Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk (27 page)

 

Walking into the cemetery, Brent hesitated. He opened his eyes.

There were so many.

So many ghosts.

Those who acknowledged him and those who did not. Those who sat around, looking morose, lost, and those who seemed angry, purposeful.

She was not among them.

She had moved on long ago. Years ago now.

He made his way to the grave, aware that several tours were gathering and that there were a number of people about who had come specifically to join the Myths and Legends of New Orleans group.

He didn't know who exactly, and it didn't matter.

He had time.

Her tomb was a single sarcophagus, always maintained—he saw to it. She had loved her church, and there were still nuns who kept the grave up while Brent was away. A statue of a weeping angel rose above the head of the concrete and brick bed where she now lay for eternity. Her name was written across the tomb, along with the dates of her birth and death, and the simple words "Daughter, wife, forever beloved."

He lowered his head, and he tried for the sense of peace he should feel. There had been justice at least. Her killer had gone to jail for life. Brent's bitterness had been so great that he had longed for Louisiana to make use of its capital punishment law, but that had not been the case. She had been killed by a stray bullet, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Her killer had been murdered by a fellow inmate. Stabbed in the throat, his dying had been long and hard.

But Brent had discovered that vengeance, however decreed from above, didn't end the pain of loss. He should have possessed a greater ability to heal than most people, but the simple effect of death, no matter what a man's beliefs, was to leave human beings missing those they had loved. There were those without any extra abilities who dealt with the injustices of life better than he did because they were blessed with such deep and abiding faith. No matter. Nothing could change the fact that life here must be lived without the loved one.

And he had loved Tania. Her brilliant smile, her laughter, the sound of her voice, the very essence of her. She could laugh and tease, and then, when the moment called for it, say the most profound words. She could look at the world without judgment.

He placed his hand on the tomb and wished that her spirit was still present. Here he was; a man who could see and speak with ghosts, but his own wife had moved on. What remained of her was in his heart, his mind, his memories. He was grateful she had moved on, for if ever there had been a deserving soul, it had been hers, and yet…

So many lingered. So many stayed, some not even knowing why, what they needed, what they searched for, what could bring them peace.

Not Tania.

And for her sake, he was glad.

For his own…

For ten years he had been the one to wander the earth like a wraith, lost and alone, a pale shadow of himself. But there had also been moments when he could feel that he had a purpose. That his life counted. And it was true that time was the greatest healer of all.

I wish I could feel you, he thought.

But he couldn't. Nor had he reached either of his parents, ever again, after the night they had died.

What he felt, standing there, was the sadness that would always remain. But he had moved on now, and he knew it. And that made him feel a twinge of guilt, something he hadn't experienced before. He had known, laughed with and enjoyed other women since he had lost Tania.

But he'd never cared again, nor felt so alive, as he had when he'd been with Nikki. He'd never—even with Tania—felt such an instant bond, such an electricity.

He was deeply caught in his inner thoughts; it was as if he were surrounded by nothing but air and shadow. The world receded until there was darkness around him and the grave he stood before.

Then the world came back. And he knew that Nikki was there even before she cleared her throat.

He turned to her. She looked pale, distraught, sympathetic and a little uncomfortable.

"Your… wife?" she said softly.

He nodded.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's been a very long time."

"You… um… you might have told me that you'd been married and that your wife was buried here," she murmured.

"You never noticed this grave?" he asked.

She winced. "It's new. We usually tell tales about older grave sites."

He nodded and saw that Nikki gave a little involuntary shudder. She stared at him, eyes wide. "Is she… does she… do you… ?"

"Does she walk the cemetery? Like Andy?" he suggested.

Nikki nodded.

He shook his head. "She's not here. She never has been. I mean, she's buried here. But… she's gone on. Long ago."

"What happened?" she asked gently. She had moved a short distance from him, on the other side of the sarcophagus, as if she felt that respect for the dead demanded that she do so.

"Stray bullet," he told her briefly. "She happened to be on the wrong street at the wrong time."

