Darkest Journey

by Heather Graham

  She pushed her thoughts aside, and smiled and waved to Brad, then started up the path, concentrating on her work.

  She’d thought it would be so easy to work here, in her home. And it should have been. St. Francisville was normally a peaceful city, not the kind of place where people tripped over bodies every day. Except for her, apparently.

  She neared the place she was to stop and listened while the two men said their lines, then slipped into hiding behind the gravestone. At the proper point in the script she moved—Brad would insert the sound of a twig snapping when he got to postproduction—and the men all turned to discover her. She leaped to her feet, told them the world was going to know about what they were doing and then turned to run.

  “Cut!” Brad called. “Great—we need the opposite POV now, please. Once more—” he said, pausing to chuckle softly “—with feeling!”

  And so they repeated the action for another camera angle. And then another.

  Finally Brad was pleased with the results, and Charlie was free to watch as he called on his Confederate ghosts so he could film individual shots of them rising from the ground.

  After watching for a while, she grew restless and found herself walking through to the church, out of range of the cameras. She wandered into the graveyard and searched until she found the grave of Confederate Cavalry Captain Anson McKee. She pulled weeds from the ground around his headstone and spoke aloud. “I don’t know why you’re still here. I don’t know why Ethan looks so much like you. I don’t know why people kill other people. I wish I could help you, because you certainly helped me.”

  She felt his presence the minute he came to stand beside her. She rose, stumbling a little in the ridiculously high heels. There was a solemn expression on his face as he reached out to her and said urgently, “Go. Go!”

  She shook her head. “Go where? Please, tell me what’s happening. Please....”

  “Go!”

  “The murders have something to do with the Journey, right? With what happened on the Journey?”

  “Go!” he said again, and reached out as if he would shove her if he could, force her to move.

  She nodded and turned to head back toward where Brad was filming.

  As she turned, she felt a rush of air as something flew by her cheek.

  She caught a glimpse of it in her peripheral vision. It was shiny.

  She started to run, her mind struggling to process what she’d seen.

  Only one object made sense, as much as she tried to deny it.

  A knife.

  6

  “Look like a hero.”

  “Pardon?” Ethan said, jolted by a voice from behind. He was standing out on the bluff, along with Brad, Mike, Grant and Jimmy. Barry Seymour was also there, holding a light reflector, and Luke Mayfield was positioning the microphones.

  “Dammit, Chance!” Brad exploded, turning to the man who had just arrived, balancing a camera and a gear bag. “When you told me Ethan had asked you out here, I said you could take still shots as long as we could use them. I didn’t say you could plow into the middle of a scene.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” the newcomer said earnestly. Then he turned to Ethan. “Man, you really look the part. You have to be Agent Delaney, right? Nice to meet you. You certainly look different from anything I’ve seen on TV, and not only because of the uniform.”

  Chance Morgan industriously pumped Ethan’s hand. The photographer was a thin, wiry man of about forty, with sparse wheat-colored hair that grew long and scraggly. His smile and eagerness reminded Ethan of a puppy who expected nothing but fun and kindness from the world.

  “Thanks for coming out here,” Ethan said to the man.

  “You two have to talk, I get it,” Brad said. “Just take it off to the side somewhere, so I can shoot Grant and Jimmy.”

  “Thanks,” Ethan said.

  Brad shrugged off his irritation, then grinned. “You do look the part of a hero.”

  “That’s the FBI for you,” Barry said.

  Ethan just nodded as he carefully unclipped the tiny mic he’d been wearing and handed it to Luke. “These are great,” he commented.

  “Easy on, easy off,” Luke agreed.

  Ethan set a hand on Chance’s shoulder and led him across the field as he spoke. “So you knew both the dead men?”

  “Knew them because of the show they did aboard the Journey. I got tons of great shots that day. Asked them if they wanted private sessions to get some shots they could use for PR, maybe to get more jobs. They both said yes but that they’d have to get back to me to schedule something. Needless to say, they never did.”

  “You didn’t ask them to get into uniform and meet you anywhere, did you?”

  “As God is my witness, I did not,” Morgan said solemnly. “That sounds nice and Southern, right? I’m actually from nowheresville up in northern Wisconsin, but I love all this Southern atmosphere so much. The history, the reenactments...great stuff, especially for a photographer.”

  Ethan nodded. “So after the event on the Journey, you went...?”

  “I was in Baton Rouge until yesterday, then I was out at the Myrtles, shooting a wedding. Man, would I have loved to own a plantation. Anyway, if you’re worried, I can prove where I was. There were witnesses everywhere, and the metadata on my camera will back them up. I liked those guys, so why would I kill them?”

  “All right, so tell me about the day you shot the reenactment on the Journey.”

  “Amazing,” Morgan said. “It started out with the Confederates on deck. The narrator was super—what a voice. The story just soared.”

  “Jonathan Moreau?”

  “Yeah. I think that was his name.”

  “What about the argument? Between Corley and Hickory?” Ethan asked.

