Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk (11 page)

"Well?" he demanded.

"All right. I'll go see Detective Massey. I think I can describe the man fairly well. Maybe they can do a sketch of him. And if they find him and question him… well, I'll feel better."

She was startled to realize that Julian was frowning.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He shook his head, stared at her. "Nikki… say that the guy in the coffee shop was a junkie. Hard up. And maybe a psycho to boot. And… what if he did follow us around all day?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Nothing," he replied quickly.

"What do you mean, nothing?" she demanded. "Dammit, Julian, I know you. Tell me what you were going to say."

"I'll only worry you."

"I'm worried now."

Still, Julian hesitated. She didn't intend to let him off the hook. "Julian, what?"

He sighed. "All right, you saw this guy… and who knows, maybe he did know Andy from before."

"No, she didn't recognize him."

"She didn't
admit
that she recognized him."

"No, I really don't think she recognized him."

"But he might have recognized her."

"You mean… from sometime before in her life?"

"Or even from the flyers."

"You mean, the business flyers we hand out?"

He nodded. "The minute you saw Andy, you called Max about using her for a new flyer, remember?"

"I'm at fault in this somehow," Nikki whispered, sinking down on the sofa beside him.

"Don't be ridiculous," Julian said firmly. "Only the killer is at fault. What I'm saying is… well, we might have a psychotic who had a thing for Andy and had been watching her. Or knew about her past. And maybe he knows that you're suspicious and won't stop hunting. And if so… well, you could be in danger, too."

She glared at him, feeling as if her flesh were beginning to crawl.

"I told you, I didn't want to worry you. And it's not like you were ever a junkie, but still, you should be careful."

She groaned, leaning back. Then she jumped up and ran around the house, checking every window to see that it was latched, and making doubly certain that the glass doors that led to the balcony from her bedroom were secured.

Julian followed her, double-checking everything.

They met in the living room and stared at one another.

"I told you I shouldn't have said anything," he told her.

"No… no, it's good to be careful," she said.

"I'm really sorry, Nikki," Julian said, running his fingers through his hair. "Most likely what happened to Andy was… random. I mean, seriously, think about it. All that's happened is that you saw a guy the day before she died, and you've seen him again. That doesn't mean anything at all. The police will probably just humor us when we go in—I mean, it's so far from any concrete evidence that anyone could base anything on. You'd have to suspect just about everyone in the city."

Nikki nodded. "Right." But she didn't agree. She couldn't shake the dream. "All right, well, it seems that we're locked up tight for the night. I'm going to bed," she told him.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek, and started for the stairs.

"You want to leave the lights on down here?" Julian asked.

"Hell, yes," she told him.

Upstairs, he headed toward the guest bedroom, and she headed toward her own. She paused at the door. "Hey, Julian."

"Um?"

"Thanks for staying."

"Not a problem," he assured her.

In her room, Nikki quickly changed for bed. No sooner was she under the covers, with the light out, than she jumped up and turned it back on. She was angry with herself, and maybe even a little angry with Julian. The first nights after Andy's death, he'd stayed with her. But she hadn't been afraid.

She hadn't thought that she might be stalked.

Now…

She turned the television on. The first show that popped up was about forensic files. She switched stations. The next show was about cold cases that investigators were going back into.

She tried the news, but it was no better. There was a local politician on, the man with the improbable name of Billy Banks, and he was crusading against violent crime in New Orleans, swearing that he would clean it up. He was young, in his early thirties, with the kind of personal charisma a politician prayed for. He talked about cleaning up the image of New Orleans, making it a better destination for families. The man had something, Nikki thought. Not the kind of self-righteousness that people would find offensive, but a determination to make the city better. He might well win the election, she thought; he seemed to have what it would take to breathe excitement into city government. He was a good speaker, and Nikki found herself intrigued by his speech. But then he went on to say that if he were elected, he would see to it that drugs were taken off their local streets, and then they wouldn't have tragic deaths, like that of the young woman Andrea Ciello.

