Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (23 page)

“Emma…”

“No, no, stop!”

“You need me here.”

“My husband is barely dead!”

“It's a harsh world, Emma. It will only get worse with the war. You know you need me; you need help through this, and by God, if I'm to be a man for you, you will be a woman for me.”

She was shocked.

But when she tried to stand, she began to teeter. She fell, and fell into his arms. He kept speaking,
words that made no sense. The world began spinning, but it was still full of agony.

Then she felt him.

Felt him on her. Felt his hands on her, ripping at her clothing.

No!

But his hand fell over her mouth; he was strong and brutal, and her clothing was being ripped from her. She couldn't believe it. This was a friend….

No…

She was powerless.

Help…

The word escaped her.

And she still felt him, the bastard on top of her, felt her flesh, his flesh, but it wasn't her; no one could really touch her anymore.

Then help came at last, and he was ripped from her. She tried to stumble up, tried to call out….

 

Ashley jerked up.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her body felt bruised—and violated.

But nothing had happened. She was in her own bedroom. Her clothing was intact. She hadn't been touched.

Not in this world, not in this time.

Marshall Donegal stood by the window. He was looking out at the cemetery where he had died.

She realized that he had led her to the battle, but
that something else had happened in her dream. She had seen what he had never seen.

One of his own men had betrayed him after his death and violated his wife.

He turned to her. “Battle is ugly. It is blood and slashed limbs and smashed brains. It's horrible, and it's ugly, and perhaps we all sin when we take up arms against one another.”

“Some battles have to be fought,” she whispered.

He came to her, and she thought she felt his hands on her shoulders. “Yes, battles must be fought for defense of all that is right and holy. But we need to be sure of what is right and holy before going to war.” He winced. “Those men who fight demons in their own mind, or join with demons to fight, they must be stopped. Because they are the transgressors.”

He pulled her against him. She was certain that she could actually feel the strength of his chest, and of his mind, and all that he had managed to learn—in his afterlife. She felt tears on her cheeks again, and she heard him whisper, “I'm here to try again to defend you. I failed my family once. I cannot do so again.”

 

Jake was surprised at how emotional it was to drop Beth off in the French Quarter. They were on Royal Street, in front of the hotel where they had stayed after the Holloway murder, and they knew that Beth would be able to stow her luggage easily for the day.

“You go on and solve this thing so that I can come back!” Beth told them. “And don't worry about me. I'm just doing a little shopping. I'm going to indulge in a sugar-swamped beignet at Café du Monde, and then I'll be on my way. You gentlemen get busy.”

And so they did, leaving the car at street parking on Decatur Street and starting off on foot. As they walked, Jackson made the necessary phone calls.

Fifteen minutes later, Justin Binder met them in front of the square as he was crawling down from a carriage ride with his family. He kissed his daughters and told them he'd meet up with them for dinner as they went off with his mother-in-law to view a Mardi Gras exhibit.

“We can go to my hotel room and talk there,” Justin told them.

Jake hoped immediately that Justin was all that he seemed: a family man who respected his mother-in-law and loved his children.

His hotel room was a little suite with a bedroom area where, apparently, his mother-in-law had been sleeping with the children while Justin took the couch in the parlor area. He apologized; the housekeeping staff hadn't been up yet, and Justin closed the couch quickly so that they could sit.

“I heard about the latest,” Justin said, sitting. “The newscaster and Toby Keaton. He was all right. I was so sorry to hear about him. Eaten by gators. Well, hell, that's just sad. The man grew up with the creatures, spent his life around them.”

“We don't believe he was killed by the gators,” Jackson said.

“Neither does the media,” Justin said.

“Well, we're back to the usual question. Where were you night before last?” Jackson asked him.

“Here. I took the girls to a live theater experience at Le Petit Theatre, and we and my mother-in-law went to dinner at Muriel's. Then we were back at the hotel—and I had a stomach ache. I called down to room service for warm milk around one in the morning. I was seen by the waiter, and my mother-in-law will assure you I was with my family all night. Thank God I can prove that!”

