Krewe of Hunters 1 Phantom Evil (8 page)

None of them had an alibi, except for DuPre.

Blake Conroy was just about the size of a yeti—doubtful he had leaped down from any brick walls. Both DuPre and Haines were probably more agile.

Didn't matter. He needed to chase down the alibis on all three of the men.

He looked to the doorway. Angela was back down with the senator.

The senator handed Jackson a card. “My office address, and my business phone and cell phone are on that card. I've taken an apartment in the complex down on Decatur Street, overlooking the river. I'd just as soon we talk there from now on,” he said.

DuPre, Haines and Blake stood, clearly aware that they were leaving.

“I know it was hard for you. Thank you for coming here today,” Jackson told the senator.

“Thank you for being here,” the senator told him sincerely. “Find out the truth. Maybe I can let Regina rest if I can just know the truth.” He was quiet for a minute. “I didn't believe in ghosts, dammit. But, I might have been the fool, and, of course, I couldn't say that to the police. There is something about this house. If I would have taken more time with Regina…but maybe that wouldn't have changed anything. Maybe there are ghosts. And maybe the ghosts were too much for her.”

Jackson was startled by his statement, and looked at Angela. Her eyes widened and she subtly shook her head.

“You now believe that there are ghosts in here, Senator?”

“Don't you people confirm that sort of thing?” the senator
asked. “I mean, Miss Hawkins was here one night, and she dug bones out of the basement. If my wife went over that balcony, something made her do it. God alone knows—maybe it
was
a ghost.”

“Sir, I have a book on Madden C. Newton. Reading it led me to the bones,” Angela said.

“When was this book written?” he asked, frowning.

“Years and years ago,” Angela assured him.

“Why didn't the author find the bones?” the senator asked. “Because he didn't have a sixth sense,” he said, nodding sagely.

“Actually, in the book, there was a mention of the fact that Madden C. Newton used to tell people that his basement was an amazing place, and that he loved the shadows beneath the stairs,” Angela said. “So, I'm afraid it was the book that led me to the skeleton.”

“Probably,” Jackson said, a slight edge to his voice, “the author of the book didn't dig up the bones because he didn't have access to the house, and if he had had access, he might not have had Angela's ability to work inside the mind of a victim—and a killer.”

“Of course,” the senator said softly. “Well, I'll leave it all in your capable hands, and, of course, these gentlemen are at your disposal,” the senator said. He offered his hand to shake with Jackson, and then headed out the kitchen door to the courtyard. His trio waved and murmured goodbyes, following him.

Jackson slipped down from the counter to follow them out. Angela came behind him.

It was evident that Senator Holloway was eager to find a
killer—living or dead—as long as it meant that Regina Holloway had not killed herself. Grable Haines opened one side of the back door of the black sedan for the senator; DuPre entered before Blake Conroy, letting the massive bodyguard maneuver his bulk into the car last.

The gate opened; the car backed out carefully onto the street.

“There's a pecking order,” he noted. “DuPre is the closest to the senator. Then Conroy, and then the chauffeur, Haines. DuPre considers himself highest in the senator's esteem, and he's very aware he's the most educated. Probably the only bright future among them.”

“Do they get along?” Angela asked him.

“Yes. They seem to do well enough.” He turned to look at Angela. “What made him suddenly turn to ghosts?”

“I was surprised, too,” Angela said. “He talked about the way that Regina had died,” she said. “He said that he could see that her neck was broken—or that her head was at an angle—and that her eyes were open. She was staring, wide-eyed, as if she had been in terror of something. And he told me that he'd seen a shadow in the kitchen that had given him the creeps, but that he had still denied it to his wife. He wants ghosts to have killed his wife. And he feels that people hated him after she died, because they believed that it was his coldness that had led his wife to suicide. I think he wants someone else to blame—and he wants it to be a ghost. If we can prove that there are ghosts in this house, he'll be vindicated.”

“Ghosts don't kill people,” Jackson said flatly.

“And I'm not sure how we'll prove—beyond the scientific
eye—that ghosts exist. Maybe he believes that if he can get a crack team of paranormal investigators just to
say
that the house is haunted and there are ghosts here manipulating and terrifying people, that will be enough.”

“I need to study the coroner's photos,” he said, turning and heading into the kitchen. He opened his computer, still on the table from that morning, and accessed a number of the files he had downloaded.

She was standing behind him. He realized that he was drawing up a grisly death scene—and that he was still aware of the subtle and alluring scent of her perfume. He was seated; a strand of her wheat-gold hair fell on his shoulder. She didn't notice. She was looking at the screen.

He had looked at the various photos—Regina Holloway taken in death from several different vantage points—several times. Now he looked again, studying the dead woman's eyes.

“Once, science actually studied the eyes in forensics—believing the last thing a person had seen was preserved, like film, on the retinas,” Angela murmured. “It does look as if she was terrified.”

“Terrified—and looking at someone or some
thing
,” Jackson mused. He moved the photos around and stood up, nearly knocking her over. He caught her by the arm, steadying her. “Sorry!” he said gruffly. “Let's get up to the room.”

She was a distraction. He was concentrated on the position of a body, and he was still aware that touching her, he felt the softness of her flesh, and the vitality beneath it.

He gave himself a mental shake. They were becoming a
team,
he reminded himself.

And…and he didn't like the fact that though she didn't say so, she was convinced that ghosts walked around, and
maybe even that ghosts would talk to her in Regina Holloway's bedroom.

He paused, gritting his teeth. Was he afraid, maybe just a little, that everything he wanted to deny was true?

No, reality and truth lay at the heart of this death. There was a human being out there responsible.

He took the center stairs up to the second floor, aware that she was following him. He strode straight to the balcony in Regina's room and looked down to the courtyard, envisioning the position of the body. “She didn't dive forward,” he said after a moment. “She went over backward.”

