Krewe of Hunters, Volume 3: The Night Is WatchingThe Night Is AliveThe Night Is Forever

by Heather Graham

  “I’m assuming people went out to look for the missing stagecoach?”

  “They did. They never found the gold, the stagecoach and horses, the driver or the two armed guards hired to watch over it. No wreckage, no bodies—nothing,” Sloan said.

  “And Sage disappeared two weeks before,” Jane repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “What about the man she supposedly left with?”

  “Red Marston?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he was considered a shady character. But he disappeared—or took off—at the same time. He was apparently good-looking and he had the reputation of being a womanizer.”

  “Could they have hidden out for those two weeks—waiting for the stagecoach to leave?” Jane asked.

  “Sure. Anything could have happened. This was back in the 1870s. We have a few records, and plenty of oral legends. But they’re pretty much supposition because people were making assumptions back then just as they do now.”

  Jane yawned. She seemed suddenly startled, looking out to the living room area.

  He looked, too. Longman was in his chair by the fire.

  Sloan glanced sharply at Jane, but she’d already returned to the book.

  He felt something cold slip over him as he watched her.

  Logan Raintree’s unit was known for its unusual cases.

  Did they really search for ghosts?

  And find them?

  She stood up. “I guess I should get back. Especially if we’re going to be worth anything in the morning.”

  He didn’t move; instead her frowned at her. “You see him, don’t you?” he demanded. “It’s true—you and your team do paranormal investigations!”

  “We’re a legitimate unit. We’ve gone through all the proper training, and we’ve been extremely effectual. And I’m damned good at what I do,” she said defensively.

  “You just saw Longman,” Sloan said.

  She was silent as she returned his stare.

  “Longman?” she asked. Her voice was thin.

  He shook his head. “All this time...I’ve wondered if he’s in my mind. But you just saw him. Admit it.”

  She sighed. “Yes, I saw him.” She turned around. “He’s gone now. At least, I don’t see him anymore.”

  “Why didn’t you say you saw him?” Sloan asked her. “Before I brought it up?”

  “How was I supposed to know you saw him?”

  “He’s real. I mean, he’s a real ghost,” Sloan said.

  “Who is he?”

  “One of my great-great grandfathers on my mother’s side.”

  “Do you have any other great-great grandparents hanging around?” she asked.

  “Sage?”

  “Sage.”

  Sloan sat down. “They say she haunts the old theater. I’ve never seen her. I’ve always thought that everything I’ve heard about Sage supposedly haunting the theater had to do with people acting crazy. They scare themselves silly. People think they hear something or a shadow moves in the night—and they’re out of there.” His eyes narrowed. “Have you seen her?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I’ve seen...I’ve seen a woman standing on the stairs. At any rate, I thought she was there. And in my room...things do move.” She smiled. “Actually, I think she might be there. I was angry, I went in and I said that the sheriff was an ass and—”

  “You said I was an ass—out loud?” he broke in.

  She raised one shoulder. “Sorry. Yes. You had acted like an ass. I mean, after all, you were Logan’s friend, Logan sent me here and you were a jerk.”

  Sloan kept his expression noncommittal. “And then?”

  “My brush flew at me.”

  He couldn’t help smiling and he wondered if it could be true—that Sage McCormick was watching out for him.

  “Do you have any special talents?” he asked Jane. “Can you make contact with her?”

  She hesitated, looking at him. “Sloan, they choose to make contact with us. We can let them know we’re open to it, but... I really have to get some sleep,” she finished softly.

  He nodded. “All right. Let me get you back.”

  “I could’ve just driven.”

  “A man’s just been killed in this town. You shouldn’t do anything to put yourself at risk.”

  “I can shoot. I’m not the best, but I’m pretty good.”

  He smiled, reaching for his keys. “I can shoot, too. But I plan on being extremely careful until we find out exactly what happened to Jay Berman.”

  He found it was difficult driving her back. Not the driving—the sitting next to her. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she’d seen Longman.

  She had surely seen others. Including Sage. Maybe. She knew, she understood...

  He wanted to keep a distance between them, build a wall that kept him from having to recognize how different that made them.

  And yet he was equally drawn to Jane Everett. To her scent, the quickness of her smile, the incredible color of her eyes. Big mistake, he told himself. She was only here to create a likeness based on a skull.

  Which now seemed moot. He knew they’d found Sage McCormick.

  When they arrived at the theater, she opened her door as he opened his. He waited as she came around the car to where he stood by the driver’s seat. She didn’t speak for a moment.

  “Sloan...she wrote to me.”

  “What?”

  “She wrote to me. Sage McCormick wrote to me.”

  “She sent you a letter?” he asked skeptically.

  Jane shook her head. “No, I took a shower, and she wrote in the mist on the mirror. She said beware and trickster. And she wants me to tell you the truth about something, but I have no idea what. Maybe she wants you to know that it’s her skull. She’s been cryptic, to say the least.”

