Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (22 page)

“I love Beth. I'm happy that she's going to leave and do something useful,” Ashley assured her.

“What a cook we're losing,” Angela said lightly.

“True.”

“Don't worry—we're actually pretty good in the kitchen as a team,” Angela said.

Ashley tried to smile. The effort fell flat.

Angela took Beth's chair and spoke to Ashley seriously. “Ashley, the answer here may really lie in the past.”

“Really? Do you think the four dead Yanks are rising to get revenge on the South? Or are my Southern ancestors getting revenge—on themselves?” Ashley knew she sounded skeptical, but it was just too much!

Angela shook her head. “No, there's a flesh-and-blood killer out there. But he has something on his mind. Something he plotted out for years, maybe. And it just may have something to do with the past. You need to start thinking about that. Go back and
trace the ancestry of everyone involved and see if we've missed anything.”

“That may be easier said than done. You want me to trace the lives of nine men and their offspring through over a hundred and fifty years?” Ashley asked. “We have records on the men who fought, and Daughters of the Confederacy probably has similar records on their lineage, but you're talking about a number of offspring through the centuries!”

Angela stood. “Yes. And if anyone can do it, it's you.”

She bid her good-night and started for the stairs, then paused, looking back. “I believe that both Emma and Marshall Donegal are trapped here. Their souls are trapped. For some reason, they are unable to communicate with one another. If we can find out why, perhaps we can find out the truth.”

Ashley nodded, feeling a pang in her heart.

The door to the study was still closed. Will and Whitney still watched the screens, while Jenna had gone up to catch a few hours of sleep before taking over for the pair. Cliff had long ago returned to his apartment in the stables.

Ashley stood and stretched; she was about to say good-night to Will and Whitney but she saw that they were resting themselves: open-eyed, but resting. Apparently, they were accustomed to watching the screens, and after today, they weren't going to rely on tapes—they were going to watch every movement on the property by night.

She didn't make it to her room; she stopped in front of Jake's. She smiled. The hell with the screens. She waved to Will and Whitney and went into Jake's room to wait.

He arrived an hour later.

She didn't speak; neither did he. She curled into his arms, and they started to kiss.

It was definitely life-affirming.

Interlude

“O
kay, look—you can see, I'm coming right back!” Beth said. She pointed to the overnight bag she had packed. “One week of clothing, and that's with doing a load of wash sometime in between. Oh, Ashley, come with me!” she pleaded, standing by the front door.

Ashley hugged her best friend tightly. “I'll be here when you come back,” she promised.

“Frazier!” Beth said, and turned to hug Frazier as well. “Now, you really should come with me!” she said firmly.

He smiled. “To a vegetarian cooking class? Perish the thought. I was born right here, my dear. I'm not going anywhere else in my dotage—not until they drag me out.” He kissed her forehead. “Come back soon.”

“You know I will.”

“We need to get moving. We have to stop by Benjamin Austin's office, and then it's a bit of a drive into New Orleans,” Jackson said politely.

Beth hugged Ashley once again.

“What time is your plane?” Ashley asked her.

“I'm not sure yet which I'm taking. The boys are going to drop me in the city, and I'll stow my bags at one of the hotels while I take a look around. I love NOLA—I'm going to miss it, even if I only go away for a week…” Her voice trailed. “Take care of yourself. Ashley, damn it, I mean it. Take care of yourself!”

Ashley smiled. “Go!”

Jake turned to Ashley as Beth said a swift goodbye and good luck to the others.

“Stick close to the house today. Please?”

She nodded. “I'm delving into the past, per Angela's orders,” she told him. “I'll be a good girl.”

“She will!” Frazier assured him, setting his hands on Ashley's shoulders.

Beth saved her last goodbye for Cliff, giving him a big kiss right on the lips. “And you hang in, mister, you hear?”

“We'll miss you,” Cliff told Beth.

Then, finally, the three were gone.

“I have some feed bills to finesse,” Cliff said, shaking his head. “I'll be in my apartment if you need me.”

“I'll be in the study, playing with bills myself,” Frazier said.

“Grampa, I can do that!” Ashley chided.

Frazier shook his head. “No, thank you. Let me be useful. The old need to be useful, you know.”

“There's no one more necessary,” Ashley told him.

He grinned, kissed her cheek, and disappeared.

“I'm out for a walk by the cemetery,” Jenna said. “Will and I are supposed to go down the road and check out your sutler friend, John Martin, but that won't take long, I don't think. It's a formality. They don't really suspect him. We've got some time. Where was it that the three Yankees died? In front of the wall?”

“By the family tomb, actually,” Ashley told her.

