Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (7 page)

As she put away the last of the brushes, Justin strode over to her. “Great. Now Jeanine doesn't want a puppy anymore. She wants a horse.”

Ashley laughed. “Maybe you better look into the puppy thing, fast. Of course, there's always kittens, you know.”

Restless, she returned to the house, showered again and went down to join Beth, who was planning the offerings for the restaurant's evening meal.

 

Jackson Crow was nothing if not a man of incredible thought and organization; there were six folders on the table awaiting them all.

Jake and Whitney were precisely on time, but he was the last to slide into his seat at Le Café, the Hotel Monteleone's bright and charming dining facility for breakfast and lunch. There were other diners about, but they'd been given a table in the far corner, near the windows to Royal Street, and they were certainly far enough from others to carry on a meeting in normal tones.

Jackson, ever the gentleman, had risen while Whitney took her seat, which meant that Will did, too. They were both tall, and the kind of men who drew attention. Jackson had the rugged, square-jawed history of Native Americans in his face, while Will's Trinidadian mix of English, Indian, Chinese and African ancestry gave him a fascinating appeal.

“Thank you all for being on time,” Jackson said. “Though I want you all to know that we're not in an emergency situation.”

“What is our situation?” Will asked.

“As you know, we'd been due to leave here and set up shop in our headquarters in Alexandria. But instead we're going to stay here, in the area, a few more days,” Jackson said.

Whitney kicked Jake under the table. He scowled at her.

Jackson continued, “This may be absolutely nothing, but since we were already in the vicinity, we've been asked to check out a disappearance.”

“Oh, no, not a child?” Jenna asked softly.

“No, no, a man named Charles Osgood, thirty-
eight years old,” Jackson said. “As you may or may not know, Adam Harrison is quite the philanthropist, and he's friends with a Louisiana legend with whom he's worked on many committees to improve education in the Southern states, housing reform, storm relief and so on. Apparently, although the local police aren't terribly concerned, Osgood disappeared right after a battle reenactment.”

Jake knew; he already knew. There had been the dreams; there had been the woman he had seen when he'd been out with Whitney.

There had been those images of Ashley calling to him.

He knew, damn it, knew….

“A what?” Jenna asked.

Jackson glanced at her, remembered she had spent most of her own school years in Ireland, and explained. “A Civil War reenactment. We do tons of them in this country. Many battlefields are now national parks, and many of those that aren't are owned by people who don't mind reliving the Revolutionary War and the Civil War. It's ‘living history,' and a good thing, in my opinion. We learn from our mistakes.”

“True, or else you'll die,” Jenna said. She looked around and shrugged. “Survival of the fittest. But, yes, they do reenactments everywhere, of course.”

The others smiled at her tone. Jake felt the unease sweeping through him. Déjà vu.

“How long has he been missing?” Whitney asked.

“Not even twenty-four hours,” Jackson said.

“Are we even sure he's missing?” Jenna asked.

“No,” Jackson said. “But we're going to hang in a bit—wait here in New Orleans. You have a day entirely to yourselves. If he's still missing after this evening, we'll become involved with the search. Adam is making sure that we're officially invited in. I have folders regarding Osgood's situation—when he was last seen, the location and why the people at Donegal are so concerned.”

Donegal.

Jake picked up his folder, his fingers feeling oddly numb and too big. When he flipped the page, he felt a sweep of old emotion.

Donegal. The computer printout offered a beautiful shot of a large and majestic plantation house, complete with sweeping oaks, pine forest, outbuildings, horses in a paddock and the low wall and gates of an historic family cemetery.

He didn't need the computer printout. He could see the plantation clearly in his mind's eye at any time.

He looked up.

Jackson was staring at him.

“Adam mentioned that Frazier Donegal told him that one of the team members had a history with the family and the plantation. That's not a problem for you in any way, is it, Jake?”

“No,” Jake said.

Jackson was still staring at him.

“No,” he repeated quietly. “Our families are old friends, that's all. But I haven't been out there in
ages,” he explained. “Ashley Donegal and I spent a lot of time together when we were kids. I saw her at her father's funeral, and I stayed on a few days after. She was pretty devastated when he died. She'd lost her mom just a few years earlier.”

We were more than friends.
Somehow, he kept his gaze steady as he met Jackson's eyes.

Every word he had said was absolutely the truth.

“Then, be advised, we're officially on hold,” Jackson said. “If this fellow turns up at work tomorrow, green from celebratory alcohol, we'll be clear to head up to Alexandria. If not, we'll start working on the disappearance. Take your folders and read up—we'll need to be ready either way.”

