Jackson nodded his agreement; they shook hands all around. When they left the precinct, Dallas said, “I’ll take the walk, but...” He had his phone out, and he shrugged. “I want to check on Kristi.”
Jackson nodded.
Dallas needn’t have worried; Kristi answered right away. She and Angela were fine; they’d explored the pit that morning, and were about to head over to the Murphy place. “Jamie Murphy is coming in sometime tonight,” she said. She was quiet for just a second. “I’m not sure whether to have him go on over to his place, or meet me at McLane House. He might be happier away from his place, and if he goes home, he’ll have to sleep in Ian’s room. I’ll have to give him your room.”
“That would be fine—I really like joining you in your room. Oh, as long as I have some time to get back and move my things. I’m on the hunt for Simon Drake. You haven’t had any visions of him that you haven’t mentioned?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” She hesitated. “This doesn’t bode well for him, does it? Strange day here, by the way. Quiet breakfast, and now everyone is out.”
“What did you find in the hole?”
“Nothing—but I’m pretending we did find something.”
“What?”
“No, no, we didn’t really find anything.”
He laughed softly. “No, what are you pretending you found?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“You know that Dr. Horvath wants to get in there and do a proper excavation.”
“Hey, remember, my property, my ancestor, my pit.”
“True.”
“Dallas, it has to be unraveling. It was one thing to find Trinity. It really is quite different—everyone knowing now that Eliza Malone was murdered.”
“It’s quite different, yes. You have to be careful, even in your house—especially in your own house.”
“I promise.”
“If you’re not with Angela, make sure you are with plenty of people. This killer strikes when victims are alone.”
“I promise!”
He smiled. “Okay, well, I’ll be back in a bit. Jackson is going to the Murphy place. He’s going to drop me off and I’m going to do some walking.”
“All right. See you when I see you.”
“See you when I see you,” he repeated, and ended the call.
Jackson spoke up, “I could hear Kristi. They should be there by the time I get there. You’re going to start at the riverfront?”
“The riverfront, and then on to the Colonial Park Cemetery and back to Johnson Square,” he said. “On a wild goose chase, but hey—we haven’t found Simon Drake. I just wish that I believed we might find him alive.”
* * *
Kristi and Angela had spent a couple hours working in the pit.
There hadn’t been anything to find, at least at first, and when they did find something, it was several smashed bullets. “An expert could tell you what they were fired from,” Kristi told Angela. “But what we were saying earlier is true—any soldier might have had just about any kind of weapon by that time in the war.”
Jonah came out on the courtyard; Kristi was certain that he was innocent of any wrongdoing, but Dallas’s words had struck some kind of chord in her.
Be careful. Of everyone.
She pocketed the smashed bullets, allowing him to see her hide something.
“Jonah, can you take over watching?” she asked him.
“Indeed. I had a lovely nap. Thank you.”
“We’re going to head over to the Murphy place,” Angela told him. Looking at Kristi, she said, “The crime scene people finished up last night. Jackson should be alone soon, right?”
“Right.”
Inside, they found Genie and Sydney chatting in the kitchen, and Kristi told them that she was going out.
“Jonah is still here, right?” Sydney asked, her voice a little nervous.
“Sure, Jonah is here.”
Sydney nodded, relieved.
“You’re frightened to be here?” Kristi asked her.
“Shelley said that we may feel Trinity’s presence more and more,” Genie explained.
Kristi took a deep breath. “If you do feel her presence, she’s surely an extremely nice ghost.”
“Well, that would be true,” Genie said.
Kristi smiled. “Please, guys, please, don’t put much belief in what Shelley tells you anyway, okay?”
They both nodded solemnly. They were still unnerved.
“You coming back for social hour? You think our guests will show up?”
“I don’t know, but we always have to be prepared. Yes, I’ll be back.”
As they crossed the square, Kristi told Angela about the book she was reading, and how she was anxious to get back to it. Angela told her that she was reading emails—tedious stuff.
It only took them a few minutes to walk the distance to the Murphy house. Once there, they both sat down to work.
Kristi went through Sherman’s March to the Sea, viewing it all through the eyes of Emory Huntly.
He hated that they were ordered to destroy so much, and stated that they had orders not to kill civilians—unless the civilians came at them—and not to destroy little towns or private barns, but to destroy any food that was stored for the winter: scorched earth. That was the policy. He wrote, deeply disturbed, about a day when they shot a farmer who had come out to his porch armed. The man had been old—defending his land and his property.
“The worst I saw, however, happened when Savannah had surrendered, and we were occupying the city, Lincoln’s gift from Sherman that year. What we did in the cemetery was sad and silly, but we were worn, bitter from fighting and longing for our homes. Savannah had surrendered; the war would not end until April—something we could not know then. Naturally, if citizens came after us, we were to defend ourselves. But men were filled with hate; at one house, we came upon a ragtag enemy soldier, just trying to come home. Perhaps he had deserted; perhaps he was just coming through. But he was shot down; his wife, a gentle and lovely woman, tried to defend him, and thus died as well, along with the old man who owned the house. Such a situation would not have been condoned, but there were only six of us there with our commander, and the deed was done. There was nothing to do but hasty burials, and to forget a scene that we had not intended, and that was nothing less than tragic. It haunted me, as it did the others, and shall haunt me until the day I die.”
