Krewe of Hunters, Volume 6: Haunted Destiny ; Deadly Fate ; Darkest Journey

by Heather Graham

  “I’m sorry that Sam passed away.”

  “A year ago. Don’t be sorry. Few people have so many beautiful years together! I cherish my memories. Oh, I have my children and grandchildren to fill my days, and I love to cruise. I’m doing it on my own now, but Sam and I used to take cruises whenever we could. It’s a nice way to keep my independence and meet new friends.”

  Flora Winters seemed to be sincere. He found himself liking her very much.

  He also found himself wondering about the collectibles.

  “What sort of things is Roger interested in buying?” he asked her.

  “Estate jewelry. Gifts for his wife. Unusual pieces rather than pieces with massive diamonds or the like,” Flora said.

  “Yes, I’d think Lorna’s tastes run to the unique. She doesn’t seem the type of woman who’d need to flash a large diamond.”

  “No.”

  He started to rise; he still didn’t know anything, not for sure, but his gut instinct said Flora was telling the truth.

  And that Roger wasn’t having an affair. He just wanted to buy his wife some nice jewelry.

  “Then, of course,” Flora went on, “there are the religious artifacts.”

  Jude eased back into his seat. “Religious artifacts?”

  “Oh, some gorgeous things! A marble cross, a stained-glass window from an ancient church in Rome, parish Bibles from England. I’d keep them myself, but I’m selling the house and moving into a condo in New York City. My son works on Wall Street and my daughter is in fashion design. They’re in the city, so of course, I want to be nearby.”

  “Of course,” he murmured. “Tell me something. Since your husband must’ve known about collecting such things… Did you ever handle a set of saints’ medallions that were created right before World War II?”

  “Why, yes, I believe Sam did have a set. Italian, I think. I’m not sure which church they came from, but I recall that they were created to help provide for orphaned children. I vaguely remember seeing the set. The medallions were silver-plated—exquisite but not very expensive!”

  “Did he happen to sell those to Roger?” Jude asked.

  “Oh, no, Mr. McCoy—Jude,” she amended quickly. “I didn’t meet Roger until after Sam died. I’m afraid I don’t know who the medallions were sold to. But the buyer would be on record with my husband’s accountant. Sam’s bookkeeping was meticulous. Were you looking for a set of medallions? Perhaps Myles Barton could help you. He was Sam’s assistant.”

  “Yes, I’ve been looking for exactly this set,” Jude said. “Flora, as soon as we’re able to make contact with the outside world again, I’d appreciate it if you’d speak to your bookkeeper and find out who bought that set from Sam.” To make his interest in the medals seem straightforward—merely a collector’s obsession—he added, “I’ve wanted these for years, ever since I, uh, first read about them.”

  “I’ll be happy to look into it,” she told him.

  After a few more pleasantries, he left.

  There had originally been five thousand sets. Just because Flora’s husband, Sam Winters, had sold a set, that certainly didn’t mean he’d been the one to sell it to the Archangel.

  But being this close to learning about one of the sets—and, more than that, learning there’d been a connection between the seller and one of the suspects…

  It seemed like more than a coincidence.

  He wasn’t much of a believer in coincidence.

  Ghosts, yes, he told himself drily.

  Coincidence? No.

  * * *

  Jude did not come to rescue Alexi and Clara.

  They stayed with Jensen Hardy through an afternoon of contests and games.

  By five o’clock, Alexi was pretty sure she hated Jude McCoy.

  Hank poked his head in, Ginny Monk on his arm, just as Jensen was teasing that they’d make one of their last games of the day a wet T-shirt contest.

  During the final trivia game, the ballroom had begun to fill up with older teens and young adults. They cheered him on.

  Alexi could see Hank entering the ballroom with Ginny. The bar had been open for a long time; maybe that was why Jensen’s suggestion of a wet T-shirt contest brought enthusiasm and laughter—and a surge of people heading to the bar.