The official part of the meeting was over. They all chatted casually and ordered breakfast as the restaurant was about to close for the break before lunch. Jake joined in. But he opted not to go to the World War II museum with Will, Jenna and Whitney, or join Angela and Jackson on a trip to the aquarium with a hop over to the casino. He shrugged off both groups, saying that he had woken early and thought he'd get in some sleep, just in case they were on call.

He didn't take a nap.

Hell, he'd never sleep. He didn't want to sleep.

He wandered the city, looking for the woman in the historic costume.

No, he knew exactly who he was looking for: Emma Donegal.

He didn't find her, but he hadn't expected to.

Ghosts never seemed to appear when they were needed. It was aggravating. They reached out—and then stepped back and disappeared, assuming that they had gotten the living working on whatever it was that they wanted them working on.

“You know, you could be helpful,” he said out loud, standing on Jackson Square near the spot he had first seen her. All he received for his effort was a worried glance from a woman passing by. She gripped her husband's arm tighter.

It really wasn't prudent to attempt speaking to ghosts when others were near. They just thought you were crazy or worse—dangerous.

Had Ashley thought that he was dangerous?

He stopped for coffee at C.C.'s, then returned to his room, where he did lie down.

Ashley. Donegal Plantation. The light was fading; night had come.

He couldn't stand it. He would be crawling the walls by morning. He stood up and looked around at his room. Packing up would take him all of ten minutes.

He picked up his phone and dialed Jackson. When Jackson answered, he said, “I'm heading out tonight, if that's all right. If this fellow shows up in the morning, I'll come right back. Frazier Donegal is not a spring chicken. If they're worried, I'd just like to be there.”

“You read your folder?”

“I'm doing so right now. I'll pack up and be out of
this room in another few hours. I'll get to the plantation really late, but I'll give Frazier a call and tell him I'm coming in.”

“Fine. Just be careful, Jake. If you have a personal stake in this…”

“It may be nothing,” Jake reminded him.

“If it's not, wait for the team before rushing into danger.”

“Of course.”

He hung up and finished packing, the same two words running through his mind over and over again.

Ashley. Donegal. Ashley. Donegal.

Ashley….

Interlude

A
shley opened her eyes. Pale and surreal moonlight flowed through the gauze curtains and into her room, soft and evocative in the night. The white curtains shifted in the breeze. She had awakened in the middle of the night, not at all sure why. There should have been something, a loud noise, a gust of wind, a scream in the darkness, something.

She hadn't even been dreaming.

Thank God!

She was sure that there hadn't been any kind of commotion or noise. It was disturbing that she was so suddenly wide-awake, with no clue as to why.

She stood, curious, and walked to French doors that opened out to the wraparound porch, slipped by the hauntingly sheer curtains and out to the balcony, where she held the rail, as she had as a child, and looked over the beauty of the grounds. The moon was a crescent in the sky, and stars sparkled beautifully if opaquely. Rain might be coming, she thought. The ethereal light of the stars and moon—and the large
lanterns at the front and rear doors of the grand old house—created a scene of misted and mysterious beauty.

So what had wakened her so swiftly and completely?

“Worry!” she whispered aloud. “‘Hmm, Sherlock,' said Watson, ‘there shouldn't be any werewolves out tonight. Werewolves need a full moon, so I believe!' Oh, God, I'm talking to myself again!” she moaned.

But—what?

Charles Osgood was still missing.

Jake was coming. That was certainly something that had to be haunting her mind—and maybe the mere thought of Jake, in the flesh, had never really allowed her sleep.

She began to wonder if Charles Osgood was really alive and well, and had returned tonight, wanting to play some kind of demented joke on everyone to prove that he really had been the right choice to play Marshall Donegal. The thought of Charles Osgood running around the property in the perpetuation of some kind of a hoax was irritating—but left her hopeful as well.

She found herself looking out to the graveyard.

She thought she saw a light flickering there.

“Damn it!” she whispered.

From her vantage point on the second-floor porch, she could see the ghostly white tombs and vaults, the
weeping angels, mournful cherubs, praying saints and all the exquisite mortuary art to be found here.

She needed to put the nonsense regarding Charles out of her head and start remembering that she ran a business, a bed-and-breakfast and living museum. And, yes, Charles was on her mind, but there were still other problems that could arise.

Ah, yes, Jake always kept her grounded, and he always had that half smile on his face, the charming light in his eyes, and when he was there, she was whole.

Somehow, knowing that Jake was coming gave her that strength!

Brilliant woman! So, push the man away!