“Angela!” Kristi cried. “I found it—I found a reference to...a man being shot down, his wife defending him and the man’s father dying, as well. This man, Emory Huntly, describes the situation at my house to a T!”
“He uses names, says it was your house—and that... Colonel Albert Huntington killed Trinity?” Angela asked.
“No, he doesn’t use names, but just read this passage.”
Kristi rushed over to Angela where she sat, handing her the book.
“Well,” Angela murmured, “you could make a good argument for Monty. I mean, historically, but—I guess this doesn’t really prove anything. There has to be more. Except...”
She set the book down and hit a few keys on the computer. “Here...this is an email from Ian to Jedidiah—dated just a bit over two years ago. ‘I’m expecting a meeting soon, with a party who can bring this all to light. I have the book and you have the letter—I believe that between them, we can make the case, and show that history is written by the victors—except that there are a few good men out there who can be victors and still tell the truth.’”
“Keep going—maybe there’s more,” Kristi said. “I have to get back to McLane House. Someone has a key, and now I know why I thought people were in my room, or trying to get in my room before. It was Jedidiah’s room! His papers are still in a drawer there.” She paused, frowning. “What difference does this make, though, to the res
t of the world? Why would anyone kill over this?”
“The reasons people kill... Money is a big one. Jealousy is another. Family issues...random violence. But for this...we have to keep looking.”
Kristi glanced at her watch. “I’m going to run back. It’s social hour.”
“Jackson is on his way here. You should wait and have him walk you over.”
“It’s fine. There are still cops on the street, and Genie and Sydney and Jonah are definitely at my house, others, too. Too many people for anything bad to happen. Don’t stop looking—please don’t stop. I’ll be careful, safe and fine,” Kristi promised.
But Angela shook her head. “I’ll go with you. We’ll make sure it’s a full house tonight—no killer is going to strike when he’s in clear view of a half dozen or more witnesses.”
“I hate to make you do this.”
“Hey, no problem!”
They headed down the stairs. Pausing in the entry, Kristi felt good. The dark miasma was gone, and with it, any hint of something ominous.
Eliza had wanted to be found; they had found her. And the police and Dallas and Jackson would find the truth.
Two patrolmen were watching Johnson Square. Kristi and Angela politely waved.
They neared the front door when she realized that the streetlights had come on.
Kristi didn’t have to unlock the front door; Shelley appeared on the steps. “Okay, give it up, what did you find in the grave?”
Kristi laughed. “Nothing, really nothing.”
“Kristi Stewart, you’re lying!”
“No, I’m not, really, Shelley. I’ve got to get in and lend a hand.”
Angela smiled at Shelley and entered the house with Kristi. Carl Brentwood was in the front parlor, speaking earnestly with Murray Meyer. Janet and Granger were in the back parlor, evidently arguing over their daughter again.
Genie and Sydney were in the kitchen.
“Hey, we’re all under control!” Genie assured Kristi.
“I’ll head back, then,” Angela told Kristi. “I’m a few blocks away. Have me on speed dial, though I imagine that that Jackson and Dallas will be along soon, as well.”
She waved as Angela left, and turned back into her own house, pausing.
So strange, and inexplicable. Even as Angela walked down the street, something within seemed to change.
The darkness had left the Murphy house, but...
Night had fallen. Despite her certainty and bravado, she suddenly felt that sense of darkness, something eerie and foreboding, as she opened her front door. As if...
A darkness was following her.
17
Dallas stood on the riverfront, watching people come and go, some in a hurry, some strolling and laughing, holding tourist books with maps and other information on Savannah.
He turned back in toward the city. It was just a few blocks to the Johnson Square area where Simon Drake had last been seen, and a longer walk to the Colonial Park Cemetery.
He walked around the entire cemetery, looking for any place a pipe might have been dug up, where roadwork might have been done recently, where an enterprising killer might have disposed of a corpse.
Logically, there were plenty of swamps not far from the city; there was the river, where one might weigh a corpse down, and have it disappear for decades, until it began to decompose, or become consumed by creatures, and what remained made its way to the surface.
This killer didn’t seem to consider the more logical aspects of getting rid of a corpse. Maybe it hadn’t been necessary—Eliza’s corpse had remained hidden for two years, and most likely would have remained so if it hadn’t been for her spirit trying so desperately to communicate with Kristi. It had been easy enough to make most of the world believe that Ian had jumped, and while it had been ludicrous that somehow a healthy man like Lachlan Plant had tripped and fallen just right and killed himself on a curb, the story had been accepted.
