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

by Heather Graham

  “Bailey, that is the most messed-up thinking I’ve ever heard!” Madison said. “Alistair is just an honestly nice young man. Jenny didn’t do anything to anyone. And Eddie was loyal to you.” She stared at him, knowing that she shouldn’t be making him angry. “Eddie isn’t a Claymore—”

  “Not a Claymore, no. But you know who would’ve been next? When Alistair was on his way to jail? Oliver Marshall, that bastard. I would have gotten to him. And Eddie’s whore of an ex-wife. Benita Lowe—the bitch who badmouths her own blood.”

  Madison suddenly realized that he’d planned more, so much more….

  “I don’t understand how you did all this. You were on duty. But you—not Helena—killed Jenny. Helena met you in the tunnel, right? You weren’t on camera because you’re the one who was trusted to watch the cameras. There was a time discrepancy on the video. Two minutes were missing from the clock in the workroom because you had to stop the camera to steal the Egyptian priest’s cape. Helena had gotten you the key to the basement and she was keeping you informed of Alistair’s schedule. She listened to gossip, and she knew that Jenny was coming to see him. Then she met you at the site to hide the robe. She escaped through the tunnels—into the cemetery. Meanwhile, you’d taken care of the murder weapon, hiding it in the canopic jar.” Madison took a deep breath. “You know the system so well, you could freeze all the tapes at exactly the same time—so perfectly that not even a forensic expert could tell what you’d done—and back them up so no one ever knew you’d left your position. You did that in the video room behind the desk, then ran around to the front—and there you were, Alistair’s sympathetic savior when he regained consciousness and came looking for you.”

  “It was still a locked-room mystery, Madison. It should have stayed that way,” Bailey said.

  She was startled when she heard another voice, one she hadn’t expected.

  “Keep him talking, kid. We’re here. We’ll help you when we can—when we figure out how we can.”

  “Thanks, Bogie,” she whispered. He was there; her resident ghost had made it here to help her. Jenny Henderson, as nervous-looking as a toy poodle, was standing slightly behind him. They were in the Casablanca exhibit.

  “What?” Bailey said.

  She’d unnerved him, and she hadn’t even done it intentionally. Maybe he was feeling the cold some people felt when a spirit was around…or the creeping sensation of another presence that seemed to raise the hair on a person’s neck.

  Bailey turned. It wasn’t enough for her to make an escape, but he turned.

  He stared back at her. “What are you up to?”

  “Bogie is here. You know—Humphrey Bogart. I told you I talk to the dead. And Jenny’s here. Jenny Henderson. The girl you killed.”

  “That’s not true! It’s time for you to die. The cops will be here soon. I may go down, but you’re going down with me.”

  He took a step toward her. She jumped back into the exhibit, standing behind the mannequin of Sam Stone. When Bailey tried to reach her, she thrust the mannequin toward him. He tripped backward, but righted himself. She looked at the sarcophagus, ready to shove that in his direction next.

  But before she could do so, the mannequin of Humphrey Bogart came flying out of the Casablanca exhibit. It didn’t go far, but it hit the ground, surprising Bailey. He drew his gun and shot at it. She counted the shots. She didn’t know anything about guns. How many bullets did he have?

  “What the hell? Who’s there?” he demanded, searching the exhibit.

  Another mannequin came flying toward him—Ingrid Bergman as Ilsa Lund.

  Bailey started shooting again.

  And then he turned the gun on Madison. She screamed and leaped behind the sarcophagus, her heart thundering.

  A bullet…a clean kill…better than a knife across her throat?

  But then she heard a shout from the living. Sean had arrived.

  “Bailey! Drop the weapon now!”

  He was racing in from the Black Box, Glock in hand, aimed at Bailey.

  Bailey whirled around, gun raised.

  “Drop it!” Sean yelled.

  Bailey didn’t.

  Sean fired.

  Bailey fell back, a spill of blood spreading on his shirt.

  She wasn’t a coward…. But her knees were so weak.

  She was barely standing by the time Sean stepped over Bailey and the fallen mannequins, pushed aside the sarcophagus and drew her into his arms.

  That was when her knees failed completely. He swept her up and carried her from the tableau, and as she fell against his chest, she was exhausted and safe and…in love.

  It was just like a movie.

  Epilogue

  Madison awoke feeling a sense of luxury and comfort that was wonderful.

  The sheets were an incredible blend of silk and cotton, cool to the touch, sensuous against her skin. The drapes at the large lanai windows were moving with the slight breeze, and the sound of the waves and the ocean were just beyond them.

  Best of all, of course, was the man beside her. Sean, naked and strong, his arms creating a haven, a sanctuary. It felt so right. In the long run, of course, she couldn’t live in a Hawaiian paradise; Ichabod was at home. Alistair was taking care of him, and when she returned, she was also taking Helena’s little designer lapdog—mutt, as Sean called him—and she loved having her pets.

  But for now…

  She opened her eyes, trying to see if he’d awakened. He had. He was watching her with amusement, lips curved in a smile.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Yes, it is.” She sighed luxuriously and smiled up at the ceiling fan.

