smiled back at him. She loved Jake—he was like a brother. But she looked at Jackson, ever their quietly strong leader, who was watching her.

  Jackson just nodded gravely. “Get some rest. You’ve been on all this too intently for way too many hours. We’ve got this covered.”

  Jude felt odd as he left Blair House—almost as if he’d left something behind.

  It wasn’t a something.

  It was a someone. Whitney.

  It was amazing to think how quickly things could change; he had thought of her as young, and he had thought of her as annoying at first. Not only had they saddled him with a federal team, but they’d given him one comprised of inexperienced children.

  Now…

  Now, she had somehow become an important part of the investigation. Now, he wished that he’d met her anywhere except on the job, and that he knew how to take a break and let the rest of the task force run while they went out for a drink. He wondered if he needed to stop working with her, if the light scent of her perfume hadn’t somehow permeated his senses and therefore his mind, so that now he was thinking about her when he wasn’t even with her, longing to stroke the exotic golden-amber color of her skin, test the softness of her lips…

  Killer. Serial killer on the loose, he forced himself to remember.

  And he could demand that his mind return to the case, because they were following only leads and people so far, and they had nothing tangible, nothing on which they could begin to pin a case.

  The movie, it all came back to the movie. Or maybe it didn’t, but it did seem a viable direction.

  They could all still be way off base. Not on the fact that someone had studied the case of Jack the Ripper and took it to heart. New York was a massive city. Lots of people knew all about the filming, and some of them presumably knew about Blair House, or the House of Spiritualism.

  He called his father, because he knew that Andrew wouldn’t call him, assuming that he was busy, but that he’d naturally want to be kept up on the case.

  “How’s Whitney doing with that book?” Andrew asked him. “Weird, I know, but I think that the site itself may have something to do with the case.”

  “The site made me do it,” Jude said, his tone weary. He’d heard every excuse known to man in court, and it wouldn’t surprise him if someone opted to use the ghosts of the past as a defense.

  “Here’s the thing, son, and you know it—a sick mind can grasp on to a lot, and even when someone knows right from wrong, they can certainly use some kind of knowledge as a spur to commit crimes. Take the religions of the world—the good ones,” he said. “People can twist and turn tenets of peace into terrible mandates that somehow miss the entire message of love and goodness to one’s fellow human being. So, take someone into the occult—which can just be a love of the earth, the use of herbs and so on—who is fascinated by death, cruelty and the dark side of human nature. They could twist their beliefs into some kind of house of worship for sure. We venerate the saints—they venerate blood and brutality.”

  He hesitated, and then told his father, “We found an outline of an old pentagram in the floor—forensics will go in tomorrow and take a look around.”

  “Why? Isn’t the pentagram over a century old?”

  “It makes me wonder what else might be there.
Or, if someone is using it again. I can’t help but wonder if one of the early victims might have been attacked there. I want to know if there’s any blood that can be detected.”

  “I’ll see what else I can find in my collection about old New York. Who knows, I may find something,” his father told him.

  “And you can always head back over to the NYU library, or connect with your friends at the Pierpont,” Jude said.

  He didn’t realize until that moment that he was going to question his own father.

  He was relieved by the answer.

  “Actually, you’re right. Maybe I should. But there’s still so many books that I have here…I don’t think I’m going to find a book anywhere that says ‘read me for the answers’! It’s going to be a hunt. But I’m on it!”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  When he hung up, though it was late, he called Hannah. Her workday was a typical nine-to-five, but she stayed up late at night, watching television—and now, of course, flirting with the new fellow in her life.

  Hannah loved television and loved to compare her work and what she learned from the detectives with what was shown on the screen. One day, she told him, she was going to be a consultant on a crime show.

  “Hey, Jude! How’s it going—the lists are endless…”

  “It’s going, Hannah. I’m going to have a crime scene team out at the old construction site tomorrow. I was thinking you should be with them,” he said.

  “Sure!” she said excitedly. “Except…I am a computer tech, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know, but you’ve been compiling lists, checking facts…you might be helpful on site.”

