Haunted Destiny (6 page)

“Two passengers, Roger Antrim and Hank Osprey. One security man, David Beach. No regular crew members—dishwashers, stewards, mechanics. Three entertainers. Ralph Martini, Simon Green and Larry Hepburn. Plus the head of entertainment, Bradley Wilcox. And last, but for the moment we won't say least, one cruise director, Jensen Hardy.”

“Eight suspects,” Jackson said. “I'll talk to Beach. We'll give him the list—minus his own name, of course. And we'll keep a sharp eye on him, but he and his staff need to be on the lookout. You should go and see Alexi Cromwell again. Actually, I'd like to speak with her, too.”

Jude stared down at Angela Hawkins's report, which included pictures of the suspects. “I don't believe any of these men are the one we followed on board,” he said.

“No?” Jackson shrugged. “Ghost or not, I haven't really seen his face yet. I don't get it. I don't get what he was wearing. It wasn't a mask. But he
was
disguised.”

“A killer would want to disguise himself,” Jude said.

“Well, we'll see, won't we? How's your cell working out here?”

“I'm set for international. Should be fine.”

“Let's head out. Don't forget, I want to talk to Ms. Cromwell later.”

“We can arrange that,” Jude said.

“All right. I'll go chase down David Beach. You see what you can do with the entertainer group and we'll send for more info on our two passengers.” Jackson rose. Like many law enforcement officers in the field, he'd taken his coffee black and finished two cups.

Jude picked up his own mug of black coffee and finished the last couple of swallows. He rose, too. “I'll find Ms. Cromwell. But all in all, you might do better in dealing with her. I'm not sure she was...comfortable with my response to her last night.”

He was surprised Jackson smiled at that. “I think you'll do fine.”

They parted ways.

Jude used the stairs to reach the crew and entertainment level of the ship. He paused at her door. The entertainers slept late, he assumed, since they worked late.

He raised a hand to knock on the door.

It opened.

Alexi Cromwell seemed very bright and attractive for someone who'd been up until at least 3 a.m. the night before.

She glanced up at him warily—and yet as if she'd expected him.

“Ms. Cromwell, I'd like your help,” he began.

“To meet the ghost?”

He didn't answer that. Instead, he asked, “How well do you know your fellow entertainers—and do you ever get to know the passengers?”

“Some of the entertainers I know quite well, but some are here on their first contract with the
Destiny
. Maybe you'd like to meet a few of them yourself?” she suggested.

“I would, thank you,” he said.

“Come to the employee cafeteria and lounge with me. I can introduce you to some of the people I know.” She looked at him anxiously. “Do you really believe the killer is on the
Destiny
?”

He decided not to lie to her. “Yes,” he said.

“Because your man—my ghost—came on the ship?”

“Yes.”

“But since you don't believe me and you think this guy is alive... Maybe if that's true, he was watching what was going on, and then realized he was late for the sailing.”

“No.”

“Why do you say that?”

“His behavior.”

“It's still just a hunch.”

He didn't admit that she was nearly right.

She smiled. “So you believe in gut feelings and not much else.”

He shook his head, almost smiling, but he wasn't willing to discuss it. “My partner on this case wants to meet you, by the way. We'll get to that later. Meanwhile, I'd appreciate going to the employee cafeteria with you.”

“Follow me,” she said. As they left her cabin and walked down the narrow hallway, she added, “You're aware that there are quite a few entertainers on the ship, aren't you?”

“Of course.”

“Anyone in particular you want to meet?”

Jude had memorized the names. “Simon Green, Ralph Martini and Larry Hepburn. And your head of entertainment, Bradley Wilcox.”

“Oh!” she said.

“You know them?” he asked her. “Well?”

“Bradley Wilcox was the head on my first contract with Celtic American, too,” she said. “He's talented at his job.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “To my mind? A jerk. Rude. He seems to think we're all lesser individuals. His servants. But as I said, I have to admit he's good at his job.”

“What about the others?”

“This is the first time I've been on the same ship—same contract—with Simon Green and Larry Hepburn. Ralph Martini, I do know. I've worked with him before. He's a nice guy and, again, very talented.” She glanced at Jude sideways and he was surprised to realize once more how attractive she was, with her head of sunset-tinged hair and amber eyes.

Just the type the Archangel might choose...

“Be careful around these people,” he said, his voice gruff.

“They're really suspects? Is there a reason for that?” she asked.

“Proximity,” he replied. “They might've been in all the locations where murders took place. And you really
shouldn't
know what we're thinking, and I shouldn't be speaking to you about this at all. At the moment, though, you're about all I've got.”

