Krewe of Hunters The Unseen (25 page)

Logan nodded. “I’m going to say local for those reasons, too. We’ll accept the fact that Rose Langley was killed by Matt Meyer. And we’ll work on the theory that the Galveston diamond did come to San Antonio. Rose was the only one who knew where the diamond was, but it seems likely that it was hidden somewhere at the inn.” He looked at Sean. “Can you research the known victims, try to find out if they believed they were psychics? I didn’t see anything about that when I researched them, so I figure we’ll have to ask friends and family directly.” Kelsey raised her eyebrows. “Kat,” she asked. “Could the killer have kept them alive long enough to question them, or try to get them to a séance, or anything like that?”

“Yes, of course, it’s possible. But still, how did the killer know which women to snatch?”

“I might have an answer to that,” Sean said. “He saw their pictures, which made them easy to identify. They’re all over the internet. It’s a reasonable place to start.”

“We believe he’s dressed up, so we’re looking for someone who does costume events, has access to costumes or might own a costume.” Kelsey glanced at Logan, and then at Jackson Crow. “I honestly think we have that on good authority.”

“We use everything we get,” Jackson assured her.

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“There’s something else to keep in mind. We need to discover who might have had an unhealthy interest in the Longhorn, perhaps because of the murders,” Logan said.

“I’m almost convinced that one victim—our drowning victim—was killed by someone else, and if we determine her identity, we have a chance of finding her killer. But as to the killings that could continue, our answers may very well revolve around the Longhorn Saloon.”

“We really have to do better with this meal thing,” Kelsey said, popping a piece of cheese in her mouth as she cut pieces from a block of sharp cheddar to add to the salads.

“I’m
starved.
”

Logan hardly heard what she’d said. He was deep in thought, trying to create a list of everyone he’d seen at the Longhorn in the past few days. Which, of course, meant very little, since the rodeo was in town.

But there was Ted Murphy, for one.

All right, he hated the man, but you couldn’t go blam-ing someone for serial murders simply because you found that someone to be an unbearable prick.

“Want to share your thoughts?” Kelsey asked, putting the salad on the table and taking a bottle of red wine from a nearby shelf.

“Sure,” he answered. “Sorry. I was thinking about people at the Longhorn.”

“Sandy, Ricky and a host of bartenders and hired help for starters.”

He nodded. “We’ll get the Rangers and the local police to follow through on employee dossiers,” he said. “I was IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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thinking more about the people we’ve come across there.

Like Ted Murphy.”

“He certainly seems excited by the prospect of blood and guts.” She made a sardonic face.

“Jeff

Chasson.”

“He’s sort of a celebrity. Popular historian and performer.

And he’s also huge on the blood and guts, or so it seems,” Kelsey said.

“Corey Simmons—but he’s here for the rodeo, and I’m not sure if he’s ever been to San Antonio or the Longhorn before.” Logan reached into the broiler for the steaks he’d thrown in. He set their food on plates and turned off the oven. “I’ll have profiles run on these people. And if we’re going to look at Jeff Chasson, there’s the rest of the film crew. The director, Bernie Firestone, and the cameraman, Earl Candy.”

They began their meal. At one point, Kelsey put her fork down and sighed. “Logan, this is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Even trying to narrow down some kind of profile seems next to impossible. San Antonio is the seventh-largest city in the United States. Most Americans know the story of the Alamo, if not all the details. Anyone can rent a costume.”

“He’s going to make a mistake or he already has made a mistake, Kelsey. We have to find it,” Logan said.

“We can only hope….”

He wasn’t sure when or how, but they’d tacitly agreed that she’d come home with him. They’d slid into this naturally. When the meeting had broken up, he’d spoken first, suggesting steak. Now they were here, back in his house, IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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as they’d been the night before. Of course, they were still talking business, trying to come up with new possibilities; it was hard to erase a mindful of theories and facts and conjecture.

But just as natural as his suggestion of steak and her agreement was the way they rose from the dinner table and melted into each other’s arms. Kelsey headed down the hall, and he practically raced after her, then paused to run back and make sure the broiler was off. When he returned, it was to find a trail of clothing leading to the shower.

Maybe touching the softness of her f lesh and breathing in her scent was like a drug. Maybe making love gave them both the mindlessness they needed, if only for a few hours.

There was something about her. It began with her eyes, the emerald green that seemed so pure and untainted, even with the world around them so ugly and cruel and torn. She was lithe and beautifully golden with a fading tan; against that, her hair was like fire, a fire of temptation and seduc-tion. She was vital in her passion, eyes f lashing, whispers ever more erotic, and she moved with the f luidity of water.

She could tease and excite and arouse with a sweep of that lustrous burning hair. Making love with her was like a sea of sensation. All-encompassing.

Shower and then bed. Making love in a stream of water, then making love in the softness of mattress and pillows.

Afterward, he lay spent in a way he barely remembered, his mind telling him that sex was just physical heat and desire shared by a man and a woman, and yet somewhere in his soul another voice was telling him there was a difference IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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and he should know it well. The difference between sex and making
love…

As he lay with her, the sudden coolness of the air-conditioning was sweet against the heat of his damp f lesh, and he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to be reminded that his world was a place where the ugliness of day could intrude on the beauty of the night, where there was no escaping who he was or what he did.

She nudged him. “I need to get back to the Longhorn,” she said.

“No,” he protested.

She rose up on an elbow and smiled. “Logan, you know I have to go back. You’re the one who’s so convinced it all has to do with the Longhorn.”

She looked down at him, the fall of her hair curling around her naked breast, her eyes that extraordinary green, even in the darkness.

