Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (12 page)

“You had a
feeling?
” she demanded incredulously. “You're a ghost!”

“I'm the ghost of the man I was, and the essence of what I was is still what I am,” he said flatly.

She blinked, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “Explain that!”

“What remains is the soul,” he said. “And the essence of our being. The body is fragile—it ages and it dies. But the soul, the energy of what we are, is what we always were.” He searched out her eyes and tried again. “We learn through the ages, through everyone we watch. I've seen generations come and go, and I've shed tears that no one sees through many a tragedy. I touched your father once, but he does not remain—he went with your mother when the call came.”

Her parents had gone on. She missed them, so much, still. The beginnings of tears tightened her throat.

She steeled herself, wondering if she could possibly be speaking to the ghost of a long-dead ancestor, or if the events had just become too much for her.

“You watched all that—but you didn't see who killed Charles?” she asked.

“No! I was with you and Frazier on the porch. I love the reenactments. Now, that is. But the first few years of my—
ghosthood?
—I was a bitter fool. I really was. I owned slaves, yes—it was a way of life, and we didn't really know any better. Really. I was bitter when we lost the war. I was bitter when the carpetbaggers came down. Then I began to learn. I began to watch the world as the years went by. I could see that I'd been—not a fool—but utterly ignorant to many truths in life. Now I've watched many young people go off to war, and I've seen the fallacy of our ways, and I'm glad we lost the war—we never should have fought it.”

He was really there. Or, in her mind, he was real, and he was just like a reasoning, functioning human being.

Except that he was dead.

She shook her head again and realized she was doing so enough to give herself brain damage. She forced herself to stop.

“This is great,” she whispered. “I'm seeing a ghost—and you can't even help me.”

“I
can
help you,” Marshall Donegal said.

“How?”

“I can do my best to watch the behavior of those
around us now even more closely, and I can do my best to stay near you and look after you. If you know I'm here and accept that I
can
be here, and you'll let me in, you'll hear me now when I know that there is danger.”

“How did you know there was danger?”

“I could
feel
it,” he said again, exasperated. “I tried to warn your great-grandfather when the old fellow was about to keel over in the barn. No one saw me—no one came to help when I screamed. Now that poor old bastard is spending his afterlife pacing out there in the stables, and he won't move on. I talk to him, and he doesn't hear me. He just waits for his opportunity to act out a long-gone and lamented war, and there's nothing I can do.”

“You can't speak to other ghosts?” she asked him.

“Sometimes. Sometimes it's as if we never quite touch,” he said sadly.

“It's not just one big old ghostly community out there?” she demanded.

“Some don't accept that they're dead,” he told her.

“And others?”

“Others know, and they're not sure why they linger. Some just can't go on. And sometimes we can reach one another.”

“What about Emma?” she asked him.

He turned away from her. “No,” he said, his back to
her. “Perhaps she has gone on. Perhaps we are being punished. But, no, I can't see or reach Emma.”

“Punished for what?”

He turned back to her, waving a hand in the air. “That's not important. What's important is that you have a killer on your hands. A cruel killer, one who mocked the way I died. I died for a cause that might have had serious flaws, but I believed that I was fighting for my family and my state. Why should we be mocked so?”

“We?”

“The Donegal clan.”

“You think someone killed Charles—to hurt the family?”

“The days of cotton and sugar being a means to all ends has long passed—the plantation survives on the guests who come. Donegal does well because there are always visitors. If the place becomes known as the site of a heinous recent murder, the people will not come.”

“Oh, well, that may not be true,” Ashley said dryly. “It may attract more.”

“It will hurt, I believe.”

She pointed at him. “You're not really a ghost, and I'm not really seeing you. You are a creation of my subconscious, and you're logic—telling me that I can figure this out if I think hard enough.”

“I'm afraid I'm not going away.”

“I'll just ignore you.”

