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

by Heather Graham

  “We brought Brady right up. He was dead by then. Obviously dead.” Jon grimaced. “When I radioed in the emergency the guy kept telling me to give him artificial respiration. I would’ve done anything for him—but Brady was dead when we brought him up. Like Amanda said, the filmmakers followed us down, so there’s actually footage—” he broke off “—footage of us finding Brady. The film crew has it. And the police have a copy, too.”

  Will listened gravely. He knew that already. He’d spent yesterday with Alan King, Bernie Firestone and Earl Candy. Alan didn’t dive, but Bernie and Earl did. Alan was deeply worried about his future in film; it was not a good thing if people kept dying on the films he produced. Will had seen the footage of the two divers coming upon their dead coworker. Luckily, neither of the men was the kind of person to leak such footage to YouTube or any other site.

  He didn’t tell Jon or Amanda that he’d seen the film. He wanted to hear their version of everything that had happened.

  “And he was taken right…right to the morgue,” Amanda said. She appeared stricken, as if she’d begin crying again. “He drowned down there, and it’s tragic. To us more than anyone else, but…”

  “He drowned,” Jon said flatly. “Why is the FBI investigating?”

  “Your filmmaker.” Will smiled and leaned across the conference table to pick up a copy of the Sunday paper, lying there. The headline read Historian Dies Tragically During Greatest Discovery—Accident or Victim of Ancient Curse?

  “Oh, please!” Amanda said. “Seriously, oh, please! That’s just a reporter scrambling for headlines. I saw Brady. He drowned!” She sighed. “Listen, I loved him like a brother. But we have to keep going on this, and quickly. We’ve gotten the rights to dive her first and salvage what we can. And Brady was absolutely correct. The precious cargo down there was carefully—carefully!—wrapped and stowed. We’d dishonor Brady’s memory if we didn’t complete his mission!”

  “Okay, back up for me, please. You have the rights of salvage? Didn’t you need to find the ship first?” Will asked.

  Amanda flushed. “Our paperwork is all on file. We have a maritime attorney on hand who has us all ready to go with recovery.”

  “But if another person or enterprise had found her first….”

  “Well, I suppose someone else could have filed for the rights, as well,” Amanda said. “But no one else had Brady—or studied the effect of storms on the lake like he did.”

  Will doubted that a competing group would care how someone had determined the location of a treasure. They would just want the bottom line. “Who else has been searching for the Jerry McGuen?” he asked.

  “Through the decades?” Jon shrugged. “Anyone with a ship, sonar or a dive suit.”

  Will smiled. “Recently. Do you know of anyone or any other enterprise searching for her?”

  “A year ago there was an article about a company called Landry Salvage that was interested. Their CEO was quoted in a local TV piece on the wreck,” Amanda said.

  Jon was thoughtful, drumming his fingers on the conference table for a moment before speaking. “There’s also a company called Simonton’s Sea Search that was interviewed briefly for the same piece. It was one of those little five-minute news segments, you know?”

  “It never occurred to you that since the treasure on the ship is worth a fortune, someone else might be eager to acquire that fortune?” Will asked.

  “It’s not like anyone could just keep everything, or that a salvage effort on the lake wouldn’t be spotted!” Amanda insisted.

  “Yes, but whether the treasures were returned to Egypt or turned over to our government,” Will said, “the finder’s fee or percentages could be staggering. Though I’m not seeing a legitimate bid as something that’s likely to supersede yours. The black market is where the real money would be.”

  Amanda shook her head. “That’s why we needed to find it. Stop the black market activity. And we still need to get down there fast, although…thanks to Brady, our papers have been filed.”

  Will lowered his head, hiding his expression. The world did go on. They’d found Brady’s body in the ship—and they’d made sure their legal work was done, probably as soon as Brady Laurie was on his way to the morgue.

  “The mission won’t be stopped—will it? I mean, I know there’s competition out there, but Brady drowned. I saw him.” Amanda’s eyes were anxious as she looked at Will. “Poor Brady—but he must have died happy. He did find the Jerry McGuen.”

