Darkest Journey

by Heather Graham

  Ethan addressed Randy. “Could the cleaning staff on the Journey be that bad?”

  “They’d have to be pretty bad,” Randy said. “You can wipe down fingerprints with just about any kind of cloth. And on a mirror, with an ammonia cleaner...easy-peasey.”

  “Maybe the damned mirror wasn’t dirty!” Ricky snapped. “Look, I’m the entertainment director, and—”

  “I think he was the entertainment director,” Thor said.

  “Was, yeah, I’m going to say, that’s the key word,” Ethan agreed.

  “Lawyer! I want a lawyer,” Ricky said.

  “I haven’t charged you with anything yet,” Randy told him.

  “But—”

  “Actually, no one but us knows we’re here, Ricky. So I don’t think you should get a lawyer. I think you should just fess up, tell us the truth,” Thor said.

  “Depending on your story, we might not have to go to the cruise line and tell them what you did,” Ethan said.

  “It’s your right to get a lawyer if you want one, and you don’t have to say anything until you do,” Randy said to Ricky, then looked at Ethan and Thor, and added, “We want this all legit and by the book if we go to court with this jerk. We don’t want any evidence tossed out because we haven’t followed due process.”

  “Petty mischief would be one thing, and not worth the taxpayers’ money, as far as taking it to court,” Thor said.

  “Losing your job is bad,” Ethan said. “Going to jail...”

  “But I didn’t do anything!” Ricky protested.

  Ethan shrugged and looked over at Thor and Randy. “I say he’s lying.”

  “Sounds like a lie to me, too,” Randy said.

  “I’m not lying,” Ricky protested.

  “Randy, you want to write up the report?” Ethan asked. “We’re going to have to look deeper, involve the captain of the ship, the VP of entertainment for Celtic American...whatever it takes to get to the truth.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to take you in, Mr. Simpson,” Randy said. “Stand up, please. I don’t want to hurt you putting on the cuffs. Of course, once we’re down at the station, you’ll be able to make a call, and get your attorney,” Randy said.

  Ricky Simpson did exactly what they’d hoped for. He caved. “Wait, wait, wait. Okay, I did it. Frankly, I...well, I needed the money.”

  “The money?” Ethan asked him.

  “Yeah, I was wandering around yesterday, by the church. I listen to Jonathan Moreau whenever I can. What that man knows about history could fill the ocean. I always learn something new.”

  “What about the money?” Ethan interrupted impatiently.

  “Oh, well, there were a bunch of people coming and going, all in uniform—some Yankee, some Reb. I asked why, because I knew there was no reenactment yesterday. Somebody said they were all working on a movie. One of the guys came up to me—he’s in the movie, same movie Charlene Moreau is the star of, I guess. Anyway, he wanted to prank her. Gave me fifty bucks just to slip in and write the message on the mirror. I thought he was just teasing her, replaying a scene from the movie or something.”

  “You went into someone else’s cabin and wrote a threat on her mirror as a prank?” Randy asked, disbelieving.

  “Who was the man? The one who paid you?” Ethan asked.

  “I don’t actually know his name, but he’s in the movie, so you should be able to track him down.”

  “What did he look like?” Ethan asked.

  “Like a Civil War soldier,” Ricky said.

  Ethan prayed for patience. “North? South? Was he young or old?”

  “Um... I think it was a Confederate uniform, but I’m not sure. I’m not from around here, so I don’t pay much attention to all that North-South stuff. The guy was... I don’t know. Twenties, thirties, maybe even early forties. He had so much beard, who the hell could tell?”

  “If you saw pictures, could you recognize him?” Ethan asked.

  “Sure. Maybe. Like I said, man, he had a lot of hair on his face.”

  “Okay, where’s the money? You still have the money?” Ethan asked. He glanced over at Randy. It might be a long shot, trying to get prints off the money, but it was possible.

  “The money?” Ricky said blankly.

  “The fifty dollars, the money you were paid,” Ethan said, trying to contain his irritation.

  “Oh, well, I told you. I needed it. I had to replace my phone. I spent it in town. Got the new phone, though,” he said happily.

  Randy pointed a finger at him. “First thing in the morning, we’re going into town. And you better hope we can find that cash.”

  “Are you—are you going to arrest me?” Ricky asked. “It was a prank, just a prank!”

  Ethan turned away in disgust. Just then his phone rang.

  Jude was calling.

  As always, Jude spoke tersely but calmly and cohesively. Jonathan Moreau was missing. He ran through the whole story of finding Jennie McPherson in Jonathan’s cabin and everything she’d told them. He said Charlie was beside herself, pretty much frantic, but she was safe with Alexi and Clara in the cabin he and Alexi were sharing.

  “I’m on my way,” Ethan said. “And I’m still with Laurent. He’ll get an APB out.”

  He turned around and gave Randy Laurent the same information he’d just received.

  “You. Be here and be ready to go first thing in the morning,” Randy snapped to Ricky.

  “Yes, whatever you say. I’ll be right here, I swear. But... I’m not under arrest?” Ricky asked. “And you’re not...not going to tell the captain?”