  “Sales!” he told Alexi and Clara happily.

  “Sales,” they murmured to each other.

  “How can we have a wet T-shirt contest?” one young woman called out.

  “Well, now that you ask…” Jensen grinned and searched the shelves of the large trunk, on rollers, that often went with him from venue to venue on the ship. “Aha!” he cried, producing spray bottles of water. “Ten. We can have ten entries. And to make it lots of fun, each young lady willing to have a wet T-shirt is welcome to have her man—her friend, her sister, broker, companion, whoever—wield the spray bottles!”

  “What if a young man wants to enter the contest?”

  “I know that voice,” Clara whispered to Alexi.

  “Simon?”

  “It’s the singer!” someone else said.

  “I say let him join!”

  Simon walked through the crowd, smiling, his hands up. “Just kidding, folks. However, the winner is welcome to wet down my T-shirt!”

  “That’s a deal,” a girl called out, drawing a round of laughter from the crowd.

  “Ah, now, if my lovely assistants will select ten young ladies—only those with their hands raised, we take no prisoners on this ship!—we’ll get it going,” Jensen said.

  “I am really going to kill Jude,” Alexi muttered to Clara.

  “I’d kill him, too—except that I’m happy to be alive!” Clara said.

  So am I! Alexi thought. Still…how could he just leave us here?

  Guarded by Johnny, a security man she liked, she reminded herself.

  But with Jensen? For bingo and all these games—and a wet T-shirt contest.

  “Hey!” someone shouted. “Personally, I’d like to see the lovely assistants in the wet T-shirt contest.”

  “Not a prayer, buddy!” Clara said under her breath.

  “We can’t,” Alexi said. “But for those of you who are eager and willing…”

  In fact it was easy for Alexi and Clara to come up with the right number of contestants. First rule for volunteers—to enter the wet T-shirt contest, you had to be wearing a T-shirt. And then you needed a companion or friend.

  She was standing near the bar when she heard Ginny and Hank talking. “It’ll be fun! Oh, come on, Hank. We’ll have a good time!”

  “I don’t want everyone seeing my girl in a wet T-shirt,” Hank said stubbornly.

  “Actually,” Alexi said, walking toward them quickly, “the T-shirts aren’t going to get that wet. They’re just little spray bottles.”

  “See?” Ginny said.

  “If you’re set on it, be my guest. But I don’t want to be involved,” Hank said.

  “Okay, don’t worry about it,” Ginny told him. “We’ll just watch.”

  “I’m happy just to watch, too,” Alexi said, moving on.

  One girl joined with her brother, who was mortified. Jensen had a great deal of fun teasing the two of them. Alexi discovered that, in some ways, this event was similar to her evenings in the piano bar—minus the singing and the piano, of course.

  It all had to do with engaging the crowd.

  And Jensen Hardy was very good at that.

  Each team had a cheering section. And despite what Alexi had seen as a distinctly uncomfortable activity, the contest was fun. It had nowhere near the sexual edge it might have had poolside.

  The brother kept wetting his sister’s arm, drawing all kinds of criticism and laughter from the crowd.

  And everyone involved
got a ten-dollar credit for drinks or the casino—with no expiration date, in case the weather got worse and they were unable to use them during this cruise.

  Casino credits certainly didn’t represent a loss to the ship; most people used up their ten dollars and perhaps even won. Only to put their winnings—and more—back into the machines and in the hands of the dealers.

  Simon allowed a group of girls to soak his T-shirt with their bottles when the contest was over. He was more the lean ascetic type than the brawny he-man, but the girls still enjoyed themselves and Simon was entertaining.

  “You’re just chorus?” she teased, bringing him a towel after he’d been drenched.

  He grinned at her. “Ah, but I don’t intend to stay just chorus!”

  “And I’m sure you won’t.”

