Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside

by Heather Graham

  “Augie, just Augie,” the medical examiner replied. “Not yet—I have to cut him open. But I do believe that toxicology reports will prove that my assumptions are correct.” He was quiet for a moment, shaking his head. “Seems like Miss Donegal was concerned from the start. If someone had paid more attention to her, he might have been found and saved.”

  “It’s my understanding that they did search for the fellow. My bosses were called in because the Donegals were so concerned,” Jake said.

  “They didn’t search hard enough, did they?” Augie asked. He looked around. “Must have been some feat—this man was no Tinkerbell. A hefty fellow. He was brought here before he was killed. That’s evident by the blood patterns, I’d say, even though I’m not a blood-spatter specialist. Then again, I am an M.D., with a specialization in medical pathology, and I don’t think anyone needed my expertise to see that the man was dead. Well, young man, if you need anything from me, you call me. Don’t worry about blunderbuss Detective Colby. He’s not a bad chap. We don’t have this kind of thing happen often out here. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen anything like this—anywhere. But he’s a decent fellow, just trying to play alpha dog right off.”

  “I’m sure we’ll all be fine,” Jake told him. He was done here himself; the crime-scene unit was still searching, dusting, taping and hoping for the smallest clue. There was nothing else he could do at the scene for the moment.

  He followed Augie and the body out of the cemetery.

  Returning to the lawn area between the house and the outbuilding, Jake saw that while the police were holding a line with their vehicles and a number of officers, the guests who had been staying at Donegal Plantation were now gathered up by the cottage, all speaking at once. Mack Colby was lifting his hands and trying to maintain some sense of order.

  Ashley was still there, still the historical damsel in distress in her white gown. She knelt next to a woman who was sitting on the ground, head between her knees, and he could see the way that Ashley’s jaw was hardening. Mack Colby was really beginning to anger her. It was a good thing the detective hadn’t chosen to be a doctor, because his bedside manner would have killed many a patient before curing them.

  Jake walked quickly through the crowd to reach her side, hunkering down by her.

  “I need to get Martha into the house!” Ashley said irritably.

  “That’s fine,” Colby said. “That’s fine, but I repeat—no one, do you understand me? No one leaves. So settle in, folks, and if you’re in a hurry to get out of here, try to be first in line for the questioning.”

  The elderly woman paled, and Jake stepped in hastily to curb what Ashley might say.

  “May I pick you up?” Jake asked Martha. “With your permission, I can carry you in and set you on one of the sofas.”

  Ashley flashed him a glance of gratitude.

  Martha placed a hand on his cheek. “Oh, yes, young man, please. My legs are feeling very wobbly.”

  “Thank you,” said an older man next to them, obviously Martha’s husband. “I don’t think I’m quite up to lifting these days.”

  “Herbert, I am not that heavy!” Martha protested.

  “It’s not that you’re heavy, my dear,” Herbert said, “it’s that I’m old.”

  Martha waved a hand in the air. Jake put his arms around her and lifted her, and Ashley led the way into the house.

  “I’ll need a room where I can be alone with each individual,” Colby said, elbowing his way past everyone as he entered the parlor.

  Tense and rigid, her lips pursed, Ashley directed him to a study on the bayou side of the house. Jake laid Martha down on the Duncan Phyfe sofa near the double stairway where her husband joined her, and followed Ashley and Colby.

  The study was a pleasant room with a mahogany desk, computer, printer, and shelves lined with books and family pictures. It was a spacious room; two chairs sat in front of the desk, and a wingback chair faced the bayou-side windows. Mack Colby had sat himself behind the desk.

  “I don’t want to create any problems here,” Jake said, his voice firm. “And if you question these people and have the courtesy to keep proper records, I believe everything will be in order. As I said before, the federal government was called in when this was a missing persons case. Since the victim was apparently kidnapped, the federal government has jurisdiction. But I suggest that we handle it as a joint investigation. It’s a truly sad, horrible and bizarre situation, and I would think that all possible means of law enforcement would be indicated.”

  Colby stared at him as if he would implode. His face was mottled and almost as red as the pool of blood in the cemetery.

  “Your behavior is outrageous!” Colby told him.

  “No, sir. I suggest you call your superiors, at your leisure, of course. There’s no reason that this can’t be a combined effort, which is always best. There’s nothing in the world like cooperation between law-enforcement agencies. You’ll be so much more knowledgeable than we could possibly be on so many fronts.”

  Mack Colby kept looking at him as if he would finally pop, but he seemed to know that Jake was telling the truth. He leveled a finger at him.

  “There’s something fishy here. These folks called in the feds when a man had only been missing a few hours. A grown man. Someone knew something had happened to him, and if you’re not going to get at the truth, I’ll be making a stink they hear up in Washington and beyond!”

  “Oh, good God!” Ashley, who had been standing quietly near Jake, exploded. “I’m the one who raised the alarm, and I raised it because I know—knew—Charles Osgood! He would have been here celebrating. He wasn’t. I knew him, don’t you understand?”