Still, just thinking about him…

Something was going on out there. It was her property, and it was going to stop. She was sick of wondering what had happened and what was going on. She was going out to discover just what the hell that flicker of light might be.

Indignant, she turned back and put on the pair of sandals by her bedside, found her white robe and hurried out of her room. She could hear the horses whinnying and neighing, as if something in the night had disturbed them as well. But she didn't head for the stables—they'd had problems before with local teens thinking it would be great to get high and play in the old Donegal graveyard. And although guests were always asked not to tramp around the grounds after eleven, every once in while they had a ghost
hunter who just had to be in the cemetery at midnight or beyond.

She crossed the stretch of lawn that led toward the old cast-iron graveyard gate. The gate, of course, meant nothing, since the stone wall surrounding the family “city of the dead” was only four feet tall.

The gate was open.

Kids would be kids. When she had been young, she had held some great slumber parties, and her guests had gone into the family cemetery at night, and they'd told ghost stories with flashlights aimed at their faces. But it was her home; her family graveyard. They had never been destructive.

Perhaps such an old, private cemetery on a property now run as an inn was just too big a temptation for people.

A few years ago, some young people from the local high school had broken one of the cherubs that had graced the walk near the gate. That might have been an accident; they'd caught the culprits, and the boys had said that they'd been terrified—chased by the ghost of a Confederate soldier. Their imaginations at work, Ashley was certain, and she hadn't particularly wanted that group severely punished—she was angrier with the teens who had left beer cans, cigarette butts, the tail ends of joints lying around…and had written a bunch of voodoo symbols on the tombs. Once caught, they, too, had claimed that ghosts had chased them out, but in that instance, Ashley was
damned sure that the only ghosts had been the spirits they'd imbibed, and the weed.

She realized how ridiculous she must look, wandering toward a cemetery in a white nightgown and robe; if there were kids there, she'd probably scare them to death herself. The gate was open wide enough to let a body slip through. She did so, careful not to touch it as the old iron creaked.

Even she, who had lived here all her life, imagined that a cherub ever-so-slightly turned its head to watch her walk by.

She paused, listening, and realized that she heard only the rustling of the trees, the grand old oaks that stood sentinel along the walls, shrouded in moss. And yet, there seemed to be soft voices in the night. The sound possibly created by movement of the air, the natural settling of the earth and manmade structures as well. Still, it was almost as if she could hear her name spoken softly, urging her on, calling to her.

But then she heard something that wasn't the whisper of branches moving or the moan of the soft breeze. It was like a thump or a rhythmic tapping sound, and it was coming from just down the path and to the right, from the large and beautiful vault where her ancestors had been laid to rest. She hurried silently along, wanting to catch the prankster red-handed.

“Charles? Charles Osgood? Is that you? Show yourself. The reenactments are not a joke! Don't ruin it all by being a jerk!” Ashley called out.

She turned the corner and stopped dead, a scream rising in her throat. As if on cue, a drifting cloud un-curtained the moon, and the Donegal family vault glowed in opalescent majesty. Mist swirled at the base. An angel rose high atop the chapel-like roof, hands folded, eyes lifted to heaven.

The body of a man dangled from the base of the angel, the straps of his backpack caught upon the marble structure, his feet just brushing the ground. His cavalry hat covered his face, and blood, from a series of wounds to his abdomen and chest, streaked down his torso and limbs and pooled at his feet.

Terror filled her; she stared, blinking. Too afraid to run, too afraid to allow her trapped scream to escape, a confusion of thoughts tearing through her mind.

For a moment, it was as if her mind hit Pause on the horrible image before her.

Her home was haunted. This was the ghost of Marshall Donegal, the valiant man who had died there defending his property in 1861.

If she stepped forward, his head might rise with the hollow, skeletal grin of a man dead more than a century and a half….

She heard the rapping sound again. It was the dead man's sword, rapping, tapping, against the tomb.

And it snapped her out of her paralysis.

At last, she screamed.

This man wasn't a ghost.

He was never going to grin at her, or anyone else.

He was real, and he was certainly dead, murdered and in the cemetery, where she now stood alone with nothing at all to defend herself. She closed her mouth quickly, cutting off the sound of her scream.

She had been right to worry, and to search. She had felt even last night that they had to find Charles Osgood. And now, she had found him.

But the prank had been pulled not
by
him, but
on
him.

And it was fresh blood that dripped beneath his dangling feet.

A killer might still be here, watching from the shadows that melded with the mist in the darkness of the graveyard.