  Will doubted that Brady had died happy. Drowning was a horrendous death.

  “The salvage is not being stopped,” Will said. “And, so far, the medical examiner’s conclusions are that Brady Laurie died as a result of forgetting his deep-water time because of his excitement.”

  “So…why the FBI?” Amanda asked, obviously still puzzled.

  “The director of the documentary is an old friend of Sean Cameron’s—Sean’s an agent in one of our special units—and the producer, Mr. King, is anxious about what’s happened. Not to mention all these rumors about the curse. Because of their association with us and their concern that the salvage and the documentary go well, they came to the agency. And because our most senior officer, Adam Harrison, has great relationships with state governments, we were invited in. We’re not sensationalists. We’re here to disprove a curse, as much as anything else and, hopefully, make sure there are no more accidents.”

  “Oh!” Amanda said, blinking away tears again. “Well, as long as our work isn’t stopped. Brady—oh, God, I miss him, I loved him, but he was acting like a cowboy. He just had to get down there before we were really ready. He knew not to dive alone. I mean, come on, an experienced diver knows never to dive alone. Anywhere. Not even in shallow reefs in the Keys, much less here. He just thought he was better than anyone and… We are diving the wreck tomorrow? An exploratory dive before we start with the salvage?” she asked anxiously.

  “Yes,” Will assured her. “Everything will go ahead as planned. Just one change,” he told her pleasantly. “I’ll be joining you, and so will another member of my unit.”

  “What?” Amanda was obviously dismayed. “More people down there? You don’t understand how careful you have to be with artifacts. You don’t—”

  “I’ll do my best, Dr. Channel,” he said. “My colleague and I will meet you at the dock tomorrow morning.” He rose to signal that he was leaving—and that he’d be back.

  “Yes, but…” Amanda started her protest and then frowned. “I could probably answer any other questions you might have right now. Where are you going?”

  “I’m afraid I have another meeting,” he informed her, “but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He smiled politely and exited the room, and then the Preservation Center.

  It was situated near the aquarium, on South Lake Shore Drive, and when he stepped out the front door, he saw Lake Michigan. The water glittered in the sun, and he wished he could get out on a boat in a dive suit right away, but he had a meeting with a member of Logan Raintree’s crew.

  And with a dead man.

  He turned away from the lake and headed for his rental car.

  2

  More than eighteen thousand deaths were reported to the Cook County office of the medical examiner yearly. Of those, some six thousand received an autopsy.

  The office handled investigations for a large part of the state; in January 2011, there’d been such a backup due to the number of bodies and the holidays, they were stacked one on top of the other. The morgue had been overcrowded due to what the press had dubbed “the killing season,” when gang violence had erupted on the South Side.

  Kat knew these things because she’d done nothing but read since she’d boarded her plane for Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport.

  Cook County wasn’t different from any other large metropolitan area. People died. Thankfully most of them died naturally.

  But some did not. Some died because of gang violence, and sometimes they died i
n police custody or in jail. Some died because of domestic violence, and some were simply and pathetically in the wrong place at the wrong time—victims of random crime. Some died “suspiciously” or without apparent explanation.

  Despite the fact that she wasn’t in Chicago because she wanted to be, she wasn’t disturbed by her particular assignment here. While many people feared a medical examiner’s office as a frightening and gruesome place, Kat had always found that an autopsy—though invasive—was a service that man had come to do for man. It was an effort to let the dead speak for themselves, to seek justice, find a killer or, conversely, prove accidental death when no other human was at fault. Autopsy helped the living, too; some medical advances would have never come about without autopsies determining the cause of death. In medical school, she hadn’t started out feeling that she’d rather work with the dead than the living. It had been during her residency that she’d discovered she had a penchant for unspoken truths…and that, even when silent, the dead could sometimes tell their tales.