  Jake set an arm on Ashley’s shoulders. “Really, I think Detective Colby realizes that now—he is just doing his job. But we’re all good now.” He turned back to Colby. “Look, Detective, my team’s expertise is in understanding why people behave the way that they do. And Ashley’s intuitions assist us. Yes, we need to question everyone, but, because of the display of the body, it’s evident that this wasn’t simply an act of passion, a mistake or accident in the reenactment, or the casual act of a thief or drifter. This was personal, or, possibly, ritualistic. If you want to start with the guests who are down here for the first time, that’s great. They can be cleared quickly, and we can begin to look at the people involved with Donegal, the reenactors and the locals.”

  Colby seemed somewhat mollified, but his facial muscles were still taut. He nodded jerkily to Jake. “Fine. You’re sitting in? Or are you going to do the questioning?”

  “I’ll sit in and watch. Thanks. I think you’ll ask the right questions, and I can judge the responses. Ashley? Would you like to start bringing people in? First, guests—”

  “Yes, guests who have never been here before. I’ve got it,” she said.

  He lowered his head, smiling. Ashley—tough Ashley—was back.

  He settled into a chair. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Martha could stand and walk and move, so it seemed most reasonable to let Martha, and then Herbert, go first. Ashley realized that she was trying to bring people in and out from a police questioning room as if she were still a hostess and it was a social situation, and she felt a little foolish at first but then decided it was the best way to keep everyone calm.

  Beth pitched right in, brewing coffee and producing a nice array of finger foods.

  Jake emerged from the room at one point, asking her to check her registration books and make sure that all guests still at the plantation were present, and also to give him a list of those who had left already.

  She nodded, glad of anything to do that kept her moving and busy.

  She realized that no one had really shed a tear yet for Charles Osgood. She felt like crying over his life then. He hadn’t been handsome; he hadn’t been popular. He had still been a decent fellow—always wanting to be handsome and popular. And now he was gone. And the question remained, of co
urse: Had he been killed because he’d been Charles Osgood…or because he’d been playing the part of Marshall Donegal?

  Finally, Colby had interviewed all of their casual guests, moved on to repeat guests and was ready to start on those who were close to the reenactment, the plantation or the family. Beth was surprised when she was called in, but she shrugged and went all the same. Justin followed next, and Ashley was close enough to the door to hear one of his answers to Colby.

  “Oh, yeah. Of course, I brought my children along while I planned and plotted a bizarre murder. I’ve been hiding Charles under the kids’ beds for the last night. Right, yes, of course, question away.”

  She grinned before moving on. She heard Jake patiently explain that they were hoping to find out if he’d seen anything, noticed anything or could give them any possible information.

  Cliff went in after him, and while Cliff was being interviewed, she was startled to see that two new comers—people she’d never seen before—were in the parlor, chatting with Frazier, who was still up, still making sure that he went the distance with his guests.

  She hurried over to meet the couple. The man was tall, taller even, perhaps, than Jake. He obviously had Native American blood in his heritage somewhere. The woman was a pretty blonde, who almost appeared fragile.

  “Ashley, Jackson Crow and Angela Hawkins,” Frazier said.

  She shook hands with both of them. “You’re with Adam Harrison’s team,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, and we’re so sorry that your missing person has been discovered dead,” Angela told her.

  Jackson nodded. “Will you bring me, please, to Jake and the local officer who is doing the questioning?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Beth will bring Angela up, assign them and Jake rooms,” Frazier told her.

  “This way.” And she took him in.

  Jackson Crow had a low, level voice, rich with authority. The door to the study had quickly shut behind him, but she had to smile, hearing the tone of his voice, through the wood paneling. He and Jake seemed to have the ability to be completely even-keeled—and yet say exactly what they meant in a way that brooked no interference.

  She started to walk away, but the door opened and Jake came out.

  “You and your household are to go to bed and get some sleep,” he told her.

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “We’re almost done here for the night. Jackson is taking over,” Jake told her. “I want to get some sleep. You must need some, too. How about it? Where am I sleeping?”

  She wanted to ask, Could you sleep in the chair in my room?

  “I’m sure Grampa would have told Beth to put you in the Jeb Stuart room,” she told him. “Do you want to get your things?”

  He waved a hand in the air. “Right now, I want to crash. If I remember right, there’s soap, shampoo, razors, toothpaste, you name it, in the rooms, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I’ll run down in the morning. Come on, I’ll walk you to your room.”

  Ah, yes, Jake could be the Southern gentleman. There was no “home” to walk her to now, so he’d walk her to her room.

  “Hey, I live here,” she reminded him.

  “And I want to see you in. And lock your door.”

  “Oh, come on, Jake! I am not afraid of my grandfather or Beth—”

  “Someone managed to get an unconscious, living man into the graveyard and to kill him there. Ashley, lock your door.”

  She nodded. They went through the living room, where Jake assured Beth and Frazier that they were free to get some rest; Jackson would deal with Mack Colby and arrangements for the continuing investigation. They’d see that Cliff got back to his place, that officers remained on the property until midmorning and that everything was locked up and safe.

  Frazier kissed Ashley’s forehead; Beth gave her a hug. She and Jake followed them up the stairs.

  The Jeb Stuart room was next to Ashley’s at the back of the house, so he didn’t have to go far.

