Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (24 page)

And in a minute, they began to appear to her as well.

There were four of them there, soldiers in blue. They walked in a procession, pacing the cemetery right in front of the family tomb. She could see clearly through them, and then she could not. They began to form something that appeared of real substance.

“They are illusions,” Will said quietly, “but illusions of the mind. That is the place where we know another sense: of the living, and of the dead.”

As she sat there, Marshall Donegal appeared as well. She tensed, thinking that there would be some kind of a confrontation.

But though they recognized one another, acknowledged one another, it was merely with sorrow.

“Talk to them,” Jenna said. “They will hear you.”

“I need help,” she said. “Please.”

Marshall walked to one. “We were sad enemies. No more. We are united in death, and the country is united now, through our deaths. We have made peace. Help my girl, please. Help her.”

The one who seemed to be a captain turned from Marshall to Ashley.

“I would help you, if I could. What do you need?”

“I need to know…Emma came to her husband as he lay dying. She was dragged away, taken to the house. Who took her? Which soldier? Please, it's so important to know.”

“I was dying then,” he said. “I was dying then myself. But, I saw her. I saw her tears. I saw the uni
form. I saw…the man was blond. He had blond curls.

I didn't know his name.”

“Can anyone help?” Marshall called out.

One of them stopped by him, setting a hand on his shoulder. “I was gone, Marshall. I was gone when she came to the cemetery. We were hotheaded as were you—we'd never have hurt your wife or your children. What man would do so?”

Not a man, a monster,
Ashley thought. She wasn't afraid of ghosts, she realized. She had learned to fear monsters instead.

The captain spoke softly. “One will know,” he said.

“Who?” Marshall asked.

“Emma,” the captain said.

Marshall shook his head. “She is gone,” he said softly.

“No,” the captain said. “I see her at the attic window.”

The ghost of Marshall Donegal fell to his knees in the cemetery and wept.

 

“Why, hey, you!” Beth said, surprised to see the man who was looking into the shop window along with her.

“Beth!” he said, equally surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Leaving,” she admitted. “I've got to get away for a while.”

“Donegal Plantation will be missing the world's finest chef,” he said gallantly.

“I'll be back,” she said.

“I'm sure you will.”

“So…”

“So, I've got some time. Do you need a ride to the airport?”

“Well, that would be great. But I can just take a cab—”

“Don't be silly. I've got a car.”

“My things are at the hotel—”

“We'll stop and get them. Come on, no big deal, I promise.”

“It's a half hour drive there, and back.”

“Worth it, if I can imagine you'll return and cook again!”

As the breeze moved her hair and she pulled a strand from her face, she remembered that he had been on the original suspect list. But that had been before.

“Sure, thanks.”

They were going to get in a car; they were going to get coffee. No danger in that. Besides, she didn't believe it. She just didn't believe it.

They walked to his car. She noted, as she started to get in, that he had a little case, like the kind kept by a diabetic. Was he diabetic? She couldn't remember.

He shut the door as she sat.

He came around and got in beside her.

And then, of course, she realized.

She put her hand on the door; she opened her mouth to scream.

He slammed her head against the car window as he picked up a needle; she felt it piercing through her skin, and then she felt no more.

J
ackson and Jake walked the square over and over looking for Ramsay Clayton.

He wasn't to be found.

“Strange. The bastard answered me this morning when I called him and said we'd find him at his hotel,” Jackson said.

Jake stopped to ask a young woman selling paintings of the square if she had seen Ramsay Clayton that morning.

“Oh, yes, he was here for a while,” she said. “He said that he had to get back to his hotel room to meet some friends. I haven't seen him since, but he is usually right here. Says lately he likes to be where there are lots and lots of people! The guy is as nice as can be, and darned good-looking, too, but he's sure gotten strange, always looking as if he's about to run! Such a scaredy-cat.”

Jake thanked her for the information.

“He's either scared—or guilty,” Jake said.

“We'll head to the hotel again,” Jackson said. “But
first I'm going to buy a couple of Lucky Dogs and some sodas. I'm starving. We'll get the car and head to the hotel. I have a feeling we're not going to find Ramsay, though. Where the hell did he go? If he's such a damned scaredy-cat?”

“Maybe he's not—maybe it's all an act, down to his kindness,” Jake suggested.

“Justin said that Ramsay was with him, and that Ramsay said that he had fun playing a Yankee,” Jackson reminded him.

“But he's not here,” Jake said. He walked back to the woman. “I'm sorry to bother you again,” he told her. “Did you see Ramsay Clayton here the day before yesterday?”

She frowned, going into deep thought. He thought she might have smoked a little bit too much weed in her teen years. Her mind seemed a little misty.

“The day before yesterday… Oh, yes! He was here. He was here. In fact, we were both here until dusk.”

“And then you both left?”

“Well, I left. I think he left soon after.”

“Why do you think that?”

She smiled. “Because I was gone. I told you—he likes to be around people. Some of the artists stay out late in the night, but by then people really want music and tarot readings. So he must have left. He's not like you.”

