Krewe of Hunters, Volume 2: The Unseen ; The Unholy ; The Unspoken ; The Uninvited

by Heather Graham

  Clearly, she’d had an interest in gems and jewelry. Just like Chelsea.

  He tried all the social connections he thought the young women had most likely used. He turned his attention back to Chelsea and Tara and looked through the links, and discovered that both women had—like a high percentage of the country—kept up Facebook pages. The pictures of their past lives made him sad, and the many messages of condolence, addressed to their families and friends, were heartbreaking. He wasn’t sure what he’d discovered; he hoped something would click in his mind at some point.

  Finally, he’d tried to sleep.

  And, of course, what he’d learned about the young women continued to dance through his head, but then he found himself thinking of his own life and events gone by.

  He thought dully of the time it had taken him to get past the agony of losing Alana. He’d often wondered if it would have hurt any less if she’d died of natural causes. But ultimately, there was no way out of being human. He had met Alana soon after he’d become a Ranger, and she had loved his work and the history of the Rangers—that of the stoic, heroic frontier protectors, and that of the men who’d pictured themselves above the law. Her own father had passed away, but he’d also been a Ranger. The idea of Logan’s changing his line of work to something safer had never come up.

  But then, neither had suspected that she might become a victim of violence.

  Alana had known he loved her. She’d known that he would have given his life in exchange for hers, without question. She had loved him in return. If they’d ever been able to discuss the situation, she would have smoothed back his hair and said, “Hey, Ranger. That’s the way the beans fell, and that’s that.”

  Since he’d come back, almost a year ago now, he’d worked on the tangible cases. A bank robbery. A gang war—with homicides. There was one case in which a clever killer had murdered his friend with gloves on, using the friend’s own gun—but he’d forgotten about the way circumstantial evidence could pile up, and he’d wound up confessing, afraid of the death sentence, carried out with frequency in the state of Texas.

  And then Logan had been told to meet with Jackson Crow.

  Whir, whir, whir, the ceiling fan went.

  Hearing Alana call to him when she was already dead hadn’t been his first experience with the unacknowledged senses. He’d had opportunities as a child to embrace both Apache and Comanche ways—entirely different from each other. To the Comanche, it was natural to see signs and learn lessons from the creatures around them. They weren’t gods; they were energy and strength and power. The Apache saw a different world, in which there’d be an afterlife, and you might meet an enemy there, just as you could on earth. There were ghost riders, because there was a soul, and the soul lived on. Dreams were seen as omens, or as visions that might help a warrior make a decision. The unusual was far more accepted among most Indian nations. Not to mention the fact that the American west offered certain natural flora that occasionally enhanced a dream-walker’s quest. “All natural,” an Apache friend had told him once. “So is hemlock,” Logan had said. Yes, the world was filled with the natural—and what some saw as the supernatural. Like all things, there was both good and bad in what was natural—and supernatural.

  Logan’s first supernatural occurrence had fallen on the beneficial side. A young Apache girl had been kidnapped, and it was suspected that her own father had done it. He was known as a cantankerous alcoholic, who’d taken a strap against his sons often enough. There was little love for the man among his people, and it was easy to point the finger in his direction. But while sitting with his grandfather, watching the smoke of a fire, Logan believed he’d seen the girl. She was crying and afraid, and he thought he saw her at an abandoned emu farm outside the Apache reservation. Although he’d been seventeen at the time, and a “tinted white boy,” as some of his relatives called him, he’d been able to convince his father—who had brought in the Texas Rangers. The man who still owned the land had allowed them to investigate. They’d found the girl—with the corpse of another. They caught the pedophile who’d kidnapped the girls and assaulted them and accidentally killed the first.

  Logan had lied, of course. He’d said he’d heard the information about the girl and, riding with his cousins across family land on the outskirts of the city, he’d noticed the buildings on the abandoned farm and put two and two together. That was the day he’d known he was going to be a Texas Ranger.