  At her door, he said, “Good-night, and scream blue blazes if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Jake.”

  He hesitated a minute. Jake had amazing sea-green eyes. They changed like the sea as well, but they were striking against his tanned face and auburn hair. She lowered her head suddenly, wondering why she had needed so desperately to step away from him.

  Because her father had been dead. Dead. And Jake seemed to have spoken to him. Strange and scary—but, somehow believable. So her reaction had just been…fear.

  Maybe even fear that her dreams should be believed as well.

  “Hey, are you all right? Are you okay with me being here?” he asked her, lifting her chin and searching out her eyes. “The team is excellent. Angela and Jackson are amazing.”

  “I’m fine. I’m glad you’re here. I mean, you know the plantation as no other investigator could possibly know it, and you know many of the people involved.”

  “That’s true. I just want you to be all right…with me being here.”

  “I’m fine.” She winced inwardly. “Jake, actually, I’m sorry. I know I overreacted, but…”

  “Your father was dead,” he said flatly. “That was the past. It’s fine. I understand. Okay, as I said, I’m right next door. Just whistle—you know the old line!”

  He waited for her to go into her room and lock the door; then she heard him enter his own room next door.

  Ashley washed her face, brushed her teeth and realized she was still in her nightgown, but it was filthy, so she showered and changed. It was almost morning—no matter. She lay down and prayed for sleep.

  It came.

  The first pale rays of morning light seeping through the drapes woke her.

  She frowned, still groggy. Was there someone at the foot of her bed?

  Jake?

  No, not Jake. It was a man in a Confederate uniform. He wore a sweeping, plumed hat. She knew who he was—her ancestor, Marshall Donegal.

  She blinked; he would disappear, she knew.

  He didn’t.

  She opened her mouth to scream, and he leapt to his feet.

  “By sweet Jesus, did I breed a line of whimpering cowards? Ashley Donegal, pull yourself together! I’m here to help you.”

  Interlude

  The television stations had gotten hold of the information.

  He was stunned; the body shouldn’t have been found until morning. There should have been time for Charles to…ripen a bit.

  But alone with his screen in front of him and dawn just breaking, he could see the reporter by the side of the road; a police car was blocking entry to the estate, but there was Donegal Plantation, as grand as ever, surviving time and death and change.

  He didn’t quite feel the satisfaction he should have from the kill.

  Of course, it wasn’t that he wanted to torture poor old Charles. He wanted the Donegal clan to suffer. It might have taken more than a hundred and fifty years for them to pay the piper, but they would be the ones to suffer. The sins of the fathers had to be paid.

  The news crews couldn’t get onto the property, so they were padding the broadcast with pictures. First, old Frazier. He could almost hear the old man’s voice, rich but low, rippling along in that light accent like a roll of the Mississippi.

  Then Ashley. The beautiful blonde, the belle, the last of the Donegal clan.

  6

  Back at Donegal. Jake couldn’t settle in. He’d stripped down to his briefs but now lay staring at the double doors to the wraparound porch, the ceiling and around the room.

  Back at Donegal.

  Alone, he could remember why he and Ashley had parted. He would never forget the look in her eyes, the last time he had seen her. The look in her eyes…the way she had backed away from him.

  They’d been friends forever. When they’d been young, the three-years difference in their ages had been gargantuan; as they had grown older, the annoying little girl had become inquisi
tive and fun. And he had loved to tease her. They’d argued incessantly; they’d done their best to beat each other at every game, to outrace each other on Donegal horses, and they’d laughed when they’d unseated one another.

  Then they had grown older still.

  And he had fallen in love. Maybe he’d been falling in love all his life, and he had just been waiting for her to catch up.

  They’d flirted, they’d played, they’d kissed—and when he’d been twenty-two and she had been nineteen, the flirting and the stolen adolescent kisses had become much more. He’d never forget the night. He’d been due to leave for his last semester at Carnegie Mellon, and everyone had come in from the countryside to celebrate his last night home. They couldn’t all crowd down to the bars on Bourbon or Frenchman streets, because several in the group were still underage, so they had rented out one of the old historic inns on St. Anne’s. They had partied by the brick fire and then, sometime in the wee hours, he’d walked her to her room and gone to his…but seconds later, he’d heard a knock on his door, and Ashley had been there with this look in her eyes. She had asked, “Must you be such a gentleman? After all, you’re heading back to college, and I’m off to school in Florida, and shouldn’t we have a few memories?”

  There had been nothing awkward about the night. Memory, of course, could alter and be selective, but he could still see the way she had looked that night, the brilliance in her eyes, the silky shimmer of her hair in the pale light and shadows. Clothing had melted away, and there had never been such a rush as just feeling her flesh against his. He hadn’t wanted to leave after that night, but she had told him, “We’ve been best friends for years—you have always been a part of my life. You have a semester left, and I have faith and trust. A little thing like distance can’t tear us apart.”

  Distance hadn’t ripped them apart. Death had done so.

  For him, it had been the odd beginning of another part of his life. For her, it had been the end. At a time when he should have been able to comfort her the most, he had become anathema.

  But now, he was back at Donegal.