Krewe of Hunters The Evil Inside 4 (22 page)

“Actually, I’m not going to ask you questions. I just wanted to meet you. I’d been by to see Andy Yates, and he said that I’d be impressed. I am.”

“And now
I’m
flattered,” she said. “So—you no longer think that I’ve gone crazy and run amok and gone about town killing people?”

“All I’ve tried to do from the start is ascertain the truth.”

“The truth was handed to you on a silver platter on your drive into town,” she said. “Is that why you decided to take on the case? You just like a challenge? Or do you actually feel that sorry for the poor, demented kid?”

“I’m a sucker, I guess, for kids covered in blood.”

“Well, I honestly wish you luck.”

“Just curious—what do you think will happen now? The kid will probably have to sell the house. Should I see to it that he starts a bidding war between you and Andy Yates?”

Samantha Yeager took no offense at all. She stroked the back of his hand and seemed to stretch like a feral cat. “Oh, you are a naughty boy, thinking that Andy Yates or I might want to capitalize on this!”

“But you will, won’t you?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Frankly, I don’t know if I even want the place anymore. It’s a long way down the road, the way I see it. I mean, the kid has a fantastic attorney, doesn’t he? Maybe you’ll still get him off.”

Sam stood. “Maybe I will. Who knows? Thanks for your time.”

“Oh, well, you’ll be paying for it,” she said.

He started out the curtain. She called him back. “Hey, handsome.”

He turned.

She smiled and leaned forward, crushing her breasts together and pushing the boa’s head from its perch. “If Red gets boring, give me a call.”

He came back in and leaned toward her, heedless of the boa. “I’ll do that,” he said. “But you know what they say about the Irish, and especially those with red hair. Tempers—and other things—run hot. But, hey, thanks for the invite.”

He smiled, reached into his pocket and produced one of his cards. He slipped it under the boa and into her cleavage.

“Nice touch,” she purred.

“Call me, will you, if you think of anything?”

“I can think of many things.”

Sam smiled again, turned and walked out. He paid his bill at the counter, slipping the clerk an extra ten for getting him in.

She rewarded him with a look of absolute adoration.

“Madam Sam” must have been raking it in, while the clerk just got to work.

Jackson was no longer in the store. Sam went out into the street to look for him, and at that moment his phone rang.

“I found a few strays,” Jackson’s voice told him. “Come on down to the wine bar. Jenna and Angela are here. I’m thinking it’s time to compare notes.”

“On my way,” Sam said, hanging up and heading the few doors down.

Will had gone back to put on another show for the appreciative audience enjoying Haunted Happenings. When Sam arrived, he squeezed in next to Angela.

Jenna couldn’t help but rue the fact that she was positioned between Angela and Jackson.

Getting ridiculous!
she warned herself.

“How was your reading?” Jackson asked.

“Interesting. I’m going to crash and burn,” Sam said cheerfully.

“She knew who you were, right?” Jenna asked.

“Oh, yes. Well, shall we compare notes?”

“Here?” Angela asked.

Sam shrugged. “We’re going to be lucky to hear one another over the music.”

It was true. The booths were dark and velvet covered, and each was a little intimate enclave unto itself. Jackson had already updated them on what he and Sam had done during the day. Jenna and Angela told them about their day, as well. Jenna chose to omit trying to explain that she’d had an encounter with the spirit of Rebecca Nurse, and Angela followed her lead. But she was adamant when she said that the boys were lying.

“It seems,” Jenna said, “that David Yates is primarily the one saying that he saw Malachi coming out of Earnest Covington’s house. I think that Joshua is just saying it because he believes David. If David says it—it must be true. Sam, he did all the evasive things that someone does when they’re lying—and then he became belligerent. He more or less threatened us with his father, the mayor…you name it.”

“And what did you do?”

“Well, I didn’t threaten him back. I did mention perjury, and that it was likely that he would wind up in court, and that an adult would contradict his testimony with passion and credibility.”

“Ah, well, then, let’s see if that brings about a response of any kind,” Sam said.

Jenna lowered her head, trying to repeat everything that Will had told them.

“Now, that’s really interesting,” Sam said. He looked at Jackson. “What do you think? Could Goodman Wilson be involved?”

Jackson shook his head. “I haven’t met the boy yet. But if he’s as faithful to his beliefs as you all say, he wouldn’t lie, even for the pastor who kicked him out for loving music. And I do find that fascinating. And oddly charming. I don’t know. I really think that if Goodman Wilson is involved, it’s on his own.”