  He’d learned to focus and had honed his abilities. At times, he’d spoken to his grandfather in the years since he’d died, and to other “souls,” those he’d known and those he hadn’t. He did understand one thing: If a soul had moved on, he would not be able to speak with that person again. He had heard Alana when she’d called out to him, because she hadn’t intended to let her killer get away with her murder. But she was gone now. He’d sat at her grave site often and long; he’d wandered the house with the little picket fence that they’d owned together—now sold—calling out her name. He’d gone to the restaurants they’d frequented, spent hours in the park where he’d proposed, ridden the Texas plains where they’d often taken his cousin’s horses, and no matter how hard he tried, how hard he focused, he couldn’t find her. Not even in his dreams. But when they’d recovered her body, buried in the coffin, the oxygen supply not properly set, he thought he saw her eyes open. He thought she touched his cheek. He had heard her whisper, “Goodbye, my love. Do good.”

  They were the words she’d often said to him when he went off to work.

  He had been convinced she was alive. He’d tried to drag her out of the coffin and into his arms. Insanity had struck him, and he’d beaten back his friends, heedless of injury to them. All he’d seen was that Alana needed help. It had been Tyler Montague, another Ranger, who’d finally taken him by the shoulders and wrestled him down, and it had been the tears in Tyler’s eyes that made him see the truth. Alana was dead, and he was destroying the evidence they would need to see her killer convicted.

  He’d taken a two-year leave. When he’d come back, he’d refused to deal with anything that smacked of the supernatural.

  And yet here he was. Like it or not, he was sucked in. Last night had been the clincher. He wasn’t sure why. But Kelsey O’Brien’s vision in Room 207 had started the process, and he believed that the murder of Rose Langley had something to do with what was going on now.

  The Galveston diamond. It had never been found. He wondered what it was worth in today’s market. Millions.

  But…what could the deaths of so many women have to do with a diamond that had disappeared more than a hundred and fifty years ago? Especially when they suspected that most of them had been living on the fringes of society, surviving as prostitutes or by doing whatever odd jobs they could get. People who were on their own, who hadn’t even been reported as missing.

  Or so he assumed. They knew about Tara Grissom and Chelsea Martin. And maybe they could uncover something about the others.

  He thought back to the files with the bios and information they had thus far. Chelsea had been a teacher. And part-time gemologist.

  After an unsatisfactory night’s sleep, Logan rose, showered and dressed, then headed out, anxious to get to Jackson Crow’s temporary headquarters.

  He paused as he stepped out his door.

  The birds were back. There were sitting on the eaves of his house; they were arrayed around him on poles and wires, and some even sat on his car.

  They watched him, and he watched them in return.

  They seemed to be exuding no ill will.

  “Ah, my friends, are you offering energy and strength? Or are you warning me that what lies ahead should be avoided?”

  The birds did not reply.

  He opened the door to his car, revved the engine and the birds took flight.

  * * *

  Kelsey had brooded through the night. No other dreams or visions had come to her, but she’d spent hours thinking about Logan Raintree. She realized that what she�
��d learned disturbed her, and she woke feeling out of sorts.

  Arriving in the kitchen early, she hoped for a little time alone, but that was unlikely. The inn was now full, and Sandy had hired help to prepare breakfast. Kelsey was glad to see that coffee had been brewed, but disappointed that there was nowhere she could be alone to enjoy it. She stood in a corner of the kitchen, trying to keep out of the way.

  “Everything all right?” Sandy asked.

  “Great,” Kelsey assured her.

  “You look upset,” Sandy said. Then she grinned. “I wouldn’t be. I love your Texas Ranger.”

  “He’s not my Texas Ranger,” Kelsey muttered. “We’re just working together.”

  “Okay. Well, then, I wouldn’t mind working with your Texas Ranger.”

  “Sandy, have you ever met Logan before? Was there information about him in the paper when his wife died?”