  Randy didn’t answer. He, Ethan and Thor were already on their way out of the room.

  “I’ll start looking for Moreau on the top deck,” Thor said. “Jude’s already called security, right?”

  Ethan nodded. “I’ve got to get to Charlie,” he said.

  “No problem. Everyone is on this, Ethan,” Thor assured him.

  Randy nodded his agreement and said, “I’ll get the ground troops moving.”

  Ethan turned and headed for the stairs. He had to get to Charlie—fast. God knew what she might do if she feared her father was in danger.

  * * *

  “I need to change,” Charlie said. “I have to get out of this corset. I need to go back to my cabin.”

  Jude walked her to her door, then made her stay behind him as he checked out the small room and even smaller bathroom.

  “All clear,” he said. “I’ll be with Alexi and Clara, so you call me when you’re ready, and I’ll come get you. Don’t you dare leave here until then, got it?”

  “Got it,” she said, and he left. She locked the door behind him and hurried to strip out of her costume and put on jeans and a pullover. As she slipped the shirt over her head, her phone rang.

  She grabbed it, hoping it was her father, ready to explain his delay.

  The caller ID read Unknown Number, but she answered anyway.

  “Charlie.”

  Just her name—and it sounded strange, as if someone was purposely disguising his voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “The man who has your father.”

  “What?”

  Charlie sank down on the foot of the bed, her heart racing.

  “We have your father. And we want to talk to you. You need to ditch the army of Feds you travel with. If you ever want to see your father alive again, that is.”

  “I’ll do anything. But I have to know what you’re talking about. You have him where? What do you want me to do?”

  It would be stupid, stupid, stupid to do anything this man asked her to—especially ditch the Krewe, Charlie knew. But this guy and his cohorts had her father. If they got hold of her, too, they could just kill them both. But wha
t else could she do? She had to play for time, keep her father alive.

  “How do I know you really have my father?” she asked, trying to sound calm and reasonable.

  “I think you know, but I’ll text you proof. You’ve got an hour to get here.”

  “You’re going to be caught. You know that, right? Murdering someone else isn’t going to help the situation. They will get you.”

  “No, they won’t. Once you come and get your father, you’ll understand.”

  She wished she could recognize the voice. She should. Even changed, she should have recognized it.

  “Besides,” the man continued, “I’m already a murderer, so what difference will one more make? You come, Charlie, or he’s dead.”

  “Come where?”

  She was surprised by the laughter that followed. “I think you’ll know where once I text you. And, Charlie, if we see a cop or one of your FBI buddies, if we see you with anyone else, your daddy’s dead. I swear, I’ll kill him, even if it means I’ll be caught. I’ll kill him just to get even with you for bringing me down, you got that? I mean it. If I’m going down, he’ll go down with me. I hear or see anyone other than you, he’s dead.”

  Then he clicked off, and she was left listening to nothing but the sound of her own breathing.

  The phone buzzed again almost instantly. She’d received a picture.

  It was of her father.

  And he was tied to the same tombstone she’d been tied to once, long ago, in the unhallowed ground just beyond the Grace Church graveyard.

  The picture showed Jonathan Moreau, bruised and securely bound, a man standing by his side, his face turned away from the camera.

  The man held an Enfield rifle, the bayonet fixed, the point of the blade touching her father’s chest just above his heart.

  16

  Television shows and B movies were filled with people who behaved irrationally, teenagers going off alone into the woods where a murderer walked and ending up dead themselves.

  If she’d ever been asked if she would behave so stupidly, Charlie would have said no. Emphatically. In fact, she would have mocked the mere possibility.

  But she’d never thought about what she would do when someone she loved was threatened.

  Her father. Her whole world, for so much of her life!

  If she survived the night—a big if—Ethan would probably never speak to her again.

  But she had the picture. They weren’t bluffing. They had her father.

  And once she arrived, they would still have him. The big difference? They would have her, too.

  But that didn’t matter. She had to go. She had to do whatever was in her power to, if not save her father, at least buy time. But...

  If she went to meet them with nothing, she would be entirely at their mercy. She wasn’t about to be that foolish.

  She hesitated, looking at the bedside table where Ethan kept his gun at night. Of course it wasn’t there. Hating herself for doing it, she dug into his travel pack. To her relief, at the very bottom, she found a second weapon in a holster. She thanked God her father had taught her how to shoot. His second gun was a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard revolver. She quickly checked that it was loaded, then she slipped it into her waistband and threw on a jacket.

  There was one thing she could do, and she did it. She left the phone on her bed. Ethan would find it.

  Very carefully, she cracked the door to her cabin.

  Jude was waiting in the hall.

  “Hey,” she said. “Sorry, but can you give me another ten minutes?”

  “Sure. Whatever you need.”

  Damn, he was going to stay in the hallway.

  “Tell Alexi and Clara I’m fine, will you? I promise I’ll call as soon as I’m ready.”

  “Will do.”

