Darkest Journey (9 page)

“Charlie?” Ethan turned back to her.

“Sorry,” she said tersely. “Coming.”

She had seen a ghost. She knew she had seen him. And she knew she should have told Ethan—after all, he was here because she believed in his ability to find the truth.

But the ghost had pointed to the river.

And she knew exactly where he had been directing her to look....

To the
Journey
.

* * *

Ethan's family home was outside the historic downtown section of St. Francisville. It was, however, equally as old. Someone back in his family's history had raised horses. They'd largely been sold or conscripted by the Civil War, and in the 1880s the stables, paddocks and the bulk of the property had been sold off. Now, to the one side of his house, there was a housing community called Golden Acres, and to the other was a sprawling manor built in the 1890s. The Delaney family residence was two full stories, with a half-story attic above. His mother had been in love with the idea that the family had once kept horses on the property, and there were paintings of the animals all over the house.

It was furnished as a hunting lodge might have been, with heavy wood pieces, and leather sofas and chairs. There was a large-screen television set up to work with a gaming system. His parents didn't keep cable hooked up, but they had Netflix and could stream TV and movies anywhere in the house.

He wasn't sure he was going to spend enough time here to worry about entertainment, but he was glad he could connect his laptop wirelessly and see his photos on the giant screen.

He'd taken a shot of Randy's board, which was as impressive as promised. There were pictures of Farrell Hickory and Albion Corley as they had been in life. There were also the crime-scene and the autopsy shots, along with a fact sheet on each man estimating time of death, last meal and everything the police had put together regarding his last movements.

The only place where the men's timelines had crossed, at least as far as they knew, was for the special reenactment on the
Journey
. There was a note that a local photographer, a man named Chance Morgan, had spoken with both men about taking some shots the Celtic American Line could use for PR, but he claimed he hadn't been able to arrange a time with either man.

Ethan had called Morgan himself as he'd left the station earlier. Along with everyone else he was looking at, he had to consider the photographer, who was known for his photos replicating those taken during the Civil War. He'd told Randy Laurent that he'd been in Baton Rouge on the days when the murders had been committed, and he had hotel bills to prove it. But in Ethan's mind, Baton Rouge just wasn't far enough away to clear him. Randy had, however, verified Morgan's claim to have been shooting stills for a local catering company.

When Ethan had reached him, Morgan was shooting a wedding at the Myrtles, but he'd told Ethan he could see him the following day any time he wanted. They'd made an appointment for nine o'clock the next morning.

He examined Randy's board on the big screen. Examined it over and over again. Randy had dispassionately told him that Jonathan Moreau made a damned good suspect. He'd argued with both the dead men. Either of the men might easily have planned to meet him to discuss a new project. Jonathan Moreau knew about Civil War weapons, including bayonets. He knew the area like few other men.

But when Ethan looked at things closely, even considering the fact Moreau was Charlie's father and he had an emotional connection with Charlie from the past, he came to the conclusion that Randy's reasoning was really only a lot of speculation.

They didn't have anything concrete. No witnesses. No physical evidence. Just two men who had died wearing reproduction uniforms, killed by a weapon that could have been a Civil War bayonet.

Ethan turned away from the screen.

It was tempting to believe the murders had something to do with an old grudge that led back to the Civil War, or at least someone's interpretation of it. Even when he'd been a kid in school, there had been teachers who referred to “the War of Northern Aggression.”

So many terrible things had happened back then. The war itself. Reconstruction. The rise of the KKK. Murder and mayhem and resentment for years and years to follow. At least in the world they lived in now equality was the law of the land, although that wasn't always true in reality.

You could never tell what was really going on in a man's heart or mind, no matter what the law dictated.

And the fact that, based simply on the identities of the victims, the murders appeared to have a connection to history and those who reenacted it bothered Ethan, in part because the connection was so obvious.

When it came to solving crime, the obvious explanation was often the true one.

But sometimes it wasn't.

Ethan turned and looked at all the information again. He needed to be objective.

Objective, yes.

Whoever had killed those men...

He was damn well sure it hadn't been Charlie's father.

* * *

“It's wonderful, Charlie. You have to see it,” Clara Avery said excitedly over the phone. “It's in Northern Virginia and was actually built as a theater in the early 1800s. It was a venue for political speeches, as well. It became a movie theater in the 1930s, and then it was a bowling alley for about forty-five years. Then someone started to develop it as a theater again, ran out of money and interest, and headed west, abandoning it. But it's beautiful. The architecture is stunning, and the sound is fantastic.”

“It does sound wonderful,” Charlie said.

She suddenly heard something slam against the door, and she took the phone with her as she went to look out the peephole. There was no one there, and no one on the street.

She shrugged. She must have imagined the sound.

“I'm so happy for you and Alexi. Your own theater! But...wow, that's a lot of work, choosing shows, casting, hiring a permanent crew to do lighting and set design and...wow,” she said again.

“You have to come perform here,” Clara said.

“Yes, of course,” Charlie said distractedly, still wondering about that noise at the door.

“Charlie, you don't sound like yourself. Ethan is there, right? He'll figure out what's going on. And—”

“Clara, you know those murders I told you about? My father is a suspect.”

“What? You can't be serious.”

“I'm sure there are other suspects, too, but he's among them.”

“Oh, no.” Clara was quiet for a minute. “Thor Erikson—the agent in Alaska who worked with Jackson there and is now...now with me!—told me that Jackson might be going down himself, and probably Jude McCoy, too. I can come and stay with you if—”

“You've got a theater to manage.”

“We're still in the early stages of renovation. We have a fabulous contractor who's handling everything. Alexi and I can both come.” She was quiet for another long moment. “We both know how you're feeling,” she added.

