Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (19 page)

“And you don't mind?” Ashley asked him.

“I want to be cleared,” he said.

She smiled. “You're clear in my book.”

“Well, and that's what counts to me. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life with people glaring at me if they don't catch the bastard.”

“They'll catch him,” Ashley said.

“How do you know that?”

“Jake said so,” Ashley told him.

Cliff nodded. “Well, God knows—I hope so. I pray so, Ashley, I really do.”

They looked at one another as they heard tires on the gravel near the front. Walking around, they saw that a white minivan had just pulled into the front.
Will Chan emerged, followed by a tall, slim, red haired woman.

“Hello!” she called out, seeing them watching her from a distance.

She said something to Will, who nodded and grinned. He went for the bags at the back of the car while she walked over to them.

Her brilliant green eyes shone out over her easy smile. “Hello, I'm Jenna,” she said, offering her hand.

“Jenna, lovely to meet you. We've been expecting you, of course,” Ashley said. “Welcome to Donegal Plantation.”

“It's brilliant,” she said. There was a lilt to her voice, very soft, and yet it spoke of an Irish background.

Jenna looked at Cliff and seemed to assess him quickly. “You're—”

“Cliff. Cliff Boudreaux. Suspect,” he said dryly.

“Ah, well, we're all suspect at one time or another, aren't we, then?” she asked.

“If you say so, Jenna,” Cliff said. He was grinning; the two were looking at one another with amusement and something like an instant rapport. Ashley found herself amused.

“I'll bring you into the house, Jenna, and show you to a room. There are a few left to choose from—” Ashley began.

“I can—and have—slept on many a floor. Put me
wherever you would like, and I'll be just fine,” Jenna assured her.

“Oh, Cliff, would you saddle Varina, Nellie and Tigger for me? Whitney wants to go riding, and Angela is going to come, too.”

“Riding?” Jenna's eyes lit up.

“Cliff, add Jeff to the horse list, will you?”

“Oh, I think she'd do well on Bobby. You're a rider, aren't you, Jenna?” Cliff asked.

“I like to think so,” Jenna said.

“Bobby, then. Bobby it is!” Cliff said.

“Are you joining us?”

“Can't,” Cliff said. “We're expecting a delivery. But hopefully we'll get a chance somewhere along the line to head out together.”

“It's a date,” Jenna said.

Bemused, Ashley led their new guest to the house.

 

Frazier and Beth were still sipping coffee when Jake and Jackson went in to pick them up for the ride back to the house.

They both looked a little brighter for having escaped the house for a while, but Beth was grave.

“We have another missing person,” Beth said.

“What?” Jake asked her.

She lifted her coffee cup and indicated the television above the diner's counter.

“The news just had a thing about it. That reporter—I think you knew her?—Marty. Marty Dean. She didn't show up for work today, and her station
has plastered her picture on the news a dozen times. See—it's who you know,” Beth commented to Frazier. “This woman was a newscaster—people saw her every day. So they ignored us when Charles disappeared, but they're all over it now because she's missing.”

“It's true,” Frazier said. “Her coworkers believe she wouldn't miss work. Ashley was upset about Charles. She knew him. She knew something bad was going on when he turned up missing. But Charles didn't work for a news program, and neither did Ashley. If I hadn't known Adam—”

“Think about the people who don't know Adam, either,” Beth pointed out.

“They might have found Charles alive if anybody had really been looking,” Frazier said.

Jake stared at the television. An old Western rerun was playing.

“What did they say about Marty Dean?” he asked.

“She rushed out on a tip yesterday afternoon, said she'd be back for the eleven-o'clock news, but she didn't make it,” Beth said. “She still hasn't shown up.”

“But she was in New Orleans, right?” Jackson asked.

Beth nodded. “Yes, she disappeared from New Orleans.”

Jake looked at Jackson. He had a bad feeling—a really bad feeling.

But the police in New Orleans would certainly be on the disappearance. Forty-eight hours or not, the media would be forcing them into action.

“Let's get them back and look in on Toby Keaton,” Jackson said.

