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

by Heather Graham

  “We’ll be back for the filming, if we can swing it,” Logan said.

  They headed out to Logan’s car. “If the filming’s going to take place in the saloon, maybe we should wait,” she suggested. “We want to check out the actors, but it might be difficult to do that here—and we don’t want Ted Murphy to catch us at it.”

  “He can’t be everywhere. I’m willing to bet he’ll be bugging whatever public-information officers he can find today. He’ll probably try to wheedle something else out of someone at the morgue, as well. I would like to see the filming, but I think we’ll have a better chance of observing the actors if we go to the studio.”

  “As you wish, oh, faithful leader,” Kelsey said lightly.

  She’d been worried that she’d feel awkward about the previous night, or that he’d act uncomfortable or reserved, but it was almost as if it had never happened. Maybe it hadn’t been anything—in his mind at least. She decided that she’d act low-key and easygoing, concentrating instead on the horror and mystery before them.

  The studio was some distance from the inn. Kelsey sat back for the drive, glad that Logan knew where he was going.

  They arrived and found that their names were on a list. The gatekeeper let them through, and when they’d parked a receptionist called Sean to come out and get them.

  “This building rents out space to a lot of producers and productions,” he said, welcoming them. “Today, we’re doing the room in the Alamo where Jim Bowie was on his sickbed and where it’s presumed he died.”

  They followed Sean down a hallway as he told them, “Alan Knight, the executive producer, isn’t on set, but you’ll meet Bernie Firestone, the director. He’s a down-to-earth guy and really great at documentaries. I like working with him. He tells me what he wants in the way of the special effects, I tell him if it’ll work and we go from there.”

  They came to a door that warned no one was to enter if the red light was on—it wasn’t. A green light blazed, and Sean opened the door and ushered them in.

  It was much more casual—and much busier—than Kelsey had expected. The director, Bernie Firestone, was with the cameraman, checking angles as the first camera zoomed in on the scene being depicted. Kelsey could see how the sets were constructed, and she watched a makeup woman adjusting the mustache on one of Santa Anna’s men, who would soon burst in on Jim Bowie.

  Bernie Firestone seemed happy enough to meet them, and while the preparations continued, he stood back and explained. “There are so many versions of Bowie’s death. He was dying and in rough shape—that we know. Some people say he cursed the Mexican officers who came in so violently and he did it in such eloquent Spanish that Santa Anna ordered his tongue cut out and that he be thrown, alive, on the funeral pyre. Others say he killed himself. I just don’t believe Bowie would do that. We offer all the different stories in our narration, but in the scene, we’re going with the most widely accepted. The officers burst in on him, he propped himself up against the wall and he shot at them until he was shot and bayoneted to death.” He shrugged. “Of course, he died with his famous knife at his side—we have to believe that!”

  Kelsey watched as quiet was called and all the support personnel moved away. Firestone calmly announced, “Action!” and filming began. The narration would be edited in. The actors played out the scene, ad-libbing for greater spontaneity, Bernie had told them.

  Bowie—or the actor portraying him—leaned heavily against the wall. The bed was in a corner, at an angle. There were guns in his hands, his knife in his belt. The door flew open and Mexican officers filed in. Bowie started to fire. One of Santa Anna’s men clutched his shoulder, and another cried out in pain, clasping his knee and falling to the ground. The men attacked Bowie with their bayonets, and he clutched his knife, raising it high over his head as they slammed their bayonets into him. It was painful to watch.

  But when “Cut!” was cried by Firestone, the actor playing Bowie sat up. He was dripping in fake blood, but he seemed pleased. “Bernie, how was that?”

  “Perfect, Brant. We’ll break and set it up again for a backup shot,” Bernie said. He looked over at Sean. “You’ll be able to edit out Henry Garcia, won’t you? I want the blasting guns as the men burst in. You can do that, right? But Henry tripped on the doorframe. I thought the whole set was going to fall in for a minute.”

  “If that’s the take you want, Bernie, no problem. That’s easy stuff,” Sean assured him.

  “Okay, guys, grab some coffee, and then get back here and we’ll do a second take,” Bernie called.