 

Donegal Plantation. Few plantations rivaled it. A haunting opaque white shimmer in the moonlight, the building rose up on the bank in all its majesty. It sat before Jake Mallory as it had all his life; a stunning representation of a bygone era.

Nowadays, the very circumstances that had defeated those who had lived here long ago were the ones that made the area a place of such amazing history and beauty. The war had scarcely begun when the Union might had throttled the city and parish of New Orleans, and, for miles around the city center, the surrender that had seemed like such a tragic disaster had kept enemy forces from laying waste to the magnificent houses that had been built when cotton had been king.

He remembered the first time he had come here; his parents were friends with Ashley's parents. He remembered the first time he saw her, hiding behind her mother's skirts. She had been five; he had been eight.

Compare that to the last time he had seen her. The way the light had gone out in her eyes. She had built a wall around her heart and soul that was as impregnable as brick.

He was still damaged goods himself. He had learned to cope with what he was because of Adam Harrison and the team he had put together in a way he had never managed on his own. Maybe because he had discovered that he wasn't so strange. Still, the images that lived in his mind would always create a divide with Ashley.

There had been good times, though. Their parents had played as a team in pool tournaments. Jake and Ashley had come along, played in the various game rooms offered by different venues, shared sodas and snacks. But more than pool had kept them together as friends when they'd been really young. Once, they'd been part of a garage band together; they'd been pretty good at that, too. And when the three years between them had seemed unbridgeable and they spent most of their time within a year of their own age group, Ashley had come to him upon occasion with her dating dilemmas, or to comment on his dating choices. He smiled as he thought about Ashley and remembered the way her lips would purse when
she was trying to tell him something. Somehow, someway, Ashley had retained something of the Southern belle in her behavior; the word
bimbo
would not cross her lips, nor would she tell him that his latest crush was a slut, a tramp or trailer trash, nor would she use any other such derogatory term. The question was always, “Seriously, Jake, is she what you're really looking for? I'm not certain that her behavior is really…nice. But, hey, you want what you want, right?”

Nighttime here really seemed to be a time warp back to the past. Tonight, the house, seen through the veil of oaks that led to the sweeping entrance, seemed to stand guard upon a hill. A soft breeze caused the branches to sway in the ethereal light, and the path to the house might have led right into a different time and dimension. There was nothing to mar the perfection of the picture; whatever cars might have been there were hidden away in the car park, and the view he saw was one of sheer magnificence.

He drove up the vast and sweeping, oak-lined drive from the road. Once upon a time, the road had been a carriageway, and the rear entrance from the road had not been considered a grand entry at all. The grand entry had faced the river. Some things had changed. The mighty barges bringing cotton downriver were outdated. Still, with the working sugar mill and Beaumont plantations as the nearest neighbors to Donegal, and both a mile away, the view of Donegal, even by night, was spectacular.

It was quiet when he parked; yet just yesterday there had been hundreds—possibly thousands—of people crawling all over the place, from the reenactors to the visitors who flocked here on the day of the actual reenactment. That thought made him smile as well—in comparison to the real battles that had taken place during the war, the skirmish here had been nothing. But Donegal Plantation had always been home to those who knew how to survive. When Marshall Donegal had been killed, Emma Donegal had raised her son and daughters on her own, and she had kept the plantation thriving, even under Union rule. It was sad—and probably not at all fair—that legend had her as the one to slip out into the skirmish and kill her husband. Her motive was supposedly the fact that she didn't agree with his management of the plantation, or with the management of their slaves, several of whom he was supposed to have slept with, along with quadroons at the quadroon balls in New Orleans, and the wives of a few of his best friends. Their daughters, too. But those rumors weren't anything new. People loved to speculate. He knew that neither Ashley nor Frazier believed in the rumors regarding Emma, and he didn't take them very seriously, either.

He parked the car directly before the house and got out. He knew that he wouldn't be out here at all, and the team wouldn't be on call, if Adam Harrison hadn't been old friends with Frazier Donegal.

An inexplicable discomfort settled over him. It
was late, of course, and he was miles and miles away from Bourbon Street, where the parties were just hitting their stride. Out here, the world was sleeping.

Still, he hesitated.

Lights in the large old stable building showed him that tourists were still quartered there, and he even saw some light emitting from the smaller stables, still in use, behind the large barn structure.

The house looked ominously quiet.

He walked around the side of the house, not certain why he was experiencing such a distinct impression that something was wrong. And then he knew. As he stood there, he saw a figure in white come tearing out of the graveyard.

For a split second, he was paralyzed. She looked like a phantom, a stunning vision from the past, a gorgeous ghost in a long, flowing white gown, her golden hair caught in the wind.