“Then you'll be behaving in a most foolish manner.
Think about the day, about the event. Think about the men involved, Ashley. Your friend is right, and you know it. Someone close to Donegal Plantation committed that murder.”

“N
o hairs, no fibers, nothing on the bastard but the wool of his uniform and fluff from a pair of cavalry gloves,” Colby said, disgusted. “And, of course, there are so many fingerprints on the tomb, we can't begin to sort them. Same thing with tire tracks—there are none close to the cemetery wall, and there are thousands in the gravel and the road out front. We have begun to sort them out, but it will take a great deal of time, and when we have them, what will we have?” The man was clearly frustrated. “There was absolutely no sign of a struggle. There's no sign that Charles Osgood was dragged to the tomb. Science isn't going to point us straight to the murderer on this one, and we need warrants to just go digging into the personal effects of the hundreds of people who might have been around. He was killed with a bayonet, so getting a judge to move on collecting the weaponry used at the reenactment has been a piece of cake, but once we go beyond that…well, it will be hard to
pinpoint the fellow—not unless he strikes again, or gets careless.”

“Let's hope he doesn't strike again,” Jake said.

“Well, of course. It doesn't look like a serial killing, does it? The way I see it, someone had a grudge on Charles Osgood and found a way to really drag out his death.”

“We're grateful, Detective Mack, that your officers began collecting all of the rifles and bayonets used by the men in the reenactment, and that you've been so gracious to share information” Jackson said. “Profiling isn't an exact science. We all know that. And we don't believe we're dealing with a serial killer, either, but still, finding someone who holds a grudge—even finding out if there was a perceived slight to someone—can often help point law enforcement in the right direction.”

Detective Colby nodded. “Fine. We'll track down people. We can narrow the field, but it will still be a big field.” He was quiet a minute. “I heard you all did a damned good job in New Orleans. Some of the information seems to be a bit vague. Do you people mind-read, or something like that?”

“We explore history—history in time, and history as it pertains to individuals,” Jake said smoothly. He had a feeling that with Colby, they'd be thrown out if they were to mention the fact that they sought out ghosts.

“Detective,” Jackson said, “we're truly grateful that you're allowing us to work with you. I believe
that the cemetery was thoroughly searched when Charles first went missing. When his body was discovered, he was still wearing his uniform, so he was held from the time he disappeared until he was found. He was apparently held in a drugged condition, and perhaps the murderer was able to go about his customary life while stashing his victim somewhere. But if we have alibis for the time before the body was found—we know he had only been dead for a few hours, tops—then we can eliminate those people and concentrate on the lies someone might be telling, or on alibis that might have a few holes in them.”

“You know there were hundreds of people on that plantation for the reenactment,” Colby said wearily. “We're on it, but the manpower needed for that kind of investigation is great.” He was quiet for a minute and said grudgingly, “This is a sensational case. We're, uh, grateful that you're here, too.”

“Thank you,” Jackson said.

“It's a needle in a haystack,” Colby said.

“What about the bayonets of the men who were already gone that day?” Jake asked.

“If the men were gone with those bayonets, they couldn't have killed him with them,” Mack Colby said.

“
If
they were really gone, which, of course, your men will find out,” Jake said. “I don't think that any of the men who were playing Yankees—who had left the property already—are guilty, but I believe that two of them are local, Southerners who had ancestors
who did choose the Northern side. Once we eliminate—” Jake began.

“We'll get every weapon. Every blade,” Colby said grimly. “They'll be wiped clean, of course. But sometimes, no matter how you wipe down a blade, the forensics folks can still find a miniscule dot of blood. I'm doubting it with this guy, though. This damned thing was planned out.”

“Yes, it was,” Jackson said.

Mack Colby seemed pleased Jackson agreed with him.

“How much of the property was searched by your men?” Jake asked.

“We had an entire team in the cemetery,” the detective said. “And, of course, I had officers comb the area around the cemetery as well.”