  Sandy frowned, and her eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, he’s that Texas Ranger! I didn’t make the connection…. I definitely remember the case!” She shivered. “Oh, it was horrible. The poor woman died. The killer was playing a time game. Except that he had some kind of oxygen system supposedly rigged up when he buried her alive, but he didn’t do it right. The Ranger—her husband—found her, but she’d been dead for a while, according to the papers. Oh, that’s so sad! But Logan Raintree seems so…well, normal. Considering what he’s been through.”

  “He is normal,” Kelsey told her.

  As normal as I am, she thought.

  But her distress about the tragedy in his life—and her anger that she hadn’t been told—continued to bother her.

  “I’ve got to get going.” Kelsey drained her coffee cup and put it down.

  “Okay,” Sandy said. “Oh, and, by the way, thank you again.”

  “For?”

  “Oh, for dealing with Corey Simmons. He’s a happy camper now, and I was sure he’d leave the inn and tell terrible stories about it!”

  “Not a problem.”

  “And you’re still okay with the room?” Sandy asked anxiously.

  “I’m absolutely fine.”

  “I just remember when we were growing up…”

  “What?” Kelsey arched a brow. She’d never shared any of her impressions or visions with Sandy, even though they were close friends. She’d learned early that it was too easy for people to misunderstand—or to make fun of her.

  “When we were kids, at camp, you’d tell great stories about history. And those ghost stories you told by the campfire… You were so good, I always felt as if you knew something the rest of us didn’t—almost as if you had imaginary friends whispering in your ear.”

  “I was an imaginative kid,” Kelsey said. “Listen, I’ve got to get to work. See you this evening—and thank you. It’s great to have a place to stay.”

  She didn’t want to get involved in a discussion about the Longhorn. She wanted to accost Jackson Crow and find out why he hadn’t told her anything about Logan Raintree.

  Crow was alone when she walked into the dedicated room at the police station.

  “You had no right to put me in the situation you did,” she said angrily, marching toward him at his desk. “None.”

  “And what situation was that?” he asked her.

  “Setting me up with a man—a potential team member—without any explanation about his past.”

  He leaned back casually, watching her.

  “And why does his past matter right now? We’re looking for a murderer, not planning a therapy session.”

  “Oh, I see. You’re giving me a ‘this is business’ speech? Well, I’m sorry, that’s not acceptable under the circumstances. You obviously want us using abilities we don’t usually share. And just as obviously, that’s going to bring us closer than most business associates, team members, whatever we’re going to be!”

  “Do you think Logan Raintree is emotionally crippled? Or that he’s going to go off on some kind of rampage? Shoot up the streets?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, then?”

  “I should have known. That’s all.”

  “Logan’s past is his concern. He chose to tell you about it.”

  “Yes, but…what happened to him wasn’t something like, oh, his house was robbed. His wife was murdered.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you knew it.”

  “I make a point of knowing everything about anyone I’m asking to join this team,” Jackson told her.

  Frustrated, she scowled at him.

  “It’s important that you get to know each other on your own terms, not that I outline your lives.”

  “But—”

  “A team only works when every member learns to trust every other member,” Jackson said.

  She would have spoken again, still irritated, but the door opened and Logan Raintree came into the room. He greeted them with a solemn, “Good morning.”

  They both responded. Kelsey felt guilty; she wondered if he could tell she’d been talking about him.

  He probably could. But he didn’t press it. “We need to get back on the streets. We have to find Vanessa Johnston. I read and reread the files last night. We can’t compare lives and histories on all the victims, since we don’t know who some of them are, but I spent last night looking for a common thread between the two women we do have. So far, all we’ve got is that both were young, attractive, fascinated with the Alamo and headed there. But,” he said, glancing from Jackson to Kelsey and offering them a crooked, almost sheepish smile, “I believe I’ve found a connection between one of them, Chelsea Martin, and Sierra Monte. And it’s something that’s been staring us in the face.”