“So, I'm all you've got. Great,” she murmured.

But he could tell that she
did
intend to be helpful.

“Grab a tray,” she told him, leading him to the buffet. “I see Simon and Ralph—they're over there.”

He selected a bagel and a plate of eggs from the buffet and followed her to the table.

Ralph and Simon greeted her with friendly smiles and she introduced them to Jude. “Company bigwig,” she said lightly. “Watching us on board.”

Ralph stood up to shake Jude's hand. He was a stocky middle-aged man of about six feet. “He's a great tenor!” Alexi said in a cheerful voice.

“And I'm chorus.” Simon got up to shake Jude's hand, as well.

“We all start somewhere,” Ralph said.

Simon Green was a handsome man, young, classically good-looking. He was lean, and Jude figured he must be a decent dancer if he was in the chorus of a play like
Les Miz
.

Ralph grinned. “Should we be afraid of you?” he asked. He obviously wasn't.

“No.” Jude grinned back. “We're just observing, trying to see what works and where improvements might be made,” he lied. “I understand that the entertainment on this ship is excellent.”

“That's a relief,” Ralph said. “Hey, there's Clara.” He waved and Jude turned. A very pretty blonde had come into the room. She looked over at them and waved, frowning curiously as she saw Jude.

“Just getting some food!” she called.

“Clara Avery,” Alexi told Jude. “She has a gorgeous soprano voice.”

“Part of our
Les Miz
cast,” Simon added. “I'll find a chair for her.”

Clara joined them a moment later. “You look peaked, girl!” Ralph said to her. “You up all night?”

“Nightmares,” Clara said shortly. “Hi,” she greeted Jude.

Alexi quickly introduced them.

“Nightmares?” Simon asked her. “On the ship?”

“I shouldn't have, but I stayed up watching the news,” Clara replied. “That Archangel killer out there—he was in New Orleans!”

“And he's probably already moved on,” Simon said gently. “He goes from city to city. You're safe on this ship. And we're all here with you,” he added.

“They don't seem to have anything on this guy, nothing at all! They can't even find some of the actual crime scenes,” Clara said, shivering.

Jude considered himself a good judge of character. He believed that the men at the table were as concerned for their friend as they appeared to be. Their empathy and determination to assure her seemed completely genuine. He was as confident of that as he could possibly be.

A good thing, since this young woman, like Alexi, would certainly appeal to the killer.

He lowered his head.

The ship has many beautiful young women aboard. A veritable feast for the so-called Archangel.

Clara shivered again, then managed a smile. “I'm going to stick close to all of you.”

“The cops aren't sharing much information,” Simon said. “I read somewhere that the women weren't just found in churches, but that they were all posed, with saints' medallions around their necks. What do you suppose it means?”

“I didn't hear about that,” Ralph said. “I'll bet the cops weren't supposed to give out that information. I guess some of 'em talk when they're off duty. And once the media gets hold of something...well, you know! Of course, I don't think anyone could miss the news that he leaves his victims in churches. Or sometimes on the steps.”

Jude was intent on watching their faces and was startled when Alexi Cromwell suddenly rose. Her meal was only half-eaten.

She seemed to notice that everyone was staring at her.

She was thinking fast, Jude thought, looking for a plausible lie. Why, he wasn't sure yet.

“I just saw someone you need to meet,” Alexi said, turning to Jude. “Ralph, would you mind returning our trays? Um, Mr. McCoy, would you come with me?”

“No problem,” Ralph said, but he watched curiously as Jude excused himself and followed Alexi out of the cafeteria.

Then Jude saw why she'd left so abruptly, why she'd summoned him.

The man in the hooded sweatshirt was moving along the hallway.

* * *

“Wait, please!” Alexi called out. The young man who'd tried so hard to speak to her—who'd disappeared at Jude McCoy's arrival last night—had popped his head into the cafeteria.

Now he was hurrying down the hallway.

If nothing else, she somehow had to convince the FBI man that she was telling the truth.

His quarry was a dead man.

“Please!” she called again.

He stopped and glanced back at her and then nervously scanned the hallway.

Alexi realized that Jude McCoy—once again—saw him, too.

“I need to speak with you,” the agent said. His voice was calm and even.

The young man remained where he was.

Alexi kept walking toward him, with Jude a few steps behind. There was no one in the hallway just then, but at any minute there could be workers coming through, either to get to their gigs or to eat or return to their cabins if their shifts were during the off-hours.

“My cabin,” she whispered.

