Krewe of Hunters The Unseen (5 page)

Luckily, it seemed that the few other guests currently checked in to the Longhorn were already out or still asleep, and that the staff was either busy or not at work yet. No one else had appeared at the sound of the screams.

“Let me out of here! Let me out of here now!” he yelled.

He seemed like a decent man. Even in his near hysteria, he wasn’t going to mow her down or pick her up bodily to toss her out of the way.

She hadn’t realized that Sandy had come behind her until she heard her speak. “Mr. Simmons, what’s wrong?” she asked.

Simmons was perhaps thirty; he had the ruggedly handsome look of a modern-day cowboy, and Kelsey assumed he was in town for the upcoming rodeo trials. The man might have been ready to brave the meanest bronco, but he pointed up the stairs with a trembling hand. “Blood…

blood…blood. Oh, God, blood everywhere, all over the room!” he said. “Let me out. For the love of God, let me out of here!”

Kelsey arched a brow at Sandy and placed a hand on Simmons’s shoulder. “Sir, it’s all right. Sandy will help you,” she said.

Sandy looked back at Kelsey, her eyes filled with a silent plea.
See? I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s happening again, and it’s
getting worse and worse. Do something!

Kelsey stepped past Mr. Simmons and hurried up the stairs to the gallery. She paused, gazing down over the rail of the landing. Sandy held her guest by the arm and was IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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urging him to calm down. But Simmons seemed adamant about leaving.

“If you’ll just show us, Mr. Simmons,” Sandy said.

“What, are you insane?” he shouted. He stared up at Kelsey. “Don’t…oh, God, don’t go in there! Get the police!” he cried.

“Mr. Simmons,” Kelsey called down. “I am a law enforcement agent. I’m a United States Marshal.”

“Room 207,” Sandy said gravely.

Kelsey nodded, turned and hurried down the hallway. It was a straightforward numbering system; the second f loor had ten rooms, 201 through 210. Room 207 was to her left along the gallery. Her own room was 201, but she didn’t really have to check at the numbers; the door to 207 was wide open, just as Simmons had left it.

She stepped inside and paused, biting her lip. There was nothing there. Certainly no blood.

The room was handsomely appointed. In fact, Sandy had done a beautiful job restoring the whole place. She’d renovated it with authenticity, studying historic documents and outfitting it with period pieces. Kelsey knew something about all of this, because Sandy had been in love with the inn—longing to buy it—for years. The Longhorn was one of the oldest original wooden structures of a bygone era.

It had opened in 1833 as the Longhorn Saloon and Gentleman’s Palace, and through its history, it had been
the
place where travelers to San Antonio, especially “gentlemen,” had come to enjoy the liquor, poker, ambiance and female entertainment provided here. Every now and then, Sandy arranged a night with old-time entertainment; it was IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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no longer a house of prostitution, of course, but she held poker games for charity, and hired period singers, actors and dancers to evoke the feel of the old west.

Needless to say, any building as old as this one held its share of ghost stories. Room 207 had come with the Rose Langley legend, and much more recently, Sierra Monte had disappeared from it.

Kelsey considered what Sandy had told her about the Sierra Monte case.

Blood spray and spatter had covered the room. There had never been any sign of her body, and there had never been an arrest. DNA testing proved that the blood was hers, and the medical examiner had claimed it was highly unlikely that anyone could have lost that much blood and survived.

How her remains had been removed from the room was a mystery, just like the identity of her killer.

It had been a horrible story. But in law enforcement, officers and agents heard a lot of horrible stories. And if every hotel in the world closed when something bad happened, they’d be tearing down buildings right and left.

Afterward, Sandy had hired special crews to come in and clean up.

There wasn’t a drop of blood to be seen anywhere.

Kelsey walked into the bathroom, once a dressing room for the “girls” who had entertained at the Longhorn. She hadn’t been in on the investigation, although she’d researched it, primarily because of her friendship with Sandy.

