Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (11 page)

“Sure. It's hardly my expertise—”

“No, you just didn't
know
it was your expertise,” Jackson told him. “I'll meet you in front in five minutes,” he added, rising to leave the room.

Angela was still there. She looked like an angelic
piece of fluff, but she could handle a Glock as if she'd been a shooting champ for a hundred years.

She set her hand on his. “I'll be here,” she told him.

He grinned. “The place is riddled with ghosts, isn't it?”

“Probably,” she said.

“Have you met any yet?”

“I haven't tried. But I promise I'll be getting right on that. And,” she added, a curve to her lips and a light in her eyes, “you know me—I usually need a little time and quiet. God knows why—most ghosts are shy of disbelievers. You'd think it would be the other way around.”

“You'd think Charles Osgood's spirit would be around here somewhere,” he said.

“You never know who lingers and who moves right on,” Angela said. “Remember, death doesn't make the soul all-seeing. Sometimes, ghosts don't know what's happened—we all know that.”

“Great,” Jake said. “Death is as confusing as life.”

“Don't worry today,” Angela said. “I'll keep my eye on your Miss Donegal—and her grandfather, of course.”

“Thanks,” Jake told her.

“Want to tell me about it?” Angela asked him.

He shrugged. “We were close, intimately close. Her father died, but I knew when he first went into emergency, and I shouldn't have. And I related a
dream I'd just had about him, in which he said how much he loved her and that he was all right—and two seconds later the nurse walked in to say that he was dead. In that moment, I became a pariah.”

Angela nodded sympathetically. “That's why we learn to keep our own council. But you're okay, right?”

“Yes, I swear it. Don't worry about me. I'm working, and my emotions won't sway me in any way,” he assured her.

“Our emotions always sway us,” Angela told him. “Just so long as they sway us in the right direction, we're fine.”

He left her, ready to head to the front of the house. But he heard noise in the dining room and stepped in. Ashley was there, pouring herself coffee from the samovar on the buffet.

“Ashley, can you get me a list of the Yankees and the rebels who took part in the reenactment? I'm sure the police asked you for your rosters, but would you write up the names—and what they do and how long they've been involved with the plantation?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

That morning she was in jeans and a T-shirt. She still appeared as gloriously beautiful as she had in flowing white. She had that same air of dignity that sat so well on Frazier.

And elegance. Even in jeans.

And she seemed to have forgotten her earlier tirade.

“Of course,” she repeated. She looked away for a moment and then back to him. “Sorry about earlier. I was really tired.”

“Don't worry. It meant nothing.”

She looked down. “Of course not,” she murmured. But she looked up again, frowning. “Are you leaving?”

“For a few hours—just down to the station. Angela will be here. And there are still two patrol officers getting your guests out and stopping others from coming in.”

“Jake, I really can't believe that one of our reenactors could have done this. I've known most of these guys since I was a kid.”

“Then you need to think hard about anyone who might have had a grudge against Charles—or Ramsay Clayton.”

“No one had a grudge against Charles. They felt sorry for him all the time, if anything. And I really can't imagine anyone having a grudge against Ramsay. He's a pleasant person, not much of a temper—actually, a nice man. He had no problem with letting Charles take his place.”

“He wouldn't—if he knew something was going to happen to the actor playing Marshall Donegal,” Jake said.

She stiffened at that. “It was a last-minute change,” she told him. “Why couldn't this have been a random killing?”

He paused, thinking that was obvious—except
that Ashley very stubbornly didn't want to believe that anyone with whom she'd been friends could possibly have plotted out the brutal killing.

“First, Ashley, simple logic,” he said. “You have to know this area to have kidnapped a man and kept him hostage—even drugged—for that long a time. You'd have to know Donegal Plantation well to know the cemetery, how to reach the Donegal vault easily and to escape unseen.”

“We're open to the public—we're a bed-and-breakfast. And the history of the place is written up in a number of books.”