  The actors left the set, milling around a table laden with coffee and pastries. Bowie came over, still covered in his stage blood.

  Sean escorted Kelsey and Logan to the table to join the performers. There were seven of them, including James Bowie, who was really Brant Blackwood, a local actor. He was polite and apologetic as he met them in his spattered clothing. “Kelsey O’Brien, Sean’s cousin. A pleasure. You look like him except that you’re pretty. Oh, hell, Sean’s pretty, too, but he hates when you tell him that.”

  “Blackwood, you’re an old goat,” Sean said. Obviously, he liked the older man, and the feeling was mutual.

  “Hey, I know you,” Blackwood told Logan. “Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, you were on the news,” he finished awkwardly. “Anyway, glad you’re back in law enforcement.”

  “Thanks,” Logan said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet a star.”

  “Hell, I’m not the star in this,” Blackwood muttered. “That’s Jeff Chasson. He’s the narrator. We get all mucked up and dirty. Chasson puts on a buckskin outfit, gets his hair done nice and walks in front of a few locations to explain what the scene’s been about. I’ve been proud to play Bowie, though. He must’ve been a tough old dude.”

  “Well, you seem to be doing him justice,” Logan said.

  Sean went on to introduce them to Santa Anna’s men—the clumsy Henry Garcia, Ned Bixby, Arnie Rodriguez, Liam Swenson, Donald Chou, Victor Lyle and Doug Bracken. They were very affable, and for a few minutes they talked about the documentary. All of them seemed to feel a part of it, and to get on well together. They were a mixture of nationalities, Kelsey learned, with Henry Garcia being the only one who thought he was “mostly pure Mexican.”

  “Do any of you ever dress up at the Alamo?” Logan asked.

  “Sometimes, when they have reenactments,” Henry said. “Like in March, when the anniversary rolls around. But it’s a shrine, you know—a national shrine. They’re careful about filming there, and they don’t like bums getting dressed up to con tourists out of money.”

  “I haven’t done one of those reenactments, but I’d like to,” Victor Lyle said regretfully.

  None of these men seemed to be a mass murderer. Least of all, the guy playing Bowie…

  When the break was over, and everyone was recalled to the set, Logan whispered to Kelsey, “I’m going to keep the director busy. Grab up the paper cups. Oh, and mark them with each man’s name.”

  She frowned at him. Collect them without being noticed? Maybe. Mark them?

  But Logan was good. He and Sean managed to get the cameramen and Firestone paying attention to them, with their backs toward Kelsey. The actors were milling around the stage; the makeup and prop people were in the dressing rooms. She quickly dug a marker from her purse and wrote initials on the cups, praying she wasn’t making any mistakes.

  Firestone turned around once. She smiled and took a big bite of pastry, then had to swallow down the mouthful of guava and cheese.

  She joined them a few minutes later, the paper coffee cups in plastic bags inside her large purse.

  They stayed to watch as the scene was filmed one more time. Afterward, they heard Firestone complain about the position Jeff Chasson had put him in, with regard to the Longhorn Saloon.

  “We were just going to film it here—in fact, the sets were ready to go. But Chasson is convinced he’s not only the expert, he’s the star. When I told him we were sticking to the s
chedule, he went over my head. To the important people,” Firestone said. He grinned ruefully at Kelsey. “That would be the money people.”

  “Jeff Chasson,” Kelsey murmured. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of him before.”

  Firestone irritably waved a hand in the air. “He’s written a few books on the history of Texas, the South, the Civil War. And he’s been interviewed in some of the big documentaries.” He paused. “This is a labor of love for a lot of us. We’re trying to tell the story that keeps our heroes heroes without romanticizing them. The producer wanted Jeff Chasson, and he wanted to be part of it. Don’t kid yourself—a director can be fired by the producer. My power is limited.”

  “Sandy, who owns the Longhorn, is a good friend of mine,” Kelsey told him. “We’re going to be there and watch for a bit, if we may.”

  “Your friend did us a tremendous favor, despite Mr. Chasson’s interference.” Firestone smiled. “You’re more than welcome.”