  She heard his cabin door close. Silently, she slipped out and hurried down the hallway and made her way to the security point where she could exit the ship. There was a man on duty, of course, so she couldn’t just glide by unseen. No choice. She produced her Journey ID, smiled and told the guard—who knew her both as her father’s daughter and one of the Southern Belles—that she needed something at her house. He smiled and let her through.

  Easy enough so far.

  The others would find the picture on her phone, then have no trouble discovering that she’d left the ship, and soon enough they would be behind her. But that was what she’d wanted, right? If she and her father were going to die, at least she was certain the Krewe would catch their killers.

  Once off the ship, she panicked. There weren’t a lot of cabs around at this hour, and she’d left her phone behind, so she couldn’t call for one.

  And the clock was ticking.

  She hurried to one of the main hotels and had the doorman call her a cab. The driver informed her that it was late and Grace Church was closed until the morning, but she only thanked him for his concern and said she knew that, and it was okay.

  He left her in front of the church.

  For a moment she paused and stared up at the facade of the church, so beautiful in the moonlight.

  “Charlie?”

  She spun around, her heart in her throat. To her surprise, she saw Barry Seymour on the ground, propped against the fence that went around the graveyard to the church. Blood was dripping down his forehead.

  “Barry!” she cried. “What happened to you?”

  “I came out because we lost some props again,” he said. “I stopped here to look at the church, like you just did, and suddenly someone hit me.”

  She hunkered down, trying to ascertain how badly he’d been injured.

  “I’m okay, I just need to get out of here.” He paused, looking at her. “I think it was Jimmy, but...why?”

  “Jimmy?” she said, disbelieving.

  Jimmy Smith? Her friend forever and ever?

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Barry, let me help you. I have to hurry—they have my father!”

  “Your father? What?” He tried to stand but fell back, unable to get his feet under him. “I’d help you, but I can’t quite...get up.”

  “I don’t have my cell, Barry. Use yours. Call for help.”

  He nodded and pulled out his phone. “Why didn’t I think of that? It’s my head. I feel so dizzy. Watch out, okay? Watch out for Jimmy.”

  “I will.” She was torn. “I have to find my dad, but...are you sure you’re all right? Until help can get here?”

  He nodded.

  “Then I have to go.” She suddenly remembered the caller’s—Jimmy’s?—warning. “Barry, this is important. Tell them no lights and no sirens. If Ji—if whoever it is knows they’re coming, they’ll kill my dad. Okay? Do you understand me?”

  He nodded again, so Charlie left him to call for help and hurried past the graveyard toward unhallowed ground.

  The trees and foliage grew denser, the shadows deeper, as she went, and she had to slow down, even though everything in her longed to run. Only thin strands of moonlight penetrated the darkness, but she knew where the grave was, knew exactly where to go.

  She made her way carefully through brush and over tree roots. Then, in the distance, cloaked in shadow, she saw the gravestone and the man bound to it.

  And from somewhere in the trees and the shadows and the darkness, she heard a voice.

  She recognized it clearly.

  “Charlie, how good of you to join us.”

  * * *

  Ethan knew immediately that something was wrong. Jude was in the hallway, knocking on the door to the cabin Ethan and Charlie had shared.

  “Charlie, you all right in there?”

  Ethan stared at him, frowning, and stepped past him, sliding his key into the door. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, look
ed briefly around the small space and headed into the bathroom.

  No Charlie.

  “I stood out in the hall and watched. I was gone for about sixty seconds when she asked me to tell Clara and Alexi she was fine and just needed a few more minutes. Ethan, she purposely eluded me.”

  Fear streaked through Ethan like a violent stab of lightning. He wanted to jump on Jude, wanted to shake him. How could he have let Charlie outsmart him like that?

  But he knew Charlie, too. Knew how good an actor she was. She had probably been able to make Jude think she was fine without breaking a sweat. But she would never do anything to put herself into actual danger, not when she had people to protect her. Would she?

  “All right, she eluded you. So now we’re looking for Jonathan and Charlie.”

  “I’ll try her father’s cabin, see if she went back there to talk to Jennie McPherson for some reason. Maybe she thinks Jennie was lying, and she knows something.”

  “I’ll head to the departure checkpoint, see if she’s tried to leave the Journey,” Ethan said.

  “Call her,” Jude suggested. “You never know.”

  Ethan pulled out his phone, and just as he finished punching in her number, his caller ID registered an unknown caller. While his phone connected to Charlie’s, he answered the incoming call.

  “Delaney,” he said curtly.

  “Ethan?”

  It was a woman’s voice, but not Charlie’s.

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  “It’s Nancy. Nancy Deauville Camp.”

  “Nancy, this isn’t a good time.” As he spoke, he heard a soft buzzing sound, a phone vibrating somewhere nearby.

  In the room.

  “Ethan, I know, I’m sorry. I’m closing up at Mrs. Mama’s, and I just gave a cabdriver a last cup of coffee. We should have been closed, but he came just before I locked the door, and I felt sorry for him.”

  “Okay?”

  Jude had found the ringing phone and held it up. It was Charlie’s, and it had been lying on the bed.