He reached out for her and drew her to him, his lips just an inch from hers when he whispered, “Not yet.” She eased against him as their lips met in a slow kiss that became deep and passionate. Time stood still and yet passed by swiftly. And when she lay beside him again, they didn’t speak, and she didn’t move. As he held her he began to drift off… .

He saw nothing but darkness before him, and then he felt as if he’d zoomed in somewhere with a camera, going in close. He wasn’t immediately sure where he was. Then he saw that he’d zoomed into Room 207 at the Longhorn, and that he was standing just inside. It was as though a movie began to unfold. There was someone speaking in a IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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raspy voice and he recoiled. He needed to watch, but he didn’t want to, because he was human, and it was agony and anguish to watch another person’s pain and do nothing to stop it.

A shadow was coming from the wall. But Sandy wasn’t there, and neither was Jeff Chasson. Just the shadow. He thought he’d see Rose Langley step forth in a corset and garters and chemise, and that he’d witness Matt Meyer plac-ing his fingers around her neck, killing her.

Because she wouldn’t give him the Galveston diamond.

But it wasn’t Rose, and the woman wasn’t clad in anything old-fashioned, although he couldn’t have sworn exactly what era, if any, such a simple white gown belonged to. He didn’t need to pinpoint the age of the clothing, however; he recognized the woman’s face. He’d seen it in his files, on the news, perhaps even on a TV screen, but he hadn’t been affected by it back then as he was now. Crime had gone on when he’d left the world for his grandfather’s land and enclosed himself in his circle of mourning. Horrible things had happened but they hadn’t really touched him, hadn’t seemed
personal.

He’d since learned that the world was shared, that he’d gotten into law enforcement with a true desire to find justice, to save the vulnerable and innocent from the brutal and vicious.

He knew the face.
Sierra Monte’s.

The shadow coming from the wall seemed to be looking straight at him. Her smile was sad, and her whisper was broken and pleading as she whispered, “Help me. Help them.

Help
her.
”

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She didn’t fade away, but rather disappeared in an explosion of f lapping wings. She’d been a shadow, and then she’d been form, and her form had burst into dozens of black crows that f lapped their wings and f lew away. He started, and realized he’d been sleeping and that now he was awake.

Kelsey was gone.

He leaped out of bed and ran naked down the hallway, to the kitchen. Her clothing no longer lay strewn about.

He raced back into the bedroom and looked at the clock.

He thought he’d barely closed his eyes, but it was 3:00 a.m.

He was suddenly so anxious, so desperate to find Kelsey, that he nearly dashed out of the house nude. He remembered the shadow with Sierra Monte’s face whispering to him.

Help me, help them, help
her.

Kelsey

was

her,
and Kelsey was in danger.

He managed to jump into his jeans and moccasins, grab a shirt and buckle on his gun belt. Then he tore from the house.

San Antonio was different by night, especially in what Kelsey considered the heart of it—Alamo plaza. The Alamo shone beautifully in the night lights, while across the street and grass and trees of the plaza, some neon still burned.

Ripley’s Believe It or Not offered the visitor a trip through the extreme and the exotic and the plain old weird, and ghost tours were, needless to say, available. Tomb Rider 3D

promised to be an entertaining attraction, and for those who wanted a good scare, there was Ripley’s Haunted Adven-IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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ture, where guests could ride a haunted coffin cage into a world of “bone-chilling” special effects, animatronics and live-action thrill-chill actors.

But it was three in the morning, so there was no one about. Kelsey decided she loved the city this way.

She was surprised that she’d been able to slip out of bed without a protest. She’d noted before that Logan seemed to wake at the slightest movement or sound. Not tonight.

He wanted her to stay, she knew, but men went into protective mode, especially when they were sleeping with a woman. They both understood that she had to stay in Room 207, and that her talents and abilities were why she’d been chosen, why she was with him. Talents and abilities she had to use…

They all realized there was something in Room 207.

Even if she hadn’t already seen the past reenacted there, they’d watched the film.

Logan would have to forgive her for walking out—and he would, because it was the right thing for her to do. He wanted to come to Room 207 to be with her, but she knew innately that neither one of them wanted to
make love
in that room, tainted as it was by pain and brutality, so they’d gone to his house with wordless consent.

It didn’t change the fact that she needed to be in that room. She didn’t mind if he came back with her; she’d actually like it if he did. It was just that…

He’d been sleeping so deeply. He’d been at rest and she thought that, for Logan, such a deep and encompassing sleep was rare.

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with the streetlights. Turning from the modern attractions to the historical ones, Kelsey saw the old chapel of the Alamo gleaming. With the modern world at her back, it seemed even more hallowed.

Not until she’d crossed over toward the old chapel was she aware of being followed.

She paused for a moment, pretending to adjust a shoe.

There was no sound. Straining to hear, she caught the rus-tle of leaves, the sighing of a breeze at night. She straightened, reminding herself that she was a U.S. Marshal. She was armed and deadly with her weapon, and she was smart enough to be a little afraid. It also occurred to her that she just might have a chance to lure someone who might be a killer.

As she began to move again, she heard a click.
Click, click,
click.

Up ahead lay the historic Menger Hotel and other buildings. She needed to move away from the open plaza and find a place to wait.

Once more she pretended to stop, just to gaze at the chapel in the moonlight, and ref lect upon its sanctity and beauty. She listened and thought there might be someone between her and the side of the plaza.

Kelsey resumed walking, and when she’d cleared the open area, she crouched close to the buildings on her way down the street.

She slipped into a tiny alley and waited, drawing her Glock, releasing its safety.

She looked back and heard another sound.