  Eddie Archer really was a great friend.

  With the studio closed while the tunnels were cleaned out and sealed and the dead within them reinterred in peace, her work was on hold. Next week, she’d be heading out to the desert on the outskirts of Las Vegas, and Sean would follow the members of his team to Chicago. Something strange was going on in Lake Michigan; people Sean had worked with in Texas had begun a documentary on shipwrecks in the Great Lakes, and in the midst of their work, a diver had mysteriously died.

  She bit her lip, worried about him, and then realized it was what he did, and if she wanted them to fashion a life together, she’d have to accept that, just as he understood her love for her own work.

  His mind was apparently moving in the same direction. “You really think you’ll be able to take a three-day weekend after the action sequences are filmed on location?”

  She nodded. “But you’re taking a few days first to meet me in Vegas.”

  His eyes were brilliant as he looked at her and smoothed back a lock of her hair. “I learned once upon a time that we all need a focus in life, but that focus has no meaning if we can’t remember that life is really about people, the people who are most important to us. People we might come across only once in a lifetime. Twice if we’re lucky. And when you get a second chance, you don’t blow it.”

  “I would go anywhere for you,” she told him.

  “You’re with me now.” He smiled and kissed her, and the fan continued to whir and the breeze to wash over them. His kiss deepened and he moved against her, his body as sleek as the sheets, and the kiss naturally segued into much, much more….

  Later, they went to lie on the beach. They’d already spent long hours with the team and with each other, retracing every moment of the case, trying to understand how a person’s mind could seize on injuries of the past, even the distant past, and become crazed by them. “Hatred is so often taught,” Sean had said. “Be it against an individual or a group.” And she thought he was wise in that assessment. They’d talked about the fact that when they were ready, when they had a family, they would take the greatest care to see that their children learned tolerance instead of hatred. That had been an especially nice conversation, because they were still shy with each other. They didn’t bandy the word love about easily, so when he’d first whispered, “I love you,” s
he knew it was real, and that it was for a lifetime.

  Their Hawaiian conclave was exclusive, a really wonderful present from Eddie, and they should have been alone, completely alone, so naturally Madison was surprised when she felt the air and the sand stir. Someone was approaching them.

  She glanced up. Bogie was coming along the beach; he looked as if he was ready to film the sequel to The African Queen.

  Jenny walked beside him, close, but as a daughter would be close.

  “Hey!” Sean said, standing and dusting sand from his swim trunks. “I thought you hated to travel. This is a very long way. You’re welcome here, of course,” he added huskily. Madison knew that Sean believed Bogie had saved her life, far more than he had himself. And he was grateful.

  “We’re ready to go,” Bogie said.

  “Go?” Sean asked him, puzzled.

  Jenny smiled, slipping an arm through Bogie’s. “I think Bogie’s right. We stay for a reason, a purpose. No matter how long it may take for that reason to come along, or what that reason may be. We’re almost sure we’ve fulfilled our purpose. So we came out to be with you until the sun sets, and then…well, there’s nothing like a Hawaiian sunset. We decided that might be the time to see if…if there’s another light.”

  For a moment, Madison thought Bogie would argue. But he didn’t. They were spirits, visible to no one but them. Then again, they were alone on a beach, so what was real and what wasn’t didn’t seem important.

  Sean spread another blanket, and Bogie and Jenny joined them on the sand, and they spent the day talking about good things, Bogie laughing about incidents on set, Jenny enthralled by his tales of the past. Sean and Madison listened eagerly, as well; they’d never hear these stories again.

  Then the sun began to fall in the west. The sunset was striking and beautiful, shot through with what seemed like a hundred shades of gold and red and mauve.

  A light seemed to burst brilliantly as the rest of the sky faded.

  Bogie turned back to Madison. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes as Bogie reached for Jenny’s hand, and they walked toward the light. Then they walked through it and were gone.

  Sean pulled Madison close and touched her cheek gently. “And now,” he said softly, “to life.”

  “To our lives,” she agreed.

  They walked through the sand and the softening breeze of the night back to their cottage, and the time they could seize together before the journey that lay ahead.

  Before the journey and during it. Now and forever.

  * * * * *

  The Unspoken

  Heather Graham

  Prologue

  The midnight hour

  Austin Miller loved his comfortable home. Built by his grandfather in 1872, after the ravages of the Great Chicago Fire of October 10, 1871, it had the grace—and even opulence—of the mid-Victorian era. The staircase was carpeted in deep crimson, a shade picked up in the period furniture. Swirling drapes in black and cream adorned the parlor, and the windows were etched glass. He had changed little since his grandfather’s day.

