Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (10 page)

Beth pitched right in, brewing coffee and producing a nice array of finger foods.

Jake emerged from the room at one point, asking her to check her registration books and make sure that all guests still at the plantation were present, and also to give him a list of those who had left already.

She nodded, glad of anything to do that kept her moving and busy.

She realized that no one had really shed a tear yet for Charles Osgood. She felt like crying over his life then. He hadn't been handsome; he hadn't been popular. He had still been a decent fellow—always
wanting to be handsome and popular. And now he was gone. And the question remained, of course: Had he been killed because he'd been Charles Osgood…or because he'd been playing the part of Marshall Donegal?

Finally, Colby had interviewed all of their casual guests, moved on to repeat guests and was ready to start on those who were close to the reenactment, the plantation or the family. Beth was surprised when she was called in, but she shrugged and went all the same. Justin followed next, and Ashley was close enough to the door to hear one of his answers to Colby.

“Oh, yeah. Of course, I brought my children along while I planned and plotted a bizarre murder. I've been hiding Charles under the kids' beds for the last night. Right, yes, of course, question away.”

She grinned before moving on. She heard Jake patiently explain that they were hoping to find out if he'd seen anything, noticed anything or could give them any possible information.

Cliff went in after him, and while Cliff was being interviewed, she was startled to see that two new comers—people she'd never seen before—were in the parlor, chatting with Frazier, who was still up, still making sure that he went the distance with his guests.

She hurried over to meet the couple. The man was tall, taller even, perhaps, than Jake. He obviously had Native American blood in his heritage some
where. The woman was a pretty blonde, who almost appeared fragile.

“Ashley, Jackson Crow and Angela Hawkins,” Frazier said.

She shook hands with both of them. “You're with Adam Harrison's team,” she said. It wasn't a question.

“Yes, and we're so sorry that your missing person has been discovered dead,” Angela told her.

Jackson nodded. “Will you bring me, please, to Jake and the local officer who is doing the questioning?”

“Absolutely.”

“Beth will bring Angela up, assign them and Jake rooms,” Frazier told her.

“This way.” And she took him in.

Jackson Crow had a low, level voice, rich with authority. The door to the study had quickly shut behind him, but she had to smile, hearing the tone of his voice, through the wood paneling. He and Jake seemed to have the ability to be completely even-keeled—and yet say exactly what they meant in a way that brooked no interference.

She started to walk away, but the door opened and Jake came out.

“You and your household are to go to bed and get some sleep,” he told her.

“Oh, I don't think—”

“We're almost done here for the night. Jackson is taking over,” Jake told her. “I want to get some sleep.
You must need some, too. How about it? Where am I sleeping?”

She wanted to ask,
Could you sleep in the chair in my room?

“I'm sure Grampa would have told Beth to put you in the Jeb Stuart room,” she told him. “Do you want to get your things?”

He waved a hand in the air. “Right now, I want to crash. If I remember right, there's soap, shampoo, razors, toothpaste, you name it, in the rooms, right?”

She nodded.

“Then I'll run down in the morning. Come on, I'll walk you to your room.”

Ah, yes, Jake could be the Southern gentleman. There was no “home” to walk her to now, so he'd walk her to her room.

“Hey, I live here,” she reminded him.

“And I want to see you in. And lock your door.”

“Oh, come on, Jake! I am not afraid of my grandfather or Beth—”

“Someone managed to get an unconscious, living man into the graveyard and to kill him there. Ashley, lock your door.”

She nodded. They went through the living room, where Jake assured Beth and Frazier that they were free to get some rest; Jackson would deal with Mack Colby and arrangements for the continuing investigation. They'd see that Cliff got back to his place, that
officers remained on the property until midmorning and that everything was locked up and safe.

Frazier kissed Ashley's forehead; Beth gave her a hug. She and Jake followed them up the stairs.

The Jeb Stuart room was next to Ashley's at the back of the house, so he didn't have to go far.

At her door, he said, “Good-night, and scream blue blazes if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Jake.”

He hesitated a minute. Jake had amazing sea-green eyes. They changed like the sea as well, but they were striking against his tanned face and auburn hair. She lowered her head suddenly, wondering why she had needed so desperately to step away from him.

Because her father had been dead. Dead. And Jake seemed to have spoken to him. Strange and scary—but, somehow believable. So her reaction had just been…fear.

