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

by Heather Graham

  “They were knocked out and left in the garage to die of carbon monoxide poisoning,” Sloan said.

  “But they survived?” Henri asked.

  “Jimmy managed to turn the car off,” Jane told them.

  Alice let out a little sound and Cy groaned softly.

  “Sloan, Caleb was an outspoken jerk. I’m surprised he didn’t get killed long ago,” Henri muttered.

  “Henri!” Alice chastised.

  “Well, it’s true. So maybe Caleb was in collusion with that tourist who got shot in the desert. Caleb was probably running drugs or illegal aliens—or maybe he was even into human trafficking,” Henri said. “It’s a crying shame the bastard got his family involved. But, Sloan, come on. It’s your job to find out what the hell’s happening here, but it has nothing to do with us in the theater. You didn’t come in to suggest we shut down for the day, did you? Lord, the town’s still full of tourists. None of them have been scared off by this.”

  “No, Henri, I’m not suggesting you shut down. However, the same rules apply as yesterday. No knife fights, no shoot-outs, nothing with weapons.”

  “Oh, come on!” Henri said again.

  Sloan reached into his pocket and let the cartridges spill out on one of the tables.

  Everyone stared at them and then at Sloan.

  “What? What is that? What are you trying to say?” Henri demanded.

  “These are from the guns Cy and Brian were going to use for the duel yesterday,” he said. “You’ll note that one set is live rounds.”

  “Shit!” Brian said, jumping to his feet and backing away, as if the bullets could take aim at him from where they lay scattered on the table.

  Cy stood, too. He swallowed, frowning at Jane. “You!” he said. “You knew. How did you know?”

  “Yes, how did you know, Agent Everett?” Henri asked.

  Jane felt all eyes on her—accusing eyes. “Intuition,” she said. “Something just seemed wrong.”

  “Who handled the guns?” Sloan asked.

  “Before we had them on the street?” Brian looked at Henri.

  “Jennie Layton,” Henri told them. “Jennie was always responsible for props. They were in the prop room—right where they were supposed to be—before I went to get them for the duel.”

  “But none of you saw Jennie all day. That’s why I had to go search for her,” Jane said.

  Henri waved a hand in the air. “She had all the costumes ready, plus the prop guns and the rope and rigging we used for the lynching, the night before.”

  “We can ask Jennie.” Valerie’s voice wavered.

  “Hard to ask her if she’s unconscious,” Alice snapped.

  Sloan ignored them. “Who had access to the props besides Jennie?” he asked.

  “It’s not locked,” Henri explained. “Anyone could’ve gotten into the prop room. But like I said, Jennie got them ready the night before. She came to tell me we were all set for the first of our big Silverfest days.”

  “You do realize that while anyone might have gotten into your prop room, not many people would know the guns would be there—set for a shoot-out,” Sloan said.

  “Oh, my God!” Valerie cried. “Sloan! You’re accusing one of us!”

  “Cy is my best friend out here,” Brian said. “I’d never shoot him—and he’d never shoot me. I mean, on purpose.”

  “This theater is my life!” Henri announced—theatrically—getting to his feet.

  “Jennie did prepare the guns.” Brian frowned. “But then...”

  “Then she accidentally bashed her own head with a cane?” Sloan asked.

  “We have housekeeping staff. Cooks, servers and bartenders,” Henri said.

  “Yes, and I’ll get to them all one by one,” Sloan told him.

  “But—but...it’s Silverfest!” Henri protested. “Sheriff, I am the mayor of this town—”

  “I know that, Henri. I told you, I’m not going to close anything down. Jane and I will get into costume again and be part of it. I’ll keep an eye on everything all day.”

  Henri nodded, his bald head shining in the light of the chandeliers. “All right, Sloan, all right, that’s good.”

  “Oh, and two of Jane’s coworkers are on their way. Henri, I thought you could put them up in Jennie’s room for the next few days,” Sloan said casually.

