Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk (26 page)

He groaned.

"You know her, right?" Massey said.

"Yes. She was on the tour yesterday. But the cemetery was closed and locked. Surely she and her friends knew to stay out of the area."

"Apparently not. One of her friends had some book on conjuring up the spirits of the deceased. She wanted to do some ritual and apologize to the slaves on behalf of her ancestors."

Brent shook his head, both sorry and angry. When the hell would people learn?

"How badly is she hurt?"

"Conk on the head, a few bruises and scratches. When rocks started flying, her friends crawled back over the gate. They screamed, got the cops on patrol. This girl, Marie McManus, didn't see or hear anyone. She just got it from behind. But she wanted to talk to you. And who the hell knows, you might be able to find something out."

"Sure. I'm happy to see her," Brent said.

 

Marie McManus looked frightened and bruised. She was anxious to leave the hospital, but was being kept twenty-four hours for observation. She had brushed her hair, but she wasn't wearing makeup, and she looked young and really scared.

"Hi. Thanks for coming," she said.

She was in a small private room, barely allowing enough room for both him and McManus.

"What on earth were you doing?" Brent asked her. "I told you last night that it was dangerous to go anywhere near the cemeteries at night."

She flushed, looking downward. "Honestly, we weren't going to vandalize the place or anything. I'd gotten some candles at one of the voodoo shops… a little silver cross, some herbs. We were just going to sneak in and say a little prayer. But then someone started throwing rocks, and someone bashed me in the head. The next thing I knew, I was here, at the hospital."

Brent glanced at Massey and discreetly shrugged. "Marie, you're lucky you weren't killed."

"I know that now," she murmured. She flashed a glance at Massey. "The detective told me that it's going to be almost impossible for them to find who did this."

"I'm not sure what makes you think I can help you, then," Brent said.

She shook her head. "I… know. I didn't really want you to help me, I guess… I guess I felt that I needed to apologize."

He shook his head and spoke gently. "Marie, you were the victim. Some hood needs to apologize to you. But if you want to help in the future, help the cops. Stay out of areas where they warn you that it's dangerous to be, okay?"

She nodded. "You said you had information on my ancestor, Archibald McManus. May I have it?"

"You can probably find out more than I did at the library, but I'll be happy to give you what I've got. I'll try to get back out here sometime soon."

"No, no… We're staying in the French Quarter—Josie, Sarah and me. If you wouldn't mind just dropping it at my hotel, I'd really appreciate it."

"All right. And you swear you won't go near that cemetery again without lots of people in tow?"

"I swear," she told him.

He wished her well, Massey did the same, and they left. "What do you make of it?" Massey asked him.

Brent shrugged. "I think she's lucky that all she came out with were a few bruises."

"Yeah, my take exactly. She didn't see anything." He sighed with disgust. "They never see anything. Well, if you can think of any thing… let me know. Where shall I drop you?"

Brent glanced at his watch. Not a lot of time before he needed to be in the Garden District, but all he had to do was run up the street from St. Louis Number 1 to the trolley, and he wouldn't need more than a few minutes to reach Lafayette Number 1.

"The cemetery. I'll take a look around myself this morning."

"We've already pulled the crime tape, and tourists are moving around in there."

He nodded. "I'll take a quick look anyway."

"Think one of your ghostly buddies can help?" Massey asked.

Brent looked at him. He wasn't sure if Massey was mocking him, or if he was just beginning to feel desperate.

"I just wouldn't mind taking a look around," he said. "I hear there's a political debate in Jackson Square today. You boys will be busy."

"The uniforms will have a tough time, yeah," Massey agreed.

A few minutes later he dropped Brent off right at the gates. Brent promised to keep him advised regarding anything he learned.

There were several tour groups going through, but they seemed to be massing at the tomb of Marie Laveau. Brent chose the back wall, by the oven vaults.

He waited a second, watched the last of a group walk around a tomb, and said in a low but heated voice, "Huey, you get your sorry ass out here right now."