“What can't you prove?” Jake asked.

Justin met his gaze openly. “When the battle ended, I ‘skedaddled' with Ramsay Clayton. That means we rode hard to the sugar-mill fences, up to the road and then back. Ramsay was with me—he kept telling me it was okay to play a Yankee. He liked being on the winning side. We rode back in time for the singing. When it first happened, I kept thinking that Ramsay had to be involved somehow—he was supposed to have been Marshall Donegal—but he was with me, then, and I could swear that I did see him in the crowd before we finally all wound up in the parlor at the house. And I was scared as hell, too, that I would be a suspect because we were staying at the plantation. I searched high and low with the others that night and wound up on a ride all the
way over to Beaumont the next day. It was a nice ride—my girls loved it. But…”

“But what?” Jake asked.

“There was something strange about Ashley that day. Once we could see Beaumont across the bayou, she kept looking up at the windows. And she seemed to be afraid of something. She pretended it was nothing, but I've been thinking about it ever since. Don't get me wrong—Ashley sure as hell isn't guilty of anything. She was just about in tears about Charles being missing the day before, and she really came on the ride to keep searching the property. But—she saw something. She saw something that day at Beaumont.”

 

Ashley's legs wobbled as she descended the stairs. Angela ran up to her quickly, frowning and setting a supporting arm around her shoulders. Whitney came over to her as well, her face a mask of concern.

“What?” Angela asked anxiously.

“I didn't see who did it.”

“Who did what?”

Ashley looked at Angela. “I saw Marshall Donegal. He didn't want to let me see the battle with him, but I insisted. Then—it was as if I lost him. I became Emma. She was raped, Angela—just days after her husband was killed.”

“By the enemy? But I thought—” Whitney began.

“Not by the enemy! By one of her husband's men.”

“Who? Which one?” Angela asked.

“I couldn't see, Angela. But—”

“But what?” she prompted.

“I think that Harold Boudreaux came to her rescue. I think that he pulled the rapist off of Emma, and that's when they formed their real bond. I think that we never see Marshall and Emma together be cause
he doesn't know.
It wasn't her fault, but she's ashamed, and she can't go to Marshall or be with him because of what happened.”

Angela was thoughtful. “Maybe we can help them. First, however, we have to find out who the man was. We have to find out what happened to him and figure out why one of his descendants would be after revenge now.”

“What should we do next?” Ashley asked.

“Records!” Angela turned to Ashley. “Can you get those accounts of the battle we were wondering about earlier? We'll start on one of the ancestry sites and see what we can dig up on these men by name.”

“I'm on it,” Whitney said.

“Look, I should be doing this,” Ashley said.

“Later. Let Whitney get started,” Angela said. “You come with me and find Jenna. She is in the cemetery. She's—communing.” Angela looked at her and apparently decided that Ashley had figured out that Jenna did, indeed, see ghosts. “Jenna was meditating, in a way. She gets into a state, and if there are spirits around, even if they won't communicate with
her, she can usually see them, and we may see more clearly through her.” She took Ashley's hand.

“Are you afraid?” she asked her softly. “Everyone is afraid at first—it's having to believe the unbelievable. It's accepting that there is a greater power.”

Ashley shook her head firmly. “No. I'm not afraid anymore. I want the truth.”

 

Griffin Grant's office was in a massive building in the Central Business District, all beautiful glass and chrome. It was furnished with ultramodern pieces—but a picture of a Civil War cavalryman hung on a far wall of the reception area, with a pair of crossed swords above it. “Must be his ancestor,” Jackson said.

Jake walked over to the painting. The man had one hand behind his back in the painting; he held his sword in front of him. There was something a little bit odd about him.

“Henry Hilton!” Griffin's secretary told them. “Interesting painting, isn't it? Well, it should be. It was done from a death likeness. Creepy, if you ask me, but these boys do enjoy their reenactments and their roundtables. Henry was killed at Manassas, but he was already wounded.”