  “Oh, yeah, thanks!” she said. Then she added, “Jude, I’ve found out a lot of stuff about Harrison’s team.”

  “And you haven’t called me?”

  “Well, I did tell you what I knew when they were first called in—it’s all just speculative media reporting really. But Adam Harrison got into finding people to help with special investigations years ago.”

  Whitney had told him that Adam Harrison had approached her after she had left her job. She’d been going to do her own documentaries. She hadn’t lied to him about anything.

  But it seemed the whole world saw the group as ghost busters.

  “His son was supposed to have been some kind of psychic, and he became fascinated with the occult. You know, kind of like the magician Harry Houdini. When his mother died, he was determined to speak to her through the ‘veil,’ or whatever. Well, here’s the thing—in all the instances his teams worked on, the case was solved and the stranger occurrences proven.”

  “The ghosts did it?” Jude demanded skeptically.

  “No, no…but to have been asked onto that team, well, each member had to have some kind of psychic ability, and it looks like it’s real. I mean, neither any of the people he worked with previously or the members of this team have gone on record that there are ghosts involved—in fact, the leader, Jackson Crow, has always been one of those people out to find the real cause, but…”

  Great. He really was working with ghost busters.

  That should help him keep his distance.

  But it wouldn’t. He felt something like a body burn when Whitney was near. Natural, he tried to tell himself. She was young, she was beautiful, she was as sensual as…spun gold. He was human.

  “Guess what they’re called—off the books?” Hannah asked him.

  “What?”

  “Krewe of Hunters. K-R-E-W-E,” Hannah spelled out. “Their first case together was in the French Quarter, in New Orleans, and I guess that’s what they wound up calling themselves.”

  Krewe of Hunters, of course, mysterious old New Orleans. Filled with ghosts of the past, aboveground cemeteries…cities of the dead. Where else would ghost busters want to get started? he asked himself, his mental tone a mocking one.

  “Jude, you there?” Hannah asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, Hannah. Sorry. Meeting at 8:00 a.m., remember, every day until we catch the bastard or the task force is disbanded. I’ll see you then.” He hesitated, trying to remember that they all had lives, too. “How’s it going with your fellow, Hannah?”

  “He’s not exactly my fellow, Jude. But, it’s nice. He calls every once in a while, and sometimes I find him waiting for me at the coffee shop.”

  “Sounds like a budding relationship to me!”

  “Maybe. But work comes first.”

  At his apartment, he threw off his jacket and sat in front of his own computer.

  There was a tap at the connecting door.

  “Come in, Dad,” he said.

  Andrew entered, bearing a glass. “Thought you could use this.”

  “Oh?”

  “Bourbon and soda,” Andrew said.

  Jude laughed. “Bring it on in.”

  “You sound worn out. You okay?” Andrew asked him sympathetically.

  “Yep. We’ll catch him,” Jude said grimly. They had to catch him.

  “They never caught the real Ripper—and they never caught the fellow who really murdered Carrie Brown.”

  “They didn’t have the investigation capabilities we have now,” Jude said. “And they didn’t have ghost busters.”

  “What are you talking about?” his father asked.

  Jude stared at his dad, smiled slowly and shook his head. “I’m willing to bet you’ve known all along that everyone on the special team must have psychic ability.”

  Andrew shrugged. “Well? Surely you knew that.”

  “I knew that they investigated using local stories and history. I knew that they looked into people who thought that ghosts existed, or that ghosts told them to murder people or… I didn’t really accept the fact they all believed completely in spirits themselves!”

  “Son, you need to get off your high horse,” Andrew told him. “There’s a lot to the world we don’t know, and a lot we’ll never know. So, you think you’re all procedure and facts, just the facts and nothing more. But I’ve heard you say a dozen times that you have a gut feeling about something. It’s all the same. Don’t throw away all the good you may get because you’re so convinced you’re right that there’s nothing in the world that isn’t totally solid.”

  He was startled; his father seemed almost angry.

  “Dad—they’re ghost busters.”

