“Ah. Well, then, nice I won’t have to change planes in New Orleans.”
Jackson grinned. “Report in to me as soon as you have a feel for what’s going on. Jude and I can join you early if you think we can help. That plane goes back and forth whenever we want it to.”
Ethan took the folder and headed out of the office.
Within an hour he was on the private plane provided by Adam Harrison.
As he flew, he read the dossiers on the dead men.
Then he looked out the window and gave himself up to memories of Charlie Moreau.
* * *
“It’s going to be all right, Charlie—really. This situation has nothing to do with you or Brad or the movie. You stumbled on something very bad that someone else did. You can’t go letting it affect your life. In fact, you should be glad you found the poor man, because now the police can try to find some justice for him.”
Jonathan Moreau set his arm around Charlie’s shoulders and hugged her gently.
She was sitting with her father on a bluff high above the Mississippi. It was a short distance from Grace Church and the place where she’d found the body of a man who’d been identified as Farrell Hickory dressed in his Confederate cavalry uniform.
That area still had crime-scene tape around it.
From her perch atop the bluff she could see the people she assumed were forensic investigators searching the area. The police had told her that they hoped to finish by that evening. Meanwhile, Brad had rearranged the shooting schedule until they were free to use the fields again.
Since then she’d spent a lot of time on the phone in a three-way conversation with Clara Avery and Alexi Cromwell, good friends she’d worked with a number of times in the past. They were now working with the FBI and knew a number of agents, including Ethan.
“You can’t let it get to you, Charlie,” her father said.
She knew he was right. The murder had nothing to do with her or the film crew. A vicious killer had murdered Farrell Hickory, and it was likely that the same person had murdered Albion Corley, as well. He’d been of mixed African and Caucasian descent, and had been wearing a replica Union uniform when he’d been killed.
Not long before Albion’s death, he and Farrell Hickory had performed with a number of other reenactors on the same riverboat, the Journey, where her father worked, as part of an in-depth Civil War–themed cruise.
Charlie turned to her father and asked, “Why, Dad? Why them? This is nuts! I mean, one victim was half black and one was white, one was reenacting the Confederate side and the other the Union side. What was the killer thinking?”
“Maybe he’s just someone who hates war,” her father said.
“That doesn’t make any sense. He hates war, so he commits cold-blooded murder instead?”
“Charlie,” her father said, “if you ask me, murder never makes sense. Taking another man’s—or woman’s—life is brutal, cruel and ultimately senseless. But the police are investigating, so leave it to them. You’re an actress, and a darned good one. You’re not a cop. You...” He paused, looking off into the distance.
Charlie loved her father. Her mom had died suddenly the summer after her first year of college. It had been an aneurysm—one day a minor headache she laughed off, the next day...gone. She and her dad had been devastated. Her father was a handsome man, fifty-four years old. But he still hadn’t even gone on a date. When she’d actually tried to get him to go out with one of the entertainers on the riverboat, he’d just smiled and told her, “Maybe one day I’ll be ready for someone, but let’s face it—in my heart and mind, no one can begin to live up to your mom.”
She’d decided to let him be. When he was ready, she would be ready, too. She knew that—right or wrong—if he’d gotten involved with another woman right after her mother had died, she would have been bitter. Now, though, enough time had passed that she could deal with equanimity with the idea of him falling in love again. More than anything, she wanted to see him happy. Of course, she knew he loved her, and she made him happy—as did his work. He loved the old riverboat—the Journey—and he loved talking to people about history. He excelled at it. Still, she thought he would be happier if he had someone in his life. However, finding someone who loved the Mississippi, an old riverboat and being regaled with historical tales at every turn might be a bit of a challenge.
“You’re not a cop,” he repeated softly. “Even if you do play one on TV every now and then,” he added lightly. “Sometimes you know things, but you’re not trained law enforcement. You know how to shoot because I taught you when you were a kid, not so you’d shoot anyone or anything, but because we live out in the sticks, and I wanted you to be able to defend yourself. But snooping around...well, that could be dangerous. So don’t even think about it, okay? No matter what you...know.”
She understood he was talking about what her family called “insight.” It wasn’t really insight at all, of course. Most people called it the “gift” or the “sight.” Her family seemed to think if you referred to seeing ghosts or speaking with the dead as insight, people wouldn’t immediately think you were slightly daft or totally out of your mind.
Her father didn’t see the dead. Her ability had come from her mother’s family. However, Jonathan Moreau didn’t doubt the existence of the insight for a minute. He’d delighted in her mother’s abilities. How else could he possibly have learned some of the historical detail he cherished so much?
“Dad,” Charlie murmured, and then hesitated. She looked at her father. He had deep blue eyes, the color of her own, but now they seemed even darker with concern. He knew what she was going to say, she thought.
Now, that was actually insight.