“Pardon?”

He hadn't realized that his Glock, a standard FBI
issue—he knew how to shoot, but he wasn't fond of guns—was visible since his hand was on his hip, pushing his jacket back and exposing the belt holster.

“Maybe he should carry a gun, too. Are you a cop? Is he in trouble?”

He smiled. “I just need to speak with him, that's all.”

“Maybe you can give him some courage!” she said cheerfully.

“Well, thank you,” Jake said, striding back to Jackson, frustrated. “He was here until dusk the day that Marty and Toby died. I think.”

“You think?”

“I'm not sure she knows what day it is today,” Jake said.

Jackson nodded. “Okay, let's get food and try the hotel. Then we can head back. I'll get the dogs, you get the car.”

Jackson stopped at a cart and bought them both a soda and a couple of hot dogs while Jake walked down to the car. He had just eased it out of their parking spot when Jackson caught up with him. He reached for the food; Jackson slid into his seat, a Lucky Dog halfway in his mouth. “Sorry—I'm really hungry. We're all going to miss Beth.”

“Yes, but she wanted to be away—maybe
needed
to be away,” Jake said. He found that he felt oddly uncomfortable once he had spoken.

“What's wrong?” Jackson asked him.

“I don't know. I think we should have taken her straight to the airport in the morning.”

“Call her.”

Jake did. He got her voice mail right away.

“She's probably on an airplane,” Jackson said.

“Probably,” Jake agreed.

A feeling of unease had begun in him; it wasn't lessened any when they reached the hotel and found no sign of Ramsay Clayton.

 

They sat around in the roadside parlor. Ashley was on the registration-desk computer, and Will was working with her. Angela and Whitney were poring through content files on Whitney's laptop.

Jenna was in the attic, hoping that she could reach Emma Donegal.

“Okay, Confederates,” Ashley said. “Marshall Donegal, of course. O'Reilly, Charles's stepfather's ancestor. We know that he survived the war—he came back and saw Emma. He probably had a guilt complex about causing the whole skirmish.”

“That's two down. Now the rest?”

“One was actually a Clayton; I know that,” Ashley said. “Ramsay is a direct descendant.”

“Find out what happened to his ancestor,” Angela said, looking up. “We're trying to trace a fellow named Pierre Lamont—one of the Confederates.”

“He was Toby Keaton's great-great-whatever,” Ashley said. “Toby comes down through the maternal line. It's a good thing they named it Beaumont,
Beaumont—beautiful mountain,” she said with a grimace. “Not that it's exactly on a mountain, but there is a little rise in the terrain. The family name changed many times.”

“Yes, but we can let Toby go on this one,” Angela said softly. “He's dead.”

“I guess so,” Ashley agreed.

“What about Griffin Grant?” Whitney asked.

“Family name change, too. His ancestor was… Hilton. Henry James Hilton. And he was killed in the war—1862, the Second Battle of Bull Run, or Manassas. We can do more research on Hilton.”

Ashley stared at the screen, searching site after site for the Ramsay Clayton who had fought in the Confederate cavalry during the Civil War. She found him at last and turned to look at the two of them. “Ramsay Clayton—the one our Ramsay is named for—was killed at Gettysburg,” she said. “Obviously, he was already a father.”

“Okay, so…nothing dastardly happened to him?” Whitney said.

“Not other than a grisly death on a battlefield,” Ashley said. “And that would mean a half a million men who died might be vengeful.”

“That doesn't seem like something that would bring about revenge or a sick sense that you needed revenge in a future generation,” Will said. “We're looking for something that might have come about because of what happened at Donegal that day.”

“What about Hank Trebly?” Angela asked.

“Trebly—that was his ancestor's name, too.”

“See what you can find on him.”

They all worked in silence for a while.

Whitney sighed as one site after another came up blank. “Not found,” she said. “Sorry. We need Jake. He's the one who can find anything on a computer.”

“Could you take over for a few minutes, Will? My back is killing me!” Ashley pushed away from the desk. Will stepped back, looking at her.

He nodded. “Sure. Why don't you go and try the attic with Jenna? See if you can sense, or even find, anything there?”

She nodded. “I'm just going to grab some water first. And a cheese stick.”

“Food!” Will said. “We haven't eaten since break fast.”

“All right, everybody, meal break,” Angela said.

“Every man for himself. There's no Beth to feed us delicious delicacies today.”

“We'll make a real dinner,” Whitney said, yawning. Then she leapt up. “Angela is right! Every man—and woman—for themselves! And dibs on the crab cakes!”

As they started for the kitchen in a sudden mad hurry, they nearly collided with Jenna, who was coming down the stairs.

“Anything?” Angela asked her.

Jenna shook her head, frustrated. “I can feel her,
and I've talked myself blue. But she won't appear for me, or she can't appear for me.”

“I can try,” Angela said.

“I know who can reach her. She's been trying to reach him,” Whitney said.

They all stared at her.