Maybe even fear that her dreams should be believed as well.

“Hey, are you all right? Are you okay with me being here?” he asked her, lifting her chin and searching out her eyes. “The team is excellent. Angela and Jackson are amazing.”

“I'm fine. I'm glad you're here. I mean, you know the plantation as no other investigator could possibly know it, and you know many of the people involved.”

“That's true. I just want you to be all right…with me being here.”

“I'm fine.” She winced inwardly. “Jake, actually, I'm sorry. I know I overreacted, but…”

“Your father was dead,” he said flatly. “That was the past. It's fine. I understand. Okay, as I said, I'm right next door. Just whistle—you know the old line!”

He waited for her to go into her room and lock the door; then she heard him enter his own room next door.

Ashley washed her face, brushed her teeth and realized she was still in her nightgown, but it was filthy, so she showered and changed. It was almost morning—no matter. She lay down and prayed for sleep.

It came.

The first pale rays of morning light seeping through the drapes woke her.

She frowned, still groggy. Was there someone at the foot of her bed?

Jake?

No, not Jake. It was a man in a Confederate uniform. He wore a sweeping, plumed hat. She knew who he was—her ancestor, Marshall Donegal.

She blinked; he would disappear, she knew.

He didn't.

She opened her mouth to scream, and he leapt to his feet.

“By sweet Jesus, did I breed a line of whimpering cowards? Ashley Donegal, pull yourself together! I'm here to help you.”

Interlude

B
ack at Donegal.
Jake couldn't settle in. He'd stripped down to his briefs but now lay staring at the double doors to the wraparound porch, the ceiling and around the room.

Back at Donegal.

Alone, he could remember why he and Ashley had parted. He would never forget the look in her eyes, the last time he had seen her. The look in her eyes…the way she had backed away from him.

They'd been friends forever. When they'd been young, the three-years difference in their ages had been gargantuan; as they had grown older, the annoying little girl had become inquisitive and fun. And he had loved to tease her. They'd argued incessantly; they'd done their best to beat each other at every game, to outrace each other on Donegal horses, and they'd laughed when they'd unseated one another.

Then they had grown older still.

And he had fallen in love. Maybe he'd been fall
ing in love all his life, and he had just been waiting for her to catch up.

They'd flirted, they'd played, they'd kissed—and when he'd been twenty-two and she had been nineteen, the flirting and the stolen adolescent kisses had become much more. He'd never forget the night. He'd been due to leave for his last semester at Carnegie Mellon, and everyone had come in from the countryside to celebrate his last night home. They couldn't all crowd down to the bars on Bourbon or Frenchman streets, because several in the group were still underage, so they had rented out one of the old historic inns on St. Anne's. They had partied by the brick fire and then, sometime in the wee hours, he'd walked her to her room and gone to his…but seconds later, he'd heard a knock on his door, and Ashley had been there with this look in her eyes. She had asked, “Must you be
such
a gentleman? After all, you're heading back to college, and I'm off to school in Florida, and shouldn't we have a few memories?”

There had been nothing awkward about the night. Memory, of course, could alter and be selective, but he could still
see
the way she had looked that night, the brilliance in her eyes, the silky shimmer of her hair in the pale light and shadows. Clothing had melted away, and there had never been such a rush as just feeling her flesh against his. He hadn't wanted to leave after that night, but she had told him, “We've been best friends for years—you have always been a part of my life. You have a semester left, and I have
faith and trust. A little thing like distance can't tear us apart.”

Distance hadn't ripped them apart. Death had done so.

For him, it had been the odd beginning of another part of his life. For her, it had been the end. At a time when he should have been able to comfort her the most, he had become anathema.

But now, he was back at Donegal.

And a man had been murdered.

He stood up and got dressed again; he wasn't going to sleep.

Jake left his room, pausing to listen at Ashley's door, but all was silent. He flushed, glad that she didn't suddenly swing the door open and see him standing there.

Downstairs in the darkened dining room, he heard voices. Looking out, he saw that the police were still there—at least, the patrol cars.

A drone of voices from the study alerted him to the fact that Jackson was still in with Mack Colby, and maybe Cliff. He didn't know.

He frowned; the commotion from outside had grown louder. Curious, he walked out the roadside door and looked down the avenue of oaks.