  The Texas Krewe—her unit of their section within the FBI—was supposed to investigate whatever couldn’t be answered by the evidence. Usually it wasn’t because of incompetence or because leads weren’t followed by the local police. They were called in when the leads themselves were unusual. Some people described those leads as paranormal.

  But in this instance…

  A diver had jumped the gun. He’d jumped the gun on an incredible discovery mainly because he was the scientist who’d been determined to find the wreck of the Jerry McGuen. He’d been looking for ancient Egyptian treasures lost along with the ship.

  And those treasures included a mummy.

  It just had to be a mummy! she thought, wincing as she conjured up an image of Brendan Fraser and his hit movie. And of course there was the mummy in The Unholy—the recent Hollywood remake of a 1940s film noir—had been that of an evil Egyptian priest who’d turned out to be real.

  “Sad beginning to this whole thing, huh?”

  Startled, Katya looked over at Dr. Alex McFarland, the M.E. who walked her down the corridors and past offices, vaults and autopsy rooms. He seemed a decent enough sort, cordial and receptive. Bald as a billiard ball and wearing spectacles, he reminded her of Dr. Bunsen Honeydew of Jim Henson’s Muppets fame, the epitome of what the general public expected a doctor or scientist to look like.

  “Very sad,” she agreed. The victim had been in his thirties, an expert on Egyptology and an expert diver. A young man with his life stretching out before him.

  And now that life was cut short.

  McFarland rolled his eyes. “Tragic…and almost no one’s talking about the boy’s death. Of course, the disappearance of the Jerry McGuen has been one of the great mysteries of Lake Michigan since she went down in the late-nineteenth century. There’s more coverage given to the discovery than to the poor boy’s death. And God help us all—the curse! But, then again, although Chicago is hardly considered to be one of the world’s great dive spots, the lakes hold a lot of wrecks where divers frequently go. I don’t dive myself, but we have many professional and recreational divers in the area. Many of them say he was being careless, that he took chances in his excitement and shouldn’t have been diving at seventy-five, eighty feet on his own.”

  “You should always dive with a buddy,” Kat said. “Sadly it’s often the divers—even expert divers—who go out on their own who wind up in autopsy. There are no guarantees in the deep.”

  “You dive?”

  “Yes,” she told him.

  “Well, then, I’m sure you’ll enjoy this. Like I said, the Great Lakes are filled with shipwrecks. I find the lakes and wrecks fascinating. I’ve studied them all my life—to the point of obsession, I’m afraid. Many are known, but many are not. Lake Michigan has a surface area of 22,400 square miles and its average depth is 279 feet with its greatest depth being about 923 feet,” McFarland said. “It’s the largest lake completely contained in one country in the world, and ranked fifth largest on the globe.”

  McFarland obviously loved Chicago. He sounded very proud of the lake.

  But then he sighed. “Lots and lots of room for tragedy over the years, and lots of room for ships to disappear. Sure, finding wrecks in the deep, frigid waters of the North Atlantic is a challenge, but if you’ve ever looked out at the lake, you might as well be staring at an ocean, it’s so immense.”

  She glanced over at him; McFarland knew the power of water, and he seemed well up on his history of the area. He was as fascinated as everyone else by the discovery of the sunken ship.

  “The exploration is still going on,” she said.

  “So I understand. The world doesn’t stop spinning because one person has died.” McFarland shrugged. “You have heard that everyone’s talking about a curse, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. That’s why I’m here.

  Normally, of course, they would never have been called in because of an accidental death that occurred while a man was scuba diving. Such deaths would be handled by the medical examiner’s office, but there usually wasn’t any hint of paranormal activity, so no reason for their unit to be brought in.

  “You can’t stop the wheels of progress when there’s been a great discovery, I guess,” McFarland said.

  “Every day is money,” she murmured. “Someone’s livelihood. In this case, many livelihoods.”