“You can't be out there alone,” Will said. “I'll go with you. I'll keep quiet so you can commune, Jenna, but you're not going out there alone.”

“A team member is always welcome,” she said.

“Well, back to the monitors,” Whitney said.

“What have you seen lately in the screens?” Ashley asked. Whitney looked at her, and she blushed. “I mean, besides our movements—and those shadows you've shown me.”

“A great deal actually,” Whitney told her. She studied Ashley for a minute and glanced at Angela. “Come on over,” she said to Ashley, as if Angela had given her a silent accord.

The three women went back to the screens. On one, Ashley could see Jenna and Will walking toward the cemetery.

On other screens, she could see empty rooms.

“I'm rolling back tape,” Whitney said. “This is from yesterday afternoon.”

Ashley saw herself heading into the attic, walking
around thoughtfully—and making a face at the mess of black fingerprint powder that was in the room.

Then, she saw something else. Something that seemed to form out of thin air. It wasn't dark, like a shadow. It was something light—benign, in a sense. The light seemed to reach out and nearly touch her shoulder.

But then she spun around, and the vision of light faded.

“What was that?” Ashley asked, her throat tight.

“Nothing bad—certainly nothing bad or evil!”

Angela assured her.

“And you know this…how?” Ashley asked her.

“I know because I've met many entities now, and even when they're hiding, keeping themselves from me, I can tell when something is there that means nothing but kindness and love,” Angela said. “There are many spirits, ghosts, or whatever you want to call them here. Energy, as some believe. I haven't encountered anything
evil
here at all. Neither have the others.”

“But—you were expecting something evil?” Ashley asked.

Angela was thoughtful for a minute. “Evil can remain. As I told you. Someone out there—a living someone—seems to feel that this place is calling out to them, demanding some kind of vengeance. The
good
revenants that are here are reaching out to you, trying to help you. And you've seen one of
them—you just don't want to admit it. Did you meet the spirit in the attic?” Angela asked.

Ashley shook her head. But tension, fear and then trust in Angela filled her. She spilled out the truth. “No, but I have an ancestor here that I have seen. He talks to me as clearly as you do.”

Whitney smiled. “Marshall Donegal?”

Ashley nodded.

“Can you talk to him now?” Angela asked. “He's here. I can feel him.”

“I can't see him right now,” Ashley told her. She shook her head. “I mean, did you want to have a séance or something? Would you act as a medium?”

Angela smiled. “He isn't interested in speaking with me. Just you. When did you first see him?”

“In a dream.”

“Then go lie down. Let him enter your dreams. Let him walk you through the original battle,” Angela told her. “And don't be afraid. We're all nearby.”

“Can it really help?” Ashley whispered.

“We won't know until you try,” Angela told her.

Ashley nodded. She walked up the stairs and into her own room.

That was where Marshall Donegal had found her first. In her dreams.

 

Dr. Benjamin Austin's office was a busy place; the receptionist looked at them as if they were crazy when they asked to speak with him. She indicated the
waiting room. There were four rambunctious children running back and forth to their mother with magazines. There were several elderly patients waiting, and two young women and two young men besides.

“You have to see him now?” she asked.

“It will just take a moment,” Jackson said, producing his badge.

The receptionist quickly ushered them into an office.

A few minutes later, the doctor hurried in with two of his patients' charts in his hand.

“Hello,” he said, trying to juggle the charts and shake their hands. “Jake, I heard you were with the government now. Good to see you. We get all the New Orleans news out here. Your name was involved with the Holloway case. This is about Charles Osgood, isn't it? You know, the police were already here.”

“We know that,” Jackson told him. “And we appreciate your time. We can see that you're extremely busy.”

Benjamin Austin nodded, but said, “That's all right. Anything I can do to help.”

“This is confidential information right now,” Jake said. “But we know what drugs the killer used to subdue Charles Osgood, and the coroner's office is testing to see if the same drugs were used on the latest victims.”

“Latest victims?” His eyes widened. “Oh, God, yes, they're thinking that alligators didn't kill Marty Dean and Toby Keaton?”

“That's right. Where were you the night before last, Dr. Austin? Forgive the question—it's necessary,” Jake said.

He stiffened but eased quickly; he seemed to understand. “Well, that I can tell you exactly, and you can verify the information without leaving this office. I gave a speech at eight at a meeting at the Best Western down the road, had dinner at twelve—and stayed at the hotel. I didn't sleep alone. You met my girlfriend—the receptionist who led you here.”

“We will verify, of course,” Jackson said.

“Please do.”

“We have another question,” Jake told him.

“Yes.”