He walked slowly. A breeze was moving, and night was coming. Moss flowing from old oaks drifted along. He admired the beautiful old houses, built in various gracious old styles: federal, Italianate, colonial and Victorian, gingerbread accents on many of the latter.
Around and around the cemetery, and he could find nothing. The cemetery closed at five, but he paused by one of the big trees, looking in—and determined that this made no sense. He was going to walk around again, hoping to find any kind of hint. Dunhill had told him that there had been sightings here.
But Drake had been heading toward Johnson Square, and he had definitely been seen going in that direction before he had disappeared.
He leaned against the oak for a moment, and when he opened his eyes, he was not alone. The ghost of a Revolutionary soldier stood by his side, watching him.
“You are gifted. You see me,” the man said, smiling.
“Yes, sir,” Dallas told him. “I see you.”
“You appear at a loss, sir. Lieutenant Max Hudson, at your service, if you believe that there is a way in which I might help you.”
“Dallas Wicker, sir, and...you didn’t see anyone bury a body around here, did you?”
“Sir, I saw many a man and woman buried here. Soldiers, heroes, bankers, mothers, sisters, wives—yellow fever ripped through our fair city, you know. Most markers are gone, sir, and in the best way, those who revere the past walk over the dead daily as they trail through these grounds.”
Dallas smiled. “I beg your pardon, sir. I meant recently.”
“Ah, well, no—I don’t believe that I’ve seen activity lately. You are searching for a dead man?”
“A man I believe to be dead, yes.”
“Sometimes those who loved this place in life like to wander by. You are a policeman?”
“A federal agent, seeking the truth. I don’t even know why this man would have been killed.”
“Ah, well, Mr. Wicker, murder has existed since man first coveted what another man had, since human nature came with greed, selfishness and cruelty.”
“We don’t believe he was killed for love—or even money, Lieutenant.”
“Some kill to be merciful—I have seen men on a battlefield kill those they loved, knowing they would die painfully and slowly if they did not. Men have killed for revenge. They kill in the name of God, though what man can kill when the greatest commandments in those religions truly of God say that we must not kill?” He sighed. “I have seen anger take lives, jealousy—and the insanity of drugs and alcohol.”
The spirit shook his head and pointed across the cemetery. “There, Mr. Wicker, is a part of this cemetery where many lie who died in duels—thankfully, such events are no longer sanctioned in any way. Great men die needlessly in duels.”
“Well, there were no duels fought here, but...”
His voice trailed.
Duels.
No, duels had been fought for honor... Or a man’s perception of honor. A man might kill because he believed that someone wanted to taint his name, take from him what he thought was his due—his prestige.
It all seemed to revolve around Monty McLane, Trinity and Colonel Albert Huntington. But while the tragic story of Monty killing his own wife had been accepted through the years, what possible difference could it make if the truth came out?
“A man might kill to preserve his truth,” Lieutenant Hudson said. “Perhaps, if he committed an act that was heinous, and has lived past it—he can let nothing deter the life he has now managed to live.”
“But bad things have happened in every decade since humanity began,” Dallas said. “Especially in times of war.”
“You’re talking about the revolution, sir? It was bitter—but I was thinking far more along the personal front. Duelists fought over personal affront, and while that might have been because of political leanings, duels were still a matter of personal honor.”
“Personal honor,” Dallas murmured.
He thought that he had it down to three likely suspects—Jonah, Murray and Granger Knox. All had been in the city when Eliza Malone had disappeared.
But what might she have anything to do with a man like Jonah, or a Hollywood agent, or a construction contractor?
“Thank you,” he told the ghost, and he turned to start walking to the Murphy house.
He pulled out his phone and called headquarters, and Vickie Preston—who could find just about anything anywhere. She was fairly new to the FBI, but had quickly made herself invaluable to the team for her in-depth research abilities.
He was grateful that she answered; darkness was falling, and the young woman could have gone home long ago.
“Vickie, this may not be easy. I’m going to give you names that you’ve already looked up for me, and I need you to go further back. I believe that we have a guest who is a descendent of Union colonel Albert Huntington—see if you can find out who.”
“On it. I already kept trying to trace all the guests at the McLane house,” she told him. “Their family trees are all filled with branches, and you know how we work, everything must be verified by more than one source, and—”
“Vickie, you don’t need to verify anything. Just go. See if you can find someone who in any way might be a descendent of Albert Huntington, direct, indirect—anything.”
* * *
Genie and Sydney had the social hour covered. Kristi checked on Jonah, who assured her he was just fine: he had walked, stretched and enjoyed the afternoon just reading—and no one had dared come near the hole in the ground with him there.
“I’m going to run up to my room for a bit then, okay?”
“Of course, young lady. But come back down,” he told her with a wink. “Genie has been on a baking rage all day—she’s whipped up pecan pie and peach tarts.” He made a face. “And cucumber sandwiches. Now, that one throws me. Why would anyone want to eat a cucumber sandwich?”
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