Haunted Destiny (5 page)

But he was intrigued. He was more than intrigued. He was attracted to her. He'd barely spent any time with her, and yet he wanted to know everything about her. Where she'd come from, where she saw herself going. More than that, he wanted to touch the deep fire of her hair and...

Well, more. And he needed to cut his thoughts off right there.

As he'd traveled the decks, he'd found country-western singers, a DJ spinning away in a disco room, a Latin Lovers lounge with salsa, an upper-crust Sky High club where a lone tenor entertained with old big band songs. He'd found the kids' “Rock N Roll Ship Shop,” where there'd been games and a dance floor. Then there were the elegant dining rooms, the library, the computer room and more.

He hadn't seen the man they'd followed onto the ship. Or had he? If the man had cleaned his face, they'd never know.

The guy's movements pegged him as young, Jude thought. Between eighteen and thirty.

That left them down with about a fifth of the ship.

As the hour grew later and later, he prowled the hallways. A couple passed him, giddy and laughing as they hurried to their cabin, acknowledging him as they passed.

He decided he'd check out the ship's chapel, which was aft on the Promenade Deck.

It was locked. He was tempted to break it down or call the captain or the chaplain, regardless of the hour. But there was a mullioned glass window to the chapel and he could see through it; there was no one inside.

No young woman lay there, arms crossed over her chest, a circlet of blood around her throat, and a medallion bearing the image of a long-gone saint.

When he moved through the central area again, even the casino was quiet. The Picture Gallery was closed for the night.

The disco was silent, as was the piano bar.

Except that the piano bar wasn't empty; Alexi Cromwell was there.

And she wasn't alone.

Jude went completely still, staring at the young woman—and the young man who sat beside her. He wasn't in any kind of makeup. His face was boyish, his hair medium length, rakishly tousled. He was talking to Alexi, being very earnest.

He had the same body shape and size as the man he and Crow had witnessed earlier, the man they'd chased, and he was wearing the same hooded sweatshirt and jeans.

Jude made his move, striding down the length of hallway between them, half running by the time he neared the piano.

But he wasn't quick enough. The man at the piano saw him and leaped up—and in a flash he was gone, racing up the steps to the deck above.

Jude glanced at Alexi Cromwell. She watched him with a confused frown. He shook his head as he looked at her, then took off after the man on the stairs. She followed him, calling out, “Mr. McCoy, wait! Please wait!” She was obviously trying not to shout or attract any attention—except, of course, his.

He ignored her, intent on his quarry. But the man was gone by the time he reached the next deck. He hurried halfway down the row of shops there and then ran over to the cabin hallways on either side, first one and then the other.

She kept following him. He came back through the center of the deck with such speed that he plowed right into her.

“Ms. Cromwell!” he snapped, catching her by the shoulders. “Get out of my way!”

“But...”

“I have to find that man!”

She grasped his shirt as he held her shoulders, trying to move her aside.

“Wait! You mean you saw him?”

“Of course I saw him. Will you please move!”

“I can move, but you won't find him if he doesn't want to be found.”

He stopped, brows knitting furiously as he stared down at her.

“Are you his accomplice?”

“His accomplice in what?”

“You're hiding him,” he accused her.

“No!”

“Then what is it?”

She drew in a deep breath, staring up at him, searching his eyes.

“He's...he's not—alive,” she said.

He knew his jaw must have fallen open.

“
What?
Look, it's imperative that I find him. You don't understand what's at stake.”

“No!
You
don't,” she said softly. “I realize it sounds crazy, but—”

“Very crazy. You know him? Get him for me. Now,” Jude insisted, determined to be stern. He was astounded that this young and charming woman was apparently involved or under the spell of the man who'd been gaping at the church where the last victim was found—and led them to the ship.

“I can't!”

Her voice had risen with exasperation.

A security guard came hurrying down the stairs from whatever rounds he'd been on. He was wearing just a shirt and tie, but Jude knew security when he saw it.

“Is there a problem? Alexi, you okay?” the man asked, eyeing Jude as if he was the worst pervert in the world.

“I'm fine, Johnny, absolutely fine!” she said, running her hands down Jude's chest with a gesture of affection. “Johnny, this man is my friend,” she told the guard, and added softly, “Upper echelon, Celtic American!”

“Oh?” The man seemed skeptical. Jude had been ready to whip out his manufactured credentials, but Alexi was continuing as if she'd bought his story about being a Celtic American official. Even if she didn't
really
believe it...