“But not impossible,” Sam said.

“Hey, profilers aren’t perfect. But if you ask me…I don’t see it being Wilson.”

“So, why do you think that Cindy Yates is so hateful toward him?” Jenna asked.

“She believes that Malachi Smith wronged her precious baby,” Jackson said. “And if Malachi harmed her child, he did it because of the teachings of his father—and his pastor. Actually, we should ask her.”

“She’s hung up on me,” Sam said.

“Maybe there’s a way…. Odd. Her husband is so open,” Jackson said.

“Oh!” Jenna said, and told Sam and Jackson that her uncle had taken on a new patient—Marty Keller. “Technically, I’m not telling you this. And technically, of course, I don’t know myself. After he came home in his underwear, his parents decided that he had to see someone since it was obvious he must be having mental problems.”

Sam smiled at her. “Well, that’s good. Keeps Jamie in the loop. I haven’t heard back yet from John Alden about the tests on the costume.”

“Perhaps you could call him,” Angela suggested.

“I can….”

“And when you do,” Angela asked, “can you ask him if we can get back into Lexington House?”

Sam looked around the table. Jenna saw that Jackson and Angela didn’t flinch.

Sam nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll ask him about that, too. He may be tired of me and he may say no. I had the right to get in there, but…I’ve been in.”

“He’s an old friend, right?” Angela said. “And I know
you
can get him to let us in.”

“We’ll get in,” Sam said. He sounded weary. “I hope it can help. So far, Goodman Wilson claims he has a congregation that will give him an alibi for the murders. Jenna talked with Madam Samantha Yeager’s clerk, and we know that she was working the night the Smith family was killed. Yates will have a pack of alibis…there has to be something missing.”

“The boys,” Angela murmured. “I know for sure that they are liars.”

“We’ll find out where they were,” Sam said grimly. “Hey, do they have food in this place?”

“Cheese and crackers,” Angela informed him.

He groaned.

“We need to move on,” Jackson said.

Will was still in the street. He took a minute to confer with Jackson, but he wanted to stay on a while. He’d head back to Jamie’s house when he packed up for the night.

Jenna called her uncle, but he’d already made it back home and was going to go to bed, so she, Sam, Jackson and Angela made their way through the costumed crowd—garish, silly, horrific and beautiful—to an Italian restaurant off Essex.

They hadn’t eaten since that morning, and they weren’t particularly talkative when the food came. When they had finished and stepped back outside, Sam said, “I guess it’s time to call it quits for the night.”

Angela yawned. “Especially if we’re going to get into the Lexington House in the morning.”

With that prompting, Sam excused himself to put through his call to John Alden.

They could all hear John Alden groan at the other end. Nothing had come back yet from the lab regarding the school’s horned god costume; he reproached Sam, reminding him that he would have called right away if it had.

His groan was louder when they asked about Lexington House.

But in the end, John agreed that they could all go in the next morning. Apparently he had a few words for John about making sure the FBI agents knew that they hadn’t been
asked
in; Sam assured John that they all knew that very well and appreciated the courtesy extended to them.

“Let’s head back,” Sam said.

Angela and Jackson strolled ahead. The revelry of the night had not abated, even though schoolchildren were no longer—sanitarily—bobbing for apples.

Jackson stopped walking. “You know, we all just dumped our stuff at your uncle’s house. He doesn’t mind, does he? I mean, do you have enough room, or should we have found an inn?”

“No, no, there’s plenty of room,” Jenna said.

“Especially since Jenna can move on over to my house—just a block down,” Sam said.

“Oh, no!” Angela protested. “We wouldn’t dream of putting you out, Jenna.”

“Hey!” Jackson said.

“But, really—” Angela began.

Jackson groaned, pulling her to him. “My darling, use a few of your investigative skills. Jenna wants to stay at Sam’s, and Sam very much wants Jenna to stay at his place.”

“Oh, of course! I know, of course. I mean, I don’t
know.
I mean, oh, Lord! Shutting up now!”

“I think Jenna wants to stay,” Sam said, looking down into her eyes.

“Well, it’s the only right thing to do, really, isn’t it?” she asked.

In another block, they broke apart for Jackson and Angela to head to Jamie’s house, and Sam and Jenna to return to his.