A moment later, pale and gray, barely substantial at all, Huey appeared. "My sorry ass? Who the hell are you to talk about
my
sorry ass?"

"Huey, you hurt that girl."

"You're puffed full of cotton, son, and that's putting it nicely. What the hell do you want, Injun boy?" he demanded. There was a guilty tone in his voice. Guilty and defiant.

"Huey, you've gotten real powerful in here. You can pretty much do things I've never seen another ghost manage."

"Spirit or essence, that's what we liked to be called these days," Huey cackled. "Well, that's what one o' dem wise-talking rangers said."

"Great. Now you're going to start being politically correct? The 'essence' who calls me Injun boy all the time?"

"It offend you?" Huey asked.

"No. What offends me is violence. There was no reason for you to hurt that girl."

Huey hung his head, then looked up, his eyes flashing. "Actually, I didn't mean to go hurting her. Honest Injun," he said, and laughed at his own pun. "And I wasn't the one who did hurt her, not unless it was by accident or she got hurt running out of here."

"You threw something at her by accident?"

"Nah… these fellas were in here again last night. Bad seeds, real bad seeds, I just know it."

"What fellas?"

Huey waved a hand in the air. "Junkies. And not junkies. Folks giving stuff to other folks to make some money. They don't care about the cemetery. They got no respect for the dead. Hell, they ain't got no respect for the living, either. Them girls… " He shook his head with sad but tolerant impatience. "They're just silly. Don't know what folks think… don't know what gets into 'em. They shouldn't be in this place after dark, and that's a known fact. They just got in the way. Bad folks are in the cemetery after dark. Them girls were lucky they weren't kilt, and that's a plain fact."

"I need to know who those bad seeds are, Huey. If I can get them, catch them in the act, the cops can put them away, and you won't have to worry about them anymore."

Huey shrugged. "Don't know if I could rightly point them out to you—not if they walked in on a tour this minute. Don't it just beat all? Eighteen million degrees in the shade, and them guys wear knit masks."

"Do they come every night?"

Huey looked around, shaking his head. "Not every night. I never know exactly when they'll come. But… they've been coming."

"A while now?"

"Hell, yeah. Weeks… maybe even a month or more. Every few nights… I never know."

"Thanks. I'll be back around. You still haven't seen the FBI guy, huh? Tom Garfield."

Huey shook his head. "Now how the hell would I know? We dead folk don't just go around introducing ourselves to one another, you know. We've got our own things to do. I mean, you don't go saying who you are to everyone on the street now, do you?"

"Try to help me, Huey, please. And by the way, that McManus girl was trying to say prayers for you."

"All right, all right… if'n I can help, I will. And hey, I'm telling you God's truth. I didn't hurt that girl." He hesitated. "I think I helped her. I did do some rock throwing, but I was aiming at the bad guys."

"Good man, Huey."

"She's still a McManus." Huey sniffed.

"Not her fault, Huey. I'm going to get the cops watching the cemetery, looking out for your junkies, Huey."

Huey cocked his head, looking at Brent. "I'd be careful on that. I mean, if you really want to catch these fellows. They see cops… they'll just move on over somewhere else. There's plenty of dark corners in N'Awlins for them folks to find. You want to catch 'em, better not spook 'em out of here."

"Good point, Huey, thanks."

A tour director was coming around the corner of one of the majestic society vaults. Huey faded away.

Brent slipped past the group and exited the cemetery. As he came out onto the sidewalk, he was startled when a man almost collided with him.

He looked up.

It was the FBI man, Haggerty. Today he was in a baseball cap, sunglasses, jeans and a tailored shirt. Seeing Brent in his way, he swore. "What the hell are you doing here?" he growled.

"Visiting the cemetery."

Haggerty swore again. Brent assessed his appearance. The man was good. He no longer looked like a stereotypical agent.

Haggerty came closer to him. "Look, you idiot, don't screw me up. I work alone, I keep away from others, you got it? I don't like talking to other cops—even other feds—when I'm working. A man can get killed that way. So I sure as hell don't want to see you. Now get the hell out of my way, and never, ever act like you know me."