  “Sandy was happy about the income,” Kelsey said. “Her upkeep is high.”

  They spoke a while longer, then Sean walked them out. “There are other people who can do what I do here,” he muttered. “But when I suggested to Jackson that I quit, he asked if I’d stay on and work with you all at night. But he also said to talk to you, Logan.”

  Logan stepped back for a moment. Kelsey sensed that he was startled by Sean’s words. “I think it’ll be good if we can keep our connection to the film, and that’s you, Sean. Stay with it, okay? I hope the hours don’t wear on you too badly.”

  She loved Sean, and she knew he worked hard. He’d worked at a special-effects studio in L.A., a job he’d loved, for many years. He’d come home because his high school flame had been dying. Although they hadn’t made it as a couple, they’d never stopped being close. He’d always called Billie Jo Riley the true love of his life. He’d stuck with her until the end, and then, maybe a little broken, he’d stayed on in Texas. He wasn’t married and he didn’t have kids—and he still worked ridiculous hours.

  Sean shook his head. “No, I’m in.”

  He gave Kelsey a hug. “Hey, remember, if you want out of the Longhorn, kid, just holler.”

  “Sean, you cannot call a U.S. Marshal kid, even if she’s your cousin,” Kelsey chastised, smiling. “But I need to stay at the saloon. It’s another connection we have.”

  She and Logan left the studio and returned to the station and their dedicated room. Jackson was there alone. “Poorly collected evidence, but we have these if we need them,” Logan said as Kelsey took the coffee cups from her handbag. “They were intended for the garbage, and would have been in the garbage.”

  “Technically, would have been is not the same as actually being there,” Jackson pointed out.

  “We can’t use it in court, but if they help us find a killer, then we’ll look for a way to make our case,” Logan said.

  Jackson nodded.

  Logan checked his watch. “We’re going over to the Longhorn,” he said. “You never know what we might learn. So far, we don’t have a shred of evidence—or, I should say, we have a mountain of it that means nothing.”

  They went back to the Longhorn, coming in through the kitchen. Ricky was there, along with a few of the guests who seemed happy enough to be sitting around, enjoying the free alcohol.

  Corey Simmons was among them. He greeted them warmly. “Hey! This worked out just great for me. I met the director, and he said he liked my look. And he found out what I do for a living, that I’m the real rodeo deal. I’m going to be a performer! I mean, on film. They hired me to be one of the couriers when they do the scenes with the fellows slipping out across the Mexican lines.”

  “That’s great,” Kelsey said. “I’m happy for you, Corey.”

  He gave her an enthusiastic hug. “And to think! If it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t have stayed on here!”

  Ricky interrupted them. “You can go into the saloon now. Quietly, I’ve been told. They’re running film. Jeff Chasson wants his practice filmed, in case it’s better than any of the takes.”

  “We won’t make a sound,” Kelsey promised.

  She led the way, Logan close behind her. They entered the saloon on tiptoe and walked around the seating area in a wide arc.

  Bernie Firestone, standing near one of the cameramen, turned and waved to them, urging them in.

  Sandy, who was seated at one of the saloon tables, waved as well, inviting them to join her.

  They slid into seats at her table.

  One of the other bartenders was dressed in the vest, cotton shirt and string tie that a bartender might have worn in the mid-1800s.

  Jeff Chasson leaned against the bar like a rugged frontiersman on the day of the Alamo.

  He was blond and clean-shaven, but he did look convincing as he stood there, a hat on the bar, beside a long rifle.

  “It was here that the men came when they needed respite. Remember, the defense of Texas fell into the hands of a mixture of people—old settlers and new settlers, those who came hoping for land and glory. They were a ragtag band, not a regular army. So, while many a rancher, Ranger and drifter passed through, their station in life didn’t really matter. We’re in the old Longhorn Saloon. Famous for the best whiskey in the area and the prettiest girls. Among them was the legendary Rose Langley. She sang, and she served, and she flirted—the most coveted of all the girls. But she’d come to San Antonio with one of the roughest men to ever draw a bead on Texas. He died in the fight for independence, or so it’s assumed, but he was hardly one of our heroes. Before he disappeared, part of the massive death toll that brought Texas independence, Matt Meyer became enraged with the beautiful Rose, and strangled her right here at the inn, up in Room 207.”

