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

by Heather Graham

  “The drug is that potent?” Kelsey asked. “In my experience, roofies usually go into drinks, and I’ve worked cases where the women don’t remember a thing that happened to them for hours afterward. In one rape, the woman didn’t believe she’d ever been with the man, and he was only caught because the police found video.”

  “Yes, a roofie is a date-rape drug,” Kat said. “Memory can be completely lost. But this is a mixture. The fentanyl is knocking the person out—right after the killer gets her to come with him willingly. Why? I have no idea. As far as I can tell, the women aren’t being attacked sexually.”

  “I figured he had to have a method for getting so many women to disappear with him. If he was causing any kind of scene, someone would’ve noticed something by now and reported it,” Logan said.

  “I’ll start on a grid, although I don’t suppose we know where Vanessa was last seen?” Sean asked.

  “Let’s begin by putting all the women somewhere near the Alamo,” Logan suggested. “And then indicate where the bodies were found. Let’s include Sierra Monte in the investigation, so we’ll need the Longhorn in the grid, as well. We know she was taken from there.”

  Kelsey glanced over at Logan. He seemed increasingly convinced that Sierra Monte’s death was connected with the others. He also wondered if—and how—the Galveston diamond might be involved.

  “I’ll have preliminary sketches of the other women for you tomorrow, and we’ve decided it’ll be necessary to remove the remaining flesh and soft tissue on several of the skulls. In a few of the other cases, that’s what we’re down to, anyway,” Jane said. “I can provide images that will be almost real,” she added. “There are even formulas you can use to come up with the most likely hair and eye color.”

  “That will help,” Jackson said. “We need to identify the other women ASAP.”

  “Of course,” Kat agreed. “And we have the best people in crime-scene forensics working on the site. Logan has seen to that. He knows the local technicians and scientists and labs. The place itself is a mess, but there’s got to be some bit of evidence.”

  Logan cleared his throat. “This killer understands how to corrupt evidence. Somewhere along the line, however, he’s going to leave something behind, something that doesn’t become tainted. A skin cell, strand of hair, whatever. But even when we’ve got that, we’ll need someone with whom to compare our samples. I think we should start looking at anyone who might be into costuming. We should investigate actors, interpreters, would-be actors and even historians,” he said. “We need suspects.”

  “Why actors?” Sean asked.

  “We found a witness who says he saw Chelsea Martin with someone dressed like Davy Crockett,” Kelsey said.

  “Can we all speak with him?” Kat asked.

  Kelsey glanced quickly at Logan, still a little uncomfortable about blurting out such strange information, even in this group.

  “Maybe.” Logan shrugged. “His name is Zachary Chase and he hangs out at the Alamo.”

  “Zachary Chase?” Sean frowned. “That’s the name of one of the couriers who rode out of the Alamo just before the final battle.”

  “Yes.”

  “A descendant?” Sean asked.

  “No. Zachary himself,” Logan said with a rueful smile. “He’s a ghost. But he’s still at the Alamo.”

  “Oh.” Sean exhaled. “Well, I’m working on a documentary about the Alamo. I can give you all kinds of information—and dozens of actors.”

  * * *

  Logan’s house was fascinating. It had the feel of a hunting lodge; it was built of stone and wood, and a large stone fireplace was the focal point of the sprawling living room, with an extraordinarily fine headdress on the wall over the mantel—an Apache war bonnet from the 1870s, Logan told her.

  He was casual about the house. He’d only owned it a year, and he’d bought it when he’d sold his last house because the backyard was almost an acre, unusual in central San Antonio.

  Besides having a number of authentic Apache and Comanche relics, he had a nice collection of art and seemed to be a fan of Mort Kunstler’s Civil War pieces. “Most of them are prints,” he explained. “The originals are pretty pricy, but I have a friend on Apache land who is a fan, too, and frames them so expertly they look like they could be originals.”

  He’d just brought out two bottles of Lone Star beer and set them on coasters on the coffee table that stood in front of the soft leather sofa. He took a seat next to her, and for a moment she wondered why he’d asked her to come—and then wondered why she’d said yes.

  She smiled and he looked back at her and laughed.

  “We’re an odd pair,” he said.

  “True, and yet a pair,” she murmured, gazing at the fire. She found it pleasant to sit there and watch the flames. The day had been warm while the sun was out, but the evening was cool, with a definite chill in the air.

  He leaned back, propping his feet on the coffee table. “Tomorrow, the documentary.” He looked over at her again. “Thanks to Sean—and the fact that you’re his cousin—we’ll have nice, natural access.”

  “I’ll find out tonight if they’ve negotiated space with the Longhorn,” she said.

  He was studying her and smiling. “You look like Sean. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

  Kelsey laughed. “Great. I look like a linebacker.”

  He lowered his head for a minute, the same smile on his lips. “You know you don’t. You always make sure you look professional—and not like a runway model.”

  She felt a flush touch her cheeks. “Sean and I have similar features, I suppose. Grandpa Cameron. He had the red hair and green eyes.”