  “There was writing on your mirror—writing in the shower mist?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure it was Sage McCormick?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Do you think someone came into your room? The...trickster, perhaps?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m careful about locking doors. I may not have come from law enforcement like some members of my team, but I learned a lot and saw a lot,” she told him. “I’m very careful,” she said again.

  He was silent. It was strange to think that a woman who had become both famous and infamous could be sending messages from the grave.

  Stranger still when he was related to her...

  Was this real? Or were the Krewe of Hunter units a little unbalanced?

  How could he ask that question when he talked to Longman, and when he’d finally seen Trey Hardy at the jail today?

  He kept his voice level. “Well, see what else you can get her to say.”

  “It’s not a joke, you know.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Fine,” she said tersely. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.” Then he added, “Go right to the station, okay?”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “Sloan, I hardly think this killer is going to wait for me to order pizza.”

  “Just take care. This killer will know you’re an FBI agent,” Sloan said.

  She nodded, then turned and started to leave.

  “Jane,” he said, calling her back.

  She paused, and he walked over to her. “Please, tell me whatever goes on, will you?”

  “All right. If you share with me, too. This is your town. You’ll know what I don’t.”

  She studied him with those gold eyes, and he felt the life in them. He wanted to reach out, to touch her. He wished that they’d met at a bowling alley, in a country bar...hell, online. He wished t
here hadn’t been a murder and that they were talking about ghosts and solving mysteries because they both saw what others didn’t.

  He nodded. “Yes. I will...with you.” He felt a rueful smile tug at his lips. “Even though you’re just here as an artist.”

  She smiled slowly in return. “Good night, Sheriff,” she said.

  She left him then. He felt uneasy as he watched her go inside. The theater was safe, he told himself. There might be a few ghosts running around, but ghosts didn’t shoot people. She was staying in a place with six actors, a theater “mother” and a director. Housekeepers arrived at the crack of dawn and bartenders didn’t leave until just a few hours before the housekeeping staff showed up. She was safer here than...well, with him, really.

  He returned to his car to make the drive back to his house.

  It was late when he got home but he went out and checked on the horses and his property. Everything seemed to be in order.

  When he went to bed, he was afraid he wouldn’t sleep. When he began to sleep, he was afraid he’d dream. Something was happening in Lily. He’d sensed it the day he’d gone to the Old Jail in search of wallets. And now he felt it more strongly than ever.

  * * *

  There were a few hangers-on at the bar when Jane returned, but she didn’t see any cast members she knew, and the waiters and waitresses had gone home for the night. She didn’t know the young man behind the bar and she was actually glad; she was eager to escape to her room and get some sleep.

  The theater seemed quiet as she walked up the stairs.

  In her room, everything was as she’d left it. She washed her face, prepared for bed and curled up under the covers. She smiled in the darkness, thinking that at least she now understood why a brush had come flying at her.

  She lay awake, wondering what could have happened in the past. Sage McCormick had married a local man, had a child with him—and been suspected of having an affair and running off with that man. Yet her husband had been in the bar below when she disappeared. It didn’t make sense.

  The fact remained: she had disappeared and so had Red Marston.

  And two weeks later, a stagecoach bearing gold had, too.

  Now, Sage’s skull had turned up in the basement of the theater, another man’s body had been unearthed from the sand—and a tourist had been murdered. How did it all connect?

  The questions whirled in her mind and, finally, she drifted off to sleep.

  She didn’t know what woke her; she only knew that she opened her eyes and saw a woman standing over her.

  It was Sage. She knew her face now. She had drawn it, and she’d seen the similarities between her drawing and the painting over the bar.

  “Hello,” she said softly.

  The woman straightened without speaking. She beckoned to Jane. Jane stood. Sage McCormick moved to the door.

  Jane was dressed in a long cotton T-shirt gown. She wasn’t sure whether she should dress quickly. She decided against it. She didn’t want to lose the ghost, so she’d venture out barefoot and in a long T-shirt.

  There was a chill in the air, and Jane shivered. It was about 4:00 a.m., she thought—just that time when the bartenders had finished cleaning and setting up for the next day. They’d left and the housekeepers had yet to arrive. She wished she’d grabbed a sweater.

  The ghost sailed along the upper level hallway, heading for the stairs. Jane followed her down the steps and then into the theater.

  Sage McCormick walked down to the dimly lit stage, stepped onto it, then turned and waited. Jane continued to follow her.

  Sage led her back to the stage wings and the dressing rooms beyond. Here, it was even darker, as there were only a few emergency lights left on during the night. She could barely see Sage, but the ghost was still leading her forward.

  Jane hadn’t been back here before; she had no idea where she was or where the ghost was trying to take her.

  The apparition seemed to be upset, looking grim and agitated as she stood at a door. She floated through it and then reappeared, waiting for Jane.

  Jane opened the door. It was one of the dressing rooms.

