The Betrayed (Krewe of Hunters) (10 page)

Most of the world didn’t see the dead—the
majority
of the world didn’t see them. To all those people, that meant they weren’t there and if they
were
there, it was imagination. Or fantasy. Or, worse, lunacy.

Apparently, he didn’t remember that once upon a time the so-called sane world believed the Earth was flat.

Rollo barked at her and wagged his tail expectantly.

“Sorry, boy! Want a treat? My dog food and dog treat bill is probably as high as someone else’s rent!”

She headed to the kitchen and the large ceramic container that held Rollo’s extra-large dog biscuits. She loved the sound of his toenails clattering on the hardwood floors as he trotted behind her.

“You know what, Rollo?” she said. “Men! Why do they only seem to come in three forms? Known-you-forever-and-I-love-you-like-a-brother. Total jerk-off slime. Or to-die-for-but-what-an-ass? Huh, Rollo? Dogs aren’t like that, are they? Nah. Although I hate to admit it, kid, but you guys is where that expression came from—
you dog, you!
”

Rollo just wagged his tail.

“Really, I must beg your pardon.”

Mo raised her eyes to the kitchen door. Colonel Daniel Parker stood there, handsome and casual in his field uniform.

I should have said that they came in four different types,
Mo thought.
The first three and totally-charming-but-taken-and-dead.

“Sorry, Daniel. The world’s changed a lot since you had to deal with things,” Mo said.

Candy swept in behind him, setting her spectral arms around his shoulders and peeking around him to speak with Mo. “It’s changed in a lot of good ways! When Daniel and I fell in love, we would’ve been ostracized if we left this house. Slavery, remember? I was a runaway slave. But Daniel loved me, anyway. He was ahead of the rest of the world.”

Mo nodded and poured herself more coffee. “True, but there are still people out there who are—” She paused, trying to think of the right word. In greeting cards, the writing had to be brief, succinct, effective. She knew there was a better word for what she was trying to say.

She couldn’t think of it.

“Jerks!” she exploded.

“Eloquent,” Candy said to Daniel.

“Oh, very,” Daniel agreed.

“I mean, thank God, yes, we have laws that protect people now, and our constitution declares that we are all equal, regardless of color, religion, et cetera. But
people
are still jerks!”

Candy smiled. “And now you believe the ‘sane’ world discriminates against those with a sixth sense?”

“No. Yes. I—”

“But you accept it—and you hide it,” Daniel said softly.

“Yes. Which is what people with a sixth sense do.” It was information that could only be shared with a select few. And it wasn’t as if you could grab your cell phone and
call
the dead. Some knew why they stayed behind. Some weren’t really sure.

“He’s so...intense,” Mo said. “I’ve been with cops at murder scenes before—although I admit this has been the worst. When I was living in the city, it wasn’t that they were jaded or cold or didn’t care, but they dealt with murder quite often and they weren’t so involved. I don’t mean they were cold or that they weren’t a hundred percent dedicated to solving the crime. But I’ve seen them talk about their lives, ask about each other’s kids, make off-duty plans. With this guy, it’s...different.”

“Maybe he was a fervent believer in the dead man, in Richard,” Daniel said. “I felt that way about the general—Robert E. Lee. He was a man of principle. He felt as if he bled himself, watching men die. I didn’t know him personally, but I would’ve followed him to hell and back.”

“Or maybe he knew Mr. Highsmith personally,” Candy suggested.

Mo nodded. “He did.”

“And maybe he had a bad experience somewhere along the line,” Daniel said. He hesitated, drawing Candy close. “I’ve seen people who I’m sure have seen me—and I’ve seen them panic and run away as if they were being chased by fire.”

“He doesn’t look like the kind who’d panic,” Mo said. “And yet...” She’d already seen that he was deceiving himself about his unusual ability.

“No, he looks like the kind who would fight it,” Daniel said. “And fighting it might mean that he’s determined to deny it. So much so, he’s managed to create a block he can’t break through.”

Mo turned and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot she kept on during the day. “Okay, thank you both. I’m off to work now.”

Neither of them moved. She, could, of course, have walked through them, but she felt uncomfortable doing that.