  “Sean and I have been acquainted for a while,” Logan said. “He’s come in to work on digital recreations several times, and they’ve been really helpful in court.”

  “I never realized he did that,” Kelsey said. “I guess it’s because we’re far away, and rarely see each other, even though we’re close.”

  She sank back against the sofa. Sitting there felt good, as if the warmth of the fire was slipping into her bones, easing away the tension that had built up during the day. By the time they left the police station, she’d figured the kitchen at the Longhorn might have closed, and she’d thrown out a comment about heading back to dig through the fridge. Then Logan had said he had chili he only needed to heat up, and she’d found herself agreeing, even though Sean had assured her that he could find someplace to take them for a meal.

  So now the chili was heating. She’d entered Logan’s domain and she was glad of it. She was weary, and it felt all right to be weary with him, her defenses down. She’d been furious with him earlier, but the more they worked together the more she understood that he could be relentless in pursuit, especially when he was frustrated. Yet he knew the law—and how to work around it when necessary.

  After she’d agreed to come home with him, she’d panicked, afraid she’d be going to a shrine—the house he had shared with Alana.

  But he had sold that house and changed his residence, and despite the guilt and bitterness he carried like a brick around his neck, he was trying to move into a new life.

  “I would’ve thought you’d have a dog,” she told him, taking a long swallow of her beer. She glanced at him and grinned. “Like a pit bull or maybe a wolf.”

  “I had a wolf mix once. Loved her. She was a great watchdog, and yet incredibly affectionate. She died a few years ago. I’ve also had a little mutt about so high.” He raised his hand a foot from the floor. “Lately…well, one day I’ll get another dog. I like dogs. I just want to know I’m going to be a good dog owner again.”

  “I’d love to have a dog,” Kelsey said. “But I feel the same. My training was hard, proving myself was hard—I didn’t want to get a dog and ignore it. I’d like some big old mutt. Just a big lovable hound that wants to be loved and petted when I come home, and that I could take to a park or…well, we don’t even know if this whole team will wo
rk, or if it does, where we’ll be.”

  “And I took you for the Yorkie-poo type,” Logan said.

  “Oh, really!” she said, laughing, because he was obviously teasing her.

  “I don’t have your experience,” she said a few minutes later. “In law enforcement or in life. But I’m good at what I do.”

  “I’m sure you’re good at everything you do,” he told her. He’d spoken the words casually, but his voice had a rasp that they both heard, and it seemed to turn the words into a double entendre that she knew he hadn’t intended. He stood with a wry grin of apology. “Chili should be hot by now, and I’m starving.”

  “Me, too.”

  She rose to join him. In the kitchen, while he took the chili from the stove, he instructed her to grab the instant rice from the microwave, which she did. Then she chopped tomatoes while he washed and broke up a head of lettuce. They sat at the kitchen table and said very little for a while, except when Kelsey took the time between mouthfuls to compliment him on his chili.

  “Ah, well, Rangers come from a long tradition of survival in the wild,” he reminded her. “Stephen Austin brought the first three hundred legal American colonists into Spanish Texas after his father died, soon after receiving an empresarial grant to colonize. They were known as the Old Three Hundred, and they were on dangerous frontier ground, so he created an informal group for protection—the Rangers. Poor Austin had barely gotten started when Mexico gained its independence from Spain and the land grant was rescinded. There was trouble ahead for sure. So, the original Rangers were out there…ranging. Watching for outlaws, Indian attacks and bad men, protecting Austin and the colonists. They had to learn to forage.” He grinned. “Any self-respecting Ranger has to know how to cook.”

  “And I wouldn’t want you to be anything less than self-respecting,” Kelsey said with mock seriousness.

  “What about you?”

  “I can cook,” she assured him. “At least, I’m great with a microwave.”

  He laughed softly, but set his fork down, having finished his meal. “How did you know which plywood cover to pick up today?” he asked unexpectedly.

  She grimaced. “I wish I could say I’d heard something, that Vanessa Johnston was reaching out of the ground for me.” She raised one hand in a dismissive gesture. “Okay, I wish I could say that, but only to you. I noticed the birds. Is that crazy, or what?”

  He shook his head. “Strange, when I was meeting Jackson Crow—and you—I had an incident with a bird. There were birds everywhere. Although I’m not a superstitious man and I’ve learned a lot of different beliefs, I thought it might be an omen at first, or a warning. Now…maybe it’s just because they’re drawn to carrion, but the birds seem to be helping us out. I don’t know…. Crazy or not, it was a bird that dropped Vanessa’s finger in front of us, telling us she was out there to be found.”

  Kelsey didn’t speak for a minute.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked her quietly.

  She was surprised by the tone of his voice. She looked across at him and studied his face. It was such an attractive face—strong, with good bones, piercing eyes, the bronze texture of his skin. She liked everything about his appearance. But attractive men were numerous; with Logan, she realized, there was more. Even when he irritated or angered her, there was something about him that compelled her.

  Dangerous, she told herself.

  But she knew he was attracted to her, too, even if it was just physical. In their few days together, they’d formed a strange kind of bond.