  “Jennie’s things are all in her room. It’s not like an empty guest room, Sloan.”

  “They’ll be very careful of her personal belongings.”

  “Who are these agents?” Alice asked.

  “Logan Raintree and Kelsey O’Brien. They work together but they’re a couple, as well, so just one room will be fine,” Sloan replied. “They’ll be protection for you. I still believe you’re all in danger.”

  “Bring them in, bring them in,” Valerie said.

  “I agree,” Alice added.

  “Of course, Sloan, if you think it’s necessary,” Henri agreed.

  “I’m all for it!” Brian said. His face ashen. “One of us—Cy or me—almost bought it yesterday.” He looked at Jane, but not with the same rakish I’d love to pick you up stare he usually gave her. He looked at her as if she’d suddenly become an oddity.

  “Instinct. Or...maybe it was the ghost. I glanced up at the window and I thought I saw a woman there. Sage McCormick. It was like a warning that something was going to happen,” Jane said.

  “Oh, no, please... I don’t want to believe there are really ghosts here,” Valerie moaned.

  “I say thank God for a ghost if she saved my life!” Brian said.

  Cy lifted his coffee cup. “Hear, hear.”

  “Time to go,” Henri said suddenly. “We need to open our doors and be out on the street. So, Sloan, you two will costume up again?”

  Sloan nodded. “Yes, we’ll be part of it.”

  “I’ll take you down to the dressing rooms,” Alice offered.

  “Agent Everett,” Henri asked. “Where’s the blue gown? It’s an important part of our costume department.”

  “It’s safe,” Jane assured him. “It’s in my room, but after everything that happened yesterday...it’ll need to be cleaned.”

  Henri sighed dramatically. “Then we’ll have to find you something new for today.”

  “Before we get our costumes, I have one more question,” Sloan said. “Did all of you see one another early yesterday morning?” he asked.

  They were silent for a minute. “How early?” Alice shrugged. “I didn’t get up very early. We have late nights here, you know.”

  “Brian and I were both up. We had coffee together at about eight,” Valerie said.

  “I...slept in,” Cy murmured.

  “And I had a meeting with Mike Addison,” Henri said impatiently. “Are you suggesting one of us attacked Zoe and Jimmy Hough?”

  “I have to ask, Henri. You know that,” Sloan said.

  “Well, you’ve asked.” Henri was evidently angry. “We’re theater people. We entertain—we don’t hurt others. We sure as hell don’t kill them!” he ended indignantly.

  “Let’s get our costumes, shall we?” Alice suggested. “There’s way too much testosterone flying around this room!”

  Better testosterone than bullets, Jane thought.

  She wasn’t sure what else Sloan had planned for the day, but at the moment, it was time for costumes.

  “Yep, let’s do that,” Sloan said. But he looked sternly around the group. “Don’t be anywhere alone. Make sure you’re on the street in a crowd or with someone else at all times. I’m not making accusations—I’m just trying to get answers. And I don’t want to find any more bodies.”

  Silence followed his words.

  Those in the room exchanged glances.

  “Don’t!
” Henri warned. “Don’t go getting suspicious of one another, please! An ensemble cast must work together. Sloan, see what you’ve done?”

  “They have to be careful, Henri. This group may be entirely innocent—but this group is in danger. Someone put Sage McCormick’s skull on that wig stand, and someone got into the basement and struck Jennie and Jane. And someone shot a stranger in the desert and slit Caleb Hough’s throat and tried to kill his family. Everyone needs to be watchful. Someone in this town is a murderer.”

  They all looked at Sloan in silence as he spoke.

  “We’ll be careful, Sloan,” Valerie said in a small voice. “Honestly.”

  He nodded. “It’s your lives,” he reminded them. “Take that very seriously.”

  Jane set her hand on his arm; he had gotten his point across.

  Henri didn’t seem happy. “Come on, then. If you’re going to be breathing down my neck, get into costume.” He paused, glancing around. “Has anybody seen our housekeeper, Elsie, come in?”

