Darkest Journey (14 page)

“She was the pledge master who had Charlie tied to that gravestone the night you and she...encountered that serial killer.”

“And she's working here now? I thought she wanted to work for one of the airlines, see the world,” Ethan said.

“I guess she wanted to get married more. Todd was getting ready to go off and accept a partial scholarship to some big northeastern school. Nancy...needed him. She was going to have the twins. They got married, and Todd didn't go to college. Like I said, now he's a grease monkey at Perry's Garage.”

“Our plans in life can change,” Ethan said.

“They were there that day on the
Journey
. Todd had the afternoon off, and Miss Emily is always flexible when it comes to Nancy's hours 'cause of the kids. She doesn't take much time off, though. She needs to make money any way she can,” Brad said.

“I guess if you have two kids, you don't have much choice,” Ethan said. He remembered Todd better than he did Nancy. Todd had been on the football team and, like Randy Laurent, he'd been great at opening beer bottles with his teeth.

Ethan made a mental note to find out where Todd had been around the time of the murders. It was always good to know where everyone who could've been even remotely involved might have been.

“I half expected Miss Emily to be the ‘detective' who solved this thing,” Jennie said, turning to look at Ethan. “She knows more than any local reporter. I'm from NOLA, but I get out here pretty often, and I can tell you, Emily Watson probably knows more about me than I know about myself.”

Ethan smiled, about to answer her when he found himself distracted by the television high above their heads near the counter.

He rose and walked toward the big screen.

The news was from Baton Rouge. He couldn't hear the details, but he heard enough to know the attractive reporter was giving out information on a murder. The picture of a taped-off crime scene was projected behind her.

“Mrs. Watson, would you turn that up for me, please?” he asked.

“Sure, honey,” she said, then got the remote out from behind the bar and handed it to him.

The anchor was continuing with her story. “Mrs. Rodriguez was found this afternoon just outside the campus in a wooded section of town. Friends, neighbors and coworkers considered her a warm, friendly woman, and police are seeking help from anyone who can tell them more about her whereabouts or give any information whatsoever that could lead to the apprehension of her killer. In other news...”

Ethan quickly flicked to another station.

And then another.

Mrs. Selma Rodriguez, sixty-two, of Baton Rouge, a custodian at the college, had been found murdered just outside campus. She'd been reported missing when she'd failed to show up for work. Her purse, money and credit cards had been found with the body, ruling out robbery as a motive. As it was an ongoing investigation, police were not reporting the cause of death, and were seeking any and all help from the community.

He sensed someone standing next to him, watching the television, and turned to see it was Chance Morgan.

The photographer was shaking his head sadly. “This world's a real mess. Killing a hardworking woman—for what? Too many crazy bastards out there.”

“Yeah. Crazy bastards,” Ethan agreed. He turned to see Charlie staring at him. He smiled grimly back at her and returned to the table just as a young waiter was delivering his gumbo.

He felt her eyes still on him as he bent to eat his meal. Charlie was a good person and would undoubtedly be upset that a woman had been murdered.

But she would also be wondering why he found the case of such interest.

He was actually wondering that same thing himself.

And then he remembered that the
Journey
had been in port at Baton Rouge that day.

With Jonathan Moreau among those on board.

Had he spoken too soon when he told Charlie he didn't consider her father a suspect?

* * *

The silence in the car as they drove back to Charlie's house hung heavy, as if they were both harboring dark thoughts they didn't dare voice.

“Did you enjoy being on set today?” Charlie said finally. “I mean, minus me thinking someone threw a knife at me and the fact that the bayonet the killer used was likely stolen from the prop collection.”

“I didn't mind filming,” he said, but he didn't elaborate. His features looked cast in concrete as they were caught in the moving shadows created by the streetlights as they drove.

He wasn't showing any outward signs of anger, but she could feel him seething. And she had no clue why.

He would certainly be angry later, when she finally told him she was certain the answers to the murders lay aboard the
Journey
.

And that she would be aboard next time it set sail.

“It's sad about Selma Rodriguez, that woman in Baton Rouge,” she said, since he didn't seem inclined to keep the conversation going.

“Yes.”

Clearly talking wasn't going to help, so she decided to go back to dark silence.

They reached the house, and Ethan immediately got out of the car. While she headed for the door, he opened the trunk and took out a briefcase, then headed up the walk to join her. He inspected the door and nodded, and she slid the key in the lock.

Inside, he made sure the door was locked, then went straight to the sofa, sat down and pulled his laptop out of his briefcase. Without a word, he booted up the computer and started working.

Charlie hadn't moved away from the door; she just stood there and watched him.

At last he looked up at her, his head tilted at an inquisitive angle. “Yes? Is everything all right?”

“Fine, thank you. Thank you for staying.”

He nodded, then looked at her expectantly, waiting.

“Well,” Charlie murmured, “I guess I'll go to bed.”

He stood suddenly and walked over to her. She was disturbed to realize she actually had to force herself to hold her ground. Her knees felt weak, and she felt hot as her blood rushed through her. She never had gotten over the way she felt about him. Ten years...a decade. A lifetime between them. She still loved the way he looked, the way he moved...even the way he breathed.

And yet, as she stood there expectantly, she remembered the absolute humiliation of throwing herself at a man who hadn't wanted her. She'd been so certain they'd been made for one another. But he had only stared at her in horror and walked away.

It was a moment never to be forgotten.

He stood for a moment, not touching her, just looking at her.

“Is there anything you'd like to talk to me about?” he asked her.

She wasn't sure if she lied at that moment because she still didn't know how to explain her near desperate determination to be on the
Journey
or because she was distracted because he was standing so close.