“Jake,” Whitney said. “Before we even knew about Charles being missing, I think he saw her. I was kind of ignoring him, because he was just talking about someone he thought was about to lead a tour. But then we couldn't find her. The way he described her, she was a Southern white woman. He saw her coming through a crowd when we were at Café du Monde. He told me that she had been trying to talk to him, and I said that was rather ridiculous, because she was across Decatur Street, and there was a lot going on, and unless she had been shouting, he couldn't have possibly heard her. But now, I think it all makes sense. It's Emma, and she's decided that if she's going to communicate with the living, it's going to be Jake.”

Angela was thoughtful for a minute. “All right, then. We'll all get back on the computers after our very late lunch, and when Jake gets back, we'll just lock him in the attic.”

“It's a plan,” Ashley agreed. “I'm going to get my grandfather out of the study; he's been poring over bills long enough.”

Frazier wasn't sorting through their bills. He
was seated there thoughtfully, staring down at his hands.

“Grampa?” Ashley asked him.

“Ashley,” he said, looking up and giving her a brilliant smile.

“I'm going to get some lunch. Would you like to eat here, or in the dining room?”

He didn't answer her right away.

“Grampa?”

“I'm sorry, my dear.” He let out a soft sigh. “Ashley, I can't help being afraid that if this drags on, we're going to lose the place.”

“I won't let that happen!” she promised him. “I swear, I won't let that happen.”

He lifted his hands. “It's a house, Ashley. It is built of brick and mortar and stone. Life is what's important. I'm thinking that Beth was right, that we should just leave. People are important, Ashley. You and I are important.”

“I agree,” she told him. “But we have the best of the best on this. They will find the killer. They will find him.”

“I'll eat right here, Ashley. Then I'll drag my old bones up for a nap. Heaven knows, maybe we can get one of those reality programs to pay us the big bucks to come in and do a ghost documentary!”

“Maybe,” she said. “Though I shudder! But I'll shudder away, if it helps us keep Donegal Plantation.”

Grinning, she headed into the kitchen. Even with
Beth gone, it didn't have to be every man for himself. There was plenty of food for everyone; Beth kept her leftovers well-packaged and dated.

Ashley found gumbo and heated it up for whoever might want it when they came down. She brought Frazier lunch on a tray, and then realized that it was late afternoon. It would be late when they were hungry again; they'd call out for pizza, maybe.

“Angela,” she said.

“Yes?

“What happened to the cops who were always outside?” Her grandfather's concern remained in her mind.

“They're doing patrols now, since they found the new bodies in the bayou. The logic is that this house is filled with agents—and since others were killed at the bayou, the cops are more useful elsewhere. And we do have cameras going all over the property. Are you all right with that?”

“Sure. I'd rather have a houseful of agents anytime,” she assured her.

When she had finished her own bowl, she walked out to the back porch. She shouldn't call Jake; he was busy, but she decided to call him anyway; she could just let him know that they were all fine.

He answered on the first ring. “Ashley? Everything is all right?”

“Everything is fine. I just thought that I would call and tell you so. Is, uh, is everything all right with you?”

“We can't find Ramsay Clayton, and I'm sitting in front of a hotel, waiting for Jackson to see if anyone can tell us where he might have gone,” Jake said. “Is there anything new?” he asked her.

“Actually, yes,” she told him.

“What?”

“Well, we've been on the computer all day and tearing through the household records and accounts of the battle,” she said.

“And?”

“Jake, I think that, after the battle, Emma was raped.”

“What—by whom? The enemy didn't take the house. Four were killed and two disappeared.”

“By one of her husband's supposed friends. One of the Confederate soldiers. And…and I think that he was attacked by someone else while he was raping her, and I think that person might have been Cliff's ancestor.”

“This was in the household records? That's surprising,” he said.

She was silent a second.

“Ashley?”

“No. I know this, Jake.” She was silent again for a minute; then words rushed from her. “I pushed you away once, Jake. I thought I was afraid of you, but I was afraid because I was terrified my father would appear before me, too, or that there was always something there that I didn't see and didn't want to see, but I
do
see. My ancestor
is
here. I can reach him, Jake, I
can reach Marshall Donegal. He's trying to help. We need you here, when you can come. I think—and the others agree—that whoever attacked Emma Donegal was the ancestor of the man who attacked Charles Osgood, and then Toby Keaton and Marty Dean.”

He was silent.

“Jake?”

“Ashley,” he said huskily.

“Forgive me?”

“Always.” He cleared his throat. “I guess it falls in. We've known it was someone close who had to be the murderer. I didn't know that Emma had been attacked—until you told me. Are you certain about that? Wouldn't it have shown up in the records somewhere?”

“Jake, only a small percentage of women report a rape now. Back then, Emma Donegal would have never breathed a word of it—any more than she would have mentioned she'd taken on an ex-slave as a lover and borne a child of his. He brought me—he brought me back there. In a dream, Jake. I—I saw it. I saw it all. And it was real.”

“I believe you. You know I believe you.”

“Jake,” she said softly. “Only Emma can tell us. And Whitney says that you're the one who can reach her.”