She knew that blood had been found in the bathroom, as well, a great deal of it. Detectives and forensic crews had IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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determined that Sierra was most likely killed in the bedroom and possibly dismembered in the bathroom.

When the police had finished and Sandy had taken over the place, she’d had the bathroom in 207 completely re-modeled. The old tub was still taking up a lot of space in the evidence room at the police station.

The bathroom looked completely ordinary. Shaving equipment and toiletries were on the counter by the sink, and the old claw-foot tub Sandy had bought to replace the original one was damp. Sandy’s guest had obviously had a bath or a shower before finding himself mesmerized by the blood his imagination had conjured up.

When Kelsey left the room and walked down the stairs, she saw that neither Sandy nor Mr. Simmons was in the main saloon area. She wasn’t sure if they’d run outside—

or if Sandy had managed to calm him down. She pushed open the swinging doors and looked out at the street. No one there. Kelsey quickly returned to the kitchen and the table where she’d been about to drink her now-cold coffee.

Simmons and Sandy were sitting there, but Simmons wasn’t drinking coffee. A shot glass and a bottle of whiskey stood in front of him. He’d apparently downed several shots already.

Sandy and Simmons both turned to Kelsey. She shook her head. “There’s nothing there, Mr. Simmons. Nothing at all.”

He gaped at her, disbelief in his eyes.

“I swear to you,” she added quietly, “there’s nothing.” IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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He groaned, lowering his head, pressing his temples between his palms. “Well, that’s just great. I’m going crazy.” Kelsey drew up a chair next to him, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Simmons—”

“Corey. Call me Corey, please,” he interrupted gruff ly.

“Corey,” she said. “You’re not going crazy. You’re merely human, which makes you susceptible to the history of places like this. Everyone knows the stories about the Longhorn.

You
know
the room was covered in blood at one time, and not that long ago, either. So, in your mind, you saw it covered in blood. You’re not crazy. What happened wasn’t a fun ghost story. It was reality.”

“I should just not rent out that room,” Sandy murmured.

Corey waved a hand in the air. “Not your fault,” he said.

He gave them both a rueful grimace. “I asked for that room.

I told the boys going to the rodeo that I’d be sleeping with the ghosts. I was a real hotshot. I didn’t know I had a crazy susceptible mind. At least…that’s what I’m going to believe, Miss…?”

“O’Brien. Actually, Marshal O’Brien,” Kelsey said.

“Kelsey’s been working with the U.S. Marshal’s Office in Key West,” Sandy explained.

“A U.S. Marshal,” he repeated, looking at her as if she were some kind of alien life form.

She smiled at him.

“You don’t look like a cop,” he said.

“Technically, I’m not a cop.”

“But you…you do cop things.” He still seemed confused.

“More or less.”

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“Can a U.S. Marshal get my stuff out of that room?” he asked.

“I can do that for you, Mr. Simmons. And I’ll help you find another location to stay, too,” Sandy told him.

“Um, can you just put me in another room?” he asked.

Sandy was clearly surprised by his request. “Of course I can. But you were pretty desperate to get out the door, Mr. Simmons.”

“Corey,” he said again, smiling. He f lushed. “Ladies, I’m going to ask you to do me a massive favor. Never repeat the fact that a six-foot-three two-hundred-and-thirty-pound bronco buster ran out of his room screaming like a baby.” Sandy laughed softly. Kelsey shrugged.

“Please,” he murmured, looking at Kelsey.

“Don’t worry. I don’t really have anyone to tell,” Kelsey said. She checked her watch. “You two will have to excuse me. I have a meeting this morning. That is, if you’re sure you’re all right now, um, Corey?”

“I’m feeling like the biggest fool in Texas, and that’s some mean space,” Corey said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Kelsey glanced at Sandy. “You call me if you need anything. And, Corey, as soon as I’m back, we’ll see to it that all your things are moved to your new room.”

“Thanks, Kelsey,” Sandy said. “But I’m sure I can manage.” She hesitated. “Uh, Kelsey? Are you interested in switching rooms with Corey? That would save me a lot of bother.”

