Krewe of Hunters, Volume 6: Haunted Destiny ; Deadly Fate ; Darkest Journey

by Heather Graham

  She followed him past the row of bushes growing in front of the house. He got to the window she’d mentioned, then left and walked to the next, where he ran his fingers along the outer sill, producing a noticeable scratching sound.

  “Is that what you heard?”

  She nodded, biting her lower lip.

  He didn’t say anything as he continued walking around the entire house, checking the foliage as he went. He checked the back door, but it was firmly locked. They kept going until they came around to the front again. He opened the door for her to go on in.

  “You think I’m hearing things,” she said, pausing. She prayed it wasn’t worse, that he didn’t think she’d made up a story to get him over to her house.

  He shook his head. “I know you don’t make things up,” he said softly, then urged her inside. “Early call,” he reminded her. “You should go up to bed.”

  “I should. I will. Right now,” she said.

  “Good night, then.”

  “You’re not leaving?”

  “I’ll be here,” he promised her.

  “Okay. Thank you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You got it.”

  Charlie hurried up the stairs. She didn’t turn on the light, just closed the door to her room and walked over to the window. There was nothing to be seen. Even so, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had been outside the house, watching, waiting for her to step out alone.

  But Ethan had come when she asked, and she wasn’t alone anymore.

  She dressed for bed and lay down, listening. Whatever he was doing downstairs, she couldn’t hear anything.

  She knew she was only fantasizing when she hoped he would come up the stairs. If he did, of course she would tell him to go away.

  No, she wouldn’t.

  She tried to fall asleep, thinking of that early call.

  It didn’t help. No matter how hard she tried to fall asleep, the effort went badly.

  * * *

  Charlie didn’t imagine things.

  Once she was upstairs, Ethan stepped back outside. He’d never been much of a hunter. He just didn’t take pleasure in killing things. Odd, maybe, that he’d wound up in the FBI, where there were bound to be times when he had to kill a person. He wasn’t sure what a shrink would think about that.

  He’d been hunting enough, though, to learn a fair amount about tracking.

  And he didn’t need to be the finest tracker in the world to be able to verify what he thought he’d seen when he’d been out with Charlie.

  Flattened grass, broken twigs and a scratch on the windowsill, as if someone had tried to pry at it.

  He hunkered down and studied the ground by the window. He was pretty sure whoever had been there had covered their shoes, explaining the vague shape and flatness of the indentations in the earth. That made him equally sure they’d been wearing gloves.

  That would have stood out if they were downtown, where people were everywhere. But out here where Charlie lived, most houses were set on several acres. It would be easy to dress like Godzilla and go unnoticed. Gloves and bootees were nothing.

  He stood, went back in and studied the house’s security measures. Good windows that closed tightly, latches snug, and locked, bolts on the doors. Even so, no place was impregnable, and there was no alarm. That wasn’t good.

  He had a gut feeling that tonight had only been a trial run. Someone had been checking to see just how hard it would be to break into this house. He was pretty certain no one was coming back tonight, at least.

  Even so, he elected to sleep on the sofa, closest to the doors. He’d learned to sleep lightly, a useful skill for nights like tonight.

  As he lay down, he thought about Charlie, sound asleep in her room upstairs.

  He couldn’t help but remember her face as they’d waited for the police that night ten years ago, her leaning against the grave marker, himself leaning against a tree.

  And then the killer, bursting suddenly out of the woods like a berserk, heading straight for Charlie, as if he knew she had something to do with the end of his spree.

  She had stared at him, as he raced toward her, and started to rise in defense. She would have fought like the devil, he knew. He’d seen the emotions fly across her face: terror, anger, determination, and the look that meant she wouldn’t go down without fighting.

  He didn’t remember actually thinking about anything himself. He just flew at the man, glad he played football and was a good tackle.

  Someone had asked him once if he feared the dead.

  He didn’t.

  He feared the living.

  And he hadn’t been haunted by the dead for the last ten years.

  He’d been haunted by memories of Charlie.

  * * *

  When her alarm woke her early the next morning, Charlie could hear Ethan downstairs. Of course he was up. Not that she really knew his habits, but for some reason she’d doubted he was a late sleeper.

  That meant she had to hurry. She quickly called Clara, hoping her friend would answer.

  “Charlie! Hey, you good?” Clara asked anxiously.

  “I’m good. Just reporting in,” Charlie said, relieved that her friend had picked up.

  “Did anything else happen?”

  Charlie told her about the strange noises she’d heard the night before—and about calling Ethan. “Probably got spooked by a squirrel,” she said.

  “I’m just glad Ethan is there,” Clara said. “And you don’t need to worry. After I talked to you last night I told Alexi what’s going on, and we made some calls.”

  “To?” Charlie asked.