“I'm so sorry we disturbed you. We haven't seen each other in a while and I got carried away talking about a movie I saw while I was off!” she said.

Jude decided he'd wait to see what this woman had to say. In any case, she had nowhere to go. But his quarry was definitely gone.

“Well, Alexi, keep it down, huh? Most of the ship's asleep.”

“I know, and I'm sorry.”

“And just between us, we're on the lookout for men who're acting badly. Bothering women and such.”

“Oh?” That really seemed to surprise Alexi. “
Was
someone...bothered?”

He shrugged. “We're supposed to be extra-vigilant. So, you're absolutely sure you're okay?”

“Yes, thank you, Johnny.” Johnny the security guard nodded at both of them and went back in the direction from which he'd come.

Alexi Cromwell looked at him, her eyes grave and troubled. “We can't talk here. You can...you can come to my cabin.”

When his day had begun—or when the previous day, actually had begun—the last thing he'd expected was that he'd wind up standing in a deserted hallway on a slumbering ship, a stunning woman in front of him, inviting him to her cabin.

And yet, he knew instantly that it wasn't a sexual overture.

“Ms. Cromwell,” he warned her. “You'd better have an explanation.”

She stepped away, assessing him. “Right. You're no Celtic American bigwig. I'm assuming you're some kind of law enforcement.”

“FBI,” he told her.

She nodded. “FBI. Well, you're also what we call a magic man.”

“Magic man?”

“You see the dead.
Magic man
—it's an old term in my family. I think it originated with a grandmother who lived on the bayou. Please, just come with me. I'll do my best to explain.”

3

J
ude McCoy, FBI man, entered Alexi's cabin, not saying a word until they were seated in her tiny quarters. Alexi perched on the bed, McCoy sat in the one chair, which faced the dressing table built into the wall.

“Dead?” McCoy said, turning the chair toward her. “You mean our suspect? And yet he was running around the city of New Orleans and now the ship.”

His skepticism was blatant. “Ms. Cromwell, I saw that man at a murder scene in New Orleans. We chased him to this ship. He snagged a ride with some poor bastard on the street who thought he was about to get killed. Oh, by the way, I believe that poor guy's in the hospital with a heart attack. Now the suspect's on the ship. I saw him.”

“Yes,” she said. “Whether you accept it or not, you see the dead. Trust me.”

“You're telling me you're aiding and abetting a
dead
man we chased from the scene of a horrific crime?”

“Yes. I didn't get much of a chance to talk to him. He led you here on purpose.”

“A
dead
man led me here?”

He didn't raise his voice. But the sharp look he gave her suggested he'd be good in an interrogation room. If she'd done something, she thought, she'd admit it quickly. He was still, calm, and while his voice had a strange power, he kept it low and intense.

“I didn't get to hear the whole story,” she said. “I gather you came after him.”

“If he's dead, why is he afraid of me?”

“I don't really know the answer to that,” Alexi replied. “I didn't get enough time to talk to him. All I know is that he believes the killer's on this ship. Yes, you saw him at the crime scene. He saw you there—and he saw that you were aware of him. He planned on coming on the ship. Look, I see the dead. It doesn't mean I
understand
them any more than I understand the living.”

He leaned toward her. “I saw a man at a crime scene. The older guy driving the car saw him. I'm pretty sure a girl in a bar saw him, and I know my partner on this ship did, too. So, what—we all see the dead? Everybody does?”

“No, but more people do than you probably realize.” Alexi lowered her head. There was a reason she didn't admit to seeing ghosts on the ship. Sometimes, others saw them, too, but, like this man, they had no idea they were seeing the dead. She assumed that, in the world at large, there were many people with this ability. Some sensed the dead, like her mom. Perhaps their fear kept them from really seeing. Some just didn't understand what they saw.

But judging by the way this man was looking at her...

It reinforced her decision to keep silent most of the time. “I can try to find him or I can hope he comes back to find me, and then maybe you can get your answers,” Alexi said.

The fact that Agent Jude McCoy was such an
attractive
man didn't make the situation any easier. His presence seemed to fill the tiny space of her cabin. She felt she could almost hear the steady beat of his heart—and feel the waves of ridicule coming from him.

He rose abruptly. “Ms. Cromwell,” he said, “Please know that I'll be watching you, and that I'll report our conversation to my partner. And when I find this so-called dead man, if you've helped hide him in any way, I will see that criminal charges are pressed against you.”