“He called my name, Dad. The dead man, Farrell Hickory, he called me by name. Or at least I think it was him.” She hesitated; she had never told her father about the Confederate cavalry officer who had led Ethan to her that horrible night ten years ago. She’d told her mom, but her mom was gone now. Her father had been so upset about the entire situation that she’d never told him the whole story. Would it seem strange to him now that she thought a different dead man had called to her for help? “He called my name,” she said again. “That’s how I found him.”
Her father shook his head. “Charlie, I barely knew him. How would he have known your name. Did you know him at all?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, if I’d met him, I didn’t recognize him. I haven’t been around that much in years, so I don’t know how he’d know my name.”
“Farrell Hickory’s family’s owned a sugarcane plantation downriver for over two hundred years,” Jonathan reminded her drily.
“I think I’ve been there once,” Charlie said. She loved history, too; she had to, to survive in her father’s house. But few people had his passion for the past. “Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure he was part of a reenactment I saw that revolved around the Confederate capture of the Journey. That was years ago, though.” She paused, then asked, “Did you see him the day he and Albion Corley worked together?”
“I might have, Charlie. It was a crazy busy day, and I didn’t really have much to do with the reenactors. I just put on my white cotton shirt and period breeches, added a straw hat and a pipe, and stepped ashore to give lectures in the old boathouse at the dock. And while we’re a pretty small parish, I move in a pretty circumscribed orbit, and like a lot of locals, he might not have been around that much. Lots of people hail from here, but head down to New Orleans for the oil business.”
“I doubt he was in the oil business, Dad. Like you were saying, his family has that plantation on the river. I was there with a school group when I was a sophomore in high school. The teachers love taking classes to the Hickory Plantation for a firsthand look at what working a plantation really meant. Mr. Hickory kept his private rooms on the second floor, and the ground fl
oor was open to the public. I know the Hickory Plantation isn’t grand like Oak Alley or San Francisco or some of the others, but I loved the fact that it was all about the way life was and the work people did and still do.”
Her father looked at her, nodding. “Charlie, I know. And I’m sorry he’s gone, even if I can’t say he was a friend or even a close acquaintance. But I’d met the man, and I know a fair amount about the family plantation.” He sighed. “According to the news, he left behind a twenty-four-year-old son. I hope he’ll keep the plantation running, not just the tourist part but the sugarcane business, too. I probably saw his son around sometime over the years, but...”
“I don’t know him,” Charlie said. “He would have been two years behind me in school.” She looked out over the water for a long moment, then said, “It just doesn’t make sense, Dad. At first the press were theorizing that Albion Corley was killed because of some dispute with another reenactor. Something about him getting better parts than someone who’d been part of the group longer. But now, with another reenactor murdered, too... The two of them had nothing in common, other than that they were both reenactors and they were both in that program on the Journey.”
“Don’t forget, both men were born in Louisiana,” her father reminded her. “And both of them were apparently killed with what looks to be a Civil War–era bayonet or a damn good replica.”
“You know how they were killed?” She couldn’t keep the amazement from her voice.
“I heard about Corley on the news yesterday, and I heard a cop theorizing about Hickory at the diner this morning.”
She fell silent, thinking back to everything that had happened after she’d discovered the body. The police had arrived quickly, and she’d told a uniformed officer what had happened. Later a Detective Laurent had shown up, and she’d told him what had happened, too. But she had talked, and the police had listened. She hadn’t thought to ask questions. She’d screamed once when she found the body, but after that she’d become almost numb, unnaturally calm, when she spoke to the police, her usual curiosity tamped down by her shock.
Every member of the crew had been questioned, as well. They’d all been asked if they’d seen any strange people hanging around the set.
In their ghostly makeup, half the actors had looked very strange indeed, but nobody had noticed anyone who might have been the murderer. Brad had told the police he had lots of film of the field, and they were welcome to see the footage. Naturally they’d accepted his offer.
Charlie had heard the medical examiner talking to Detective Laurent, telling him that Mr. Hickory had been dead at least twenty-four hours. But she hadn’t heard anything about how he’d been killed, and it had never occurred to her to ask.
“I wish I had thought to ask the police more questions,” she murmured.
“You should go back to New Orleans,” her father told her gruffly.
“I can’t! I can’t walk out on Brad’s movie.”
“You’re with me today.”
“I’m not scheduled to work today.”
Jonathan sighed deeply. “Well, I am. I’ve got to get back.” He stood, reached down a hand and pulled her to her feet. “Stay and film your movie, Charlie. But go home—”
“Dad, I told you—I can’t walk out on Brad.”
“I mean our home, the one you grew up in. And stay there unless you’re surrounded by friends. Stop fixating on this, sweetheart. You don’t need to be asking any questions. Leave it alone and watch out for yourself. Promise?”
“I promise. I’ll go home right now,” she told him, then kissed him on the cheek. “Our home—the one I grew up in. And I won’t fixate. Okay?” She smiled, feeling like a horrible liar even though she hadn’t actually lied. She had simply neglected to tell him that she’d asked to have Ethan Delaney assigned to the case because she knew he had joined the FBI and was part of an elite team tasked with dealing with the unusual.
