Horror-Ween (Krewe of Hunters)

by Heather Graham

  “Especially in fall,” Gordon agreed. “The colors of the leaves are spectacular there.”

  Marvin sighed. “I’ve got to get around more. I’ve been to the middle of Florida—cool theme parks there, all of them.”

  “That’s what I’d like to do—and maybe I’ll put in an application at one of the places in Florida. I’d like to be a nice character somewhere along the line.” Janice said, and made a face. “I’m a zombie, chomping after brains right now. It’s kind of cool, though—we have motion-activated creatures around me, and it scares the hell out of people when I just keep coming.”

  “And what are you two?” Keri asked Steve and Rowdy.

  Rowdy laughed. “No place is a Halloween place without a crazy running around with a chain saw.”

  Steve grimaced. “Every good park needs at least one werewolf, right? Jenkins is a pretty good planner. There are other were-creatures as well. I just keep moving, coming after the hayride.”

  “The gang’s all here—werewolves, zombies, vampires, evil clown-like things, wicked doll, demented puppy--you name it. And, of course, the headless horseman.”

  “Don’t forget. I’m actually a damned good magician!” Gordon told them.

  Food arrived. Beers and sodas were refilled. Keri encouraged one and all to talk about their lives.

  Gordon, they knew, was spending his first year at the park; Rowdy had worked it years back but had been in Chicago until he’d recently returned.

  “Love affair gone . . . stale, I guess. And I hate the cold,” he told them.

  Janice ended the night by yawning loudly and apologizing quickly.

  They all paid their tabs and headed out to their cars, calling goodnight to one another.

  Keri slid into the passenger’s seat by Joe and looked at him. “Gordon Bentley?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Well, if we find out who has worked this park—showing up every night before Halloween—we’ll know who can’t be guilty.”

  “Angela will get back to us by morning.”

  “We’ll need headshots of everyone working—not just those we’ve met,” Keri said. “I want to get them to Jillian tomorrow—see if she recognizes anyone.”

  Joe looked at her, biting his lower lip and hiding a smile. “Would you have really recognized a headshot of Purgatory Puppy before you saw her out of costume?”

  Keri smiled and punched him lightly on the shoulder.

  “I’m sure Angela has cleared all the employees with airtight alibis by now,” Keri said. “And you’d better start being nice to me.”

  “Hey—I’m always nice.”

  “Nicer—we’re getting closer to a bed for the night. And wow, I am exhausted, but then, sometimes, when you’re that exhausted, you can’t sleep until you wind down a little bit, and there are several ways to wind down . . . TV is one of them,” she said sweetly.

  He laughed.

  They reached their hotel.

  Keri began tossing her clothing aside as he closed and locked the door—leaving a trail to the shower.

  Yes, a shower, after make-up, costumes, and a long day.

  He started to do the same, but then hesitated. She had tossed her Glock and holster on the bed; he wasn’t feeling trusting of the hotel’s bolt. He picked up her gun and holster.

  He followed her in; water was streaming. He set their guns on the back of the commode, stripped, and joined her.

  She turned into his arms. “That took long enough.”

  “Hm. I just don’t like interruptions.”

  She arched a brow, drawing back a bit, looking at him.

  He smiled. “I brought the guns in here.”

  “But I would have thought—”

  “Never trust a hotel lock.”

  “I think we were believed—”

  “Never trust what you think.”

  She nodded gravely. The water was warm and steaming and cascading down her hair and the length of her body.

  “Don’t really want to talk about guns,” he said.

  She grinned.

  “I kind of like these guns,” she said, fingers running, wet and sleek, down his torso.

  “And I like everything I see in front of me,” he whispered softly, moving his face close to her ear, feeling the spray of the water around them both, watching as the steam rose around them.

  She drew away then, laughing. “Okay, so guns come with us into the bathroom. Soap and rinse first—so that neither of us slips and falls in the midst of a ridiculously sexy moment, breaks a leg, and screws up the entire operation.”

  He had to laugh, too. He was a tall man, and while soap and steamy mist were cool, a cramped shower had never really been his idea of perfection.

  Now, a nice Jacuzzi . . .

  They didn’t have one.

  “Soap, rinse, dry, and then out . . . however, you didn’t say anything about who should soap up who, or . . .”

  His hands were slippery wet with soap. He moved them over her breasts and down her torso, and down some more.

  She gasped softly, moved back—and almost slipped. He caught her; she was laughing.

  “Rinse,” she said.

  “You sound like a dentist.”

  “Don’t you dare dentist me. I’ll—I’ll soap you again.”

  “A dastardly threat.”

  She rinsed; soaped him swiftly and swung him around so that he was mainly under the water. She quickly escaped the shower, grabbing a towel as she ran.

  He had to come out a bit more carefully, taking the Glocks back in hand and placing one each at the bedside tables.

  She watched him from the bed the whole while, naked and beautiful, stretched out in an old Hollywood vamp pose that was arousing and erotic . . .

  Except for the bemused smile she gave him.

  “You really don’t trust hotel locks?”

  “Not a bit,” he agreed. “But now . . .”

  “Ah, well, now I may just . . .” She yawned dramatically—while stretching in another pose she knew to be enticing.