“Well, the two of you
could
be in the movie,” Charlie said. “But you know I didn't call you to cry on your shoulder and try to get you to come down here and take care of me.”

“I know that, but we're happy to do it, and this really is a good time.”

“Well, then...” Charlie hesitated. “If you think you can both come, there's something else I want to try to work out.”

“Oh?”

Charlie was about to start explaining her idea when she heard another thump. No, not really a thump, more of a...a scrape. Against the side window of the parlor. She hurried over there, forgetting that Clara was still waiting for her to say something.

“Charlie?”

“Oh, um, sorry. I think the murders are connected to the Celtic American Line. So, my idea has to do with the Celtic American Line! You and Alexi used to work for the line,” she said. “My dad works for Celtic American. Between the three of you, we must have an in. We need to find out more about what happened on that ship.”

Her old softball bat was in the hall closet, or it had been. Charlie went to get it. She knew there was a gun somewhere. Her dad had taught her to shoot because their neighbors weren't that close and you never knew what could happen. She hadn't taken it to New Orleans, but she had no idea where it was now. Her father would have made sure that it was kept somewhere safe, but where the hell that was, she didn't know.

The bat would have to do.

“Clara, I'll call you back tomorrow. But do me a favor. Do talk to Alexi. And I'll talk to you again in the morning.”

“You sure you're okay?”

Charlie gripped her bat. “I'm fine,” she said.

She hung up, then turned on the television, thinking that outside noises wouldn't bother her if she couldn't hear them, or at least had something to distract her.

But just as she clicked the remote, she thought she heard scurrying outside.

A possum or a squirrel, maybe even a rat, she told herself.

And still, though she didn't know why, she felt her heart thumping far too quickly. Some innate sense warned her of danger.

She almost jumped sky-high when she heard the next noise.

Someone was out there. Someone was walking around her house, looking in the windows.

Watching her.

* * *

It was growing late. Ethan suddenly found himself reaching for his phone. He had to know that Charlie was all right.

He hesitated, then told himself not to be ridiculous. He had every right to call her. She was the reason he was there.

He found himself thinking about the last time they had seen each other.

After that night in the graveyard, they'd been drawn to each other. She'd been in awe of him, and he'd been as ridiculously attracted to her as only a teenage boy could be. She was too young, and he'd known it, but she was still...Charlie. Lithe and graceful, with her deep blue eyes and long chestnut hair. She had the most captivating laugh, and she'd had a way of looking at him that...

Friends...it had been great to be friends.

But he'd known that in everyone's eyes—even, if he was honest, his own—she was simply too young. And when she'd come to New Orleans on a school trip and broken away to visit him, when she'd been alone with him in his dorm room, he'd already known how she felt about him.

He should have been prepared.

He hadn't been.

He'd come back to his room after dropping off a book to a friend, and there she'd been. Exquisite and tempting as any Eve, her perfect body bared for him alone as she'd stretched out on his bed, her hair falling over her breasts, her smile as sensual as that of the most seasoned lover.

He'd nearly headed straight to her. Older, better men might have done exactly that.

But he'd been raised to do the right thing.

He didn't think he'd ever wanted any woman more—or ever would—but giving in to the attraction, no matter what she thought she wanted, would have been just plain wrong.

As torn as he was, though, his voice had come out too harshly.

“Get dressed, Charlie. Get dressed now,” he'd told her.

Then he'd left the room.

When he'd gone back to talk, she was already dressed and on her way out. When he'd touched her arm to stop her, desperate to explain, she'd shouted, “Don't touch me, Ethan Delaney. Don't you dare touch me!”

“Charlie, let me explain,” he'd all but begged.

But she was already gone. He'd left her messages. A score of them. She'd finally left him one in return. “Stop worrying. We'll always be friends.”

He'd tried to call again, but she hadn't answered.

That was when he'd realized she was embarrassed, and the only way she could be his friend was not to see him at all.

She
had
seen him, though. He'd gone to her mother's funeral. She'd been polite but distant. And, given her deep emotional pain at the sudden loss, he'd provided her the distance she'd needed.

And for the life of him, he'd never understood how every time he'd had any relationship since then—easy and casual, or deeper, with the potential to go somewhere—things just never worked out. Because no one would ever compare to the girl he'd walked away from.

And now, well...

Now she'd only called him because she needed his expertise.

Because he was the only law-enforcement professional who knew she not only talked to the dead, she could also see them.

He looked at the phone in his hand. And he dialed her number.

To his surprise, she answered.

“Ethan?”

“Yes. I was just checking that you were okay.”

“I'm fine,” she said, sounding a little breathless.

“Really?” he asked.

She laughed softly—the laugh that had always seemed to wrap right around his heart.

“Honestly, I'm fine. The authorities have cleared us to film on the field by the cemetery tomorrow, so I have an early call.”

“Okay, great. I, uh, just wanted to make sure.”

“Thank you.”

“You're alone there, right? I mean, sorry if I sound like I'm intruding, but it's my job. Your dad is staying on the
Journey
, right?”

“Yes, he's on the
Journey
. I'm locked in. I'm fine.”

“Okay, then. Well, I'll talk to you later.”

“Sure.”

“Night.”

He was about to hit the “end call” button when she spoke again.

“Ethan?”

“Yes?”

“I'm
not
fine. I'm scared. I don't know what's going on, but I keep thinking someone is outside. I keep hearing things.”

“I'll be there in five.”

“I'm not propositioning you, I swear. I mean, you're not going to get here and find me... Well, it's not like that. Nothing sexual. Really.”