Was it unusual that two men involved in Civil War reenactments had been murdered?
Maybe not. Maybe it should be a matter for the local police. Except...
Except she was certain a corpse had called her name.
“You can always come and stay on the Journey with me. I’ve been with them so long that my original cabin has been upgraded to a pretty nice suite. It’s not huge, but you could have the bedroom, and I’d take the sofa.”
“Dad. I’m fine. I promise. I love the Journey, but I’m doing a movie, remember?” she told him. “I promise I’ll go right home from here, okay?”
This was a beautiful spot, she thought. They’d been coming here to sit and talk since she’d been a little girl. He had to get back to the port now, though. The Journey was heading on to Baton Rouge, Houmas House and then New Orleans, where her passengers would debark, new ones would board, and the cycle would begin again, NOLA to Oak Alley in Vacherie to Houmas House in Darrow to Baton Rouge to St. Francisville, Natchez, then Vicksburg. The itinerary stayed basically the same, but specific tours with different emphases were planned for aficionados of country music, history, art, theater and fine dining. As her father said goodbye and bent to kiss her on the cheek, Charlie really did intend to go home. But as he walked away toward his car, parked behind hers on the road just below the bluff, she noticed that someone was walking up the slope from that road. Her heart began to beat too quickly.
It wasn’t because Ethan was back, she was certain. The years had stretched into an eternity between them. She hadn’t asked for him to come for any reason other than that she knew he would take her seriously when she said she’d heard the dead talking to her again.
It was just that his timing was so damned bad.
Her father turned and saw Ethan. And then he turned and looked at her, and she felt as if she’d run over a puppy or slapped an infant. Why couldn’t he let go of the past, of the way he’d felt about Ethan ten years ago...
“You called Ethan?” he asked.
“Dad, I called on a special group of FBI agents who are used to dealing with...insight. My friend Clara—you know Clara, she used to work for Celtic American, too—is seeing a guy who works with Ethan, so I asked her to contact him for me,” she said quickly. “Ethan’s law enforcement now, federal law enforcement.”
It was actually impressive that she was making something resembling a living by acting, she thought, hearing the pleading tone in her own voice when she’d hoped to project confidence instead.
“I see,” her father said, staring at Ethan as he approached them.
He’d changed. The Ethan she’d known had been a tall boy, still slender with youth, not muscular like the man walking her way now. His hair had been on the shaggy side, and he hadn’t yet shed the small-town football-hero swagger half the young men she’d known at school had affected. He’d been nineteen.
He’d filled out since the last time she’d seen him. Character seemed to have been etched into his face. He’d been a striking teenager, but this Ethan, with those green-gold eyes, dark hair and features that could have been painted by an Old Master, was something else altogether. His hair was cropped short now, his eyes had a sharper edge to them, and his chin had squared. He’d been a boy, she realized. Now he was a man.
As he walked up to them, he slipped on a pair of sunglasses against the brutal rays of the sun, and suddenly he became a total stranger.
“Ethan Delaney,” her father said in an unreadable tone.
“Mr. Moreau,” Ethan said, his voice now deep and rich. “Hope you’re doing well, sir.”
“We were doing well enough,” Jonathan said gruffly. He turned and looked at Charlie again, then nodded toward the two of them and started to head down the slope.
He stopped after a moment and turned back. He stood very tall and straight, and said, “Don’t let her get involved in this, Ethan. You watch out for her. Don’t you let anyt
hing happen to Charlie.”
“I didn’t before, sir,” Ethan said quietly. “And I won’t now.”
Charlie watched her father go, feeling a little ill. She loved him so much.
Then he was gone, and she was left alone with Ethan Delaney.
3
They stood some distance apart still, neither one rushing forward to initiate a warm old-friends’ hug.
It had been a long time.
But, looking at her now, Ethan wished he could just walk over and take her in his arms.
Charlie had changed.
He would never forget the way she had looked when he’d found her that night—truthfully, he would never forget anything about that night. Charlie had always been beautiful.
She had become more so over the last ten years. The bone structure of her face was sharper. Her eyes, the deepest blue he’d ever seen, seemed even larger. She had delicately shaped brows, a nearly perfectly straight nose and a generous, well-defined mouth. She was tall—five-ten, at a guess—and carried her height well. She was thin, but had all the right curves. Everything about Charlie was...
Pretty damned perfect. Her hair was a rich chestnut. She wore it long, and it seemed to move with her at all times, even when she was standing still. In fact, when she’d had a crush on him, it had seemed like manna from above.
But, of course, he’d been nineteen. In college. She’d been sixteen, still just a sophomore in high school. Any thought of a relationship was simply doomed. And so, despite every objection posed by his heart—and his libido—he had turned her away. He wondered if, with age, she’d understood. He hadn’t seen her since Frank Harnett’s trial. She’d never tried to contact him.
Until now.
He wondered if she had any clue to the way she had haunted his dreams. The way he remembered her face when she’d looked up at him, her beauty, her hope—her faith.
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