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

by Heather Graham

  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.

  But there was no one there.

  He looked into her eyes questioningly, but she had her hands folded on the desk, and she maintained eye contact. He looked back to the list.

  Griffin Grant, affable fellow, think you’ve met him, though his uncle used to do the reenactments. Adores the place and the playing—he’s a CEO, VP (?) at a cable company out of New Orleans. Early thirties, good-looking, sharp and well-dressed, nice sense of humor, especially considering the
fact that he’s a total business geek.

  Toby Keaton, owns Beaumont, but you know that. Medium height, medium weight, early forties, thinning hair. Our families have always gotten along well—starting from the beginning of the “survival by tourism” days. We do Civil War and reenactments; he works on Creole history, the real day-to-day work involved in such a plantation. He’s always been part of the reenactment.

  John Ashton, nice guy, his father did the reenacting in the old days. He’s in his late twenties, bookish, glasses, even has special wire frames just so that they work for the reenactments. He runs a tour company in New Orleans, and has long been a good friend of the plantation.

  Jake looked up at Ashley again, seeing her and imagining the reenactments as he had seen them so many times before. He knew the positions the men would take—he could run it in his own mind easily. “So, Charles winds up playing Marshall Donegal. The rebel troops are complete with Cliff, Griffin, Hank, John and Toby. Ramsay goes off to be a Yankee.”

  “Yes, Ramsay went off to join the Yankees, and that group included two locals, men you know as well—” Ashley reached over to tap the paper “—Michael Bonaventure, from New Orleans, bar owner, has a place off Royal Street, and Hadley Mason, an engineer from Lafayette. Justin Binder is from Philadelphia, and he was here with his mother-in-law and two children. He’s a widower. The other two Yankees were Tom Dixon, from New York City, and Victor Quibbly, from Chicago, and they both left the morning after the reenactment.”

  “They flew out from New Orleans?” Jake asked.

  Ashley swung around in the chair, hitting the on button on the computer that sat on a stand next to the desk. She nodded. “We know when everyone is coming in and out from different cities, because we try to arrange rides. Yes, Tom left on American Airlines at noon the following day, and Victor was on Continental fifteen minutes later. Cliff drove them to the airport, I believe.”

  “Can you think of anyone else who is closely involved with this property or with the reenactment?” he asked her.

  “Dr. Ben Austin—he’s a practicing M.D.—and John Martin, our biggest sutler, or vendor. He was here with his wife, and they were at the party—you know, the wind-down in the house. Every one of those folks was there—except for Charles, of course,” she said.

  He nodded. “Change places?” he asked her.

  “What?”

  “May I get on the computer for a minute?”

  She stood up, walking around the desk. As she did so, she looked at the door again, frowning. He followed her line of vision but saw nothing.

  Jake sat at the computer and started punching in keys. He could access sites that the average person couldn’t because he had the proper codes.

  “What are you doing?” Ashley asked him. She hadn’t taken his chair; she stood at the edge of the desk.

  “Simple elimination,” he said. “Two Yankees in the clear—they indeed flew away. Their names are on the manifests for the flights.”

  “Wouldn’t the police be checking on that kind of thing, too?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, but in my mind, the more people I know to be eliminated entirely on my own, the easier it will be to home in on what really happened. And Jackson is a stickler. He’s a team man—it’s the way he’s always worked. People make mistakes. We can make mistakes. Anyway, I know we’re down to a few-score people.”

  “A few score,” she repeated, wincing.

  “Don’t worry. That number will go down quickly,” he assured her.

  Once again, she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking behind him. He turned quickly, wondering if he didn’t glimpse a shadow…something. Ashley was definitely acting strangely.

  Donegal was known for being haunted. Maybe that was why she had fought all her life against the possibility that ghosts could be real.

  And maybe, she was just beginning to feel or see something….

  There was a tap at the door. Jake was surprised by the way Ashley seemed to all but jump out of her skin.

  Frazier poked his head in. “Lunch is served. An excellent meal, it appears.”

  * * *

  Beth had cooked—and cooked, and cooked. She had gone for just about every staple known to Southern Louisiana—corn bread, jambalaya, crawfish étouffée, gumbo, turnip greens, pecan pie, bread pudding, shrimp salad and more.

  It astounded even Ashley that she could have prepared such a feast so quickly, but then, when the reenactment wasn’t taking place and they weren’t investigating a murder, Beth did run one of the finest restaurants in the area. There was still a crowd for lunch; Jackson, Ashley, Jake, Frazier, Cliff, Beth and herself.

