Читать книгу Darkest Journey - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 10

2

Ethan Delaney tapped on the partly open door to Jackson Crow’s office, then pushed it wide and walked in.

He’d been with the Krewe a little more than a month. He was still becoming accustomed to working in this office in Northern Virginia, which had its own low-key friendly ways. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been used to camaraderie among agents—he was. He’d been in the New York office for the last several years, and, due to the stress level that went with working in the Big Apple, the agents there often resorted to humor to lighten the tension.

Here, though, office doors were seldom closed, and they were never locked.

Crow was their Special Agent in Charge, directly beneath Special Assistant Director Adam Harrison, who made himself equally available. Adam had helped Crow interview Ethan before inviting him to join the elite unit. They had both treated it like an easy dinner out, but he’d known full well that his answers had been carefully weighed, and that they’d been keeping track of his body language, as well.

Relief.

He hadn’t really thought about it before, but that was exactly what he felt in his new position. In his customary work in the criminal division, he’d often needed to watch his words carefully. He’d constantly had to come up with explanations for his decisions. He’d read about the Krewe of Hunters and in fact had a good friend who had transferred over before him. Aiden Mahoney had been professional when they’d talked, not lying to him and not trying to hedge, but not saying exactly what the Krewe’s specific rules and responsibilities were, either.

But now that he was here, he’d discovered the rules weren’t written down or formally agreed upon; rather they were assumed and tacitly understood by every member of the Krewe.

He was learning, day by day, to relax completely in this new realm. Here he could be totally honest about what he saw and sensed, things others might consider extrasensory. Truthfully, most solutions were based on logic and physical evidence, but others, the solutions to the crimes the Krewe investigated, included something more.

He had all the right training for his position: Loyola, where he’d studied criminal psychology and forensics; a stint in the military; a master’s degree in forensic sciences from George Washington University; then the FBI Academy. He knew that training helped, but it by no means superseded something he’d been born with, something inherited from one or more of his ancestors, a mixture of Spaniards, Creoles, English, Irish, Italian and, as with so many Louisiana natives, Haitian and Choctaw. He had one living great-grandmother on his mother’s mother’s side who believed in the mysterious ways of true voodoo. He also had a great-grandfather from his mother’s father’s side who loved to teach him Choctaw legends. One great-grandmother on his dad’s side had emigrated from Norway, while one great-grandfather had come over from Scotland and married a woman of Italian descent, all of which meant that the stories Ethan had heard growing up covered a vast array of myth and legend.

The tales were different and yet, oddly, much the same. In most of them, the supernatural played a key role, and since that agreed with his own experience of the world, it had caused him a few problems early on in school. He’d quickly learned to guard his thoughts in regard to the world around him and to keep his mouth shut about many things he might have had to say, and he’d pretty much stuck to that plan into adulthood.

Then he’d heard about the Krewe.

On their most recent case, his first, he’d discovered that his quick ability to communicate with the lost and disfranchised—the dead—was a bonus and not something to hide. One of the dead men, a powerful lobbyist, had spoken to him, and after that the clues had been easy to follow. The murders had not been politically motivated, but rather rooted in a family financial dispute.

Ethan was glad he and the Krewe had been able to solve the case and especially pleased that he had proved his worth.

“Jackson?” he said now.

His supervisor was busy reading through a file and frowning as he did so. He quickly looked up as Ethan spoke.

“Ethan, thanks for coming so quickly,” Jackson said, indicating the chair in front of his desk. He passed the file across the table.

There were two pictures on the first page, men between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five, both in business suits, one a muscular Caucasian, the other handsome and looking to be of mixed African American and Caucasian descent.

“Farrell Hickory and Albion Corley,” Jackson said, indicating the men in the pictures.

“And they’re both...?” Ethan asked.

“Dead,” Jackson clarified. “Local police are investigating. Everything they’ve got is all there in the files, and I’ve also emailed you.”

“They’re sure the murders are related?”

“Both men were found in replica Civil War uniforms in shallow graves—and not in graveyards but near them.”

“Union uniforms?” Ethan asked. A twisted get-even spree by a deranged local? The Civil War had ended in 1865. Reconstruction had officially ended with the Compromise of 1876.

Long over—or so one would think. But down here, things were different.

As much as Ethan wanted to believe people, in both the North and the South, had escaped the prejudices of that era, the Klan, neo-Nazis and various supremacist groups were still around. While laws could protect people, they couldn’t always deal with old hatreds that still had a pernicious hold on too many minds. Still, he believed he lived in a better world now than the one he’d been born into. And being of such mixed ancestry himself, it was painful to suspect that any murder might be motivated by prejudice.

“Here’s the interesting thing,” Jackson told him. “Farrell Hickory was in a Confederate cavalry officer’s uniform. Albion Corley was wearing a Union naval uniform.”

“That is interesting. You wouldn’t kill your own side, so that seems to rule out someone still stuck in the Civil War,” Ethan said.