The police were blocking the entrance to the plantation, but he could see that several news crews were out on the road. Crunching down the drive, he reached the officers. Drew Montague was standing
in front of his police car, arms crossed over his chest, a look of pure annoyance on his face.

Montague saw him. “I don't know how the word got out so fast. They're like flies on a corpse. If you'll excuse the expression.”

“Has anyone spoken to them?”

He shook his head. “I told them that it was a crime scene, and that they couldn't come on the property. That's all. Luckily, it is private property, so it makes it easier to keep them away.”

Jake leaned on the police car next to Drew Montague, trying to listen. There were three reporters with their camera crews situated so as to pick up the plantation house in the background of their shots. He recognized the local network-affiliate anchorwoman, Marty Dean—he'd actually gone to high school with her—but the other two reporters were men he'd never noticed on the news before.

Perhaps they thought this story would be picked up by a national network. He was sure that the information that a man had been murdered on the property was out—they were living in the era of cell phones, texts and instant communication, and Donegal Plantation housed many guests.

He could hear Marty clearly.

“Donegal Plantation, historically a place of tragedy and loss, and filled with strange and eerie happenings throughout the years. Have the ghosts of Donegal arisen? Unconfirmed reports state that the body of a man in a Confederate uniform was found
in the family cemetery on the estate. But other deaths have occurred at Donegal as well. Some are documented, and some are rumor, such as the hanging of a house slave after the murder of the master's wife during the first half of the 1800s. The Civil War–era master of the estate, Marshall Donegal, a brilliant tactician who might have served the Confederacy well, died within that cemetery. Perhaps he is still waging war against his enemies!”

That was too much.

Jake pushed away from the car and approached Marty. She saw him; her eyes widened, she smiled with pleasure.

“I see a Donegal guest now,” she said into the microphone, nodding at her cameraman.

Jake felt the camera come his way. It didn't disturb him or stop him.

“Jake Mallory, one of our local heroes, seems to have been staying at Donegal Plantation. Mr. Mallory, can you tell us what has happened here? Some speculate that the ghosts are murdering people!”

“The police will give the media everything when they have something to say, Miss Dean. I'd just like to point out that Donegal Plantation is far more than a place of tragedy and loss. I think it's rather foolish for anyone to imply that ghosts might be running around murdering people. A man is dead, and first and foremost, his death is a sad occasion. I'm sure that everyone involved with
responsible
media will see to it that our sorrow over his death is respected and that
an historic residence and business which has offered education and entertainment to visitors for decades should not be maligned in any way. Thank you, Miss Dean—I know that you will report responsibly.”

He turned and walked away.

“Jake—wait!” Marty called after him.

He ignored her. The other two newsmen had seen him, and he walked quickly by Drew Montague. Montague grinned, liking what he had said. As Marty chased Jake, Montague stopped her.

“Crime scene, ma'am. I'm still not cleared to let you in.”

“But you just—”

“Mr. Mallory is an invited guest at the plantation, ma'am.”

With a smile, Jake kept walking. He didn't turn back.

 

There was just no way out of it.

Ashley felt the scream escaping through her lips, though it was more like a gasp or choke than a scream.

The ghost swore beneath his breath and faded into nothing, and she was left staring at an empty room, wondering if she could wake herself up. But she wasn't sleeping. She was wide-awake—and seeing things.

She leapt up and ran around, turning on every light in the room. It wasn't all that necessary—it was going to be light outside soon. But she didn't want the
shadows that were created when the sun first began to rise; she wanted light, brilliant light, and a lot of it.

But she froze when she heard a light tap at her door and then a voice.

“Ashley?”

It was Jake. And she suddenly felt that dreaming about
him
had caused her to have dreams or nightmares about a body in the graveyard—
before
it had been there—and Confederate soldiers who somehow got into her room and faded away as swiftly as she could blink. She was overtired, she knew.

She was losing all grip on reality.

She walked to her door and threw it open, staring at him. “Yes?”

“I was just making sure you were all right,” he said.

As at all times, he was so damned easy and confident. And he couldn't have heard her—the scream she emitted hadn't even been a squeak when finally uttered.

How the hell did he just know things?

“I'm fine, just fine.” Was Jake's presence here making her
think
that she had seen a ghost?