 

It was nice, riding with the other women, even if their previous acquaintance made her the odd man out.

Jenna was a welcome addition. She was sweet and energetic, but it was really the accent, Ashley decided. Americans loved accents from the British Isles, English or any variety, whether Irish, Scottish or Welsh.

And Jenna oohed and aahed over the river, over the cemetery, over the horses, over everything. She seemed to love Donegal Plantation, and as they rode, she told Ashley that her expertise was in nursing.

“A federal agent—in nursing?” Ashley asked.

Jenna waved a hand in the air. “I have other talents,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I'm not as good as Angela,” she said flatly. “But I speak with the dead.”

“A little subtlety might be in order!” Whitney called out.

Ashley twisted around in the saddle to see Angela, who was also rolling her eyes.

“The cameras, the shadows, Jake…is this a
paranormal
unit?” Ashley asked.

“No—we're a regular unit,” Angela said.

“We're a special one,” Whitney told her.

“We look for what's real,” Jenna said. “But we may be able to find what everyone can see by seeing what everyone can't. There, does that clear it all up?”

“Just like Mississippi mud,” Ashley said.

“Jackson came from a regular behavioral-sciences unit,” Angela said. “Then Adam Harrison formed a team when Senator Holloway's wife, Regina, died. Jackson knew all about forming a team and learning each member's specialty, but Adam had done the legwork already, finding those he wanted.”

Ashley studied them all. “I know the case, of course. But people were saying that ghosts had killed Regina Holloway. I suppose we're in much the same position here.”

“Exactly. Here's the thing. Jackson knows that things happen out of the norm, but he's also aware that living people usually prove to be behind it,” Angela explained. “He's a true skeptic—a prove-it-to-me man. The thing is…”

“The thing is what?”

“Ghosts do exist,” Whitney said. “And no one sees them more clearly than Angela.”

Ashley looked ahead as they rode on.

Had Angela seen Marshall Donegal yet? She hadn't seen him herself today. Maybe he had decided he might find a more intelligent
life
force in someone else?

Angela smiled. “Well, I also believe there has to be
human evil involved. But…Whitney is telling you the truth. We investigate for ghosts. Not because they're evil, though, honestly, evil men make evil ghosts. They'll encroach on someone's mind, but they can't carry out evil deeds. It's like hypnotism. If it's something you won't do, you still won't do it, no matter how a ghost tries to play with your imagination.”

“Wait a minute. It sounds like you're saying ‘The ghost made me do it!'” Ashley said.

“Not at all,” Angela said gravely. “What we're saying is that…well, if the evil in a man's soul or spirit remains behind, it can act as fuel to someone who is already a madman. But most of the time, those souls that linger are yearning only to bring something to right, to protect those they might have loved. To bring about some kind of resolution or conclusion.”

“Interesting. What about a ghost who lingers over a hundred and fifty years?” Ashley asked.

“I'm sure that ghosts have lingered much longer,” Angela said. “Sometimes they're just waiting to be freed. And, I imagine, sometimes they like being ghosts and doing what they can for the living. God knows, I don't have all the answers.”

“But—you talk to ghosts!” Ashley said.

Angela smiled. “Yes, but you see—they don't have all the answers, either. This direction we're riding in—it's toward the bayou and the plantation next door?”

“Yes, our best trails are out this way toward the
bayou. Just past the outbuildings on the other side, it all turns into barbed wire for the sugar fields.”

“There have to be gators out here,” Whitney commented.

“There are. We leave them alone, they leave us alone,” Ashley told her. “And you'll only see them when we're right on the bayou. They seldom venture as far as the riding trails. They like their watery habitat.”

“Alligators. Ugh,” Jenna said, shuddering.

“To tell you the truth, we worry more about the snakes,” Ashley told her.

“Oh, great! It might be about time to head back, eh, friends?” Jenna said.

“Just a bit farther, please,” Angela said. “I want to see the Creole plantation.”

“The bayou is between our property and Beaumont,” Ashley told her.

“That's all right. I just want to see it from here,” Angela said.