  She noted—as she was sure Cliff did—that their guest investigators did not treat him as a suspect; they treated him as one of the family, which, of course, he had always been. Growing up, he’d been the big brother Ashley had never had, even though he was about thirteen years older than her and had been actually managing much of the plantation while she’d still been playing with her dolls and video games.

  At the luncheon table, she wasn’t being haunted by an annoying Confederate in full dress uniform. He wasn’t in the dining room. Not at the moment, and Ashley was grateful for that fact. He’d been in the office with her when she’d been giving Jake the list, and he’d been terribly annoying, wanting her to punctuate every detail regarding every man. She kept thinking that Jake would turn around and see him standing there, laugh and tell her that the fellow was an actor hired to torment her.

  But Jake didn’t see the man—so she was the scary one after all, suffering from strange delusions about the dead. They were all probably brought on by the murder.

  During the massive meal, they all spoke as casually as possible in the aftermath of a brutal, senseless killing. Jackson and Jake relayed the conversation they’d had down at the police station until Cliff had left them, saying that he had work at the stables.

  Ashley pretended to listen attentively while wondering again if she had imagined that a ghost—looking as real as flesh and blood—had carried on a meeting with her. She looked here and there around the room, wondering if Marshall Donegal would appear in the flesh—or the appearance of flesh!—sweeping off his great plumed hat and setting a booted foot upon a chair, perhaps.

  But though he had been a pest in the office, he didn’t show. She was so busy worrying that he would, however, that she barely heard what was being said. She wondered if Frazier had ever seen the man—or even Cliff. After all, one way or another, they were all related.

  Then one word that Jake uttered brought her to.

  …diving…

  “Diving?” she asked.

  “I believe that the murderer might have thrown his weapon into the Mississippi,” Jake explained. “He’s organized, and intelligent. Such a killer would know that the murder weapon would be searched for immediately, and that he couldn’t be found with it on his person or his property. So if it were me, I’d throw it in the river as quickly as possible. Actually, I think the killer had Charles with him, maybe drove him away after the reenactment and then brought him back here in some kind of a boat. That being the case, he’d have thrown the weapon into the river while he returned to wherever he had come from by boat.”

  “Unless, of course,” Ashley said, staring back at Jake as if she dared him to agree, “the murderer held Charles drugged on the property. If that was the case, the killer could have taken him into the cemetery, where he bayoneted him to death, and went on to return to his room. The river has a terrific current, too.”

  “That’s possible, too,” Jake said evenly. “But I think he threw it in the river—the weight of a weapon could have easily caused it to sink.”

  “I’m not a suspect, am I?” Beth asked.

  Ashley straightened, looking around the table at the three investigators.

  Jake smiled and answered. “No. It’s highly unlikely that you have the strength needed to carry out what was done.”

  “Thank the Lord!” Beth sa
id.

  “But Cliff could be guilty,” Frazier said.

  “We certainly hope not,” Jackson said.

  “Wait!” Ashley protested. She didn’t believe that Cliff could be guilty, but she didn’t believe that any of the men who had acted like children on the day of the reenactment could possibly be guilty of such a heinous crime. “Who’s going diving? Aren’t they sending out police divers?”

  “Yes,” Jake said, frowning slightly. “I’m assuming that at this point they’ll be along really soon. But I want first crack, before the water is churned by a team of four or five.”

  “But—are you authorized?”

  “We are working co-jurisdiction,” Jackson said, glancing at Frazier. “Adam’s your grandfather’s friend, and Adam has the influence to make a great deal happen.”

  “Ashley, you know that I know what I’m doing,” Jake told her. “I’m going to get started now.”

  “I’ll work with you,” she said.

  “Ashley—” Jake began.

  “No one should dive alone,” she reminded him primly. “The water is brown—even with lights, vision is limited,” she said. “You need a dive buddy. And it’s my property.”

  “Ashley,” Frazier said, “my dearest grandchild, my old heart is still ticking. It’s still my property. You two children can fish through the regulators, tanks and masks we keep because of work that has to sometimes be done down by the bayou.”

  Frazier had spoken lightly, wanting to ease the tension with smiles. He managed the feat.

  “Grampa!” Ashley protested.

  “Well, don’t look at me!” Beth said. “Dive in that nasty old muddy water? No, no, dishes look much, much better than diving in the Mississippi!”

  “I was planning on working with Jake, too,” Jackson said.

  “That’s fine. But I’m going,” Ashley said firmly.

  “All right. Let’s get on it,” Jake said.

  Half an hour later, the divers were nearly ready. Ashley had opted for a dive suit—she didn’t like everything in the Mississippi touching her bare skin. Jake and Jackson had eschewed the idea of suits and were just in swim trunks, booties, gloves and their masks and regulators.