The Night Is Watching (5 page)

The oddest thing was that he sensed something familiar about her....

“Sheriff? Ready to go?” she asked briskly.

“That’s her?” he asked. “You’re already done?”

She shook her head. “No—well, yes and no. I attached the jaw and did some of the easier work. That’s my preliminary, a bit of a guesstimate. This is what you might call a special science, because it’s a combination of science and art. It’s two-dimensional. You take photographs, feed them into the computer, fill in the tissue-depth approximations for race, age and sex and get a computer mock-up. In the sketch, I worked with images of the skull, using printouts and tracing paper, and this is what I came up with. Tomorrow, I’ll start with the tissue markers—build in the most likely muscle and tissue depths measurements, and begin physically reconstructing. This is just my first imagining.”

“That’s pretty remarkable,” he said. He couldn’t take his eyes off the image she’d created. He gave himself a mental shake. “Yes, I’m ready when you are.”

Jane picked up the coffee cup she’d apparently gotten from the kitchen, collected her bag and moved toward the door. She stopped. He was still in the doorway, he realized, staring at the drawing she’d done, wondering why he felt he knew the woman in the drawing.

“Sheriff?”

He stepped aside. She exited the room ahead of him, and he heard water running as she washed her coffee mug. He was still gazing at her rendering of a woman’s face.

He made himself turn away and leave.

Back in the front office, he introduced Jane to Declan McCarthy, Scotty Carter, the night man on the desk, and Vince Grainger. Now she’d met his entire department.

Once outside, he again opened her car door, before he walked around to his own.

They didn’t speak. He didn’t try to make small talk.

He couldn’t dislodge the mental image he now had of a living, breathing woman.

Except that she was long dead.

And nothing remained of her except her skull.

2

T
he Gilded Lily’s bar and restaurant was open for business when Sloan Trent dropped Jane off. The inner doors that had been locked earlier were now wide-open, and the slatted doors invited travelers to enter—just as they had for over a hundred years. Jane walked in, quickly noting there was no one around that she’d already met. She was assuming the actors she’d encountered that morning were getting into costume or makeup or perhaps finishing dinner somewhere else. In any event, she didn’t recognize a single person in the bar.

A waitress in a prairie costume, her hair covered by a bonnet, greeted her as she came in. “Dinner, miss? Or did you just wish to sit at the bar?”

Jane smiled. “Neither. I’m going upstairs. I’m staying here for a few days.”

“Oh!” The young woman smiled. “I’m Liz. You’re the artist. Welcome. If you want to eat, call down to the bar. We can run something up if you want privacy. And if not, well, come on down! I know you’re here to work on a project, but you should take some time to see the place. Desert Diamonds across the street has great books and weird little treasures. The spa is terrific. The Old Jail is a neat place to stay—really scary. I live in town, but I rented a room there once. Oh, and you have to get down to the basement in the Gilded Lily. Henri took me through once.” She paused and laughed. “They wouldn’t need to do anything to set it up as a haunted attraction! They have old wig stands with painted and carved faces that can totally creep you out and a room filled with old film and theater stuff. Mannequins and wooden cutouts. Some of the mannequins were dressmakers’ dummies. Some were theatrical displays and some were movie props. One of the directors in the 1950s had Hollywood connections and started collecting them.”

“Sounds like a museum,” Jane said.

“It could be!” Liz told her. “The theater is a treasure trove of history. And, honestly, the food here is good!”

“Thanks. I can’t wait to see it all—and I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Great!”

Jane headed for the stairs. She needed a few minutes to gather her composure before returning into public again. There were times when federal agents didn’t get along well with the local law and yet, in her experience, everyone just wanted a solution to the crime. She was surprised by the simmering hostility that seemed to lie beneath the sheriff’s not-entirely-cordial exterior. So, he thought they should have packed up the skull and sent it off. Fine. Turned out it wasn’t his call. The mayor had wanted to hang on to it.

On the other hand, she and Trent had Texas in common. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t dealt with a few rugged macho-man cowboy types in Texas, but Sloan Trent personified every aspect of that image. Physically
and
in his attitude and manner. He was six-three or so, broad-shouldered, with the kind of ruggedly sculpted face that instantly made him larger than life.

He didn’t have to behave as though he’d been burdened with an adolescent.

Add to that the fact that he’d worked with Logan, so surely he knew that the Krewe units were
different.
That they were called in when it seemed a sixth sense, an awareness of the unusual, was needed. Even within their own branch of the FBI—although they were respected for their record of solving cases—they were often known as ghost-busters.

They could live with it. They knew that many of their fellow agents looked at them with a certain amount of awe, as well.