  It boasted a true gentleman’s den with bookshelves that lined the walls, filled with wonderful tomes, old and new. It also boasted some of his fabulous collections, the most impressive of which was his collection of Egyptian artifacts. They were legally obtained, since Austin’s grandfather had been on the dig when Tut’s tomb was discovered; he had lived much of his life prowling the sands of the Sahara in pursuit of discoveries. Canopic jars were kept in a temperature-controlled display case, along with funerary statuettes that were gilded and bejeweled. A real sarcophagus—that of a king’s illegitimate son, of little import to Egyptians at the time—stood open in a corner of the room. It had been arranged in a display case of its own, built by his grandfather in the mid-1930s. He’d exhibited his collection of mummified snakes and cats behind glass, as well. On one side of Austin’s beautiful desk was an exquisitely crafted statue of the god Horus, adorned with gold paint and fine jewels. On the other side was a carafe, where he kept his finest brandy and glasses for when the need arose.

  Yes, Austin loved his den. He held his most important meetings here, with business associates and with fellow members of the Egyptian Sand Diggers, the Society of Chicago and scholars who loved and appreciated all things Egyptian.

  He felt the need for a brandy arise at that moment. Tonight, he was happy. So happy. After more than a century of being at the bottom of Lake Michigan and her shifting sands, the Jerry McGuen might well be on her way to twenty-first-century discovery!

  He knew he should go to sleep. His doctor had warned him that he had to rest and that he had to avoid sleeping aids, that he needed to take his heart and blood pressure medications and stick to a healthful regimen. He was, after all, eighty-three years old.

  But…

  They were on the brink of knowledge. Nothing had hit the papers yet, but come morning, divers and documentarians would, at long last, discover the Jerry McGuen.

  And, with the ship, untold treasure.

  His cat, Bastet, a beautifully marked Egyptian Mau, also seemed restless that night. Bastet meowed and sidled along his leg.

  “Tomorrow, Bastet, tomorrow!” He had changed for bed and wore his pajamas and a smoking robe, although he’d long ago given up the cigars he’d once enjoyed so much.

  But a little brandy wasn’t a bad thing.

  He poured himself a snifter and rolled the tawny liquor against the sides of the glass, smelled it and finally sipped. He let out a soft sigh. “Tomorrow, Bastet, tomorrow,” he said again.

  But the cat leaped atop his desk with a screech that was frightening.

  “Bastet!” He frowned. He tried to stroke the cat, but Bastet vaulted from the desk and disappeared behind the standing sarcophagus. What could be bothering the creature? Mrs. Hodgkins, his housekeeper, was long gone for the day.

  The massive grandfather clock behind him began to toll the midnight hour.

  He swallowed another sip of his brandy.

  A cool breeze blew from the patio beyond the den; the curtains wafted.

  The clock chimed three times, four, five.

  And then…

  He saw it. Moving in from the patio.

  He sat completely still and blinked. He had to be seeing things. But, as if compelled by his vision, he rose, swallowing down the rest of the brandy. He wanted to scream. He couldn’t scream, but somewhere in his mind he knew that even if he could, no one would hear.

  The clocked chimed six times, seven, eight.

  It was coming…coming…coming for him.

  His heart! Instinctively, he clutched his chest and felt the thundering of his heart. He groped in his pocket for his nitroglycerin pills, but just as he reached them, it reached him. The pills were knocked from his hand.

  The clock chimed nine times, ten, eleven.

  He felt as if he’d been struck by a sledgehammer. The pain was overwhelming. The thing before him was enveloped in the black of his vision.

  The clock chimed the hour of midnight.

  And he fell down dead.

  The wee hours

  Kat Sokolov slept deeply, and in that sleep, she dreamed. It was a lovely dream. She was sailing somewhere. She stood on the deck looking out at the darkness of the water and watched the stunning display in the sky overhead. The moon was full, but clouds drifted in and out, and the world seemed beautiful.

  She listened to the music from the ship’s grand salon, where someone was playing a Viennese waltz. Attracted to the sweet sound of the music, she turned. She wore a gown as elegant as those she saw around her. Silk and velvet, it swept gracefully as she moved. There was a celebration going on, and she could hear delighted laughter along with the enchanting strains from the piano. At the doors to the grand salon, she felt the breeze and pulled her fur stole more closely around her shoulders. It couldn’t be about to snow! The moon had been too bright, too visible. The breeze had seemed so gentle….
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br />   But now it touched her like a blast of ice. When she opened the door to the salon, she felt the wind snatch it from her. It banged hard against the wall, and she was embarrassed for losing it and creating such an awful sound. But before she could apologize to anyone, the ship suddenly pitched and rolled. Glass shattered; people screamed. She thought she heard the blast of a horn, or a high, loud whistle. Then people were shouting, screaming. A voice of authority boomed out, warning people that a storm had come in, that they needed to go to their cabins immediately.

  A couple pushed past Kat as if she wasn’t even there. “It’s cursed! The ship is cursed!” the man said to the young woman at his side. “Oh, God! What they should do is cast out the cargo, clear us of the curse!”

  “You’re scaring me!” the young woman cried.

  “I’m so sorry, my darling!” the man said.

  Then the woman seemed to see her. She looked at her with wide, desperate eyes. “It’s the curse,” she said. “It’s the curse!”