Nikki hit the button on the remote and changed the channel.

The next channel she came to was playing a biography of Ted Bundy.

She swore, and at last found a kids' channel that ran old sitcoms at night.

Topper
came on, and she groaned, but it was just ending. Next up was
Leave it to Beaver
. That would do. With the lights and television on, she closed her eyes.

She didn't know how much time passed, but she dozed. Then she woke again as June Cleaver said something to Ward. The sound of a soft laugh alerted her to the presence of someone in her room, and she opened her eyes, blinking.

A scream rose in her throat, but she was so completely terrified that sound wouldn't come.

Andy was there again.

Now she was wearing the handsome black pantsuit in which she had been buried that afternoon.

Her hair was brushed back, shimmering, as it had been… in her coffin.

But her face was pale. Horribly pale, ashen… gray.

Dead gray.

 

Nighttime, prime time.

Whether he liked it or not, it was his city, and Brent knew it well.

The main problem with New Orleans was…

… the ghosts. The damn ghosts.

He hadn't been many other places where he felt such a barrage of sensation, the presence of the dead but undead, or the dead but unaccepting. The cemeteries were far more alive at night than most people could imagine, and the grievances that moved the spirits ranged from bitterness left over from Civil War days to prostitutes who had been done wrong in old Storyville. Victims of more recent murders sought ways to avenge the gang members who had put them in their graves. One old black man in St. Louis Cemetery Number I was still seeking the cruel master who had beaten him into an early grave. Years ago, Brent had tried to assure the man mat his master was long gone, as well. It hadn't stopped the old man from seeking his revenge, and Brent had to admit that neither had he done very well in convincing the haunt, who he knew only as Huey, that the times, they were a-changing.

New Orleans was simply sensory overload. Brent didn't try to explain that to many people. He never freely spoke about his peculiar "calling." When Adam brought him in on a case, he spoke honestly, if somewhat anonymously, with those involved. He had never agreed to a newspaper or magazine interview, since they without fail attempted to be either sensationalist or mocking. He usually worked under a pseudonym, since information about hauntings and exorcisms had a habit of leaking out, sometimes because the victims were relieved, and sometimes because someone wanted their fifteen minutes of fame. Adam Harrison had never been interested in press.

He always came here, to New Orleans, however, under his real name: Brent Blackhawk. Grandson of the son of an old-time war chief, but also, just as Adam had said, a mongrel. Irish with whatever else thrown in, as so often occurred in the country and this city.

Even in the graveyards.

He had a hunch he would be visiting a lot of them. Tonight he thought he would start at St. Louis Number 1. See what Huey knew, if anything.

People loved the cemeteries in New Orleans, and with good reason. They called them "Cities of the Dead," and they were just that, cities of the departed, a microcosm of New Orleans at the present and in the past. The very sight of them touched an inner human core that spoke of man's tragic knowledge of his own impending demise. Broken angels held sacred vigil over the departed. Weeds grew through cracks in masonry. Tombs stretched in haphazard array, silent, staunch. In the moonlight, stone and marble told of both immortality and decay.

The cemeteries were considered dangerous—all the tour books warned visitors to go only in daylight and never alone. They were great places for a mugging, and many an unwary traveler had been deprived of his goods over the years.

Worse had happened in the cemeteries, as well. The great tombs and mausoleums allowed for darkness and shadows, dozens of places for evil intent to lurk. The gates were locked at night, and with good reason.

Brent definitely wasn't afraid of the ghosts. He did have a tremendous respect for the living and the evil they could get up to. He hated firearms, but he respected them, as well. He didn't like carrying a gun, but he was licensed, though generally, he chose not to have a weapon when walking around the city.

But there were places where being armed wasn't just a precaution, it was a necessity, so his little snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 went with him whenever he went into the cemeteries.

Brent hesitated at the wall of the cemetery. As he had expected, the gate creaked open. He lowered his head and smiled, knowing that it was mischief and not evil that lured him.