  That was true. Kat didn’t know nearly as much about film as Sean Cameron or a few of the others who belonged to one of the “Krewe” teams, but from their time in California she’d learned how much money could be involved. In the file Logan had given her she’d read that production prep had already begun; crew and talent had been hired. Of course, Alan King was, according to Forbes, a billionaire, so if he lost money on the enterprise, he’d probably be just fine. But making the documentary meant much more to the struggling historians running a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving the past.

  Sean would arrive soon. He’d taken a short holiday with Madison Darvil after their last case. When they got back from Hawaii, Madison would resume her work in California, and Sean would come here.

  She smiled just thinking about it. She loved Sean; they were old Texas friends. She felt sure that he and Madison would be able to keep up with their demanding jobs—he with the unit, she with her work at a special effects company—and maintain a relationship.

  Kat returned her attention to Dr. McFarland and the situation. At the moment, however, that didn’t seem to help. Whatever had happened to Brady Laurie was still confusing.

  But in every case, someone needed to speak for the dead….

  “Well, from what I understand, Alan King doesn’t care if he loses money on a film as long as he produces a documentary that makes him proud,” Kat said to McFarland. “King already has his director and shipboard cameraman—who are two men my team and I actually know. They’re from San Antonio. I understand that King also has underwater videographers on-site, ready to detail every single step of the ship’s recovery…and that they were there when members of the Preservation Center found Mr. Laurie.”

  “That’s the information I have, too,” McFarland said. “I wasn’t at the site. The body was brought here. And I swear that man hadn’t been out of the water for more than two seconds before the curse hysteria started.”

  She didn’t believe in curses; she did believe in the way a curse could be used to prey on people’s minds. She’d seen people die because of what they were convinced was true, hearts that had stopped beating because of fear.

  “I don’t think there’s an Egyptian tomb that doesn’t come with a curse—or at least a rumored curse,” Kat said.

  McFarland grinned. “I see you’ve read up on all this. The man who discovered Amun Mopat’s tomb, Gregory Hudson, was aboard the Jerry McGuen when she sank, which, of course, gave rise to the belief that the curse is real. To tell you the truth, the only curse I see is the wicked Chicago weather. But you’ve probably heard our old saying. �
�If it weren’t for the weather, everyone would want to live here!’”

  “The Jerry McGuen carried the mortal remains and effects of the New Kingdom, nineteenth dynasty priest—or sorcerer—Amun Mopat, beloved of

  Ramses II,” Kat said. “He had his own burial crypt and chamber built before his death. He’d filled it with treasures and—in his own hand, the story goes—chiseled a curse into his tombstone, damning anyone who disturbed his eternal life. Or disturbed the place where his body rested while he joined with the pharaohs and gods. He was apparently quite taken with himself. He wanted to be a god like the pharaohs.” She smiled. “According to some of the research a colleague pulled for me, he had blood ties to Ramses II. He felt he should have been seen as a god all his life.”

  “Yes, very good. You seem very well informed.” McFarland shrugged. “But I don’t understand why they’ve called the FBI in on this, except that…curses and ghosts are your specialty, right?”

  “I assure you, I’m qualified to be here, Dr. McFarland,” Kat told him. “I received my doctorates in medicine and forensic pathology from Johns Hopkins.”

  “Yes, I heard you were well qualified, Dr. Sokolov—and I’m sure you’ll understand what we’re dealing with better than the fellow who’s already here.”

  “Agent Chan is here now?” she asked. She wished she’d had a chance to meet with him earlier. Introductions over a corpse were always a bit awkward, even if she was a medical examiner and far too familiar with morgues.

  “Yes, he arrived about ten minutes ago. He said you were informed that you’d be meeting him. He’s not a doctor,” McFarland said, his tone irritated and more than a little condescending.

  “But he is an agent,” Kat reminded him.

  McFarland opened the door to the autopsy room; they were both gowned and gloved.

  Kat usually noted the corpse first.

  But this time she noted the man who belonged to the original Krewe.

  He greeted her as she entered, with words rather than a gloved hand. “Hello, Dr. Sokolov, I’m Will Chan. I believe you were expecting to meet me here?”