  Yes, there are times when we can both communicate with the dead. We’ve touched a corpse, and felt the voice of her soul calling out.

  And we share a ghost at the Alamo now, a man who died more than a hundred years ago.

  Logan was looking at her. She hadn’t answered his question.

  “When we heard about Vanessa, I thought maybe we were brought together to save a life. Justice for the dead is so important, but I suppose I wanted to believe we were coming together to protect and save the living.”

  He nodded. “We still may,” he said. “We haven’t caught this killer yet. He may have other victims in his sights—he probably does—and we’re on it now.”

  “We don’t even have any suspects,” she murmured.

  “Trust me, we will.”

  He sounded confident. Kelsey watched him, knowing he wouldn’t stop—whether their team was formed or not, whether he became a fed or stayed with the Rangers or worked freelance—until he found the man who had committed these crimes.

  “I believe you,” she whispered.

  She would never know whether it was the simple words they exchanged, or something about that evening or the way they looked at each other. She would never even know if she’d moved to kiss him first or if he’d moved to kiss her. It hadn’t been a romantic night. There were no roses or candles, no movie with dinner or a walk on the beach….

  But maybe it wasn’t romance. Maybe it was more basic than that—the straightforward urgency of need.

  Somehow they were suddenly locked in an embrace, a sweet touch that seemed to burn through limbs, that answered longing. He knew how to kiss, not with force but with confidence, and the feel of his mouth covering hers was an unbearable aphrodisiac. She parted her lips to his, hungry to explore everything about him, and before she realized how it had happened, they were both standing, tearing at each other’s clothes. Their guns and holsters were the first to go. It wasn’t until then—when she recognized what she was actually going to do—that she became conscious of the dirt and grime of the day. Some semblance of shyness tried to invade the hunger that surged through her with such insistence, almost as if she’d been without water for days, and she had to drink or die.

  “I’m filthy,” she whispered.

  “I do have a shower,” he said.

  He hopped along, tugging at his boots as they headed from the kitchen down the hall to the shower. Her own pumps were kicked aside and he groped for the water while she struggled out of her suit trousers. Hot steam filled the bathroom. She caught sight of them both in the misting mirror just before it completely fogged. She thought there was something oddly right about the way they looked together. He was dark and she was pale, and her hair was streaming down over his fingers and they were close, so close.

  “Birth control?” he asked.

  “Taken care of,” she said.

  He dragged her into the shower, pulling the curtain around them, and the spray of the water seemed to enhance the feel of his lips, his tongue within her mouth, the touch of his hands upon her.

  For a moment, as they were locked in a kiss with the water showering over them, she felt a panic rise within her.

  He was still in love with his wife.

  She was a substitute for a dead woman.

  She wanted to cry out. She wanted to look into his eyes, deny nothing, but insist that he call her by name, acknowledge the fact that he was with her. It was all she wanted. No declarations of love or even caring, just the acknowledgment that she was Kelsey O’Brien, she was flesh and blood and she was here with him now.

  But she said nothing. She felt the searing fire of the water again, or the fire that was inside him, the liquid heat of his lips on hers, and she let the thought slip by because she wanted to be where she was. She felt his hands on her breasts and between her thighs and the hot, slick feel of his dark hair as he bent against her, mouth and tongue over one breast and then the other. She clung to him, her fingers sliding against his back and digging into his buttocks. She would’ve said just moments before that she hated showers, that she was tall, that the shower was slippery, that it was far from her fantasy of making love. But he was strong and powerful, and she wasn’t afraid—and it didn’t seem at all bizarre that they hardly played in the water before he lifted her easily and she slid down onto him as if they’d rehearsed it all as a dance. She felt the tile behind her, and his movements against her and inside her, and she was aware of only th
e running water, the force of her own movements and his. Finding his mouth again as they thrust and writhed, feeling the explosiveness inside her, that was sweeter than she’d imagined possible….

  She climaxed with a shattering sensation she’d never experienced before. She’d been with other men, of course—in particular one Key West cop she’d thought she loved until their relationship ended a few months ago. But the intensity of these emotions, these sensations, was new to her. She felt Logan shudder as he finished, and then he held her close, still inside her, and she felt again the surge of water. She didn’t know what to say or do so she said something ridiculous, whispering in his ear.

  “We might have gone for some soap, as well, you know.”

  He chuckled, easing her down, making sure she didn’t slip.

  “I have soap,” he said, and reached for it.

  It might have been awkward; they might have stared at each other, naked in a shower, and realized what they’d done.

  She could have spoken then….

  But she still didn’t. He took the soap, and spun her around, caressing her with it. And she stood, feeling the water, feeling his touch, and it was so good and sweet again that she didn’t dare think, didn’t dare breathe. Until the friction she felt began to grow into something else, and she turned toward him, seizing the soap, and touching him slowly in return. She savored the feel of his flesh beneath the suds, and teased his body as he had teased hers, watching the movement of her hands against him, savoring the rise of his erection to her erotic touch—and wondering how such incredible passion and intensity could have escaped her all her life.