“It's just up ahead. There's a twist in the trail that goes right down by the bayou,” Ashley said.

“You'll be able to see it from across the water there.”

 

Jake parked in front of Beaumont.

It was an entirely different place from Donegal Plantation, not as grand, and there was no canopy of oaks along a sweeping front drive. By car, the house was reached by a massive gravel parking lot
in front. Wooden fencing surrounded the residence itself, which was only two stories. Jake had been in Beaumont himself, and he found it as fascinating as Donegal, just different. Here workrooms and space for the animals had once taken up the first floor, or raised basement, while the household had always lived in the second floor. Like many of the other plantations, Beaumont had been a working sugarcane farm, and the outbuildings remained as they had been, important parts of the tours that were given here. The Creole way of life, rather than that of the English planter, held sway here.

Toby Keaton had inherited the house through his mother's side of the family. She had been a Thibadeux, from an old French family. His father, whose family line also went back for generations, had hailed from the English who had settled in the Garden District of New Orleans. Toby had been divorced for years; his one son, now in college, was being groomed to take over the family business when Toby grew weary of it…or willing to give up being the one in charge. Jake could remember meeting Josiah Keaton; he had been a handsome yet solemn young teen when he had last seen him, aware of the responsibility that would one day be his.

“Intriguing place,” Jackson said, sliding his sunglasses down on his nose as they emerged from the car.

“Toby runs a good business,” Jake said. “He and Frazier have always supported one another.”

Jackson looked at him. “But Donegal Plantation has become a bed-and-breakfast. Beaumont has to be doing better.”

Jake shrugged. “It pulls in a higher gross, yes. But the expenses are higher, too.”

“Still, Toby Keaton could want Donegal to go down. And last night, when you went after Ashley, the man made an appearance in the dark—on the other side of the bayou.”

“True,” Jake said.

Before the path that led to the house there was a little kiosk where tickets could be bought. A woman wearing French Creole Empire–style clothing, circa 1820, was behind the counter.

“Hello,” Jake said. He flashed his badge; he didn't know her. She was young and had probably taken work here to get through school herself. “We're looking for Mr. Keaton. Can you tell me where to find him?”

“I wish!” she said irritably. “He hasn't been around this morning—and he's supposed to be handing out paychecks. His car is here, but he is not.”

“He lives here,” Jake said politely. “He has to be somewhere.” He pointed to an overhang in the parking area; there was a shiny new Honda parked there. “Is that his car?” he asked.

“Yes.” She flushed, looking at Jake. “I'm sorry, Officer. I just don't know where he is. I've tried his cell phone, but he wasn't answering. I opened the sales window at ten, just as I'm supposed to do. Everyone
who is supposed to be here working is—you can ask Dan out by the field, or Martha, who gives the tours up at the house. Maybe one of them has seen him.”

Jake glanced at Jackson and thanked the girl. They walked up to the house, where a costumed interpreter—Martha, he assumed—met them at the door. “The next tour starts in thirty minutes,” she said cheerfully. “You're welcome to explore the grounds while you wait.”

Once again, they produced their badges.

“Oh, dear!” Martha said. “What's wrong? Oh, is this about poor Mr. Osgood?”

“We need to speak with Mr. Keaton,” Jake said.

“I wish I could help you, sir. Mr. Keaton hasn't checked in with any of us this morning.”

“Is that unusual?” Jackson asked.

“Well, yes, of course. He is a hands-on man where business is concerned,” she said. She was thoughtful. “Well, of course, there was the morning after he'd met with a few of his cronies, and we found him passed out in one of the rooms we show. It was rather frightening. We have mannequins in that room to add to the historical setting, and there was the monsieur, the madame, the
jeune fille
—and Mr. Keaton, all messed up and on the bed between them all! My poor guests—”

“He's not there now, you're certain, is he?” Jake interrupted.

“Oh, no! I've had several tours through the house already today!” she said. “But I don't suppose that
anyone has searched all the outbuildings. There isn't a guide stationed in every one. We have a girl who comes in at ten—”