Jackson nodded. “Anyway, both men were stabbed in the heart. The forensics experts believe that both men were stabbed with a bayonet or something similar that could be wielded with a certain precision.”

“If a bayonet was the murder weapon, that seems to indicate the killer is a Civil War reenactor,” Ethan said.

“That’s what the police think. But what’s the motive? And why these two men? Both of them were descended from men who fought in the Civil War but on opposite sides. Both of them had roots in or around the area, but their jobs weren’t related, and there doesn’t seem to be any obvious connection between them.”

Ethan listened, surprised he hadn’t seen anything about the murders on the news yet. He believed the country was trying to change the mind-set that had been so common at one time. He would have seen a clearer motive if descendants of known Klansmen had been murdered, for example, even more so if the victims were current members of the Klan or one of its spiritual cousins.

He didn’t know the particulars of either man, since he had yet to read the files, but he was sure Crow would have mentioned anything that obvious.

And he had yet to hear why the Krewe were involved. Unless the local police had asked for help. Unless one of the men had been kidnapped or state lines had been crossed.

Under most circumstances, three murders with the same signature were seen as the calling card of a serial killer, which was when the Bureau got involved, and so far they only had two. Of course, since the War on Terror had begun, everything, even in the FBI, had changed. And especially with the Krewe of Hunters, there really wasn’t such a thing as a norm.

“Jackson, I need to look through that,” he said, indicating the folder.

Jackson nodded. “You can study it on the way.”

“On the way? Where am I going?”

“Baton Rouge,” Jackson said, watching him for his reaction.

“Okay,” Ethan said slowly. “I’m just curious, and I’d like to play with a full deck. The Bureau has an office in New Orleans. Granted, it’s not a Krewe office, but even here I’m not the only Louisiana agent on staff. Am I going with someone else? Were we invited in? Or will I be stepping on toes when I get there?”

“Adam is speaking with the proper authorities. You won’t have any problems, though you’ll be working with a local detective—Randall Laurent.”

“Randy!” Ethan said.

“You know him?” Jackson asked.

Ethan nodded. “We’re both from St. Francisville. He’s a good guy,” he added, pausing to grin. “He quit opening beer bottles with his teeth years ago and became a solid, tough and decent man. Seriously, he’s a good guy. We were actually at Loyola together, too. But—”

“I’m sending you because Angela referred the call to me. She receives all our ‘invitations’ and inquiries, and she has a great way of reading between the lines and determining if the case is right for us.”

Ethan knew Angela, a special agent with the Krewe who handled a lot of the administrative and back-end business. They were often inundated with cases, and she had an amazing ability to determine which ones might best benefit from the Krewe’s assistance.

She and Jackson were also married and had been among the original six members of the Krewe.

“Yes, of course,” Ethan said.

“I believe you’re the perfect man for this situation. You know the area. If I’m not mistaken, you even used to live in the parish.”

“I’ve been gone a long time,” Ethan said. “I have family in the area, but they’re mostly in New Orleans now.”

“But you know people there. The lead detective is an old friend, you said. That’s always a good thing.”

Ethan was still curious. So far he’d always worked with at least one other Krewe agent, but it sounded as if he was being sent on his own.

He knew there were other Krewe agents who came from Louisiana, even if they didn’t come from West Feliciana Parish. Jude McCoy, another recent addition to the Krewe, had been an agent in New Orleans before he joined the Krewe.

“If you find something, I’ll head down with Jude McCoy by the end of the week,” Jackson said, as if he’d read Ethan’s mind.

“All right,” Ethan said. He hesitated and then shrugged. He might as well just throw it out there. “I love this job. I’m ready to go wherever the assignment leads, do whatever needs to be done. You know that. But I’m surprised. There are other agents who’ve been with the Krewe a lot longer than I have. Even Jude. He’s pretty new, but not as new as me. We’ve even become friends because we’re both from Louisiana. The Krewe started out in New Orleans. So...not to take anything away from my own abilities, but...why me?”

“We were specifically asked if you were available,” Jackson said, his light eyes, so striking against his dark hair and tanned flesh, hard on Ethan.

“By?” Ethan asked.

“A woman who found one of the bodies. She spoke with some friends of hers with connections here, and they made a persuasive case. She’s a local actress, name of Charlene Moreau.”

“Ah.” Ethan hoped that the memories suddenly flooding through him weren’t visible on his face.

“You do know her, then?” Jackson asked.

“I did know her,” Ethan said. “When we were kids. And I know of her now. I’ve seen her on a new cop show they’re filming down there, and in a couple of commercials. I haven’t actually seen her, though, since I was nineteen. She must have been fifteen or sixteen.”

“How close were you?” Jackson asked.

How close?

Jackson must have seen his confusion, because he went on. “When we’re young, we’re often more open to what’s around us, to seeing the kinds of things we here in the Krewe see every day.”

Ethan remembered being home from college, talking on the phone to his mother about something boring like his laundry. He was already taking criminology courses, and his mother brought up the killings that had occurred just north of Baton Rouge and how people were growing nervous in the entire area around the capital city.