  The narrator turned dramatically to indicate the staircase. “Up those stairs. Room 207. And the history and the legends live on,” he added ominously.

  Kelsey saw the horror on Sandy’s face.

  “Rose was strangled, but in the aftermath, in the years that followed, like the legend of the Alamo itself, the legend of the Longhorn was destined to continue. So will we ever know? Is the Alamo really hallowed ground, drenched with the blood of heroes? Is it haunted by the men who died there? And is the historic Longhorn just as haunted, with spirits—old and new—drifting along that staircase?”

  Chasson let the sentence fade away.

  Sandy was tense, waiting for what he’d say next.

  Then he settled back at the bar. “Jeff Chasson at the Alamo, now and then.”

  The knowing smile left the man’s face as he pushed away from the bar and started toward Bernie Firestone. “That’s bullshit, pure bullshit. We need to add the part about the murder of Sierra Monte. The Alamo now and then—” he snorted. “We’ve talked about the massacre in Goliad and what happened in San Antonio. It’s bullshit not to mention the murder last year! We can sell this thing ten times over if we talk about blood dripping through the woodwork. Not then but now.”

  Chapter 10

  Sandy was distressed. She got to her feet, wanting to protest, clearly not knowing how. Kelsey leaped up, too, and Logan, afraid that Kelsey would try to defend Sandy first and use diplomacy second, decided to take the matter into his own hands.

  He winked at Sandy, then walked over to the director and Chasson.

  “Excuse me,” Logan said. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he began.

  Chasson turned and stared at him in irritation. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m a friend of Sandy’s, and I’m also a Texas Ranger, Mr. Chasson,” Logan said politely. He went on before Chasson could ask what business he had interfering. “I should warn you that you’re in the Longhorn due to the largesse of the owner. The events that occurred here in the 1830s are well-known, but for you to sensationalize the presumed death of an innocent girl is in extremely bad taste. If you simply present known facts, that’s one thing. But you’re doing a documentary on the Alamo, not on unsolved murders in Texas. You c
ould be setting up this production for a major lawsuit—by the owner, by the victim’s family—and you’d be named right along with the production company. Or Ms. Holly might determine that the production should be thrown out and you could be banned from ever stepping foot in the Longhorn Saloon again.”

  He smiled as he spoke. He’d lost his temper with Ted Murphy, and he wasn’t going to do that again. He was really getting his life, himself, back; dealing with arrogant assholes like Chasson in a smooth and politic way was actually far more satisfactory than losing his temper.

  Chasson scowled at him before turning back to Bernie Firestone. Firestone had been grinning, but he tried to appear stern when Chasson looked at him for help.

  “I’m sorry, Jeff. You said you wanted to film here. And if we’re filming here, Ms. Holly does have a say. You didn’t tell me you planned to talk about Sierra Monte.”

  “But—” He stared over at Sandy. “But it’s history!”

  Kelsey walked up to them, Sandy beside her.

  “It’s Sandy’s property now, Mr. Chasson,” Kelsey said. “And she has the right to call the police and have you evicted if you’re breaking an agreement.”

  “I didn’t agree to anything,” he said angrily.

  “You can leave,” Sandy offered, apparently delighted with the way things were going.

  “We…we paid to film here!” he sputtered indignantly.

  “However, I was given script approval,” Sandy said.

  Jeff Chasson might have been a jerk, but he knew when he was outnumbered. He smiled again, the practiced smile he gave the camera. “All right, forgive me. I wasn’t aware of your script approval, Ms. Holly. But if that’s the case… You see, the documentary traces the history of the Alamo, along with that of Texas. We follow the Alamo through to the present time. Ms. Holly, the Longhorn is a huge part of that. Now, we can leave, and I can say anything that’s fact, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “That’s true,” Sandy murmured.

  “Or you and I can work on a script together, ensuring that the truth is told, but that you’re happy with what I say.”