  The ghost walked to the rear of the small, crowded room.

  Jane wished her nightly specter had told her it was going to be so dark and that she’d need a flashlight. She couldn’t understand what Sage was doing. There was a table covered with jars and tubes of makeup and several hanging racks filled with costumes. She had to push back the costumes to reach the place where Sage was standing. As she made her way through, her hair caught on a button and she had to untangle it.

  She stopped where Sage was, almost on top of the dressing table. Because the ghost was insistent, she went down on her knees and inspected the floor.

  At first, she saw nothing. Just old wood, so weathered that the planks seemed to blend into one another. Looking more closely, she realized that beneath the dressing table, there was something that wasn’t quite right. She ran her fingers over the floor and under the table. What had appeared to be a dark spot shielded by the costume rack and the dressing table was a metal ring.

  Made of tarnished bronze, it had probably been long hidden by the position of the rack and the dressing table. The latter had no doubt stood in place for decades; the feet had worn small indentations in the floor. She gave the table a shove, moving it just a couple of inches but revealing the brass ring more clearly—and an area that, when carefully traced, proved not to be a stretch of wood planking.

  Jane looked up at the ghost, who nodded gravely, and then back down at the loop. She slid her fingers over the flooring around it and saw that it had to be a knob or a pull and that it opened a trapdoor of some kind. She tugged at the metal ring but couldn’t get it to give.

  As she worked at it, she heard a noise from the bar area of the theater. She wasn’t sure why it disturbed her; there were a number of other people in the building. The scraping sound had an odd, surreptitious quality. As she looked up at the ghost, the apparition of Sage McCormick faded away.

  Jane didn’t like being where she was. She hadn’t dressed—and she hadn’t brought her gun.

  She held still for several more minutes and listened. Nothing. Then she was sure she heard a faint noise—as if something was being dragged across the floor.

  Jane crept silently from the dressing room and tiptoed back to the wings, across the stage and down the side aisle until she reached the point where the red velvet curtains were drawn back. She stayed there, glad that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and the pale glow of the emergency lights. She used the curtain as a shield and looked out to the dining room. No one was there.

  Had she imagined it? All of it? The ghost who’d come to her room and the sound from the dining area?

  No, she’d heard something.

  Certain that whoever or whatever it was had gone, she stepped out. She moved quietly through the room, telling herself that perhaps someone had merely needed a glass of water. Or someone who couldn’t sleep had come down to get a snack from the refrigerator behind the bar. She still felt uneasy. But a quick run through the bar and the dining room showed her that she was right. No one was there—not then, at any rate.

  The kitchen was immediately behind the bar. There was a large oven in the center, two stoves on either side, two large refrigerators, a freezer and two workstations. All were clean and shining, waiting for the next day’s business.

  She left the kitchen and returned to the bar area. As she did, she heard someone fitting a key into the lock on the outer door.

  The housekeeping staff was here.

  She turned and raced up the stairs, slipping into her room just as the outer door opened.

  She leaned against her own door, breathing hard.

  Then she heard another door closing somewhere down the hallway.

  Who
se?

  She couldn’t tell. She went back to bed, hoping for a few more hours of sleep.

  Sage did not come again that night. Jane closed her eyes and wondered what lay beneath the trapdoor in the dressing room. Tomorrow, she would tell Sloan what had happened. They would get Henri’s permission to see what was beneath the floor.

  It took a while for her to sleep, but at last she did.

  She woke a few hours later and saw that it was 8:00 a.m. It wasn’t as though she was on a schedule; she now had a car. She could drive herself down to the station. She supposed, with a sense of wry humor, that she didn’t want to look like a slacker. She wanted Sheriff Sloan Trent’s respect. And she wanted him to like her. She liked him. She more than liked him. She felt a sweet rush of fever when she was near him, the urge to reach over and stroke his hair, run her fingers down his cheek, explore the movement of his muscles....

  It had been years since she’d felt so attracted to a man. And now was not the time to feel this way. She loved her work. And she was here for just a short while....

  Crazy. This was crazy. Even time itself seemed crazy. Maybe that was it; she’d barely arrived and so much had already happened. Not only that, so much had happened between the two of them....

  She walked into the bathroom to start off with a shower. She stepped in, turning the water up to a nice hot level. She leaned against the tile, looking down—and stared incredulously.

  Something red was mingling with the water and going down the drain.

  Blood.

  And it was coming from her feet.

  * * *

  Sloan rode Roo out to the replica Apache village along the trail.

  Crime-scene tape still roped off the tepee where Jay Berman had been found. Sloan sank down and inspected the site; the crime-scene unit had been thorough. They were good at what they did, Sloan knew, so he didn’t know what he could find. There certainly weren’t going to be any useful prints, so he was really hoping, more than anything else, that he might figure out where Berman had been before his murder.

  He rose, thinking about their present location and what was nearby. He wasn’t even sure how the victim—and his killer—had gotten out here.