She reached her door and used her key card to open it. The young man paused, looked at her—and then at Jude McCoy.

Then he stepped into her cabin; McCoy followed.

“Who are you and what's going on?” McCoy asked.

Alexi stared at him. He still didn't know. He still didn't get it. But the ghost, whose name she didn't know yet, answered him.

“Byron Grant,” he said.

The name was vaguely familiar to her; she wasn't sure why.

The FBI agent knew it instantly, though, and his tension and anger were unmistakable.

“Byron Grant is dead, killed in his attempt to save Elizabeth Williams.”

“Yes.”

Jude McCoy stood completely still, green eyes with their flecks of gold focused on the ghost.

Alexi clutched the edge of the built-in wardrobe as she sank to the foot of her bed.
Now
she knew. Now she understood.

Jude McCoy continued to watch the man in disbelief and anger. She thought, not for the first time, that he knew the truth—he
knew
it—but didn't want to accept it.

Suddenly, his face changed. He reached out as if to place a hand on the ghost's shoulders.

And, of course, he touched nothing.

Ghosts could surprise you. They could learn to make noise, to displace air about, to move objects...but they weren't there in substance, as flesh and blood. They were energy, capable of so much—and yet never again would they have bodies that could be touched.

“My God,” Jude breathed.

He didn't sag onto the floor. He just stared at the man, almost as though he wished Byron would disappear.

He seemed to hope that the ghost's presence was impossible, a figment of his imagination.

Alexi thought she saw him wince. Saw a slight trembling seize his body.

And then he looked at the ghost again, at Byron Grant, and said, “I don't suppose you're going to be able to tell me who killed you?”

“No,” the ghost said. “There's only one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty.”

“What's that?” Jude McCoy asked.

“The killer is on this ship.”

4

J
ude managed to sit, to put aside his own past, his emotions, his disbelief and worse...

The fact that he could see the dead—

And speak with a ghost.

The essence, soul or whatever remained of Byron Grant perched next to Alexi on the bed, while Jude took the chair at the dressing table. And he listened as Byron Grant told his story.

“I loved Elizabeth. I'd loved her...since high school. We'd been together ever since then,” he said. “We were a good couple, a great couple. We would've been married this Christmas.” He paused, obviously pained. “She had her wedding dress picked out.”

“I'm so sorry you lost her,” Alexi said in a whisper. “And I'm sorry about what happened to you.”

“I will be with her again. I know I will. I...” He paused and gazed at Alexi in obvious distress. “I don't know why I'm here, and she's not. But I have to believe...”

“You
will
be with her,” Alexi assured him. “Soon.”

“You're here right now to help us,” Jude said.

Oh, God, that had to be the truth. Otherwise
he'd completely lost his mind and entered into some grand delusion with this young woman. “You brought Jackson Crow and me onto this ship,” Jude continued.

Damn it! He should have recognized the man immediately. He'd seen pictures of all the victims. And he finally put the facts together.

Byron Grant had been an actor. He'd had stage makeup on when he was killed. Jude berated himself— why hadn't he figured it out, put the facts together more quickly?

“Yes, I knew he'd be on this ship.” Byron hesitated once more. “I didn't know he'd kill again before the ship sailed.”

“You were playing Cyrano!” Jude said. “My God, I'm an idiot. That was in the police reports. I just didn't connect it with the makeup...or realize that the man I was chasing was really one of the victims.”

Byron Grant studied him, head at a slight angle. “Yes, I was playing Cyrano de Bergerac.” He paused. “I had a hard time getting that makeup off. As a ghost, I mean,” he added glumly.

Alexi Cromwell was silent as she watched the exchange.

But Jude could tell she wasn't afraid. She was, if anything, glad that she'd finally managed to get Jude to admit there was a ghost—and the ghost to realize he needed to speak with Jude.

“I suppose,” Jude said.
I wouldn't know. I don't really know anything about ghosts.

“Okay,” he went on, “you've got the two of us here—and you have Jackson Crow and me aboard the ship. Now we need
your
help. You must remember something, or you couldn't have known that the Archangel would be on the
Destiny
. You're certain of this?”

Byron Grant nodded. He was, minus the stage makeup, a handsome, fit young man who—
other than being dead!—
seemed somber and sincere. Blue eyes, sandy-blond hair. The boy next door. The kind of guy who'd marry his high school sweetheart.

“I never really saw the killer,” Byron admitted. “He took me pretty quickly.”

“What made you so sure he'd be on the ship?” Jude demanded. “Tell me what happened, step by step.”