Jackson pulled out his organizer and said, “We're looking to find someone who might have gotten hold of these two drugs. Can you help us?” He handed the organizer to Benjamin Austin so that he could read
benzodiazepine
and
chlorzoxazone
himself.

To Jake's surprise, the man seemed stunned. His face became white.

“What is it, doctor?” Jackson asked.

“I had a robbery—but it was more than a year ago,” Austin said, swallowing. “I have a nurse anesthetist on my staff, and I do some minor surgery right here in the office. Our nearest hospital is a bit of a trek,” he explained. “The muscle relaxants are more common, but…this office was sacked. We were missing a lot of drugs.”

He saw the way they were looking at him.

“I filed a police report—you can check on that,
too,” he said. “Oh, God…this killer might be using drugs he stole from
me?
”

“So it appears, Dr. Austin. So it appears,” Jackson said. On that slightly ominous note, they bid him farewell.

Beth had chosen to wait for them in the car. “Anything?” she asked.

“Maybe,” Jake said. She stared at him with such concern that he sighed. “Drugs were used on the victims—you've been around everything going on; you probably know that.”

“Then—oh, my God, it was him? The doctor?” Beth asked.

Jake shook his head. “He said that his office was broken into—over a year ago.”

“I'm checking on that,” Jackson said, and Jake knew that he was dialing Detective Colby.

Jake, driving, tried to listen, but he couldn't hear Mack.

Jackson hung up. “Good Dr. Austin seems to be telling the truth. He reported the drugs stolen, and he did give a speech at the Best Western. Mack is checking with the hotel to find out if he had room service or anything else—if he was seen. I believe the man was telling the truth.”

“But someone out there is lying, that's for sure,” Jake said.

 

Ashley didn't know if her eyes were just closed, or if she had dozed. She heard her own words from the recesses of her mind.

Help me.

I'm here,
he told her.

I need to see the battle.

No, you don't. Battle is ugly and horrible, and no one should see it.

I need to see, please.

Somehow, in the dream, she was Emma again. Marshall Donegal was in front of her, shouting at her, telling her to get the children and get them up to the attic. His voice was rough, commanding, and she was shocked, because he didn't speak to her like that.

But then he paused. She felt his passionate kiss on her lips, and then he held her away, torment in his eyes. “The children, Emma, please—protect our children.”

She turned as he'd ordered and hurried the children up the stairs. When she reached the attic, she made the little ones hunch down by the wall.

And she went to the garret window to watch.

First she saw the black powder; it exploded and filled the day. The howitzer managed to put holes in the ground, but it didn't hit the buildings.

No matter; the Yankees were coming.

She heard the squeal of the horses. Shouts came from the area of the stables; then she saw the defenders rush out and head toward the cemetery walls.

Rifles flared, and flared again. She saw Marshall retreat behind the walls, calling his men around them, but they weren't all there; they were engaged closer
to the house. The men in blue began to enter the cemetery.

From her vantage point, high above the roofs of their family “city of the dead,” she could see as they began to surround her husband. He brought one down with a direct hit from his rifle; then the fighting was too close. They were going after one another with bayonets. Marshall was a fighter. Two more died at his feet. And then, with one of his men shouting a warning and rushing in, Marshall was stabbed himself. She saw her husband's eyes as he returned the blow. The last of the men in the cemetery was dead. Two more rushed in but saw the three dead in their own colors. They turned and fled, and in seconds she heard the sounds of horses' hooves as they rode away. Six Yankees altogether; four dead and two running.

“Nancy, stay with the children!” she pleaded, calling to her housemaid and then rushing down the attic stairs and out to the cemetery. She pushed by her husband's men, who were at his side, and fell down beside him, taking his head onto her lap. He opened his eyes once. He mouthed the words, “I love you. I'm so sorry.”

And then he died.

They came around her, her husband's men. One of them pulled her gently to her feet. “He's gone, now, Emma. We'll see to him. He's gone, please….”

She was blinded by her tears. She was barely aware as she was led into her house, led to her room.
“Drink this. Drink this, Emma—it will steady your nerves.”

She had no nerves; she had nothing. Marshall was dead.

Four days later, Marshall was laid to rest in the family vault.
He
was there; he told her he'd be back; he'd help her until it was time for him to ride to war.

And then he came back again.

To help her, so he said.

And he was kind at first. He helped her haul in some water. He made her sit by the fire, and he poured her a whiskey, telling her that she needed whiskey. She drank it. She would have enjoyed the entire bottle. It warmed her. It numbed her. She could barely hear what he was saying, and she didn't really care.

But then he knelt by her feet and started to rub them, and she was instantly alarmed.