Haggerty hurried by him. The cops were right, Brent thought with disgust, the man was a jerk.

Shaking his head and feeling irritation sweep over him, he hurried on. Haggerty was apparently trying to follow in Tom Garfield's footsteps. A loner.

And yet, maybe he was right. Staying alive wasn't always an easy thing to do. Especially for an FBI man. Still…

Grimly, he decided he wanted to know more about the guy. Adam would be able to help him. And they would be forewarned in the future, should Harrison Investigations come across the man working any future projects.

Shaking off the unpleasant encounter with Haggerty, Brent jogged to catch a trolley and make it over to Lafayette Number 1. Glancing at his watch, he was amazed to see that it was only eleven-thirty.

He hesitated, winced and decided it was time to make a painful visit of his own.

 

"Who are you voting for, Mitch? Can you vote? Did we give the vote to Yankees yet?" Patricia said teasingly.

Mitch made a face. "Of course I can vote! I'm a resident."

"So who are you voting for?" Nathan pressed.

"Hell, I don't know. On the one hand, we've got an old liar. On the other hand, we've got a young liar," Mitch said.

"That's pretty cynical," Nikki said as they walked idly down the street. The area was, beyond a doubt, even busier than usual. And there were cops on every corner as crowds headed toward Jackson Square.

"How many times have you seen a politician carry through with a promise after he's been elected?" Mitch asked.

"Maybe it's harder to carry out a promise than it is to make one," Nikki suggested.

"But that's the thing—someone out there should be an honest politician. Tell the truth. No, I can't change the world, but I can take a few little steps," Mitch said.

Nikki laughed. "Well, if you acted as if you couldn't change much, no one would vote for you at all, probably."

She stopped to look at a flyer that had been pasted to a light pole. It was for Billy Banks. Nice looking, good smile, lots of charisma.

Mitch slipped an arm around her shoulders. "He's a cutie, huh? That'll make you vote for him, right?"

"Mitch, that's insulting. I'm voting for the best man."

"So which one is the best man?"

She shrugged. "I don't know yet."

"I don't, either. And I'm not here to listen to the debate. There's Contessa Moodoo's Hoodoo Voodoo. I'm going in," Patricia said, having had it with politics for the moment.

Nikki hesitated on the street, frowning.

Something in the crowd had distracted her. Something that she'd seen with her peripheral vision that had caused a little jump somewhere in the back of her mind.

But she didn't know what it was. She watched as people streamed down the street. She saw tourists in shorts, young women in halter tops, others in T-shirts. Men in business attire.

What could have bothered her about the group that had just passed?

Something had been oddly familiar.

But what?

She gave her head a shake, grateful that at least it hadn't been Andy, and followed the others into the shop.

While her friends chatted, looking over Contessa's wares, Nikki realized that she was uneasy.

And that Contessa was watching her.

While the others were checking out the potions, Nikki wandered into the part of the shop dedicated to the history of voodoo and those who currently practiced the art. She felt someone near her and tensed, always afraid now that she was going to see someone who couldn't possibly be there, and that sooner or later she would simply scream, fall down and be committed to an asylum.

But it was Contessa, her marbled eyes deeply concerned. "She died, yes? Your friend, she is no longer with us."

"Yes, she died. And you knew she was going to die," Nikki said. It was an accusation.

Contessa shook her head. "There was a color around her, and it was dark. It boded great danger. I didn't know she was going to die. She did not die by her own hand."

"Most believe that she did."

"That was not a question. I was telling you what is so."

Nikki nodded. "Well, I agree with you on that. I think she was murdered." She grimaced. "You don't happen to know by who or why, do you?" she queried.

Contessa shook her head. "But—"

"Nikki," Patricia called. "We've got to get going."

Nikki nodded. "But what?"

Contessa hesitated, just briefly. The others were heading for the door, calling out their thanks and waving for Nikki to follow.

"But what?" Nikki persisted.

The marbled eyes, deep and grave, touched hers. "You are in danger, too. The same danger. The same color, a deep, angry purple… it is around you, as well."