Alexi gave Byron an encouraging smile and he smiled back at her. Then he turned to Jude.

“I was doing the play. Anyway, it ended at around 10 p.m. I usually stayed to take off my makeup at the theater, but I got a call from Elizabeth at around ten twenty. She said the lights were off at the house and thought she'd left them on. I told her to wait for me, said I'd leave right away. I got out of my costume, but didn't bother with the makeup, just grabbed my hoodie and I was out the door.” He frowned as he described what had happened that night. “I phoned her back after I left the theater. She didn't answer. I probably should've called the police right away but I drove home as fast as I could. Her car was in the driveway, and the lights were on in the house. I was a little pissed at her, figuring she'd decided to go in but hadn't bothered to call me. I walked up to the door, which was unlocked, and threw it open. I got as far as the entry.”

He bit down on his lip and shook his head.

“I saw her. I saw her on the floor,” he said. “I ran over to her, but I was just thinking she'd fallen. Then I saw the blood.”

Alexi lifted a hand as if she'd reach out to comfort him.

She lowered her hand to her lap, her eyes filled with sympathy.

“I hurried to her, bent down...and then he was behind me,” Byron said. “He had a knife at my throat, ripping, even as I tried to turn to see his face. I flailed out at him—got him in the jaw. The knife sliced through my arm when I did that. Defensive wound, I guess they call it. But...I was bleeding out. And I only saw one thing.”

“What?” Jude asked, determined not to let his question sound impatient.

“A ticket. It stuck out from his pocket. He was wearing some kind of suit jacket, pocket on the right. The ticket was for the
Destiny
—out of NOLA. And this sailing date was on it, so I knew. I knew he'd be on this ship.”

“I see,” Jude murmured. “And then?”

“And then I was dead. I didn't realize it—or have any awareness of it or anything else—until I seemed to rise over my body where the bastard had stuffed it inside a Dumpster in an alley.”

They were all quiet for a minute.

Jude suddenly blurted, “But you—you were hovering around the crime scene in NOLA. You jumped on a bar. A drunk girl tried to give you money.”

Byron shrugged. “Some people see me. I don't always know who sees me, though. I tried hitchhiking and eventually found someone who saw me and drove me to NOLA. It's only a couple of hours, and I don't think he ever knew I wasn't...alive. And then...hey, if I hurt that dude who got me to the ship, man, I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just... I just want to stop more people from being killed.”

Jude let out a long breath, still unable to grasp that he was sitting in Alexi Cromwell's tiny cabin on the
Destiny
discussing the case with a ghost—a victim of the killer.

And feeling disturbed by the fact that he
did
believe he was talking to a ghost.

“We have a list of people who might've been in the areas where the women were killed,” he said. “May I show you the pictures, see if any of them seem familiar?”

Byron Grant nodded. “Of course.”

Alexi rose, leaving her perch for Jude. Drawing his phone from his pocket, he slipped by her to sit next to the ghost.

He brushed against her and was startled to feel sparks racing through his system. She was a very attractive woman, and he was feeling a strong physical pull toward her. And that made things more complicated... He held his thoughts in check and carefully displayed the photos Angela Hawkins had emailed him and Jackson; one by one he went through them all.

“I wish I knew,” Byron said. He hesitated. “This guy...”

“This one? David Beach? He's head of security on the ship.”

“Right. No, you can eliminate him. I've seen him. He's huge. The guy who got me was probably about six feet tall.”

“Good. That helps,” Jude said. He rose and paced the few steps to the cabin door. “Can you think of anything else? A scent—was he wearing aftershave or cologne? Did he smoke? Anything odd about his hands? Did you see his hands?”

He turned back to look at Byron Grant.

But the ghost was gone.

And for a moment he felt absolutely ridiculous, as if he was the butt of a massive joke. He was standing there, talking away, carrying on a conversation with...no one.

An illusion.

Alexi Cromwell was still there, leaning against the wardrobe, eyes enormous.

“He was really here,” she said softly. “Sometimes...well, I think it takes a tremendous amount of energy to appear so...completely and to talk and... He'll be back.”

He didn't say anything.

He should have thanked her. He didn't.

Nodding curtly, he turned and left her room.

There were a few things,
unusual
things, in his past—like the dead appearing to him—and he was going to have to deal with it all, the then and the now.

* * *

Cruise ships tended to be happy places.

The cruise line did everything possible to ensure that guests were happy; music played constantly, most of it live. Frenetic tour directors carried on bingo parties, pool parties, disco parties and more.