When they stepped into his house, she started to say something about Samantha Yeager. He didn’t let her.

He pulled her into his arms.

“But—”

“No more case tonight,” he said softly.

His mouth found hers and his hand was on her clothing.

She felt his fingers on her bare skin.

And she agreed.

Jenna wasn’t usually a dreamer. And of all nights for her to dream, it shouldn’t have been that night, while she lay curled against Sam’s naked flesh, held in his arms.

But she did dream.

She was standing on the walkway to the Lexington House. The dormered windows stared at her like giant dark eyes. The wind had picked up, and she could feel an icy salt chill to it. As she stood there, despite the wind, a mist of fog seemed to settle and grow darker and darker, silver mist at first, and then gray…and darker gray.

The house itself…could hold evil.

But…

Malachi Smith seemed so filled with light.

Malachi wasn’t there. Someone else was. Something that had come, or something that had remained.

She had to go into the house. The answers were there, somewhere, in the house.

She started up the path. A figure began to form in the mist.

It was that of a woman.

The old, worn woman who still had eyes of gentle watery blue.

Rebecca Nurse. Gentle, pious. Good.

Trying to stop her.

The specter of Rebecca Nurse held her hand up. “No,” she said. “No—for the lies will rip you apart.”

“How will I know the lies, if I don’t find the truth?”

“The children…they have fits. They listen to what they hear.”

Jenna started to open her mouth to ask the specter more; she wasn’t able to do so. The dark eyes of the house suddenly seemed to explode, and liquid spilled from the dormered eyes, and then the eaves, and the door frame.

Liquid rushing out to encompass her.

And the liquid was blood.

S
am awoke with a strange sense of comfort, especially considering the fact that he was the kind to wake with every detail of his current case lined up in his mind.

Then, of course, he realized he was draped in silky female flesh, and the thought was enough to achieve instant arousal. But he kept himself still, not wanting to wake her. He watched the sunset color of her hair splay over her shoulder and curl down her back; he felt the fall of her leg over his own and saw that her eyes remained closed, her breathing deep and even. He was tempted to pull her closer, as he had in the night when she’d suddenly wakened and felt like ice.

It was nothing of course; she’d smiled and assured him that she woke easily, especially in old houses where things creaked and moaned and always seemed to go bump in the night.

He’d told her that he knew how to make her forget bumps and creaks in the night, though he wasn’t sure at all about moans, which, of course, had made her moan and laugh. But she’d been glad to accept his kiss and roll into his arms and forget whatever had plagued her in the wonder of new love or sexual fascination or whatever she had found in him.

He heard the second hand on the beside clock ticking, and he remained still, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d remained with a woman overnight, or brought her home and thought about breakfast in the morning. His last partner had been in South Beach, a bikini-clad blonde he’d met in one of the hotel clubs that brought the dancing out to the sand on Miami Beach. No thoughts of the future on either side. She was a bonds attorney from Ohio on vacation. And when she had propositioned him, she had assured him, “Half the women and all of the men are here just looking to get laid. Hey, it’s like breathing, you know.”

Like breathing…

In a way, yes, it was like breathing. But he felt something of awe that Jenna was there now, that the morning light was trickling in, catching the red of her hair and making it seem that a warm and surreal glow emanated from her and encompassed her. And he wondered what it would be like to wake every morning feeling like that, knowing the life and breath and vibrant beauty of such a woman beside him. So, high-powered, cutthroat Boston attorney meets Federal ghost buster/civil-servant, willing to put her life on the line for others, and working hard with a team of ghost busters/civil-servants who seem to have formed a working bond that extended into the kind of friendship that would bring them all to one another’s aid, and still have enough left over for those others they ran into along the way.

His mom and dad would have loved that the girl they had known had become the woman now beside him.

Maybe that was something he shouldn’t mention. He wouldn’t want her thinking he’d brought her home again so that the ghosts of his family might approve!

He winced; he still wasn’t sure about
ghosts.
He knew that Jenna and the Krewe of Hunters seemed to have something—an ability to see beyond what was obvious. But he still wondered what tricks the mind could play, and if there wasn’t something in the psyche that triggered a memory, or if they had all somehow tapped into that vast percentage of the brain that scientists knew humankind had yet to figure out how to utilize.

She stirred against him. Her eyes opened, as green as an endless field, and when she smiled at him, he forgot all thought. He didn’t whisper a word; he kissed her, and he made love to her, and she made love in turn.