It also seemed incredibly rude.

“What?” she asked.

“I think he’s out there,” Daniel said.

“He?”

“Richard Highsmith. He might have been at one of the crime scenes—watching. Sadly, it’s something the dead are sometimes compelled to do,” Candy said.

“Or he might have heard about you before...Politicians usually know the police. You worked with the police in the city as well as here,” Daniel reminded her.

“Perhaps he feels he can’t really reach Agent Mahoney, so he’s coming to you,” Candy said. “I know there was someone out there last night.”

“If he wants to reach me, I’m here,” Mo told her.

“We should take a constitutional.” Daniel bowed slightly toward Candy.

“He means a walk,” Candy said, grinning up at him.

“I know that,” Mo said. “And thanks again for telling me about Richard. If he comes back, maybe he’ll be willing to make contact.”

They left. She took her coffee and headed for the computer. She looked at the array of Halloween cards she’d created, which now decorated her desk. A friendly pop-up ghost opened its arms to say, “Boo.” Witches at a cauldron worked up a spell for good times and happiness. A vampire offered a kiss on another card. Her most popular creation for the season had been a headless horseman; he held a grinning pumpkin filled with candy. When the card was opened, a mirror showed the recipient’s face atop the headless horseman.

She picked up the card, closed it and slid it into a drawer.

Think Valentine’s Day!

Keying Agent Mahoney’s name into her laptop, she discovered that it wasn’t easy to find anything on the man. But then, FBI field agents probably didn’t post any of their personal information on Facebook—or tweet about their cases. He didn’t have any LinkedIn or Wikipedia pages, and the Aidan Mahoney she did find was an attorney in Scottsdale, Arizona.

She began advanced searches, adding
New York, paranormal activity
and
Sleepy Hollow
to his name. Nothing.

Finally something did pop up on the screen.

She found the picture of a boy of about fifteen along with the headline Los Angeles Police Clear Young Tarrytown Suspect of Murder. The boy was clearly Aidan Mahoney. Handsome, with dark hair and a striking face that hadn’t matured, did not yet display the hard angles and lines that now completed his face.

She read eagerly.

The police today offered an official apology to Aidan Michael Mahoney and his parents. Mahoney, on vacation in the area with his family, had been a suspect in the murder of a homeless man found under a bridge. Police admit that, desperate for a suspect, they had questioned the young Mahoney—who discovered the body of the dead man—in an attempt to bring charges. Yesterday, Maynard Griffin, another drifter, was arrested at the site of a second murder of a homeless man. His arraignment is pending. In an effort to put an end to various rumors, the lawyer speaking on behalf of the Mahoney family agreed to the release of Aidan’s name.

Mo sat back.

So that was it. Aidan Mahoney had used his gift—and nearly been arrested for it.

She studied the picture of the boy Aidan Mahoney had been.

He’d had a smile and a look of eager anticipation, excitement about the world.

That boy had changed and become the man he was now.

* * *

Walking into the station for the task force meeting, Aidan was impressed with the number of officers who were waiting to be briefed by Lieutenant Purbeck and him. He was also surprised to see that two of his colleagues had arrived, sooner than he’d expected—Jane Everett and Sloan Trent.

He’d met them in New York, but just briefly. They were officially part of the new office but there’d been no companionable nights out at a local bar yet; no life stories had been spilled. The two were a couple, he knew, but since the female agents in the Krewe tended to retain their maiden names, he wasn’t sure if they were married. Somewhere along the line, he’d ask them. Or Jackson.

Trent was a big, rugged guy, tall and trim but heavily muscled. He’d come from the West and still looked the part, even in a dark navy suit. The ghost of a cowboy hat seemed to linger on his head.

Jane was a very pretty woman who seemed to tone down her natural assets for the workplace—her dark hair was swept into a bun and she, too, was dressed in a business suit and wearing flat, serviceable shoes.

“We tried to reach you to let you know we were here,” Sloan told him. “We got to the hotel at nine, but you’d left and you weren’t answering your cell.”

“I’m sorry.” Aidan wondered if his introspection and his curiosity about Mo Deauville had distracted him to the point that he’d paid no attention to his phone.