Kelsey thought about it for a moment, then said, “Sure.

Why not?” She wondered whether she’d been too rash, IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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but Sandy’s gratitude confirmed that she’d made the right decision.

Kelsey took another look at the half-empty bottle of whiskey. Corey Simmons was either going to lie down and pass out soon, or he’d be seeing more ghosts. But Sandy smiled at her with confidence, and Kelsey figured she’d manage, just as she’d said. Sandy had supported both her parents through protracted deaths due to cancer, and Kelsey believed that was one reason she’d been so caught up in the restoration of the Longhorn. She’d pulled herself out of mourning and she’d done it by throwing herself into this massive project. She could be tough as nails when she chose. Not only that, her livelihood now depended on the inn.

“I don’t even know what this meeting is,” she said. “So don’t worry about phoning if you need me.” Sandy nodded. As she started out, Corey Simmons called her back. “Miss—I’m sorry, Marshal! Miss O’Brien, thank you.”

She gave him a tiny salute of acknowledgment. Leaving the kitchen, Kelsey hurried back up to her room to grab her handbag. She paused to study herself in the free standing Victorian swivel mirror. She felt she looked professional—

something she hadn’t worried about in ages. She was five-nine, decked out in a black suit and simple white cotton tailored blouse. Her hair was a deep auburn, secured in a band at her nape. She had what she hoped were steady green eyes, and a lean sculpted face that lent her a look of maturity—at least in her own opinion. Despite Corey Simmons’s surprise that she was a woman who did “cop things,” IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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she made the proper appearance for a U.S. Marshal. That seemed important in light of today’s meeting.

She hurried out of her room, then walked down the hall to 207 again. Stepping inside, she held very still and closed her eyes. She’d come up here before because of Corey’s hysteria; now, she decided to take a moment to see what her intuition would show.

She opened her eyes, but didn’t focus on the room as it was now. What she saw looked similar, but…different. Out of kilter. There was a wardrobe in the corner, but it was a slightly different wardrobe. Where the bathroom should have been, she saw a slatted Oriental divider: The bed was smaller, and a white chemise lay at the foot of it.

There were two people in the room, a man and a woman.

The woman was beautiful, dark curly hair piled atop her head, long legs clad in old-fashioned stockings and garters. She wore a white shirt and corset. Her dress had been thrown on a nearby chair. The man was wearing a dark suit, a tall hat and appeared to have stepped out of an 1850s fashion ad for gentlemen. He was tall and, despite his ap-parel, had the rugged look of a cowhand. He strode angrily across the room and grasped the woman by the shoulders.

“You won’t hold out on me!” he shouted at her. “I want it, and I want it now.”

“I don’t have it,” she said.

“You’re a liar! I know what happened in Galveston that night, and I know your pretty-boy lover won it. I want it!”

“No, it’s mine!” she responded.

“You think you’ll get back to that no-good weakling?

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Well, give up that dream. He moved on the moment you were gone.”

“I hate you,” she told him, shaking herself free. “I hate you, Matt. I
loathe
you. You forced me here, and you’ve used me enough. Even if I had it, I’d never let you have it!”

“You’re an old whore already, Rose,” he said. “I want it, and I’ll get it.”

“I

will

never
give it to you!”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he wrenched her to him again; his fingers curled around her neck. He squeezed his hands together; he shook her hard. She grabbed desperately at his arms, trying to break his hold on her.

“Please,

Matt!”

“I’ll kill you, and I’ll rip this place to shreds—and find it.”

“Please!”

That one word escaped her lips, more breath than word, as her face became red and mottled and she began to f lail at him helplessly. Kelsey was so horrified by the vision that she ran to the man and woman, but of course they weren’t there, not in this time and space. As she reached them, the woman went limp, and the man picked her up and tossed her onto the bed as if she were refuse.

Then they both disappeared.

Kelsey blinked. She wanted to cry for the woman who seemed to have fallen in love so foolishly, been abused and then murdered. There’d been no future for her; she had died still a beauty.