And in the Caribbean, the sun shone down on sparkling water most of the time, shimmering as if the sea were scattered with diamonds. On the
Destiny
, people seemed to be complying with the cruise “regulation” that they have fun.

Jude needed to go talk to Jackson.

But for a few minutes, he had to be alone, hoping the sweet-salt breeze would wash away the heavy fog of darkness that had settled over his mind.

He left the crew's quarters, mounting the richly carpeted steps from floor to floor until he reached the top deck and walked aft, leaned against the rail and let the sun soak into him while the breeze swept around him. Neither had any effect on the chill that seemed to have crept into his bones.

Once, in the military, he'd believed that he was experiencing PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Later in his life he'd used the very situation that sometimes made him think he was crazy to become a crack field officer with the bureau. Only he called it “intuition.” Or talked about “hunches” and “gut feelings” to explain his success at solving crimes.

The Caribbean still rippled with that diamond effect, but Jude stared into a haze of dusty darkness. Time seemed to collapse, and he saw himself seven years earlier, moving with his company in the small village where insurgents had taken hold. Felt the way his heart had thundered that day, the way he'd known he couldn't see everything, couldn't see into every home, around every corner.

Some of the soldiers with him had served too long; they shot when something moved—a child, a chicken, a dog, a goat or a pig.

Some still had illusions of morality; they took greater care.

And some, in their desperation to believe in the sanctity of life, died—not firing when they should have.

Corporal Al Bellingham had been one of those men. Hand-to-hand combat, a tiny village, insurgents who lived only to kill...and dozens of mothers, children, the aged.

Every corner could mean death, and Jude had turned one of those corners to see Al on the ground, writhing. He'd looked around, then hunkered down by his comrade and friend, the man with whom he'd played cards, baseball, music, enduring the hours in the hostile desert. He'd taken Al by the shoulders and dragged him back behind the small and desolate house that had been his own shield, lying low against the ricochet of stray bullets as he did.

He spoke into his radio, calling the medics, who would do their best. Automatic rifle fire beat a rat-tat-tat just beyond the little enclave where Jude had dragged the wounded man.

Al opened his eyes and gazed up at Jude. He didn't address him as “Lieutenant” the way he usually did, even when the men were doing nothing but whiling away the hours, waiting for their call to action.

He addressed him as “fool.”

“Your head was out there, fool,” Al said. “Head down at all times!”

“The medics are coming. Don't try to talk. Save your breath,” Jude said.

But Al had clutched his arm and looked desperately into his eyes. He rattled off a series of numbers. “Got that? Please, Jude, tell me you got that.”

“Al, medics are coming! You have to fight to live.”

Al's grip tightened. “Please, Jude. I have a wife. Mellora. Remember? And a baby daughter. You give Mellora that number. Got it?”

He wouldn't be able to keep him alive long enough for the medics to come.

Jude repeated the numbers.

Then suddenly, Al shouted, “Behind you, man, behind you!”

Jude whipped around fast enough to fire first at an insurgent bearing down on him.

He could still picture that moment as if it had been yesterday. The littered courtyard between desert-dusted homes. Al bleeding on the ground; his enemy dead by the corner of the house.

And him—alive—because of Al.

The rat-tat-tat of firepower growing more distant and then fading away, the medics rushing in...

Not until they were back at base had he learned from their company physician that he couldn't have spoken with Al Bellingham. Bullets had severed his spinal column and pounded through his skull; the man had died almost instantly.

Somehow Jude had kept it together long enough to get through his tour of duty.

He'd imagined it, he'd told himself. He'd imagined the entire encounter.

And yet he'd felt compelled to speak with Al's wife. He'd called and told her that he'd been with her husband at the end. He told her how much Al had loved her—and what a brave man he'd been, saving others, refusing to let war make him less of a man.

And he'd given her the set of numbers.

A year later, when he was back in the States, Mellora Bellingham had called to thank him. The numbers had been for an insurance policy Al had purchased only days before his death.

She might never have found it without the numbers he'd given her.

It wasn't until he'd applied at the academy that he'd been advised to go into therapy. And he'd gone. He'd thought he understood. PTSD. Sure. Made sense. He'd lived in a world where it was often a case of kill or be killed. Back in North America, he was entering a world where danger often lurked below the surface and the monsters were hidden.

But he wanted that world. Nothing on earth was perfect; he'd seen the good, the bad and the hideous and learned about imperfection. He found he loved his country with an even greater passion, and out of the war zone, he wanted to fight the monsters who lived beneath the civilized veneer.