  “Good for them. And if ghosts can solve this horrible case, let them!”

  Jude stared at him silently.

  Andrew went on. “I’ve been reading up today. Stuff I guess you know, but still good to think about. Most serial killers today come from working-class backgrounds and kill because it gives them a sense of power. But, historically, many people who had power and wealth killed because they considered themselves above mortal men. They killed because in their minds they had a right to kill. I guess that’s part of the psychopathic personality, and still, obviously sick, these people can be organized and good-looking and brilliant—as in the case of Ted Bundy.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Jude said.

  “Of course, you’re the one with the degree in criminology,” his father said with a smile. “Well, I’m going to go back over to my side.”

  Jude lifted his glass. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “You bet. Good night.”

  His father went through the door and closed it. His cat leaped up onto his lap and purred. For the moment, he wished he was the damn cat.

  That night, they studied the video that had been taken at the site next door.

  There were definitely shadows to be seen; strange shadows, the kinds without the light sources to have been created on a natural level.

  Whitney touched the screen. When she did so, she felt a strange surge of electricity sweep through her.

  She had seen the dog there.

  She was certain that the dog had protected the woman. She kept staring at the screen, and she saw something behind the dog.

  “Could this be the shape of a woman?” she asked softly.

  “Yes,
of course it could be,” Angela told her.

  Will pointed out, “It’s definitely something. And none of us was there to cast that shadow…we’re on the right track.”

  They could see the shadows, but they really had no answers at the moment. They all needed sleep.

  Whitney was wound tightly when she first tried to lie down and sleep. But as she lay staring at the ceiling, she heard a tap at the door. Angela walked in, bearing a teacup.

  “Herbal tea? Or a bit of caffeine so I can better lie awake?” Whitney asked with a laugh.

  “Decaf with a shot of whiskey,” Angela told her, handing her the mug and curling up at the foot of the bed. “I thought I’d help you get to a REM sleep where maybe your subconscious will let you sort out some of the things running around in your mind.”

  “Or open it up to voices from the past?” Whitney asked her.

  Angela nodded.

  “But you’re our great communicator,” Whitney told her. “And, of course, Jenna is wonderful.”

  “Ah, but I think that you’re the one these ghosts may talk to,” Angela told her. “I ran through the footage from the site next door. There was a shadow when you bent down. You saw the dog again, didn’t you?” Whitney nodded.

  “Dogs are our greatest companions, you know. Take Greyfriars Bobby, the little terrier who sat on his master’s grave daily until he himself died. Anyway, I’m going to bed, too, so scream like a banshee if you need any of us or even if you’re frightened…it’s just us, and not one of us will think a thing of it if you see a ghost.”

  Angela stood and left her and Whitney started to sip the tea.

  She picked up the book that Andrew Crosby had loaned her, the Honeywell book about the House of Spiritualism. She found herself looking in the index for the word dog, but didn’t find it. But she found several pages listed under the name Annie Doherty. Curious, she began flipping through the pages. Annie Doherty had come from a stable home in Westchester, New York; her father had been a preacher. But Annie had fallen in love with a seafarer. She had run away from her father’s strict dominance to follow her lover, a man named Leland Robinson, and come to the tip of Manhattan, where he had promised her he would be staying, near the docks. By the time she reached Manhattan, Leland Robinson had left on a ship. With the few funds she had, Annie found lodging at Blair House. While most of the theaters had moved north up Broadway, a small playhouse, the Travertine, had still been open just north of Wall Street, and Annie had tried to make a living selling oranges in front of the building. She had longed to become an actress and would sing in the streets as well for whatever pennies those coming and going from the theater would throw. She lived there almost a month before she disappeared, leaving behind her large shepherd-mix dog. The then owner had been furious since he’d been left a sizable bill, and he’d reported her for skipping out. But Annie hadn’t gone home, and she hadn’t taken her meager belongings. Nor had she taken her dog, a pet she had seemed to love deeply. The police assumed she fell into mishap, but nothing was ever discovered on the whereabouts of the young woman.