“Ashley,” he said seriously, “a murder like that isn't a sudden act. It was preplanned, and preplanned carefully. Is it
possible
that a stranger came on a tour and devised a way to find notoriety? Yes. But it's most likely, considering human nature and behavior, that someone close to Donegal Plantation committed this crime. I'm sure that law enforcement will look at all angles, but we—the team—specialize in behavior—” he broke off; he didn't want to tell Ashley bluntly that they would also be seeking those
who weren't still living
for help “—and even the events that occurred in the past that cause someone to act a particular way in the present, and so, we'll put our focus on those who are close to the family and Donegal Plantation. I'm sorry, but I honestly believe you're going to have to accept the fact that someone you know is a murderer.”

“You could be wrong,” she said.

He had to grin ruefully at that. “Damn, you're still stubborn as hell. Think about it again, about everything I said. A random act of violence wouldn't explain someone holding a man drugged and hostage and then killing him with a bayonet—
as your ancestor was killed
.”

“But you could be wrong,” she insisted.

He didn't answer. “I'll be back soon,” he told her.

Jackson was waiting for him in the hall. He drove, and as he headed out, he looked back in the rearview mirror as Donegal Plantation became smaller and smaller, and disappeared in the trees.

He didn't want to leave. Not while someone was still out there.

 

“This,” Beth commented, “is sad!”

She and Ashley were at the dining-room table. All of the guests were now gone, including Justin, who had taken his family into New Orleans. At this point, it was definitely going to be better to think about his children enjoying the zoo and the aquarium than hanging around Donegal Plantation.

Ashley looked at Beth, frowning, “Well, of course, it's sad. A man is dead.”

Beth shook her head. “No, this—the two of us sitting here, drooping on our elbows, getting nothing done. That's sad!”

Ashley sat back. “They asked me for a list—I've done the list. I've checked on my grandfather—he's
actually sleeping. There are two guys in uniform hanging around outside, and I'm not sure what else to do.”

“Well, I'm going to cook.” Beth stood up. “And I suggest that you go befriend the blonde cop who is wandering all over the house.”

“Angela. Angela Hawkins?” Ashley murmured.

“That would be the name of the blonde cop or fed or whatever we have walking around,” Beth told her. “Go on. I'm going to occupy myself. Alone. Go find the investigator. Maybe you can help her.”

Ashley rose. “All right,” she said.

She left Beth and looked through the rooms on the ground floor. Upstairs, she saw the door to Angela and Jackson's room was open; Angela was inside, sitting on the bed and staring into space.

Ashley approached the door. “Hello?” she said.

The woman started and looked at her, and then smiled. “Hello. This is a beautiful place. Absolutely beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I'm sure it's full of legends,” Angela said.

“You bet.”

“Want to share a few?”

“Oh, Lord, well…there are supposedly several soldiers wandering around. We had an actor die of a heart attack, in the 1940s, I believe, in the barn. Members of the Donegal family have died of old age. So, let's see, we're supposedly haunted by Unionists, rebels, actors—oh, a World War I cavalryman who
died in France but made his way back here. The house was built in the early eighteen hundreds, so we've decades of ghosts running around,” Ashley said lightly. “Then, of course, we have the rumored ghosts who really can't possibly exist—not here. Every plantation is supposed to have the beautiful slave girl who poisoned the mistress and was then hanged from one of the oaks. But it didn't happen here. Not that way, anyway. I've had guests, however, who swear they've seen her.”

“Well, sometimes people see what they want to see, don't they?” Angela asked her.

“And sometimes, what they don't want to,” Ashley replied.

“Really?”

“Finding Charles,” Ashley said, looking away. It wasn't what she had meant at all. She had just met this woman.

And maybe it wasn't such a good idea to remain with her.

“Well,” she said awkwardly, “thank you for being here.”

“It's what we do,” Angela said.

Ashley inclined her head. “Thank you anyway. I'll let you get back to—to whatever you're doing. Excuse me.”