She stood, as well, suddenly angry. His height was imposing—but then again, she'd stared down David Beach a few times and he was a huge man.

“Knock yourself out, Mr. Agent McCoy, or whatever your title may be. You're chasing a dead man. Period. And therefore, I'm not afraid of your ridiculous threats in the least!”

“We'll see, won't we?” he asked softly.

He barely had to move to open the door to her cabin, but when he did, he turned back. “I hope you're right, actually. I hope this man isn't the killer—and that he isn't baiting you. I've seen one of the Archangel's victims. I'd hate to see you in that condition.”

Sincerity at last. Something in his words, something about his voice, caused a cold flash of dread to sweep through her.

She didn't have to reply, because he was already gone.

She made sure that her cabin door was locked behind him.

She hugged her arms around herself, shivering uncontrollably.

She'd been glad the dead man had finally sat down beside her, and that he'd tried to talk to her. She still didn't know his name or exactly who he was or why he was there, but she understood.

He'd
wanted
to lead the FBI men to the ship.

Because he believed there was a killer on board.

The Archangel.

* * *

It was ridiculously late, but Jude headed down the hallway straight to Jackson Crow's cabin.

But he hesitated before knocking on the door. He wondered if what he'd read about the paranormal angle to Crow's “elite” unit was true—that agents were hand-selected to work in the “special” department known as the “Krewe.”

He was on board with nothing except the few toiletries and articles of clothing he'd purchased at one of the ship's stores. His phone, however, was the next best thing to his computer, and that was in his pocket.

Rumors abounded. But research into the Krewe didn't give him much other than the knowledge that whatever they did, they were damned good at it. Looking up newspaper reports of the cases they'd solved gave him a little more. Jackson Crow was indeed familiar with New Orleans; he'd solved a case in the city that involved the death of a politician's wife in one of the city's “haunted” houses.

As he went on, he even found more information on the Krewe's cases, many speculating that the Krewe of Hunters had an uncanny ability to deal with situations of unusual scope.

He buried his face in his hands for a moment as he stood outside Jackson's door.

Great.

He was on a ship chasing a killer, and he was working with a man who believed they could question a ghost.

Did Crow think they were chasing a dead man? It was all too crazy.

Jude had to assume Crow saw the dead, and he based that on the Krewe's reputation as much as anything.

It was time to confront Jackson Crow with what he'd learned.

Jude tapped at his door. In the silent hallway, the sound reverberated loudly. Or it seemed to.

The door opened immediately. “You've got something?” Jackson asked.

“A ghost,” Jude told him.

“Come in.” Once again, Jude found himself sitting on a chair in front of a tiny dressing table built into the cabin wall. Crow settled on the narrow bunk.

“You talked to a ghost?” His voice was calm, reserved, and Jude couldn't tell if he was being mocked.

“I didn't,” he said. “But the piano bar hostess claims that the man she was talking to—the man we followed on the ship—is dead. And yes, that she was
talking
to him.”

Crow took that in. Once more, his expression revealed nothing.

“The man escaped you again?” Crow asked.

Jude leaned forward. “I saw him, clear as day, sitting at the piano bench with her. I saw him—clear as day—jump up and run. I couldn't stop him. Ms. Cromwell stopped me instead and then insisted I come to her cabin so she could tell me that he's a dead man.”

“What information did she say she got from him?”

“Not much. Apparently, my arrival interrupted him. She said he wanted us to follow him onto this ship—because he believes the killer's on board.”

“What do you think of this young woman?” Jackson asked him.

“What do I think of her? I don't know. She's either delusional—or this guy's as real as you and me, and she's helping him in some way. And if she is, well, then, God help her,” Jude said.

“But she seems sane to you?”

“I have to admit, I've been through plenty of behavioral classes, and yet I can't come up with a reliable definition of
sane.
She seems to be sincere. So yeah, maybe she's just delusional. Maybe this guy has her fooled, but she might also come from some crazy family that believes in all kinds of weirdness.” He watched Jackson for a moment. “But what the hell. I've read a few strange things about your unit, too.”

He thought Jackson gave him the hint of a smile.

“I haven't apprehended a murdering ghost yet,” he assured Jude. “But then again, we don't discount anything on heaven or earth or anything in between.”

“But...ghosts?” Jude asked.