  Guests were trailing out now. Hank and Ginny were having an intense discussion at the bar. Clara, she saw, was staring at the door. She started walking toward it, and Alexi hurried after her as she stepped out into the hall. And there was the ghost of Byron Grant, leaning against a wall. He’d probably been there, watching all the while. But Clara was still staring at him, and he was staring back.

  “Who are you?” she demanded in a whisper.

  “Clara!”

  Alexi caught her by the shoulders, turning her so they were facing each other. People were walking by, giving them curious looks, since Clara seemed to be talking to herself.

  “Clara, please don’t!”

  “Who the hell is he? He’s watching all the time. He could be—”

  The killer.

  “He’s not!” Alexi responded quickly to the words Clara didn’t quite say. “He’s not! Look at me, listen to me. Let all these people get out of here.”

  Jensen was inside the ballroom, cleaning up.

  “Jensen, we have to leave. See you later!” she called. She set an arm around Clara’s shoulders and led her down the hall, glancing at Johnny, who was waiting for them, so he’d follow them down the hall to the elevators.

  “Don’t talk yet. I’ll explain in my room.”

  “Everyone just ignores him,” Clara said. “And I see him all the time. It’s creepy!”

  “Clara, we have to get to my cabin before we talk about this.”

  She smiled weakly as they passed people they knew, or had met while entertaining on the ship. Finally, they reached the employee cabins. Alexi waved her thanks to Johnny and urged Clara into her room.

  “Out with it!” Clara insisted. “Who is that man? Why are you defending him? He looks suspicious. He sometimes follows me!”

  “Clara, he’s not going to hurt you,” Alexi said.

  There was a soft knock at the cabin door. “Alexi, it’s me, Byron.”

  “That’s him, isn’t it?” Clara demanded. “Let him in. I’m going to tell him a thing or two. Is he with the FBI? Someone should’ve told me.”

  She didn’t open the door.

  But a second later Byron appeared inside.

  Clara looked at him, and then at Alexi.

  And then she collapsed—luckily, close enough to Alexi’s bed so she could guide her friend onto it.

  * * *

  Every inch of the Destiny, with the exception of the guest cabins and employee quarters, had been searched.

  The security guard who’d been assigned to the employee hallway that morning was gone. He was Nathan Freeman, veteran of many a voyage. He’d been a Dallas cop before he’d joined the Celtic American group over a decade ago, and he was one of David Beach’s most dependable men.

  But he was nowhere to be found. He seemed to have vanished into thin air.

  Engine rooms and storage areas, every lifeboat, every nook and cranny, had been exhaustively searched. Various members of the staff had taken part and, after his visit with Flora Winters, Jude had joined in, as well.

  Regular announcements had been made over the PA system, asking Nathan Freeman to report to Security. Nathan had not appeared.

  Once again, Jude and Jackson met with David Beach and his security men in their small office. This time, Captain Thorne was present, too.

  “The only places we haven’t searched, of course, are the cabins,” David Beach said. “Captain, do you want us to start checking out guest and employee cabins?”

  “If he is in a cabin somewhere, I’m going to assume it’s with a friend, a crew member. Perhaps he was suddenly taken ill,” Captain Thorne said.

  He didn’t believe it. None of them believed it.

  “At least we haven’t found his body,” Beach said, a catch in his voice.

  Jackson had been silent, listening to Beach and his men go through their reports.

  Now he spoke up. “I’m afraid we’re not going to find Mr. Freeman’s body. We’re all aware that we’re sailing in very rough seas.”

  “You think Nathan deserted his post—and fell off the ship?” Beach demanded indignantly.

  “No, I do not,” Jackson said. “I do suggest another intense search for him. Knock on cabin doors. Honest people will understand that we’re in a difficult situation. Anyone who won’t cooperate will give us reason to take a second look. Captain, aren’t there maritime laws that can be invoked?” He paused as Thorne nodded grimly. “However, I’m afraid we won’t find him.”

  There was silence.

  “But we’ll try every possible approach,” Beach said.