Like breathing.

In this case,
he thought,
if you didn’t breathe, you died.

Jenna saw John Alden’s car as they drove up and parked on the sidewalk outside Lexington House. She looked again at the way the house stood, just up on its little rise, and she thought of the dream that had plagued her in the night.

It was one of the fall days in New England that warned of the approaching winter. The sky was gray and overcast, and even on the rise before the Lexington House, they could feel the chill breeze that ripped the coastline of Massachusetts.

She thought of how she often shook her head at the Puritans who had come to Massachusetts, seeking religious freedom but refusing to grant it to others. She thought of the people who had allowed the witchcraft scare to take root, and then she reminded herself that it had been a different time—in Europe, thousands upon thousands had been hanged or burned at the stake for doctrinal differences between versions of
one
religion.

She found herself thinking of those Pilgrims who had come and died in the first harsh winter, and that perhaps they’d needed to be stubborn and rigid stock to have ever made their home in the wilds of the new colony, where the wind was as rugged as granite rocks and as brutal as the winter’s ice.

Lexington House stood there as it had for centuries, weathered and worn and holding the secrets not so much of humanity and the past, but of the madness that could enter any man’s mind when he was brought to it—or when the feral instinct of the animal that remained in man brought about those emotions that were far from fine: fear, greed, envy, hatred and anger.

Sam looked at her, frowning. “You’re sure you want to go in again? I can just show the place to Jackson and Angela.”

“I have to go in again,” she told him.

She smiled. She loved the way he looked at her. The first day, his eyes had been filled with so much mockery. Now they showed concern.

“I want to go in again,” she amended.

The door opened as if it were a great, greedy maw, ready to suck them in. John Alden walked out onto the porch.

“Hey, you coming in, or what?” he called out to them.

They crossed the street to the lawn and walked up the steps. Sam made the introductions, and John Alden peered at Angela and Jackson suspiciously.

But Angela turned on the charm, pumping John’s hand and telling him how grateful they were to be allowed to assist Sam, and whatever John might have felt about any intrusion, he apparently decided to let go.

“Glad you made it before we brought the cleaning crew in.” He winced apologetically. “Even here, even in fall, we’ve got to get ’em in when there’s this much blood, or the pests come on into the house, and the rats multiply and head on out to the whole neighborhood. We’ve got to move on a real cleanup. We’ve had the crime lab out. Prosecution has seen the place and defense has seen the place. Anyway, come on in, I can give you about a half an hour. Watch where you step, and what you touch.” He looked at Sam.

They stepped into the house, entering the foyer together. Jenna found herself drawn back to the parlor and held back when Jackson and Angela started upstairs with John. Sam stood in the hallway, watching her.

She looked around the room and then closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, it seemed that an opaque quality had fallen over everything, as if she floated in a soaring motion back, and looked on from a distance. She was there, and she wasn’t there. She was watching from a strange distance that couldn’t be tallied by space but by time.

A woman moved about the room. Her hair was brown and graying and tucked back in a severe knot at her nape. She dusted and straightened up. She was doing so when a young man came to the door. He leaned against the door frame, looking in. His face was lean and well shaped; his eyes were dark and should have been appealing, but they had a hollow and bitter look to them.

The woman didn’t look up. “Soup in the kitchen, though you’re not deserving.”

“Mother, I hope not,” the young man said. He was in a long, straight coat, vest and suspenders. The woman was in a long, flowered gown with a high neck. “Who the hell is deserving of week-old soup.”

“You’re a lazy, no-good lie-about,” the woman said. “And the soup is fine. Fine for a lad who grew to be worthless.”

“Like my sister? My sister, who dresses in twenty-year-old clothing, mends and darns socks and grows old since no man of substance will have her?” he asked softly.

The woman looked at him. “You’re a greedy one, as well as a worthless one. Would that I’d never had such ingrates fall from my womb!”

“Would that you never had,” he agreed. He straightened where he stood. His hands had been behind his back. He drew them forward, displaying the ax he held and hefted as he spoke. “Would that we’d never lived in this godforsaken house. Would that we’d had actual warmth in winter, that Father had allowed fires to burn, or that his heart had been open to more than a passion for hoarding at the expense of all else. Would that I’d not spent my days in the attic, imagining the insanity of Eli Lexington hacking his family to little bits and pieces.”