  “Oh, that was before the performance. They had the deck cleared while they got set up, no passengers allowed. I got the feeling when they weren’t fighting, the dudes were friends. They called each other by their first names, were talking fine before they started arguing. I think Hickory started it. I heard him yell something about wanting to be authentic. Said no Southerner at the time would have handed the ship over to a man of color. That’s the way he said it, too. Not black man, not African American, but ‘man of color.’ Then Corley shouted back that he had records proving such a man had accompanied the Union troops aboard the ship, and he told his friend to quit being a bigot. Hickory was all offended at that. Said he was the least prejudiced man he knew, if he did say so himself, and that Corley knew it. That’s when that historian guy—”

  “Jonathan Moreau?”

  “Yeah, him. That’s when he broke in. Calmed them both down. Said the records were a little vague, but that it was more than possible. Said there were records of a unit of freed African Americans in the area, mostly digging trenches, bringing in the wounded, but because there were so many wounded, some of them ended up working with the surgeons. Anyway, it was settled.”

  “What about the other people around? Anybody voice an opinion?”

  “Everyone,” Morgan said drily. “Oh, my God, if it weren’t for Moreau, it might have turned into another war right there, and they might never have gotten the program started. It was really cool, too. You saw everyone being enemies at first, but by the end everyone was suddenly acting human. When the commanders transferred control of the ship, then shook hands and wished each other long life, they meant it. I’m telling you, I almost cried.”

  “Before things calmed down, do you remember anyone who might have been angry with both Corley and Hickory?” Ethan asked.

  “No, it was just like the reenactment. At first, the actors were all arguing, but by the end they were all laughing and man-hugging each other. I was shocked when I heard Corley was murdered. I figured it had to be some kind of hate crime. Then Hickory wo
und up dead, too, and now I don’t know what to think.”

  “You have photographs from that day, obviously,” Ethan said.

  “Is Wisconsin known for beer and cheese? You bet I have photos.”

  “I’m going to need them. For the investigation. I won’t be posting them on social media or anything that would mess with your copyright.”

  “Okay, sure. Want me to bring them to you? I can get you prints by tomorrow, or I can send the files tonight or tomorrow morning.”

  “Send me the files. If I need prints, I can make them at the police station.”

  “Whatever you need. Um, I’d still like you to pose for me, if you wouldn’t mind. You know, you look like one of the guys whose picture is in the museum in town. I was just there... Let me think. McKee! Anson McKee. Yeah, that’s it. There’s a picture of him in New Orleans, too. There’s a great traveling exhibit there now—‘Letters to Loved Ones.’ Anyway, if I could take a few shots... I mean, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  “I have to get back to work, but if Brad gives the okay, as far as I’m concerned, you can take whatever pictures you want.”

  Ethan headed back over to where Brad and Mike were waiting, and let Luke reattach his mic before he left, saying something about joining the others for a bite.

  He was getting a bit tired of being compared to a man who was long dead.

  Even if he did consider the man’s ghost to be a friend.

  * * *

  Charlie hurried over toward the catering tent—at least as much as she could hurry in those ridiculous heels—craving the company of a crowd.

  She’d seen Ethan out in the field with Brad and Mike as she headed past.

  For a moment, as she’d watched them all talking, she’d felt as if she were alone in the world.

  She knew she should go over and tell Ethan what had just happened, but she wasn’t ready for the others to know she saw ghosts or even that she was afraid a flesh-and-blood killer was after her. She was safe—for now—and there would be time enough later to fill Ethan in.

  Bizarrely, when she got there she found the catering tent empty. She sat down at a table, and a moment later Jennie came in, flopped down in one of the folding chairs with an exhausted sigh and said, “Whoa, hope this film does well, ’cause these are long days we’re putting in.”

  She was followed by Grant and Jimmy, headed for the cooler first to grab a couple of bottled waters, then they joined them at the table.

  “Know what we need out here?” Jimmy asked.

  “What?” Grant asked.

  “A bathtub!” Barry said, walking in to join them.

  “I was thinking a shower,” Jimmy said.

  “Same deal,” Luke announced, coming over. “I’m grungy from tramping around this damn field.”

  “Yeah, and you don’t even have to do the whole makeup thing,” Jimmy told him.

  “Nope. That’s one reason why I’m in sound and not an actor,” Luke said, grinning.

  Charlie suddenly felt thirsty and went over to the ice chest herself, though at that moment, a large bottle of whiskey might have been preferable to water. She didn’t know what to do. They were all so normal, so nice, people she’d known and worked with forever. None of them could have been waiting down by the church to throw a knife at her.

  Could they?

  Had she made up the whole thing? Had the wind picked up and blown a twig past her, but she was so spooked by the murders that she’d imagined it was a knife?

  “Hey, girl, where’re your shoes?” Jennie asked, reaching past her for a water of her own.

  “By my chair. I took them off when I came in. It’s not easy walking around here in stilettos.”

  They were all acting so normal, so natural. No one was winded.

  And yet...they hadn’t been there when she’d come in. The only people she knew for certain had not been anywhere near the church were Brad, Mike and Ethan.

  “Thank heavens we’re nearing the end of the day,” Jennie said. “Lord, it’s been a long one. I’m starving.”