Nikki winced, lowering her head. "I would think… I would think that… " She looked up at him. "I would think that would make her stay. It's so horrible. So traumatic."

"The man was caught, sent to prison. He died there," he said simply. He heard a bird chirping and felt the breeze. "You would have liked her. She would have liked you. But she's gone. She wasn't the type who could hold a grudge. She was full of life and faith and… serenity. Whatever lies beyond, she's chosen it."

Nikki nodded uncomfortably, swallowed and looked away. Her arms were crossed over her chest. "When she died… is that when you began to… see ghosts?"

He shook his head. "No. I've seen them from the time I was a child. When my parents died."

Her eyes widened. "When your parents died?" she repeated.

He knew, of course. Nikki hadn't realized all these years that she'd had the same sense. She'd recognized only shadows, only the feel of what had been. But for her, it had been the same. The extra ability had been hers for many years.

It had only been since Andy died that Nikki had come to realize just what she was capable of seeing, hearing, feeling.

He smiled, tilting his head to the side. "Hey, I think we're supposed to be doing a tour."

"Um, yeah. You're all right?" she asked him.

"I am. You can read the stone. Tania died a long time ago. How about you?"

"Of course," she told him.

Still, he thought there was something a little strange about the way she said it. "You saw Andy again?" he asked.

"No."

"Really?"

"I really haven't seen her. But maybe she'll show up again this afternoon." Nikki shrugged. "I guess this is kind of… her place."

But Andy didn't show up that afternoon.

The tour went off like clockwork, which felt strange to Nikki, since she had been so unnerved ever since leaving the voodoo shop.

She had been determined that she wasn't going to say a word to anyone about the strange comments Contessa had made to her. After all, Julian already had her going to a shrink. And there were voodoo queens throughout the city. There was no reason to take Contessa seriously.

Except that Contessa had also seen something strange surrounding Andy. And it had been evident that day.

Still, she had been determined not to say anything to anyone. Including Brent. And she had made that decision before she found him so deep in thought before his wife's tomb that he hadn't even noticed her at first.

As the tour ended uneventfully, they decided that
Brent would give the night tour with Mitch as his backup, giving Julian the night off.

"I can do the tour tonight, but I might not always be available," Brent warned them.

Nathan stared at him suspiciously. "Pressing business?" he demanded.

"Sometimes." Brent cast Nathan a cool stare, and Nathan looked uneasily away.

"Fine. Just fill in tonight. Patricia and I need a night off. And Julian does, too."

"Yeah, time for the new love in his life," Patricia teased.

Back in the Vieux Carré, Mitch asked Brent and Nikki if they minded him tagging along for dinner, and Brent assured him that he didn't. Nikki was glad of the company, feeling suddenly shy around Brent, though she wasn't certain why. He hadn't lied to her; he'd never said he hadn't been married. She'd just never thought he might be a widower. And having come upon him at the grave site, she felt slightly like an interloper.

They chose an Italian restaurant. The food was good, the service even better, and it was a pleasant, casual evening.

At one point Brent set a hand on Nikki's knee. She barely managed not to jump. When she looked at him, he smiled, and she realized that he had known she felt awkward and didn't want her to.

She smiled back and curled her fingers around his hand, where it lay on her knee.

As they sipped coffee, a shiver ripped through her;

Contessa's words seemed to come back to haunt her. The same color that had surrounded Andy was now surrounding her. A deep purple. A warning, though Contessa hadn't exactly said so, of death.

She told herself that she didn't believe in omens.

But maybe she did. Andy was certainly dead.

She glanced at Brent. He was watching her strangely, as if he was aware that something was going on in her mind. She forced a brighter smile. She wasn't going to tell him about Contessa's words at the voodoo shop. She wasn't going to be such a mouse.

In fact, she was suddenly determined that she wasn't going to be afraid to see Andy anymore. She
wanted
to see Andy. She was going to find out what had happened, to make sure it didn't happen to her.