Their phones were a lifeline for all of them; he had to shake off whatever mood he was in and play his part competently.

“Jackson said you wanted an artist. The police have done a computer rendering of the Jane Doe, right?” Jane asked.

“Yes, but no pun intended, there’s no life to it. I showed it around last night. When I asked someone if she recognized the woman in the picture, she said it could have been anyone.”

“I’ll get on it as soon as we’re done here,” Jane said.

They were in the back of the room, sipping bad coffee. Purbeck announced that they’d begin.

He started by giving a report on the case from beginning to end, starting with the disappearance of Richard Highsmith, and bringing them to where they were now.

An officer raised his hand. “Are we looking at this as a nut on the loose or a possible political assassination?”

“Both. Either. We don’t know yet. We still have no identity for the woman found with Mr. Highsmith. Hopefully, when we’ve discovered who she was, we’ll learn more.”

“Well, they’re not officially serial killings, are they? Two dead, found together. At least three need to be dead with a similar M.O. for it to be classified as so, right?” another officer asked.

Purbeck gestured at Aidan, who set his coffee down and walked to the front of the room. Purbeck introduced him, although he’d met many of the officers already.

“As Lieutenant Purbeck said, we don’t know what we’re looking for yet and we can’t rule anything out. You’re aware that we categorize killers as organized or disorganized when we’re seeing a potential serial situation. Whoever did this is extremely organized. He or she—most likely a he, since the victims were strangled before they were beheaded and that takes considerable strength—managed to whisk away a well-known political figure from a conference center crawling with security.

“Perhaps our Jane Doe saw something and was killed to silence her. Perhaps, in an attempt to confuse us, the killer liked the idea of us discovering the head of a man and the body of a woman first. Who knows if he suspected we’d take it further and search the vault? We certainly have enough vaults and mausoleums around here.

“The thing is, right now, we need to find where the victims were beheaded. We need the tool used for the beheadings. We have to be vigilant regarding everyone and everything we see. Thanks to you and your fellow officers, the convention quarters have been thoroughly searched and anyone with access to the facility or to Mr. Highsmith has been questioned.

“We’re still sifting through information here and at our main offices in Virginia. We’re also searching records for enemies Mr. Highsmith might have had. When the toxicology reports are in, we’ll know if Mr. Highsmith was drugged before he disappeared.

“It definitely wasn’t a case of robbery. Highsmith was found with all his belongings, except his cell, and we don’t know yet if that was significant. He was also found with a matchbook from a strip bar called Mystic Magic. The employees I was able to interview are positive that they never saw him in the place. There was a note on the matchbook—
Lizzie grave.
Does that mean anything to anyone here?”

Aidan waited. No one spoke. They all glanced around with puzzled expressions.

“Strange name for a hooker,” one officer said.

Aidan sighed inwardly. “I don’t believe it’s the name of a hooker. I believe it’s something Richard Highsmith was looking for.”

“We have a lot of graves around here,” another officer muttered.

“And hundreds of people named Lizzie have lived and died in the area over the centuries,” said a third.

“If anyone does think of anything, however wild or improbable your theory might be—please come to Lieutenant Purbeck, Detectives Voorhaven and Van Camp or me. Pooling all available information and suspicions is going to be of the utmost importance,” Aidan told them.

“Two of my coworkers are there in the back—Jane Everett and Sloan Trent—and you can seek them out, as well. Jane is one of our country’s foremost forensic artists, so if you have a witness who can provide any description of a suspicious person, she’s here,” Aidan advised them. “Thank you for working with us, and thank you for your diligence in so quickly shutting down the convention center the other night, conducting such thorough interviews and simply doing such exceptional police work.”

“That’s it,” Purbeck said. “Oh, one more thing. We closed our attractions yesterday, and the city, village, town and county offices have asked that we let them reopen. This is going to be a nightmare for us, of course. As we’ve already experienced, it’s not always easy to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s fabricated for Halloween.”

The meeting broke up. Jane and Sloan joined Aidan and Purbeck at the front, followed by Voorhaven and Van Camp.

“I’ve done this for years,” Purbeck said. “And I’m not even sure where to go from here.”