  “There’s a new guy who took over recently as head of all entertainment at Celtic American. I worked for him when I first started with the company, and he was entertainment manager for the ship I was on. Anyway, to make a long story short—”

  “Too late,” Alexi said, having seized the phone. “Charlie, we can get on the Journey as Southern belles—and you should join us. We’ve already talked to Jackson Crow, and he’s going to run it past Adam Harrison. I’m not sure how soon we can start, but we’ll get back to you as soon as we know something.”

  “You two are incredible,” Charlie said.

  Clara laughed softly. “Well, we like to think so, anyway.”

  Charlie glanced at her watch. “Call you later today, okay?”

  Then she dressed quickly and went downstairs.

  Ethan was in the kitchen. He’d had no problem figuring out the coffeepot, and the smell of fresh coffee was nearly as appealing as the man.

  “Good morning,” she said, helping herself to coffee.

  “Morning. You slept okay?”

  She smiled. “Helped a lot that you were here. Thank you.”

  “Not a problem. And, as it happens, I’m going your way this morning.”

  “You can’t be. I’m due on site in…” She paused and glanced at her watch, a gift from her mom. “I’m due in makeup in forty minutes.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  “I’m filming a scene with the oil-company boss and the senator.”

  “I know.”

  “There are no extras in it.”

  “I know that, too. I talked with Brad this morning. I know more about the schedule now than you do. As soon as you film that scene, he’s going to use a day-for-night filter and shoot some extra shots for the scene where the ghosts start to rise from their graves to protect you.”

  “You didn’t say anything yesterday about being on the set today.”

  “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know I would be. I had—and still have—an appointment with a guy named Chance Morgan—a photographer. He’s going to find me some time during the day and ask Brad if he can
get a few shots out by the bluff. So now this is my plan. I’m flexible, just like your filming schedule.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, maybe I’ll have a long enough break between scenes for us to catch a bite together in the catering tent. But how can you do that and work a murder?”

  He just looked at her, and she sighed.

  “Yeah, right. I forgot,” she said. “The cast and crew are all suspects.”

  “Not all of them. Still, it never hurts to get to know the people you’re looking at.”

  “Well, I have to head out now, and you—”

  “Showered this morning. After Mike suggested being an extra, I realized that would give me a good reason for hanging around the set. I’m prepared for whatever may happen.”

  “I see. Wow, you’re good.”

  “I do this for a living, Charlie.”

  She laughed. “Not movies.” Then she sobered. “The FBI, being an agent, it’s more than a living for you, Ethan. And that’s great. Listen, I won’t be a sniveling coward forever. I won’t take up all your time, or you’ll never be able to do what you came here for.”

  “I’m not worried. I know you don’t plan to monopolize my time, and anyway, I actually know how to manage my own time. I’ve cleared the decks, so I can spend the day on set. So…” He paused as he went to wash out his cup. “Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Moreau,” he said, setting the cup in the dish drainer.

  “I’ll just grab my things.”

  As they headed out, he turned and looked back at the house. “You should get an alarm,” he said.

  “We’ve never needed an alarm. We’ve had the same neighbors for ages.”

  “You need one now.”

  She fell silent as he opened the door to his SUV for her, and she stayed silent as he got behind the wheel and started to drive.

  She couldn’t help thinking about the way she’d felt the night before—afraid. Certain someone was outside.

  Someone who was watching her.

  And just might want to get in.

  “Kind of ridiculous of me,” she said aloud as they stopped at a light. “Two men were killed. Not women. And men in uniform, too. I’ve done my dad’s reenactments, but I’ve never played a soldier. Some women did disguise themselves as men and join the army, and some of my friends have played those women, but I’ve always been a nurse, except once when I was a general’s wife. So it really was kind of silly of me to get so spooked last night.”

  He glanced her way. “Nothing is silly when people have been killed,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t usually… I don’t know why I was so frightened last night. If someone was hanging around outside, it was probably just some homeless guy feeling desperate and just looking for a place to sleep out of the elements. Anyway, I’m sorry, and thank you.”

  “Like I said before, not a problem.”

  When they reached the filming location, Charlie was surprised to see how pleased everyone seemed to be that she had brought Ethan. They were all staring at him like some kind of savior.

  “Did you see the way they were all looking at you?” she whispered to him when they were finally alone before he headed out to the makeshift dressing rooms.

  He laughed. “There’s at least one forensics show on cable almost every hour of every day. People think every case can be solved in an hour. Too bad it’s not true.”

  “Is there such a thing as a perfect murder? Do people get away with it?”

  “In my opinion, no, there’s no such thing as a perfect murder. But do people get away with killing? Yeah, sadly. Sometimes. But not this time, Charlie. We’re not going to let it happen this time.”

  He gave her an enigmatic look and moved on.

  Charlie headed to a bigger tent where she would have her hair and makeup done, as well as get into costume. They put her in spike heels and a pencil-skirted business suit, miserable clothes for running around in a field. She was playing an executive assistant who had just discovered fraud and shady dealing at the highest level in the film’s fictional oil company.

  Her scene took place just prior to the one they had been filming the day she’d stumbled upon the dead man.

  She tried not to think about that.