Jackson shrugged. “Let's see if we can find this man. Tomorrow is a day at sea. We have the ship's security forces and we have ourselves. By tomorrow morning I'll have a full manifest of anyone on board who could possibly have committed the murders. We believe—every profiler out there believes—that this is the work of one killer and we assume that he's male. That said, I'll have reports by tomorrow that should tell us who could and couldn't have been in the cities where the other murders took place. Of course,” he added with a dry smile, “it would be nice if Ms. Cromwell's ghost happens to know who the killer might be.”

“Her damn
ghost
just might be our killer,” Jude muttered.

“Since the killer struck in several cities and we're going to learn who, on the
Destiny
, was in those cities at the relevant times, we'll be able to concentrate on those particular people.” He looked at Jude, studying him. “Good call on the ship. Makes perfect sense. Ships contract crew and entertainment for specified periods of time. Crew and entertainers might work on other ships, too. A great way to get around port cities—and kill.” Jude rose; Jackson hadn't given him any kind of satisfactory answer regarding Alexi Cromwell.

“Stay close to Ms. Cromwell,” Jackson told him. “She might be our key.”

Key to insanity!
Jude thought. But there was no point in saying anything else.

He'd been dismissed.

“Good night, Jackson,” he said as he stepped into the deserted hallway.

The ship was quiet for the night, although somewhere, members of the crew were still working.

He prayed that a killer wasn't doing so, as well.

* * *

“At least we've narrowed down the possible number of needles in a haystack,” Jackson said. He sipped from a steaming mug of coffee. Jude had met him at the café on the Promenade Deck. There were a number of tables, spread out a fair distance apart. It was a great area for people-watching, while carrying on a conversation without being overheard.

That morning they were attired in outfits acquired on board. Jude was in navy blue board shorts and a short-sleeved flower-patterned cotton shirt; Jackson wore khakis and a T-shirt with an image of Janice Joplin on the front. Jude figured they looked like the tourists they were pretending to be—or perhaps “bigwigs” disguised as tourists...

Jude nodded as they both studied their phones.

Their task had been made easier than it might have been. Computer programs had allowed tech support workers at the home office to narrow down who, of the several thousand crew and passengers, had been where when. With the majority of the passengers, it must have been pretty straightforward. They'd been in their home states working—until it was time for their vacations. With those who traveled for work, the task was somewhat harder. Their movements had to be traced through hotel and restaurant bills. Same with those who were independently wealthy.

Big Brother might not always be watching—mainly because Big Brother wasn't interested most of the time, Jude thought wryly—but Big Brother was capable of a great deal of research.

“Angela went through every report personally,” Jackson explained, perusing the list. “She's meticulous.”

“Your wife, right? Unusual that you're in the same unit,” Jude said. There was no problem with agents being partners or married, but they were generally required to be in separate units.

Jackson glanced up. “It's different with the Krewe. Angela and I met when the Krewe of Hunters was first formed. The unofficial name is the Krewe because, as I'm sure you've assumed, our first case was in New Orleans.”

“Yes, of course. I know about that,” Jude said.

Jackson returned to studying the list on his phone.

Jude studied his own list. Jackson Crow didn't act as if he wished he'd managed to have one of his own people on this case.

But neither did he see him as a particularly valuable asset. Or at least that was what Jude sensed.

“So the possible suspects,” Jackson began.

“Passengers Roger Antrim and Hank Osprey,” Jude said.

“And we have an interesting list of entertainers.” Jackson took another sip of his coffee. “Larry Hepburn, Ralph Martini, Simon Green—and head of entertainment, Bradley Wilcox.” He nodded at Jude. “Your friend from the piano bar should be able to help us as far as the entertainers go.”

For a moment Jude wished he had real printouts—paper he could actually write on, the old-fashioned way—and wasn't working on his cell phone. He refrained from saying so to Jackson.

“Everyone on this list
could
have been in each city where the murders took place,” Jackson went on. “These are the entertainers who were between contracts. As far as the two passengers go, both are businessmen with deep pockets. And judging by the number of times they've sailed on Celtic American ships, there's every chance they were in the port cities where the previous victims were killed.”

“Wow,” Jude murmured, reading. “The list also includes the ship's head of security, our friend, David Beach.”

“I'd put him toward the bottom of the list,” Jackson said. “The man has an impeccable background.”

“Which may or may not mean anything.”

“No, but because of his size—”

“He'd be noticed wherever he went,” Jackson agreed. “And the last one we have here is the cruise director, Jensen Hardy.”