  “Yes,” the captain agreed.

  Beach struggled to speak for a moment before he said, “You and Agent McCoy believe that the Archangel is on board. But the Archangel is a man who kills women. I’m not suggesting all women are weak and vulnerable, not at all, but Nathan is a big guy—broad shoulders, lots of muscle. If I’ve understood anything about the psychopathic killers, which I’m assuming the Archangel must be, it’s that they’re often weaklings, cowed by greater strength. How could a man like that have taken my officer?”

  “By surprise,” Jackson told him. “We’ll keep searching, of course. None of us will stop searching. But I’m afraid that we’re not going to like the outcome.”

  Again there was silence.

  “We don’t even know that this man is really on the ship!” Captain Thorne protested.

  “We have reason to believe he is,” Jude said flatly.

  Captain Thorne turned red. “No, we don’t,” he retorted. “I have to be in the main dining room. Tonight’s the captain’s dinner, and, after this, I may well be declaring a state of emergency. The Destiny is one of the most elegant ships sailing the seas, and we will not make a mockery of her tonight. We will continue to cooperate in every way with the FBI, but we’ll also assume the best—and not the worst!—regarding Nathan Freeman. Is that understood?”

  “Captain,” Jackson said, “it’s your ship.”

  “Yes, and at sea, I am the ultimate law.”

  “Of course, and we appreciate the cooperation,” Jackson said.

  Captain Thorne spun around and marched out of the room.

  When he’d left, Beach looked at Jackson and Jude, his expression pained. “This part of we believes you, Agents,” he said. He spoke to his men. “During the captain’s dinner tonight, we have to be more vigilant than ever, stay in closer contact with one another.” He looked back at Jude and Jackson again.

  “And God help us, the weather’s only going to get worse.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Clara seemed to be in shock at first. Disbelieving.

  That was the initial response most people had to seeing—and speaking with—the dead.

  But Byron must’ve been a decent man. He and his Elizabeth had surely been a loving couple, the kind of people who were bound to make the world a better place, Alexi thought sadly, watching him talk to Clara. She admired his earnestness, the way he assured Clara that h
e was doing everything he could to see that the murderer was brought to justice.

  And by the time Byron had gone through whatever reserves of strength or will or whatever allowed him to appear, Clara in turn was watching him as he vanished before her eyes.

  “I see the dead.” Clara was staring straight ahead. She looked at Alexi. “I see the dead. You see the dead. You take it so…calmly.”

  “I’ve known for years that I see them,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s…it’s in my family.”

  “Sure.” Clara shrugged with a hint of humor. “Some people inherit blue eyes. Some people inherit the ability to see the dead,” Clara said. “And now, now when I’m terrified of a serial killer, I get to see the dead, too. Wow. What a voyage.”

  “You’ve been seeing them all along,” Alexi told her.

  “What?”

  “Blake and Minnie. They’re always at the piano bar.”

  Clara flopped back on the bed and closed her eyes. “This isn’t real. It can’t be. We’re getting cabin fever because of the storm. And because…there’s a serial killer aboard.”

  “Clara, seeing the dead is a good thing,” Alexi reassured her.

  “Why? Is the ghost going to catch the serial killer?”

  “Well, no, but he is looking after us.”

  “And if he sees someone about to attack us, what’s he going to do? Scream for help?”

  “Maybe,” Alexi said. “Others see him, too.”

  Clara bolted into a sitting position. “You’re going to tell me the FBI men see ghosts?”

  “Uh, yes,” Alexi mumbled. “These two, anyway.”

  “No. Oh, no! This can’t be true. It can’t be.”

  There was a knock at her cabin door and Alexi hurried over, hoping it was going to be Jude.

  It wasn’t.

  It was Jensen Hardy.

  She hesitated, not wanting to open the door. She’d had enough of him that day.

  And she wasn’t supposed to open her door—except for Jude or Jackson.