“Uh—he was—an admirable soldier,” Jake said. As he spoke, Griffin came out of his office.

“I know, I know, it's a strange painting, but it's a family heirloom,” he said dryly. “Please, come in.” Griffin ushered them into his office, quickly
dismissing his secretary and offering them coffee or drinks from the handsome marble wet bar set to the far left of his desk. “Soda, whiskey, water—anything?”

Jackson declined. Jake accepted a bottle of water, thanking him and taking a seat in one of the executive chairs in front of the desk.

“I heard about Toby,” Griffin said gravely. “Do you know anything about funeral arrangements? Had his son been told about his death?”

“Detective Mack Colby was notifying the family,” Jackson told him. “And they won't release the body until a full autopsy has been done.”

Griffin nodded and frowned. “They believe that these murders were related to Charles Osgood's death? But…well, a man in a cemetery in full uniform and two people killed after a strange assignation near the bayou? Seems a stretch, doesn't it?”

“Not really. Toby Keaton took part in the reenactment. Marty Dean wanted news on it so desperately I think she would have met anyone anywhere,” Jake said.

“Oh. I suppose you're right.” Griffin drummed his fingers on his desk. “I wish I could help you. I don't think there's anything at all I could tell you about the newscaster. I didn't know her. I knew Toby well, of course. We've all been friends forever. But I keep thinking that I should have remembered something about the night Charles disappeared. I mean, I was right there! Right there, in the midst of those rushing forward when we heard that Marshall Donegal was
being beset in the cemetery—outside the cemetery for the reenactment, of course. I think I saw…maybe it was John Ashton? Helping him to his feet. But we were all there standing around when it ended. Charles was so proud! He wore his battle wounds and fake blood with such pleasure. I kept thinking that Ramsay had done him a real favor, helping him out that day. He made something of a man out of him, if only for a few hours. I swear, I
keep
trying to remember,” he said. He leaned forward. “It haunts me, you know? Thinking about it. First Charles, now Toby…”

“Who do you think might have done it? Any idea of anyone with a grudge?” Jake asked.

Griffin Grant shook his head. “We all had opinions, spats, disagreements, but they were all good guys.” He grimaced. “Even the Yankees. I mean, we do seriously like to argue tactics, but that's not even a matter of sides. We've all done this so many times, with changes here and there through the years. The Yanks are good guys. I can't imagine that any one of us would have ever done such a thing.”

“Well, here's the usual—where were you the night before last?” Jake asked him.

He seemed surprised. “Right here. You can ask my secretary. I worked forever—we have a new lineup coming out, and it's a bitch, making sure your shows and your sponsors are all aligned just so.”

“Thank you,” Jackson said, rising. He offered Griffin his hand. “Thank you for your time and your help.”

“I'd do more if I could,” Griffin told them.

They left his office and stopped by his secretary's desk. “Miss Tierney” read the nameplate in front of her. “Miss Tierney,” Jackson said politely, “can you verify that Mr. Grant was in his office late the night before last?”

“Oh, yes!” she said. “Why, that poor man has just been working all hours.”

“How late were you here?” Jake asked her.

“Late—seven,” she said dryly. “So much for nine to five. And when I left, I could still hear him on the phone in there, placating a diaper company!”

Jackson thanked her.

Out on the street, Jake sighed wearily. “Time to find Ramsay Clayton,” he said.

Ramsay wasn't in his hotel room. The desk clerk told them that they could probably locate him on the square, displaying his art.

 

Jenna sat on one of the few individual white sarcophagi in the cemetery; it belonged to the Donegal brother-in-law who had been killed during World War I.

At first, walking toward her with Angela, Ashley saw nothing. Will was leaning against her family tomb, and he spoke gently to Ashley. “She has brought them out. Sit quietly, and you will see them.”

No longer hesitant, Ashley took a seat next to Jenna. Jenna took her hand and gripped it tightly.