  “Yes, she’s upstairs cleaning the rooms with one of the local girls,” Valerie said.

  “Valerie, run up and ask her to make sure Jennie’s room is clean so the other agents can stay there,” Henri told her. “Alice, you come with me and Jane and the sheriff.”

  “What do you want Brian and me doing?” Cy asked.

  “Go ahead and start entertaining the tourists as they show up on the streets.” Henri looked over at Sloan. “They’re allowed to do a little trick-riding, right?”

  “Trick-riding is great.”

  “Good. I’m glad you don’t think the horses are in on it!” Henri said with a sniff.

  That, at least, made them all smile—even Sloan.

  “No, Henri, I don’t think the horses are in on it,” he responded drily.

  They rose to do as asked. Behind the stage in the dressing rooms, Henri selected clothing for Jane and Sloan to wear. Sloan just had to change into a period cotton shirt, jacket and plumed hat. Jane told them she’d change into her new costume upstairs.

  She ran ahead before any of them could protest. Up in her room—or Sage’s room—she spoke out loud while she changed. “We could really use some more help here, Sage. Something was going on—and you knew about it, didn’t you? I wish there was a way you could tell me what you found out. Because people are dying again, Sage.”

  If Sage was there, she wasn’t speaking at the moment.

  Jane walked into the bathroom. As she brushed her hair and arranged it into a loose chignon, she wished she had time to take a shower; Sage seemed to like writing on the mirror.

  She bent down as she dropped a bobby pin. When she looked into the mirror again, she seemed to have double vision—and then realized that the ghost was standing right behind her.

  Jane spun around. The apparition didn’t disappear. Instead, she reached out as if she could touch Jane, and then her hand fell.

  “I know it can be hard, very hard, to appear and communicate. I also know you’ve been here many years, and I’m not sure why. Do you watch over your family or have you been waiting for this all these years—someone killing people because of the past? I realize you’d never hurt anyone, that you want to help people, but we need to know what you know,” Jane said.

  She thought of the different apparitions she’d encountered, and she knew that some were present and never appeared, some were like mist...and some had become so experienced at showing themselves that they could cause a great deal more than cold drafts or whispers in the night.

  “Sage, we really need your help,” she said again.

  The ghost seemed to step through her. Sage touched the mirror, but of course there was no steam. Jane quickly closed the door and ran the hot water in the sink, creating a vapor.

  The ghost wrote, “Trey Hardy.”

  It seemed to take all her effort. She wrote the name and faded away.

  Trey Hardy, gunned down in his cell. Jane had to get to the Old Jail and into that cell.

  * * *

  Chet Morgan and Lamont Atkins were in town, in uniform, patrolling the streets on foot, making their presence known.

  Sloan spoke with them both. They were worried, aware that Lily needed Silverfest even though the town had been plagued by murder.

  “Bad days, Sloan, bad days,” Lamont told him. “But we’re watching everyone. And Newsome over at county has done his part. There are three officers, two men and a woman, keeping up with everything. So far, I’m feeling like a tour director, but that’s all right. No trouble happening here as I can see.”

  Sloan started into Desert Diamonds next, but the place was overflowing with people and every step he took drew another question from a tourist or someone wanting to pose with him. He went back to the street and called Grant Winston, asking him to come out for a chat.

  Sloan leaned against the post by the Old Jail Bed and Breakfast, playing his part as Trey Hardy. He didn’t mind being Hardy—he actually felt a certain kinship with the man. But his main goal that day was to interview everyone in town about Caleb Hough.

  His call to Grant Winston had ruffled the man. He was extremely busy and delighted to be; these days let him stay open for the rest of the year. But Sloan was insistent, and Grant promised he’d go over to the Old Jail as soon as he could get his staff functioning smoothly.

  As he waited, Sloan watched people move along the street and he listened to their conversations.