  “Hey, all.” Chance Morgan walked into the tent and introduced himself, though most of them knew him already, at least casually. “Got some great shots out there today.” He paused in front of Charlie. “I took some of you earlier when you were up on the bluff, standing by an old grave marker. There’s one that’s spectacular.”

  Charlie smiled at him, but the truth was, she wasn’t sure she liked the idea of being photographed without her knowledge. Chance Morgan was a good photographer, though, and she knew that Brad wanted him on set so he could use his still shots for publicity when the time came.

  “Nice,” she said.

  “I’ll show you,” he said, and hunkered down by her chair. “Gotta love the digital age,” he said, turning the camera so she could see the LCD screen. “Here, look.”

  He had gotten a great shot of her. She was standing very straight, her hair flowing behind her. Decaying gravestones surrounded her, with the church and the river in the background.

  “I love it,” she said.

  “If you’d like it for your portfolio, it’s yours,” he said. “I got some great ones with your friend, too. You know, the FBI agent.”

  “Oh?” Charlie said.

  “Took ’em at the same time,” he said.

  She arched a brow. Ethan hadn’t been on the bluff with her. But maybe Chase had gotten a shot of whoever had been out there and thrown that knife.

  Assuming she wasn’t imagining the whole thing, of course.

  He frowned as he started clicking through his shots. “That’s odd—they’re gone. I thought they were right here, but all I have is shots of you. Well, I’ll download everything later and get it all figured out.”

  She was too shocked to tell him that she hadn’t been with Ethan.

  He had seen the ghost.

  She set a hand on his arm, and he looked up at her. “I’d love to see all those shots, Chance. Would you email me the whole batch?”

  “Sure. I just wish I could find the others....”

  He started searching through his camera again, and she watched over his shoulder.

  She didn’t see Ethan, of course, because he hadn’t been there. And, not surprisingly, ghosts didn’t show up in pictures.

  Most worryingly, she didn’t see anyone else. Except...

  There was someone, she thought, over in the trees near the church. And maybe, just maybe, once he downloaded the images and she could see them on screen...

  Charlie rose. “Thank you so much. I’d love to have the pictures for my portfolio. It’s so generous of you to offer them.”

  She realized she was being too effusive. But she was nervous, keyed up, and couldn’t seem to stop babbling.

  In fact, she was tempted to tell Chance Morgan that he’d seen a ghost.

  * * *

  Charlie was behaving strangely, to say the least.

  She was walking around shoeless, although that was understandable. It was ridiculous for her to run around the area in spiked heels. And Ethan had to admit that she was incredibly attractive in the skinny suit and mile-high heels.

  But she looked as if she was about to scream, except she didn’t. She almost visibly pulled herself together, then smiled and waved at him as if everything was fine.

  He’d been watching her from a distance all day. He hadn’t seen anyone suspicious anywhere near her. In fact, other than a tour group heading into the church, he hadn’t seen anyone at all who wasn’t part of the film.

  On the other hand, trees and brush and the jagged landscape had periodically obscured his vision. He made a mental note to tell Charlie not to go wandering off in the future.

  He’d tried to keep an eye on the others, too, but at this point most of them had retreated to
the dressing rooms or the catering tent, a makeshift creation of a few poles draped in canvas, and a bunch of folding chairs surrounding a few folding tables. The weather was changing. The dead heat of summer was no longer upon them, and in the shade, the day was almost pleasant.

  For the most part, it had been easy watching Charlie, and it was a bonus to be on the set, because it gave him the chance to speak with the rest of the cast and the crew during breaks. He hated having to consider them suspects, but it was a necessary part of the job, and it was great to be able to form his crucial first impressions without letting them know that was what he was doing.

  Jennie McPherson was effusive and charming, casually confident. She was excited to be a shareholder in the movie but not particularly worried about whether her investment earned out or not. She was a good makeup artist and could always find work in New Orleans, because the film industry was booming there.

  Grant Ferguson was older and an established accountant. Jimmy Smith had freely admitted that he was praying for the movie to do well. Acting was his life, but he wasn’t exactly earning the big bucks. Barry Seymour was also heavily invested in the project, but he was quick to say that he would never have invested if his financial security depended on it. He had a fiscally conservative father who’d lectured him about investing since childhood. He was going to be all right.

  “The best money a lot of these guys made in ages was for that special reenactment on the Journey,” Barry had told Ethan. “Most of them are so in love with history that they’ll spend stupid amounts of money to be involved in something like this movie. Not me. I’m happy to invest, but not to risk anything I can’t afford to lose.” He’d looked across the field to where Charlie was standing. “Some are smarter than others. You take Charlie’s dad. History is his life, but he’s no fool. Jonathan Moreau knows his own value, and he makes sure he’s well paid for doing what he loves.”

  Jonathan Moreau’s name again. But he could no more see Jonathan Moreau stabbing a man in the heart with a bayonet than he could see himself doing it.

  “So most of you were involved with the programming on the Journey,” Ethan had said. “Did any of you get in on that argument between Farrell Hickory and Albion Corley?”