  Then she laughed and sprang up, rising against his naked body, her own flush with it, skin so soft, still a whisper of dampness about it . . .

  He caught her into his arms; they dropped to the bed together. Exhaustion fell away; naked flesh grew flushed and damp with the liquid kiss they delivered to one another. Keri writhed and moved against him, they rolled about on the bed, ripping it apart, taking turns as the aggressor until at last he moved into her, with her, and lightning seemed to rule the heat and fury of them both. The climax they shared always seemed explosive, and even as he cooled, her body curled against him, his heartbeat easing, he wondered at the miracle of her, and he knew that yes, he’d fallen in love not with a writer, but also with a woman who was passionate, who felt she could right some wrongs, and was gifted and must do so . . .

  Who was beautiful inside and out; who loved him in return.

  “What are you thinking?” she murmured.

  “That I’m incredibly lucky,” he said.

  She smiled, crawling atop him. “And I think I’m lucky.”

  He laughed. “I said I think I’m lucky. I think you’re crazy. You can write. You have a hell of a career going . . . but now . . . well . . .”

  “I get to be here with you.”

  “And that is amazing.”

  “I—”

  She stopped speaking.

  She stared at him hard.

  “Keri?”

  She drew a finger to her lips and leapt from the bed, sweeping up her Glock and moving toward the door.

  “There was someone there,” she whispered.

  He’d kicked a terry robe off the foot of the bed when he’d hopped into it; he donned it quickly, diving for his own Glock. He hurried to the door; Keri was trying to look through the peephole.

  She gazed at him.

  “I saw someone’s back . . . a man.”

  He threw open the door, stepping out into the hall, looking at her for direction.<
br />
  He hurried down the hall and saw that the elevator was heading down.

  Swearing, he took the stairs.

  He reached the lobby in his terry robe. No one there. He glanced at the registration desk; the clerk was evidently back in the office.

  Hurrying to the lobby door, he threw it open to step out.

  Too late; a car was speeding away, already disappearing into the shadows of the quiet country road.

  ***

  He could barely wait; Halloween was so close, and yet . . .

  Willpower. Oh, yes, he had that. In abundance. He would have to live with the sweetness of anticipation until the time.

  And of course, there was the planning. But he believed, he could manage that quite well. The two of them were working at the Murder House. Dispatch the man first, and then, take his time with her, Keri. Yes, she had set something off in him that he hadn’t felt before. Oh, there had been the anticipation, the choosing, the touching, the teasing . . . the killing.

  They’d been having sex.

  And that made him more excited. Of course, they were. They were young, and she was beautiful. They would have sex often, passionate sex, and he could only imagine her eyes . . .

  He loved those eyes of hers. And he couldn’t wait until they were looking up into his, until she was begging and pleading and promising everything . . .

  He couldn’t wait until she was his.

  Well, he would have to, of course. There was nothing so delightful as the game. Playing with the idiocy of the police.

  Giving them every chance . . .

  Watching them stumble and fall.

  He could wait; he had willpower. Yes, he could wait; it was his game, and he enjoyed every minute of it.

  Nothing so delightful as his game . . .

  Except maybe, just maybe, having her at last.

  He smiled.

  He didn’t understand his obsession with her. That was okay, and it didn’t matter. The grand finale of his seasonal fling—so brilliantly executed thus far—was on the horizon.

  And just thinking about Halloween . . .

  About her . . ..

  Well, hell, yes. It made him smile.

  Chapter 6

  Keri studied notes and pictures as Joe drove the next morning, telling him the information she gained.

  Mel Jenkins employed over a hundred people including his actors, ride and game hosts, mechanics, security, office staff and support for the various departments.

  Twenty-five outside vendors worked on the property during his opening hours selling all manner of Halloween souvenirs, food, and beverages.

  By the time they reached the city that morning, Angela and the office staff at headquarters had gone through every vendor and every employee.

  As they had expected, Connie Perkins, Laura Jenkins, and Justin Roberts of the Haunted Hayride were easily cleared; each had been in the vicinity every Halloween for the last several years. Justin’s youngest daughter had, in fact, been born on October 30th, just last year.

  They’d also vetted all those working at the various vendors; small local companies held most of the licenses and many were family run. They had found a few employees who had not been with the company long, but since four of the five had been serving in the military in the preceding years—deployed to the Middle East—they had been cleared as well.

  Security officers had also been well vetted.

  “So,” Joe said as they drove, “we are looking at performers or attendees. And if it’s someone who is just attending the fair and hiding out . . .”

  “Our marvelous performances will mean nothing,”

  He glanced her way, his smile a little grim. “All in the learning process, my love.”

  “And you were right.”

  “I was? About what?”

  “Having your gun at arm’s reach at any time.”

  “Hey. You heard someone there; I didn’t.”

  “You would have if I hadn’t been talking, making noise.”

  “I love you talking—making noise.”

  “And, of course, we’re not really sure someone was there. You saw a car driving away.”

  “There was someone there; he moved like a bat out of hell.”

  She shook her head.

  “He was gone by the time I reached the door and looked through the peephole. There’s no way you could have caught him.”