He stepped in.

The gate creaked closed behind him.

For a moment he closed his eyes, steadying himself against the level of unearthly noise that filled his ears. When he opened his eyes, all was dark, caught in eerie shadow. Then a rock went flying by his ear.

"You're not going to scare me, Huey," he said softly.

The old black man came into view, though his color was now decidedly gray. He was in old work pants, a white shirt and sneakers.

He seemed a bit disappointed to see Brent, as if he had been hoping for an errant schoolboy bent on vandalism who he could frighten up the wall. Over the years, Huey had perfected his abilities to work his spectral energies upon that which was tangible. Stories were rife about "experiences" here in the graveyard. Some were nothing more than the ripe imaginations of those who told them. Some of them had a grain of truth. Huey loved to touch the long hair of the ladies who teased his fancy, and to taunt those who arrived here to do harm or carry out a fraternity prank. Despite his enduring anger against his old master, he seemed to take quite a bit of pride in the old cemetery.

Huey hadn't been buried with shoes. Brent had provided the sneakers many years ago, in hopes that the shoes would send him on to his eternal reward.

Huey hadn't gone.

"What you doing here again, half-breed Injun boy?" Huey demanded. Huey called it as he saw it—there was no thought of political correctness in any of his speech.

"I need some help."

Huey shook his head. "You want help, boy? New Orleans ain't the place to be."

Beyond Huey, the darkness seemed to have eased. Brent could then see them all… spectral images, moving about, mostly looking at him impassively. Their presence was faint, a mere line of white against the haze, casting a soft, ethereal glow. A gentleman in a high hat argued with another in a Victorian business suit, the two of them ignoring Brent. A waiflike beauty sat on one of the lower-platform tombs, staring at him curiously, as if she was glad for any break from the tedium of death.

"Huey, you like to be an old tough guy," Brent said. "But you were decent in life, and I know you're a damn decent fellow still. I need some help."

Huey lifted his hands with a shrug, his head cocked to one side.

"Ain't no burials here gonna help you, boy," he told Brent. "Not if you're looking for something specific."

"Yes, I know, but sometimes spirits wander."

"Who you lookin' for?"

"A man. He would be in his mid-thirties. Looked like a junkie when he died."

"He buried in New Orleans anywhere?"

"No, his family was all up in Kentucky. They took him home for his burial."

"So why would he be wandering around here?"

"He was killed here."

"How?"

"A massive overdose of heroin."

"So you looking for a junkie?"

Brent shook his head. "He'd never taken the stuff before in his life. He was a cop, here undercover, slipping in with some of the bad boys out of Algiers, and exploring the bars and clubs in the Vieux Carré. He's been seen walking about. His name was Tom Garfield."

"I ain't seen him," Huey told him, still watching him speculatively. "You sure your boy didn't come here and go bad himself? I've seen it often enough."

"I don't believe so."

Huey shrugged. "Tom Garfield. I'll keep my eyes—and ears—open, Injun boy." Huey turned his head slightly. "Gotta go."

"Go where?"

"You hear that?"

"What?" Brent's hearing was usually fairly acute, but he had heard nothing except the night breeze.

"Get on out of here now," Huey told him. "There's someone crawling the walls in the back. Around here, that usually means a mugging, if there's some fool white boy around to mug." Huey glared at him.

"Huey, there you go again," Brent said with a sigh.

"All right, all right, but you can't tell me that the world has really come right, not after all these years," Huey said, annoyed. "Don't matter what you are. You got money on you? We got toughs in this city who want it. You go on and get out of here. Tend to your business, and I'll tend to mine."

"All right, but keep an eye out for me, will you, Huey?" Brent asked.

"Yeah, sure, me and the others," Huey told him. To Brent's surprise, Huey paused for a minute. "You're not a bad guy," he told Brent. He wiggled his toes in his sneakers. "Maybe you could find out what happened to the old master."