“Ashley!” Angela called when she would have walked away.

Ashley paused.

“I'm not sure what Jake told you, but we were
banded together because we learned how to blend our intuitions with logic, and even to analyze our dreams. Don't let any of that scare you. If you let yourself turn fear into careful thought, you'll discover just how much you may know yourself.”

“I don't know who killed Charles, and I don't have a logical—or even illogical—thought on what might have happened. I wish I did,” Ashley said. She gave Angela a forced smile.

“I'm here if you need me,” Angela said.

“Thanks,” Ashley told her and waved, walking away. She wasn't sure where to go, and she found herself returning to her own room. She lay down on the bed, remembering that she'd slept no more than two or three hours. If she tried closing her eyes, maybe she would sleep.

What now?

The world was strange; they were waiting. Waiting for what, she wasn't certain. The police seldom captured a murderer immediately, and they were in a very bad position here, since they depended on tourism and their guests to keep the place afloat.

“Ashley.”

The whisper of her name brushed her ears, and she didn't trust the sound was real, or if it was all in her mind.

She kept her eyes closed.

“What?” she demanded crossly.

“You hear me. I know you hear me. It's so difficult to find someone who actually does.”

“You're the illusion of a tormented mind,” Ashley said.

She swallowed hard as something settled at the foot of her bed.

Don't do it, don't do it—don't open your eyes!
she commanded herself.

“Look, I'm trying to help you. I swear. You're my great-great-great—I don't know how many greats—granddaughter, and I'd never hurt you, not for the world, but I'm afraid for you.”

“If you're afraid for me, go away. You'll give me a heart attack. Or the police will have to collect me and put me in a straitjacket if you don't,” Ashley said, still keeping her eyes tightly closed.

“Donegal women are not cowards!” he said.

“I'm not a coward. I'm trying to stay sane!”

“Open your eyes, young woman!”

She did so. She blinked. She wanted to scream, but, of course, she couldn't. Her throat was locked.

And he looked so damned comfortable. He sat on the edge of the bed, a handsome man. His hair was a darker blond than hers, long and actually curling around his neck. A large-brimmed, plumed hat sat atop his head, and he had brilliant blue Donegal eyes. His uniform appeared to be new, and in pristine shape, and bore Louisiana militia insignia. A scabbard held his sword in place around his hip, even as he sat, the sheathed sword at an angle.

He stared at her.

She stared at him.

Eventually, the lump went down in her throat. She wondered if she was dreaming again. She didn't think that she was. She could feel the pillows beneath her head, and the fabric of the sheets she lay upon. Daylight was streaming through from the balcony. She could see the sky beyond. She was awake, and she pinched herself to prove it, feeling a bit ridiculous as she did so.

“You really see me!” he whispered with pleasure.

“You're in my mind,” she told him.

“Maybe, but you see me.” She hated to deny a man such evident pleasure at so simple a thing.

“You're a ghost, haunting Donegal Plantation,” she said flatly. She groaned. “No, haunting
me.
Why me?”

“Because it's in you—it's always been in you to reach me. And I've tried to reach you forever.”

She didn't know that you could startle a ghost, but apparently you could, because he jumped when she suddenly sat up. She stood then and walked around, turning away and turning back.

He didn't disappear.

“You've been in my dreams,” she whispered.

“Easiest contact,” he told her.

She shook her head and then approached him, angry. “Then—you knew. You knew someone was going to kill Charles. Who is it? Damn it, tell me, tell me what's going on, and we can solve this. What did you see? What do you know?”

He rose to meet her. He was really quite the swash-buckling figure, and she could see where he had been an impressive man—until he'd gotten himself killed.

“Nothing,” he said.

“What?”

“Nothing. I know nothing. Look, a ghost can't be everywhere at the same time. I've had this odd feeling for a long time that something was going to happen. Something bad. I've tried to reach you, to make your see me and be careful.”