  Some talked about leaving Lily then and there, despite all the festivities planned for the day; the news services had carried information about the murders that had occurred in the desert. But someone in the party would usually argue that the murders had taken place out in the desert and in a mine shaft, and had nothing to do with anyone in Lily.

  “Drug-related, obviously!” one person said.

  “We’re not that far from the border! It’s all about human trafficking!” another woman suggested.

  Then they would stop to chat with him.

  People asked him about the outlaw Trey Hardy, and he played his part whenever they did, telling them he wasn’t a bad sort at all. There were those who’d profited by war and those who’d been impoverished by it, and he just didn’t think it was right for people to make money on war.

  “Still happening. It will always happen,” a man said.

  He posed for pictures with kids, with young women and even the men—many of whom were walking around with the replica Western gunslinger pistols they’d bought at Desert Diamonds.

  He studied every gun he saw that day.

  As he’d promised, Grant Winston came out of Desert Diamonds, wearing the kind of apron an old-fashioned shopkeeper would wear.

  “Sloan, what the hell? It’s the busiest day of the year!” Grant was obviously flustered and annoyed.

  “I would have come to you,” Sloan said.

  “I don’t want to talk in the store!” Grant protested.

  “Because I want to ask you about a dead man?”

  Grant’s ruddy face grew even redder. “Caleb Hough got himself murdered. I’m surprised his wife didn’t kill him long ago.”

  That was a common assertion. “I heard you and Caleb had a big argument. Want to tell me about it?”

  Grant Winston frowned and seemed truly perplexed. “First off, the guy never came to my shop. The wife and kid did—Zoe loves a cappuccino, and the kid came with all the other kids, bought pizza, looked through the magazines and books—but Caleb Hough never darkened my door. Then all of a sudden about a month ago he comes in and asks about my history books. I showed him where they all were, although a numbskull could’ve found them on his own. Then, about two weeks ago, he’s back, telling me I’m holding out, that I’ve got books I’m not selling. I told him I owned collectible books that no, I didn’t sell. He wanted to see them. I said
no. Then I come in one day and he’s just let himself into my office in back and he’s going through my private collection! I told him to get the hell out—that everything I have has been republished over the years. He told me he’d pay me some ridiculous sum of money for my collection and I said, ‘No!’ I collect books because I love them. He told me that if I had any sense, I’d accept his offer or he’d see that I wound up being closed down. I said he could take his money and stuff it where the sun don’t shine and that I’d take my chances. That was the last time I saw him. And if you think I’d go crawl into a mine and kill someone because he was an idiot, you’re crazy!”

  “What books did he buy?” Sloan asked.

  “The same books that stupid tourist did—and that you took the other day. You had a worse argument with the bastard than I did, Sloan. You told your deputy to keep his kid in jail overnight. He exploded over that!”

  “How did you know?” Sloan asked. “Thought you hadn’t seen him.”

  “I haven’t seen him,” Grant said, exasperated. “This is Lily—you sneeze and everyone knows it!”

  “All right, Grant, thanks.” Sloan paused. “But I’m going to need to see your collectible books sometime soon.”

  “Sloan, you can read through the night if you want. I have the original of the book Fogerty wrote after it all happened and he’d retired, and I have some of the newspapers from the day, but I don’t know what you’re going to get out of them.”

  “I don’t, either. But I appreciate the opportunity to go through them.”

  “You got it, Sloan. Whenever you want. Just so long as you don’t stop me from working today. The place is hopping!”

  As Sloan let him get back to work, Mike Addison came outside, grinning.

  It was bizarre that a local had been killed—viciously murdered, his throat slashed—and that no one in town seemed to mourn him.

  But then, neither did his wife.

  “What’s the smile for, Mike?” he asked.

  “I just had some people check out of the B and B,” Mike told him.

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  “The wife was all freaked out. She said she saw the ghost of Trey Hardy sitting in the chair by the bed when she woke up. She made her husband get them a room at the chain hotel down the highway.”