Angela walked to the balcony and turned around, placing her palms on the railing. “She was standing like this.”

“Yes. Do you think that a suicide would have stood here, and flung herself over
backward?
” Jackson asked. “It's not
impossible,
” Angela said.

“Right. But you agree with me. It's highly improbable.”

“Yes, but remember the old Sir Arthur Conan Doyle slash Sherlock Holmes adage?” Angela asked him. “When you get rid of the impossible, what's left is the only answer, no matter how improbable.”

“Conan Doyle believed in ghosts, and Senator Holloway sure seems to think we hunt them,” Jackson said.

She stared back at him. “We do, don't we?” she asked quietly after a minute.

“I used to be with a respected Behavioral Science Unit.”

She laughed. “And I was a cop, looking to eventually become a detective. Jackson, apparently there are people out there who believe ghost hunting is a respected talent. Adam Harrison put us all together because he believes in us. He believes in our
ability to prove that ghosts
aren't
responsible, just as much as he does in our ability to let our minds discover what really was in the past. What is a ghost? To some people, a ghost is a memory. To others, a paranormal experience might be a way of dealing with a loss, or something else terrible. If we can open our minds to all kinds of possibilities, accepting the fact that
science
hadn't really even begun to discover the incredible machinations of the human brain, we strip away whatever it is about this assignment that's embarrassing you.”

“I'm not embarrassed,” he protested. He had been, he realized. He winced.

What were ghosts? Memories?

Face it. He'd seen a ghost in his mind's eye—or the machinations of his brain had brought a ghost to him—and he had saved two lives because of it. Angela, looking at him so earnestly, was right. As a child, he'd been saved by a ghost. A memory. Or a man who had become a ghost memory, because he'd seen a portrait in a hallway of a medieval warrior.

There were times, even now, when he looked back and wondered. He'd been a boy when he'd been in Scotland, riding with his friends. Racing. All these years later, he could still remember falling from his horse—and lying on the ground in the middle of the woods, thinking that his friends had gone on, assuming he was way ahead of him. And then the man had come to find him, help him, bring him home and leave him on his doorstep. Then, later, he had wandered his mother's ancestral home, and he had seen the man in a painting. A painting he had seen before, but hadn't connected with the man who had saved his life. But it was him. Or someone who just looked like him. He had always clung to that explanation. Yet there was always that question at the back of his mind.

He knew that he could do what Angela did; stop, clear his mind, concentrate. And the possibilities of what might be were out there.

She laughed suddenly. “You've seen a ghost,” she told him.

“You've seen ghosts,” he accused her.

She was still smiling. “I don't know what I've seen, really. I believe that there's more to life than what we see. All right—I've
been
places when a parent senses that a child is in danger.”

He stared at her, a bit annoyed; she seemed completely comfortable with her own beliefs, and confident in herself. She didn't run around broadcasting her talents, she just accepted them.

He smiled suddenly. “Some things, we'll just figure out as we go. This is new to all of us—I think we're an experiment Adam has wanted to orchestrate for a long time.”

She grinned, and he thought that she moved just a step closer, maybe even beginning to like him. “Yes, and it's actually really intriguing to be a part of it. It's a good group. I like the others.”

“Where
are
those kids?” he asked. “They should be back from the store by now.”

“I'm assuming they'll be back soon,” Angela said. She frowned, and he realized that she was still standing with her back to the railing, leaned slightly back. He visualized the body falling from her position, and knew that with a bit of impetus—a push or a shove—she would land on the courtyard, just as Regina Holloway had landed.

Despite himself, he reached out and pulled her closer to him, and away from the balcony.

“Sorry,” he said huskily.

“I'm not going over,” she told him, looking up into his eyes. She wasn't angry, and she didn't move away from him. For a moment, chemistry—animal magnetism—coursed through him. Maybe her parents had known when they'd named her that she was destined to grow into such a golden and elegant young woman.

He just wanted to stay close to her; to protect her, from herself, if need be.

She didn't seem to mind being close. She did seem a bit amused. “I'm actually quite competent at defending myself, you know?”

“I've seen a lot of competent people go down—I've seen cops go down, I've seen the most brilliantly trained men I knew go down,” he said, an edge that he hadn't intended in his tone.

She touched his cheek with the pads of her fingers; it was a nice gesture, one a friend might make. “I know,” she said softly. “I'm sorry.”

He caught her hand, thinking that he might say more, thinking it was a surprisingly intimate moment. He'd known her a day now. Maybe the intensity of the situation made it seem they had known each other much longer.

Maybe animal magnetism was just that—he would have been attracted to her no matter where or when or how they had met.

He found himself caught in her gaze, wanting to know more about her. “Are you ever totally honest?” he asked her gently.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I know about your work with the police—before and after you became an officer. But what happened before then? What's the real story on the plane crash?”

She stared back at him. He thought that she would brush him off with a casual remark. But she hesitated. “You already think I'm crazy.”

“I know that the mind—that the human brain—is a frontier. Many things may be possible. Or the illusions that we create in our mind may seem very real. I'm serious. Please. Tell me. What happened with the plane crash?”

She took a deep breath and looked away from him. He knew that the memory was painful, but she had apparently decided to share it.

“The weather was bad throughout the flight, but our flight attendant kept assuring us that it was like bumping over the waves in the ocean. I was only twelve then, but even I knew when it went straight to hell. The flight attendant went rushing by us, white as a sheet, crossing herself. The plane began to heave and twist, and when it went to the side, I knew that something was really, really wrong. I was sitting next to my mom, and she threw her arms around me, as if she could protect me. The passengers started screaming. I can still hear the sound in my mind sometimes…”