  To distract herself, she ran over the backstory for her character, Dakota Ryan, in her head. Dakota had been concerned for a while about things going on at the company. Now, having driven out to the bluff to deliver an important message to one of her bosses, she was about to come upon him in a clandestine meeting with a state senator. The senator planned to rig things so that the oil company could drill and lay pipe in an environmentally sensitive area, where it would damage the riverfront, but the increase in production would provide a huge profit to the stockholders. Once they discovered her presence, the two men took off after her, clearly intent on murder.

  She went over her lines in her head as she changed.

  When she stepped out, she froze for a minute.

  The Confederate cavalry officer from that long-ago night was standing right there.

  No, she realized, he was there in the flesh.

  This wasn’t a ghost, it was Ethan Delaney.

  He was wearing a Confederate cavalry officer’s uniform, complete with gloves and rakish plumed hat, not to mention a blond wig. She couldn’t help being taken aback by his startling resemblance to a dead man.

  A ghost…

  A ghost who had come to her aid.

  “A wig?” she asked him.

  He grimaced. “Yeah. Jennie thought it would be perfect.”

  “It is, but you do know…”

  “I do know what?”

  “You look like him.”

  “Him?”

  “You mean you don’t know? You look like Anson McKee—Captain Anson McKee. You know who I mean. You must know.”

  “Are you talking about the ghost who brought me to you?” He shook his head. “I didn’t realize. It must be the wig. The uniform’s pretty typical for Confederate cavalry captains of the day.”

  “Maybe,” she murmured. “You seriously look like you could be his great—well, I don’t know how many greats, but his many-greats-grandchild.”

  “Seems unlikely. I’m an all-American mutt,” he told her. “But I did look him up back then,” he said softly. “He left behind one son and a wife he apparently loved with his whole heart. No evidence that he was messing around and might have produced an unknown bastard to procreate into the twenty-first century. As I recall, he was killed in the fighting in this area, right before Vicksburg fell.”

  Just then Brad summoned Charlie and her coactors for the scene. She excused herself and hurried over.

  They were going to film uncomfortably close to where she had found the dead man, though Brad had been careful to avoid the exact location.

  She was to come up a path, hear her boss and the senator speaking, and duck behind one of the crooked stones half-hidden in the tangle of overgrowth filling the abandoned unhallowed graveyard.

  A sad place, she thought. Whoever lay there had been buried outside the bounds of the church’s protection.

  She pushed her thoughts aside, and smiled and waved to Brad, then started up the path, concentrating on her work.

  She’d thought it would be so easy to work here, in her home. And it should have been. St. Francisville was normally a peaceful city, not the kind of place where people tripped over bodies every day. Except for her, apparently.

  She neared the place she was to stop and listened while the two men said their lines, then slipped into hiding behind the gravestone. At the proper point in the script she moved—Brad would insert the sound of a twig snapping when he got to postproduction—and the men all turned to discover her. She leaped to her feet, told them the world was going to know about what they were doing and then tu
rned to run.

  “Cut!” Brad called. “Great—we need the opposite POV now, please. Once more—” he said, pausing to chuckle softly “—with feeling!”

  And so they repeated the action for another camera angle. And then another.

  Finally Brad was pleased with the results, and Charlie was free to watch as he called on his Confederate ghosts so he could film individual shots of them rising from the ground.

  After watching for a while, she grew restless and found herself walking through to the church, out of range of the cameras. She wandered into the graveyard and searched until she found the grave of Confederate Cavalry Captain Anson McKee. She pulled weeds from the ground around his headstone and spoke aloud. “I don’t know why you’re still here. I don’t know why Ethan looks so much like you. I don’t know why people kill other people. I wish I could help you, because you certainly helped me.”

  She felt his presence the minute he came to stand beside her. She rose, stumbling a little in the ridiculously high heels. There was a solemn expression on his face as he reached out to her and said urgently, “Go. Go!”

  She shook her head. “Go where? Please, tell me what’s happening. Please….”

  “Go!”

  “The murders have something to do with the Journey, right? With what happened on the Journey?”

  “Go!” he said again, and reached out as if he would shove her if he could, force her to move.

  She nodded and turned to head back toward where Brad was filming.

  As she turned, she felt a rush of air as something flew by her cheek.

  She caught a glimpse of it in her peripheral vision. It was shiny.

  She started to run, her mind struggling to process what she’d seen.

  Only one object made sense, as much as she tried to deny it.

  A knife.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Look like a hero.”

  “Pardon?” Ethan said, jolted by a voice from behind. He was standing out on the bluff, along with Brad, Mike, Grant and Jimmy. Barry Seymour was also there, holding a light reflector, and Luke Mayfield was positioning the microphones.

  “Dammit, Chance!” Brad exploded, turning to the man who had just arrived, balancing a camera and a gear bag. “When you told me Ethan had asked you out here, I said you could take still shots as long as we could use them. I didn’t say you could plow into the middle of a scene.”