Maybe that was Sheriff Trent’s problem. Maybe he thought she’d create an image and then insist on a séance or something to put their dead woman to rest.

Actually, the whole situation was annoying. Because, like it or not, she found him extremely attractive—and she worked with a lot of extremely attractive men. She gritted her teeth; she hated the fact that she was drawn to him and that, despite all common sense, she found him compelling on many levels.

Sexual among them.

“I won’t be here that long!” she told herself. She was a federal agent with a good reputation. She wasn’t naive and she wasn’t going to accept unprofessional behavior from anyone, attractive or not.

When she entered her room and closed the door, she said aloud, “So, the sheriff is an ass. I’ve put up with worse.”

She was startled when her hairbrush came flying out of the dressing room and nearly smacked her in the head.

Her regulation weapon was holstered and she instantly drew, flicking off the safety. She walked cautiously into the dressing room but there was no one there and nothing else was out of place. She walked into the bathroom, but again, saw nothing.

Returning to the bedroom, she holstered her weapon. “Interesting,” she said aloud. “I assume you’re Sage McCormick, although, of course, I could be wrong. If I said anything that offended you, I’m sorry. I’ll keep my opinions to myself.”

The room yielded nothing.

She kicked off her shoes, removed her jacket and holster and plopped down on the bed. It had been a long day of travel, since she’d started off at the crack of dawn, East Coast time. She was tired. She lay there for a few minutes with her eyes half-open, wary now of the room. But nothing else happened. Finally, she decided she wanted a shower, and if she was going to have a shower and get something to eat, she needed to rise before she fell asleep and found herself waking, starved, at three or four in the morning.

She placed her gun and holster in the bedside drawer, went through her closet for fresh clothing and hurried into the bathroom. The whirlpool was tempting, but it would send her right to sleep and she had to switch time zones. Instead, she got into the shower and emerged ten minutes later, feeling nicely refreshed.

Still in the bathroom, she dried off, then wrapped the towel around herself and looked in the mirror. It was solidly misted from the steam. But as she picked up a facecloth to clear it, she paused. An eerie sensation swept over her.

She wasn’t alone.

And as she stood there, writing appeared in the mist.

BEWARE

She froze. She’d long accepted that there was a thin veil between life and death and that restless spirits could linger behind for any number of reasons. And yet, despite everything, despite every Krewe case she’d worked and those she’d been involved with for the San Antonio police, she still felt a moment’s primal fear. Her heart thudded. Her breath caught.

The writing began again.

TRICKSTER

“Beware of a trickster,” she said, exhaling as she did. “Who is the trickster?” she asked softly.

But, this time, she wasn’t to be answered. “Talk to me, please. If there’s something I should know...”

No more writing appeared in the mist on the mirror.

She didn’t touch it. She brushed her teeth and looked again. Nothing more than the two words she’d already seen.

She left the bathroom, closing the door so the mist would remain awhile longer, and dressed in casual clothes for the evening to come. She debated staying in the room, but by the time she’d brushed her hair, the fog had cleared in the bathroom mirror and no other incidents had occurred.

Jane figured she’d go downstairs for dinner. She stood in the middle of the room. “I know you’re here,” she said. “If you have something to tell me, please do.”

No objects flew, the air didn’t grow cold, nothing happened at all.

And still, Jane was certain that she was being watched. And judged.

She made her way downstairs, and when she reached the lower level, she noticed that the velvet curtains were drawn and that laughter was coming from the theater section of the Gilded Lily. She turned and saw that there were still a few diners at the tables and a mix of locals and tourists at the bar; she assumed the locals were the men in work wear rather than the designer jeans and denim shirts or T-shirts and cutoffs the tourists tended to wear. Women, of course, were harder to peg. Several wore casual dresses and others were in pants or jeans and T-shirts.

She sat at a table that she thought must be in Liz’s station, since she was delivering food to a family at a nearby table. She was right. As she studied the menu, Liz breezed by with a smile. “Hi, glad you came down! Okay,” she said, lowering her voice, “I don’t suggest the fish. We have farm-raised tilapia and it’s kind of blah. Are you a vegetarian? We do a cheese and broccoli risotto that’s absolutely delicious. But, hey, we’re in meat country. The beefalo is pretty darned good, either as a steak or in a burger. And then, of course, there’s Tex-Mex. We have excellent fajitas, tacos, burritos...”

“The risotto sounds great,” Jane said.

“Oh, you are a vegetarian.”

“No.” Jane shook her head. “It just sounds good for tonight.”

Liz was going to give her the full list of wine choices to complement her meal but Jane didn’t think she wanted her perceptions dulled in the least that night. “I’ll have an iced tea, thanks.”