  “I wish I’d been close enough to see something. I don’t even know what kind of car it was. But maybe, just maybe . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’d recognize the lights if I saw the car disappearing again.”

  She arched a brow at him.

  “Hey, lights gleam differently.”

  “I believe you.” Keri said. She paused, looking around. They’d reached the city and had passed the Superdome. Jillian Murphy was meeting them at a friend’s restaurant—one that didn’t open for business until night.

  She’d been assigned agents to watch over her, but she was still nervous. Jackson had deemed it necessary for her to have security, and she had been grateful.

  The parking lot was empty, but Joe found a place on the street, and they walked the distance to be safe. They walked around and entered by the back kitchen door.

  Jillian was there. Her guardian that day was a man out of the NOLA office; young, tall and squarely built, serious and sandy-haired. He introduced himself as Special Agent Angus McGee and said softly to Keri that he’d be reading the paper a few tables away; Jillian had wanted a few words with them in private.

  He didn’t seem offended. Keri believed he liked Jillian just fine and respected what she was trying to do. It wasn’t until her friend who owned the place—introduced as Billie Jean—had brought them tea and gumbo and cornbread and headed back into the kitchen that they were joined by another man.

  A dead one.

  Jillian’s Revolutionary Soldier looked as if he might have just stepped out of a parade line that George Washington was leading—at least according to old paintings Keri had seen. He had died at a young age, she thought, barely thirty, if that. His hair was brown and a little shaggy beneath his hat; he wore a blue frockcoat, white breeches, and black boots.

  He was aware that Keri and Joe could see him—and that the others could not. He sat at Jillian’s side as protective as any parent.

  “We shall keep it low. I know it’s most difficult for you to retain credibility when seen speaking to an empty chair,” he said as he joined them. “Lieutenant Emil Woodruff, at your service, the best I can be in any way.”

  “He is amazing,” Jillian whispered.

  Lieutenant Woodruff arched his brows and grimaced.

  “Well, you are. You found me, you came to tell me what you feared, all the way from Massachusetts,” Jillian said.

  “That is impressive,” Keri said, setting her folder on the table. It contained dossiers on people, lists of those who couldn’t be found in any system and were using assumed names—which might just mean they were trying to earn money under the table, and had no thought of committing murder.

  Then there were those who just wanted to disappear.

  “What do you know?” Joe asked Emil Woodruff. “What brought you to Jillian?”

  “A friend overheard someone talking . . . a man leaving the park. He didn’t see the man’s face, but he heard him say he was planning murder that night in Massachusetts, then California, Arizona—and Louisiana. I . . . followed Jillian and her group to make sure they were safe. I listened, and I knew she was coming to New Orleans for college—and her last year would be his fourth year, his Halloween event.”

  Keri nodded; Emil Woodruff had come to care about the woman who had seen him, heard him, and listened to his advice.

  “A long trip,” she murmured.

  He smiled. “Ever hear of a hitch-hiking ghost?” he said lightly. “Forgive me my humor; I have been around a long, long time.” But then he grew serious again quickly. “I feel . . .
I feel that I must help. Maybe it’s why I have been here so long. I was killed at the Battle of Concord, gratefully aware, before I finally closed my eyes, that we had taken the battle.” He grimaced. “I became the best spy possible, but few could ever hear me. I’ve stayed through much since then, war, depression, sadness. But such cold-blooded savagery as this demented killer practices . . . perhaps I can’t bear what happened. It was unexpected in Massachusetts. I didn’t see it when it finally took place. Couldn’t stop it. Maybe this go-round, I can do something.”

  Keri nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  She knew she would later do research on Lieutenant Woodruff; he seemed to have been such a fine human being, full of passion and belief.

  “Yes, thank you,” Joe echoed gravely. “Keri, show them what we have.”

  Keri displayed the pictures—eight-by-ten headshots—of those at the theme park who did not have known alibis for the dates of the other murders.

  Jillian stared at them all.

  “It was a theme park, you know. People in costumes.”

  “Yes. Just, well, anything you can give us would be helpful,” Joe said.

  Jillian went through the pictures one by one with Lieutenant Emil Woodruff looking on as she did so.

  “Oh!” she said suddenly.

  “What?” Joe asked quietly

  “Well, I don’t think it’s your killer, but . . .”

  “But?” Keri said.

  Their new ghost acquaintance tapped the picture of a woman.

  To Keri’s surprise, it was Janice Markle.

  “Janice Markle?” Joe asked.

  “Oh, no, that’s not Janice Markle,” Jillian said. “That’s Francie Dumont. She’s a friend of mine—or was a friend of mine. I mean, I guess she still is. I just haven’t heard from her in years, since we all went our separate ways for college.”

  Keri looked at Joe. “So, this young woman’s real name is Francie Dumont, and she was there, in Massachusetts, when the murders took place?”

  “Yes, she was with me after Lieutenant Woodruff warned us to leave the park.” Jillian frowned. “Why would she be going by a different name?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ll find out,” Joe said, giving her a smile. “Anyone else?”

  Jillian kept going through the pictures.

  She stopped when she reached that of Gordon Bentley.