He believed they existed, even if he hadn't said as much. And his special team seemed to have some kind of insight that others didn't have—surely that was why they were so
special.

She was glad to have him here; she would have willed him here, if she could have done so.

But now she was frightened again.

“I know you think you…see things, know things, that others don't. But please don't suggest that the ghost of Charles Osgood is telling you things to tell me, all right? If you're an investigator, investigate. Real things. Blood. Fingerprints.”

He stared back at her easily, with absolutely no show of emotion.

“I heard you walking around the room. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I'm fairly new in my actual position, but Jackson has been with the federal government for years. He's excellent at following blood or DNA trails and fingerprints. Good night, again, Ashley. I'm sorry I disturbed you.”

He headed down the hall. She watched him, her stomach knotting, her heart sinking. Well, she had to be looking like a schizophrenic now, welcoming one minute and greeting him like a shrew the next.

Because, once again, she was afraid. She was afraid that she could see things that others didn't sometimes, and that was truly terrifying.

This time, she couldn't shut herself away; she had to be reasonable, and she even had to learn to accept what Jake said. And what she saw.

A man had been murdered.

She needed sleep. Ashley decided to leave the lights on. It was nearly six now, she saw by the bedside clock. Daylight would come quickly, but until then, she would be glad of the lights.

And the television! A television would distract
her. But when she turned on the television, she saw Jake. They were repeating a newscast.

She started to change the channel, but she paused, listening to him, his strong and authoritative manner—and the way he pegged the pretty anchorwoman. She had to smile.

She changed the channel. It seemed that half a dozen channels bought footage from Marty Dean's newscast. There was Jake, once again.

She hit the remote.

And again.

He couldn't possibly be on Nick at Nite! She hit the changer until she came across
Dora the Explorer,
and at last, satisfied, and hoping that maybe she'd even learn some Spanish through her subconscious mind, she eased her head down on her pillow.

And slept soundly and without dreams intervening.

 

Jake took time to speak with Jackson and Angela, choosing the study for the privacy it offered. He briefed them on the events that had occurred before their arrival, and Jackson told him about the last of the interviews.

“It's absolutely amazing that no one saw anything,” Jackson said.

Jake shook his head. “No, not really. I mean, obviously, I wasn't here for this reenactment, but I've been here before when they've gone on. There's so much confusion. There's black powder in the air
everywhere. When the fighting is over, everyone is paying attention to the riverside porch where Ashley and her grandfather are speaking, finishing up the event. It's a patriotic moment—everyone sings ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.'”

“Did you know Charles Osgood?” Jackson asked him.

“I met him a few times years ago. He was part of the outfit, but his stepfather was alive back then, and so Charles wasn't asked to take part in the battle. There are only six Confederate roles to be played, and there is a strict pecking order to who gets to do what when.”

“We need that pecking order written down,” Jackson said.

“Here's the strange thing, from what I've understood so far. Charles shouldn't have been playing Marshall Donegal. The role should have gone to Ramsay Clayton, but Charles was apparently causing a stink about having to play a Yankee—they were short a Yankee—and Ramsay decided to let Charles have the honor and play a Yankee himself.”

Jake realized that they were both staring at him. He sighed. “Slavery was obviously wrong, but for some reason, it's more romantic to be a rebel now. Especially if you are from the South. Don't look at me like that.”

Angela chuckled. “Hey, I'm from Virginia. I've seen plenty a Civil War roundtable.”

“Me, too,” Jackson said.

“Then why are you staring at me like that?” Jake asked.

“I was staring at you because it seems that Ramsay Clayton is the first man we have to investigate,” Jackson told him. He cleared his throat. “Get anything you can on the man off the computer. See if he made any waves anywhere—angered anyone.” Jake nodded.

“But first let's head down to the local police station. I want to see that our use of their forensics department is going to be respected.”

Jake nodded again. He didn't really want to leave the house, but he usually accompanied Jackson on their police liaison.

“By the way, nice handling of the media,” Jackson said.

“Oh? I thought I walked onto a live broadcast?” Jake said.

Jackson grinned. “Apparently, it was bought by several stations. Anyway, you handled the anchorwoman well.”

“I knew her.”

“Great. I'd bet big-time that she'll be traipsing around here a lot. You can take the press on this one, too.”