The woman looked over at him, frowning. “
You’re
actually going to cut wood.”

“No, Mother,” he said softly. “I’m not going to cut wood.”

She didn’t start to scream until he walked toward her. Then, it was too late. His first strike was high and overhead and filled with passion and rage, and cleaved her skull so that her face seemed to fall apart in a burst of blood.

And then he struck again and again. And when she lay dead, the young man sat down on the sofa, covered in her blood, and he waited. And in time, a tall man in a cap and shabby tweed coat walked in and made it into the parlor, where he saw the woman on the floor and his son drenched in blood.

He started to shout; the young man, who had been all but immobile, leaped to his feet, and this time, the ax hit its target first in the throat, and the only sounds that were heard other than the sickening crunch of the ax were those of a man choking…until those sounds came no more, and the man lay dead on the floor, and the smell of blood was stringent and horrible on the air. The man with the ax just stood there. Then the door burst open and a young woman came rushing in. She might have been pretty, beautiful even. But her face was far too thin; she appeared tired and worn, like a faded rose.

At the doorway, she surveyed the scene in horror.

“I had to, Isabelle. I had to,” her brother said.

“And we must move, and quickly now. Your clothes! We have to get rid of your clothing, and we must get away so that we were elsewhere when this thing happened. Come, Nathan, come. Oh, dear brother, what have you done?”

The young man started to laugh.

“Oh, Lexington, he loved his wife,

So much he kept her near,

Close as his sons, dear as his life;

He chopped her up;

He axed them, too, and then he kept them here.

Duck, duck, wife!

Duck, duck, life!

You’re it! Oh, Isabelle! Now, I’m it!”

“Nathan! Come! Now. Touch nothing, we’ll go out the back, to the cliff…I’ll get you new clothing…we’ll sink what you’re wearing, Father’s fishing weights are in the back…we must move quickly! Oh, dear baby brother, what have you done?”

“They can hang me, Isabelle. They can hang me. Better death than the life we were living!”

“Come!” Isabelle urged, and at last, he seemed able to move.

Jenna stood frozen, the scent of the blood almost overwhelming her. The image of bits and pieces and flecks of flesh all around her was horrifying, and she felt as if her knees were composed of nothing but water.

The mist receded. She felt as if she was whisked back in time, and then thought she was going to fall….

She didn’t. Sam was holding her, looking down into her eyes with grave concern.

“I’m getting you out of here. I don’t give a damn what you say.”

He half lifted her and strode, carrying and dragging her, out to the hallway, the foyer and then outside.

He set her down on the porch, and sat beside her.

“Jenna?”

She took a deep breath. Out here, the blood of the distant past and the more recent past was all washed away by the breeze that came in from the water, cleansing the sins of time.

She was no longer dizzy. She managed a weak smile and set her hand on his.

“I’m okay, Sam.”

“I know, I know. It’s what you do. Maybe it comes at too high a price.”

Her smile steadied; he hadn’t even asked her yet what she had seen.

“No, because, as you can see, I’m fine now. I just wish…”

“What?”

“I can’t seem to bring my vision to the right century.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw the Braden family. They weren’t nice people, Sam. I mean, of course, no one out there
deserves
to be murdered, but I believe that the parents were pretty horrible to their children. The son did do it. And his sister knew, but she was the one who helped him get out of the house and clean up, and she probably swore for him at the trial that he wasn’t in the house when it happened.”

Before Sam could answer, they heard footsteps on the stair. John Alden came out to the porch and looked curiously at Sam and Jenna. “You done?”

“Yes, thanks, John,” Sam said.

“Almost!” Jenna said. She jumped back to her feet.

Sam caught her hand. “Don’t do this to yourself,” he said softly.

She looked down and saw something dark and disturbed in his eyes. She couldn’t allow him to stop her.

“I have to go back in, Sam. I have to try,” she said, and walked back into the parlor. She stared about the room. She closed her eyes and thought about the recent past. She tried to imagine the more current murders—and a figure in a costume that resembled that of the horned god coming in to commit murder. She waited and she opened her eyes.

But the mist wouldn’t come.

She saw the chalk markings and the blood stains, just like anyone else would.

And she saw no more.

Jackson and Angela came and stood in the hallway for a moment, and then came into the parlor. Angela stood very still while Jackson looked at the chalk marks and the blood spray and moved carefully about the room, as if he tried to imagine exactly how the killings had taken place.