  “The Galveston diamond?” Kelsey asked.

  He nodded. “Sierra Monte was presumably killed at the Longhorn,” he said. “The diamond was brought to Galveston by pirates. It was apparently stolen, then disappeared from history after it was won in a poker game in Galveston. Historians agree on that much. The legend that says Rose took it with her is based on conjecture but the diamond’s never been found in Galveston. People with metal detectors have searched the beach for it often enough. I can imagine that someone might’ve thought Sierra Monte was looking for it at the inn, but Chelsea Martin never got there. She made it to the Alamo—her last known location. But in her spare time, she studied gems.” Logan paused. “I went to her Facebook page,” he said. “She truly loved stones and wanted to work with jewelry. But I’m willing to bet she knew about the Galveston diamond. Sierra Monte was a diamond girl, too.”

  “Did you find out anything similar about Tara Grissom?” Jackson asked him.

  “Everything I read reinforced what we’ve already learned—she loved history, especially state history revolving around the Alamo, the massacre at Goliad and the road to independence for Texas. She must have been aware of Rose Langley and the Galveston diamond. Although a lot of it’s legend, the story’s been around in Texas as long as I can remember.”

  “But these other women… We’re assuming they were runaways or prostitutes because we haven’t been able to match them to any missing-persons cases,” Kelsey said. “How could they be involved with the Galveston diamond? Do you really think it’s possible that they all died because of a diamond that’s been missing for a century and a half?”

  “I think it’s the only connection I’ve found between any of the victims,” Logan said.

  Kelsey sat on the edge of Jackson’s desk and picked up one of the sheets he’d been studying, a synopsis of the medical examiner’s reports.

  “The Longhorn isn’t far from the Alamo,” she pointed out. “And if you’ve studied the Alamo, you probably know about the Longhorn. Most of us learned about Davy Crockett, Lieutenant Colonel Travis and Daniel Boone as school kids, no matter where we grew up, but the sad tale of Rose Langley isn’t as well-known. All the local kids would’ve heard it, of course, and so would anyone with a fixation on the period. But the Longhorn’s been torn apart over the decades. If there was anyt
hing hidden there, it would’ve been found by now. And where else would you look? But if the women never even made it to the Longhorn… Anyway, just because someone liked gems and knew Texas history, why would you murder her?”

  “We need to know more,” Logan said quietly. “More about all the women.”

  Jackson looked across the desk at Kelsey. “We’re going to try to do that.” Jackson was thoughtful. “And yes, we have to find Vanessa Johnston. Every officer in every agency in the city is searching for her. I’d like to take an hour and go back to the morgue.”

  “We’re testing at the morgue—with Kat as the M.E.?” Logan asked. “We’re bringing Kat in?”

  “Yes, and I’m going to bring in our fourth and fifth team members, too. Jane Everett is meeting us at the morgue.”

  “She does facial reconstructions,” Logan informed Kelsey. “And she’s very good. She can work with all kinds of material, but she’s worked with computer images, too.”

  “Jane’s done assignments for several anthropological societies,” Jackson added, “and also for the Rangers and the police.”

  “Why wasn’t she brought in before?” Kelsey asked.

  “Everything costs,” Logan reminded her, looking at Jackson.

  “We’re also getting a computer whiz,” Jackson said. “Film and sound effects, computers—every team needs someone who’s good at those things.”

  “Do I know him or her?” Logan asked.

  “You both do,” Jackson said.

  Kelsey was startled. “Oh?”

  “Sean Cameron.”

  Kelsey almost fell off the desk. “Sean Cameron? My cousin, Sean Cameron?”

  “Is there family rivalry, Marshal?”

  “No, nothing of the kind. Sean…Sean is great. But he…works on movies. Documentaries—like the one he’s doing now, about the Alamo.”

  “He’s done computer work for us before,” Logan said. “Crime-scene recreations.”

  “But Sean isn’t a cop.” Kelsey frowned, looking at Jackson.