“No,” she managed sweetly. “Just thank you, that's all.”

He still didn't move, but she couldn't stand there any longer. He was, however, blocking the stairway. She put a hand on his chest as she moved past him, and she felt his body heat and the sudden sharp constriction of his muscles.

She fled. Up the stairs, into her room. She closed the door and put on a nightshirt. Got in bed.

And remembered...

She remembered the unhallowed ground where she'd sat as they'd waited for the police to arrive, then the man—the killer—suddenly emerging from the trees and racing straight at her, intent on murder.

She'd been so young, so terrified, but Ethan had been there, like a bolt of lightning, the wind of a hurricane, slamming into her would-be killer and taking him down.

She forced herself to consider the possibility that she had fallen victim to some kind of survivor's hero worship for the man who had saved her life. Maybe Ethan and her feelings for him weren't what she'd thought they were for so long. Certainly she could live without him, as witnessed by the last ten years.

No. He'd always been there, lurking in the far reaches of her mind, her heart.

And she knew.

This wasn't hero worship. Something inside her was captivated by the man. And she felt as strongly now as she had when she'd been raw and young and scared. From the moment he had come to her rescue that night, freeing her from “pledging” at the gravestone, she'd been connected to him. And she was forced to admit that it had been more than her knowledge that he could see the dead that had led her to ask to have him assigned to the case.

It had been the best excuse in the world, though, since it was real.

She realized she should head downstairs while he was still awake and at least tell him about her conversations with Alexi and Clara. It would be the right thing to do.

She started to rise. Just as she sat up, there was a knock at her door. She froze, afraid.

She suddenly wished she hadn't changed into one of the ragged football jerseys she used as nightgowns.

“Yes?” she asked.

The door opened. Ethan was there, silhouetted in the light from the hall.

There was something between them. They both felt it and always had, even though he'd fought so hard against it ten years ago. And now, at last, he had come to her. She'd felt his instant, sharp response when she'd touched him. He knew, knew that no one in her life had ever lived up to just the dream of him.

“Okay, so when the hell were you going to tell me?”

“Pardon?” she said, genuinely confused.

“About the
Journey
, Charlie. About the plans you and your friends made—and neglected to tell me about.”

“Oh.”

She plumped up her pillow and clutched it on her lap. “I'm sorry. I didn't exactly make any plans. I
can't
make plans. Neither can they. All we could do was imagine what might be possible, and then they were going to follow up with—”

“Oh, cut the bull, Charlie!” He walked over to the bed. He was like a tower of searing anger, completely restrained, of course, and possibly more shocking—or awesome—because of it.

“I know what you're doing, and I understand why you want to do it, but what I
can't
understand is why you made the effort to get me down here specifically, but then you didn't trust me enough to keep me in the loop. If you want me here, don't lie to me.”

“I didn't lie!”

“Not telling me was lying. Don't do it again.”

He turned and left her room.

So much for thinking they both knew they were meant for each other.

She lay back down, shaking and completely clueless as to what the morning would bring.

* * *

“A lot of times, when I'm working on a tough case, I think about Jack the Ripper,” Jude told Ethan.

“Didn't know the Krewe worked that one,” Ethan said with a smile.

“We've all studied the case, and drawn our own conclusions. And, actually, years ago, the Krewe did work a copycat case back in New York City. The thing is, there were all these conspiracy theories. The royal family was even implicated at one point. But I think, if the authorities had the forensic abilities we have now, they would have discovered that the killer wasn't a lofty prince but a poor butcher or some whacked-out laborer who hated prostitutes.”

“And this is relevant how?” Ethan asked skeptically.

“I think sometimes we look for a complicated solution when there's a more obvious answer that turns out to be the right one.”

“I'm not sure that applies to this case,” Ethan said. “The killer is organized, and both murders were carried out in the same way. He—or she—made sure the bodies would be discovered soon, but not immediately. Both men were lured to their deaths, I'm certain of it. What we're still looking for is the reason for them to have been wearing their uniforms. I think we're on the right trail, but I agree to a point. I don't think the murders are part of a big conspiracy to start a race riot, or anything like that. I know there's a reason behind all this. We're just not seeing what it is yet.”

They were seated at the table in the Moreau dining room, and it was seven in the morning. Jude and Alexi had flown into Baton Rouge late the night before. Alexi was on her way to New Orleans to make the final arrangements for the “Belle Sisters” to perform on the next voyage of the
Journey
. Clara, the third member of the trio, would arrive in New Orleans the following day, along with Thor Erikson, another recent addition to the Krewe. Thor hailed from Alaska, so the Southern heat was going to be a real shock to his system.

The more agents around, the better, Ethan thought, though he still wasn't so sure about the plan for the women to work aboard the
Journey
. Having to spend time worrying about their safety didn't seem like a plus in any way. A number of the agents in the Krewe were partners, in every sense of the word, from Jackson Crow and Angela Hawkins on down. But Angela and many of the others had gone through the academy and joined the Bureau; they had training in both investigation and firearms. But in this case, all three women were
performers
, for heaven's sake.

It was good to have Jude there. They'd become friends quickly when they'd met up after joining the Krewe. They were both from Louisiana, which created an immediate bond, though unlike Ethan, Jude had been in the New Orleans field office before becoming Krewe.

Jude also knew Charlie's friends Alexi and Clara. Both women had been contract performers on the Celtic American Line's
Destiny
when a serial killer had been aboard. Jackson Crow himself had been involved in both Celtic American cases, and Ethan was certain Crow was poring over everything to do with this case, as well. Not only was another Celtic American ship potentially involved, incidents that had occurred on that same ship over a hundred and fifty years ago might also play a role in the current murders.