Mitch yawned, stretched and sighed. "I think I should have been rich. I like being a tour guide, but I think I could be happy just being rich. I'd just sit on my porch and sip mint juleps all day."

Nikki laughed. "You told me once that you didn't care for mint juleps."

"I'd get used to them," Mitch assured her.

"But none of us is filthy rich," Nikki said. She frowned, looking at Brent. "You're not filthy rich, are you?"

"Sorry," he told her.

"Well, I'm definitely not, so let's head for Madame's and pick up our tour, huh?" Nikki suggested.

 

There was a huge crowd around Madame's when they arrived.

"Is this all for us?" Mitch murmured.

"No," Brent said, his gaze directed through the glass panes in the front of the
café. "There's a politician inside."

Nikki craned her neck and saw Billy Banks. Handsome and charming, seated at one of the inside tables, he appeared to be speaking with his public and signing autographs as he greeted voters.

Madame was behind the counter, looking flushed and pleased.

"He's young and passionate and energetic," Nikki mused. "He may just make it."

"What are his issues?" Brent asked her.

"Crime is his main issue. But then, it's Harold Grant's main issue, too. I don't know. I don't think Harold Grant has done such a bad job." She wrinkled her nose. "I just think Billy Banks is kind of a funny name for a politician. Do you think I'm holding that against him?"

"I think you're conservative by nature," Mitch said.

She shook her head. "I don't ever vote by party—I vote by what I believe. And I'm not all that conservative. Madame must be in seventh heaven, though. Harold Grant was in here a while ago, and now Billy Banks. This is really becoming the in place."

"Excuse me," a voice said quietly.

Nikki turned. A pretty woman with three teenage children and a skinny-legged man in shorts were at her side. "This is where the tour meets, right?"

"Absolutely," Nikki said. "We leave in—" she glanced at her watch "—ten minutes." She pointed to
Mitch. "There's your moneyman, Mitch. The other gentleman is Brent Blackhawk. He'll be leading the tour. Go ahead and ask him questions now, if you like." She arched a brow and offered a wry grin to the men, indicating that she was only along for the ride. It was their tour.

While the tour-takers began to surround Brent and Mitch, Nikki found herself looking into the coffee shop. Madame had come out from behind the counter. Wiping her hands on her apron, she was standing in front of Billy Banks, flushing, smiling, pleased, as she got him to sign one of her menus.

"Hey!"

Nikki turned. Mitch gave her a "we're going that-away" sign with his forefinger. She nodded and waited for the last of the group—a sizable one that night—as they moved forward.

From a distance, she watched Brent and felt a sweet warmth inside. He was damn good.

He seemed to honestly like people, and he enjoyed answering questions. His voice was deep and rich, his smile quick. She liked everything about him.

Maybe too much.

They stopped on a corner of Royal Street where there was an antique shop. He told a story about a Civil War soldier that she'd never heard before.

She wondered if he'd learned the story from the soldier himself.

A block later she was leaning against the wall, idly listening to a story about Andrew Jackson, when she stiffened.

What had caught her attention earlier was the bum. The bum who was really a government agent. Tom Garfield.

She hadn't recognized him because he was dressed in a handsome suit. Shaven. Hair trimmed. Clean and handsome.

And she was seeing him again.

He wasn't next to her. He wasn't even looking at her. He was in the midst of the crowd, apparently deeply intent on the story as he listened to Brent. Nikki moved away from the wall.

For some reason this man apparently trusted her. And Brent was desperate to get to him.

But they were in the middle of the tour. She could hardly just shout out, "Ghost! Ghost of the FBI guy, right in the crowd."

She had to reach the man herself, actually talk to him.

As she hesitated, still half-frozen, the story ended and the crowd began to move.

Nikki walked as quickly as she could, threading her way toward him.

But just as she neared the ghost, he looked to the right and frowned.

Then, instead of following the crowd, he ducked into a little alleyway in the middle of the block, which was partly residential, filled with courtyard homes, B & Bs and a few businesses.