“I think we need to extend that search—take it to a daylight level,” Jake said. “If I had committed such a murder, I wouldn't have kept the murder weapon on my person anywhere. If you're found with the murder weapon, it's most likely you're the killer. He's gotten rid of that bayonet—and I believe it might well still be on or near the property. He might have been on the property
after
the murder, or nearby, and I just don't think he'd risk being found with the weapon.”

“Hell, we don't even know how the bastard got his victim there, with no one at all seeing him. The plantation was still crowded—lots of folks staying over,” Mack said.

“The river,” Jake said, imagining the scene in his
mind's eye. “He might have come by the river. The cemetery abuts it. Easy enough to take a rowboat, tie her up, drag your victim in and disappear the same way—you'd never have to go by the house or the outbuildings,” Jake said.

“I'll have a team back out there by this afternoon,” the detective assured them. “I'll muster up our best techs to go over the property again, and call in some divers. It will take me a few hours, of course.”

“I'll do the dive myself,” Jake told Jackson.

“Surfer boy, that's a hard current—you'd better be a damned good diver,” Colby told him.

Jake held his temper and smiled. He didn't look like a “surfer boy.” He had just stepped on Mack Colby's toes the first night of the crime by being there when the body was found. Colby had accepted them; he even seemed to like Jackson. But Jake had been there when the body had first been discovered, and Colby seemed to have a bit of grudge because of it.

“I used to scrape barnacles off shrimp boats, and I've fixed a few motors in the Gulf and the Mississippi. I'll be careful,” he said pleasantly.

He thought that Colby would sniff out his disdain, but he didn't.

Adam Harrison's reach was long. The investigation was theirs, not that they had any problem working closely with the local police. Mack Colby just had a chip on his shoulder, even though he was trying to pretend it wasn't there.

“And, of course, we are talking muddy water and hard currents. I'll sure be grateful for the help of your police divers,” Jake said.

At his side, Jackson grinned and lowered his head to hide it.

Colby was mollified.

Jackson and Jake left the police station. “You really know that muddy water so well?”

Jake laughed. “Yeah, I actually do. But I have to admit, I'd be in the damned muck anyway even if I didn't. There's just something about that damned detective. And I won't go alone. I know that Cliff Boudreaux is a diver. Cliff has been on the plantation forever. His dad was a manager and tour director here, too.”

“Cliff Boudreaux took part in the reenactment and has lived at the plantation forever,” Jackson said, looking over at him.

“Right—that's what I said.”

“And that makes him a suspect,” Jackson reminded him.

“An unlikely suspect,” Jake argued. “Cliff has been an open book. Two of his ancestors were Donegals.”

“That could make him a prime suspect,” Jackson said.

“I knew him when I was a kid,” Jake told Jackson.

“He's still a suspect. I want to believe we can communicate with the dead at times,” Jackson said
gruffly. “I don't want any of us joining them. I won't let you go alone.”

Jake didn't argue.

When they reached the house, Jackson motioned for Jake to follow him. They went up to the bedroom Jackson and Angela were sharing to find her at the desk lost in thought.

“Everything is all right here, right?” Jackson asked.

Angela looked up in surprise at his entry.

“Any sense of…anyone who might be able to help us?” Jackson asked.

She quirked a brow. Jackson knew that the world wasn't always what it seemed, but he still had trouble just asking her if she might have met a ghost who could flat out tell them the truth about the situation.

“Don't you dare laugh at me—I'm letting the house get to know me. And, Jackson Crow, you know as well as I do that we're unlikely to come across an entity who just happened to see the whole thing. If the ghosts haunting the cemetery are active, they probably get the hell away when a reenactment takes place because people are everywhere, and if they're just reliving the fight—well, then they don't see anything but what was. Some of those entities have been around forever, but still can't quite reach out and touch anyone, much less a newcomer to the property. Give me time.” She looked at Jake. “And give Jake time. He knows the place. And those who
might still haunt this house and these grounds know that Jake is familiar here. And Ashley.”