“Sure thing!” Liz said. “Be right back. Oh, take a peek at the show if you like—just slip through the curtain. We’ve all been told that you have free rein of the place and to make you as happy as we can.”

“That’s really nice. Thank you,” Jane told her.

Liz grinned and hurried off, and Jane decided to check out the show. As she stepped through the divide in the curtain, she saw that there was a full house and moved to the side to hover in the background.

“Oh, no, oh, no! What shall I do, what shall I do?” Valerie Mystro was crying out as Jane entered. Valerie was tied to the train tracks on the stage, struggling against the ropes that held her there while a train whistle sounded in the background.

“I’m coming, my heart, I’m coming!” Cy Tyburn cried in return. He’d been tied to the old stagecoach across from the tracks.

“Save her! Save her!” someone from the audience called out enthusiastically.

Cy stopped and looked at the audience, arching his brows. “Well, duh!” he said, bringing a rise of laughter from the crowd.

Jane laughed herself as he tried to drag the stagecoach toward Valerie.

“The knife!” Valerie shrieked.

“The knife?” Cy asked.

“The one strapped to your ankle, idiot!” someone yelled from the audience.

“Oh, yeah...yeah!” Cy said.

The play was ridiculous, Jane could see, but tremendous fun, and the audience seemed to love it. Cy cut himself loose, then ran over and freed Valerie as the audience urged him on.

Valerie spoke loving words of appreciation, while he gazed into her eyes adoringly. The two ran offstage together just as a train pulled out from behind the curtains. Alice, in full vamp mode, was standing in the front of the locomotive, hissing as she saw that she’d lost her victims. The audience booed her until she stepped down, played with them, telling them she was really a good girl caught in terrible circumstances. Then she launched into a musical number in which she told the audience why everyone should love a vamp. Watching, Jane smiled. It was a cute show, suitable for all ages. The physical humor had broad appeal and the sets were impressive.

She felt a tap on her shoulder. Liz had come in to get her.

“Take your time, but your food is on the table,” she said cheerfully. “And,” she whispered, “all hell breaks loose when the show lets out!”

Jane whispered a thank-you and watched a few more minutes of the show. As Alice’s musical number ended, Cy Tyburn, naive and innocent hero, came back onstage. He tried to warn Alice about the evil machinations of the villain, Brian Highsmith, and Alice listened with wide-eyed adoration. They shared the number “You Make a Bad Girl Even Better at Being Badder.”

It was clever, and Jane decided that the next night she’d make a point of seeing the whole show. She quietly left the theater and returned to her table. A metal cover had been placed over her plate to keep her meal warm and, as she lifted it, she glanced at the stairs.

A woman was standing on the upper landing, her hand resting on the stair rail. She was dressed in late-Victorian attire, in a dark green travel suit with a slight bustle and a tailored jacket over a high-buttoned blouse. A green hat was worn at an artistic angle, her dark hair neatly tied at her nape. Her facial structure was elegant, handsome. She stared down at Jane, and for a moment, Jane thought she was an employee who worked in the bar or food area—or perhaps sold tickets or souvenirs. But as she watched Jane, she raised her hand from the rail, adjusted a glove and slowly faded away, her eyes on Jane all the while.

Sage McCormick?
Jane wondered. And if so, what had happened to her?

Judging by the way the woman had stared at her, Jane wasn’t at all certain that Sage—if that was indeed who it was—liked her or felt happy to have her there.

She didn’t ponder the question long. She felt a real presence nearby and turned.

Sheriff Trent was back. She glanced up at him, thinking again that he fit his Western town very well. He had the rugged good looks of a cowboy, a frontiersman. She was disturbed at feeling her heart rate increase as he stood before her; she was afraid she was going to blush. But, like it or not, he was a very attractive man, masculine, rugged, exuding casual confidence.

“May I?” he asked her.

“Please,” she said, indicating the seat across from her.

“Tables are at a premium right now,” he told her. “The show’s almost over.”

“I don’t suppose it would be a neighborly thing to do, refusing you a chair,” Jane said. Sloan Trent had made it fairly evident that he didn’t approve of her any more than the ghost seemed to.

“How do you like staying here?” he asked.

She smiled. “Well, I’ve only had a few hours. But the room is both historic and lovely, the employees and the theater people all seem very pleasant, and I’m about to judge the food.”

“Sorry, please, eat!” he urged. “Liz.” He greeted the waitress who’d seen him and she came over.

“Sloan, nice to see you!” Liz said with her natural warmth and enthusiasm. “What would you like?”

“Whatever our guest is having. It looks good,” he said.

“Sure.” Liz nodded and moved away.

“So, I guess you really were desperate for a chair—since you don’t seem to want me in this town,” Jane said lightly.