“Ashley?” Jake said, frowning.

Angela nodded, looking at him. “I think that Ashley has a sense that there is more—and I think it terrifies her. Maybe she'll come around. You can't force ghosts—and you can't force anyone to admit that they might see ghosts.”

“The murderer was alive,” Jackson said. “So let's concentrate on behavioral analysis of the living for the moment.”

“It's possible that someone wanted Charles dead—and killed him here,” Angela said.

“Too pat, too hard and too complicated. If someone just wanted Charles dead, there were easier ways to kill him.”

“A narcissist,” Jackson said. “He's sure of himself. He believes in his intelligence and his ability to carry out the plot.”

“So we're looking for someone who isn't stupid,” Ashley said.

“The police will be working hard on the masses and their alibis. I think we have to look at the probable first. So we'll go with the fact that we believe that it's someone close to the family. We all thought that from the beginning. Initial instinct is a good place to start. This is someone who, I believe, is a functioning psychopath. He's living with the belief that he's been harmed in some way by the people here, or even by the plantation itself.”

“I agree,” Jake said.

“Even then, we have to start narrowing down the suspect pool,” Angela reminded them.

“I'd say we can get it down to a handful soon enough. Prove where people were physically, and we'll find out answers. Or, at least, get the number down to where we can apply some pressure and perhaps cause this particular person to break. I don't think that he's well. This is the kind of murder perpetrated by a person with some kind of mistaken belief in the righteousness of what he's doing. We just have to figure out who is really a concerned friend—and who is wearing a mask of friendship. I believe that he'll eventually break.”

“I'm just afraid of what might happen if we don't find him quickly. He may start to spin out of control before he breaks, and that could be really dangerous,” Angela said.

“That could be fatal,” Jake said. “We need to take care—great care.”

Jackson nodded. “Go work with Ashley now,” he said.

Jake went back downstairs and found Ashley in the study. He sat down in a chair across the desk from her and surveyed her. She handed him a sheet of paper. It was filled with the names of those who had played rebels and those who had played Yankees. There was a little paragraph about each man's family, employment and character that followed. He smiled, looking down at the sheet.

The first name on it was Cliff Boudreaux. And Ashley had typed,
You've known him almost as long as I have. Cliff, competent, good-looking, strong, self-assured. Tour guide, jack-of-all-trades. We all know he has family blood and that he loves the family.

Mentally, he added Jackson's note: because of that very family association, he may have underlying feelings of resentment, as in, he has as much right to the property as Frazier and Ashley.

Following Cliff's name was Charles Osgood.
Not
a suicide. Underlined three times.
An accountant, always an in-between man, not bad-looking, not a charmer. Thrilled to play Marshall Donegal; change happened at the last minute.

Charles was followed by Ramsay Clayton and then by Hank Trebly, which made sense. Hank was involved with the sugar mill on the cemetery side of the property.

Hank Trebly,
Ashley wrote,
reminds me just a bit of a hobbit. A little short, a little squat—I know you know Hank. Fortysomething, balding a bit, always chewing his lower lip, concerned with politics, and the environmentalists coming after the sugar mills. I hear he's a good guy, though, insisting that corners never be cut, and that they follow regulations to a T.

Jake looked up again, smiling as he caught Ashley studying him with serious eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. This is perfect, actually.”

“You sure?”

“Jackson's specialty is behavioral science. This is exactly what he'll need. He hasn't met these people, and your information is the kind of thing that a behavioral scientist works with. Perfect,” he told her.

She nodded, but her gaze shifted toward the door. He looked around. There was no one there. Was she praying someone would come get them both out of here?

“You okay?” he asked her.

“Fine,” she said, not taking her eyes from his again.

He turned again, feeling as if someone were behind him; no matter where she was looking, it was as if she had seen something.