And then he’d seen the soldier at the window. A Confederate cavalry officer. The man had seemed to be beckoning to him, and at first he’d naturally thought the man was a lost reenactor needing help.

But the soldier had led him across fields, pausing only to glare at Ethan when Ethan stopped, irritably demanding that the ghost explain what he wanted. Somehow Ethan felt compelled to follow him despite his silence and his strange behavior.

In the end he’d followed his spectral guide to Grace Episcopal Church.

That was when he’d seen Charlene Moreau. She’d been tied to a gravestone.

Her head was bent as she pulled against the knots that had held her there, and despite the situation she’d been ethereally beautiful in the moonlight, hair tumbling over her shoulders, a flesh-and-blood version of the worn stone angel that stood over a nearby grave with her head bowed deep in prayer.

Ethan pulled himself back to the present when Jackson spoke.

“Apparently Ms. Moreau is friends with Clara Avery and Alexi Cromwell, two young actresses I know from previous cases. They’re here in our area at the moment, involved with Adam Harrison’s theater project—he’s restoring a historic theater and has hired them to deal with creative management—although they’re both from the New Orleans area originally. Both of them are also gifted—or cursed—the same way we in the Krewe are.” He paused, then went on. “And speaking of previous cases, there’s another strange association here, too,” Jackson said.

“That being?”

“We’ve recently worked two serial-killer cases involving the Celtic American cruise line. The cruise company wasn’t at fault, of course, but both killers carried out their work aboard their ships.”

Ethan frowned, wondering how the recent deaths of the two reenactors could be related to the cruise line.

Then he saw it. A slim connection, but a connection nonetheless.

“The Journey,” he said. “Celtic American owns the Journey, and she does a run from New Orleans to Vicksburg, with a stop at St. Francisville. And of course, I know about the cases involving the Destiny and the Fate. Anyone in the world with media access knows about the cases.” He hesitated. “We’re sure there was no direct connection to the cruise line or the Journey?”

“We can’t know for sure, not yet,” Jackson said, his tone tight. “But not as far as the owners, operators or employees of Celtic American go. But Charlene Moreau’s father is the cruise director and resident historian aboard the Journey.”

“I know Charlene’s father. I promise you, he had nothing to do with murder.”

“I’m not suggesting anything like that. But here’s where the connection to the cruise line comes in. Both of the dead men took part in a reenactment aboard the Journey. The ship does themed cruises. A week ago, the theme was the Civil War. Considering the route, a lot of their cruises are Civil War–themed, but this was their once-a-year extra-special Civil War cruise. Celtic American’s claim to fame is that they specialize in historic cruises. Interestingly, the Journey offers ghost tours as well as your standard history-based ones.”

“The Journey actually has a legitimate historical claim of its own. She was conscripted to move Southern troops up and down the Mississippi when the war began. She was seized by the Union forces when they took New Orleans in 1862, then used to move wounded Union troops. For a brief time she fell back into Confederate hands, when a small troop of Confederate soldiers slipped aboard and took her over. She went back to the Union, though—a trade was arranged that allowed for injured Rebels being held by the Union to be exchanged for the Union men aboard the ship. There had been an outbreak of fever on board, so the Confederates were only too happy to hand the ship and the men over to the Yankees, and the Journey continued on her way, mainly doing hospital runs for the rest of the war.”

“See?” Jackson said softly. “You know your local history—something that can be invaluable in cases like this. So...back to the connection,” he continued. “Both the murdered men were involved in that extra-special reenactment aboard the ship about a week ago. That’s one of the reasons the police are so sure the killings must have been planned by someone in the reenactors’ group.”

“But you don’t believe that,” Ethan said.

“It’s certainly possible, given what we know so far. But I don’t like to grasp at the easy answer.”

“Sometimes the obvious answer is the truth,” Ethan said.

“And sometimes it’s not.”

“No,” Ethan agreed, and stood. If he was heading to Baton Rouge and then up river to St. Francisville, he was eager to get started. “What are my travel arrangements?”

“A car’s waiting to take you home to pack and then to the airport. The plane leaves as soon as you’re aboard.”

“As soon as I’m aboard?” Ethan asked.

Jackson smiled. “I guess you haven’t gotten used to our form of ‘troop movement’ yet. We have a nice, new private jet. Adam financed it himself. No taxpayer dollars.”

“Ah. Well, then, nice I won’t have to change planes in New Orleans.”

Jackson grinned. “Report in to me as soon as you have a feel for what’s going on. Jude and I can join you early if you think we can help. That plane goes back and forth whenever we want it to.”

Ethan took the folder and headed out of the office.

Within an hour he was on the private plane provided by Adam Harrison.

As he flew, he read the dossiers on the dead men.

Then he looked out the window and gave himself up to memories of Charlie Moreau.

* * *

“It’s going to be all right, Charlie—really. This situation has nothing to do with you or Brad or the movie. You stumbled on something very bad that someone else did. You can’t go letting it affect your life. In fact, you should be glad you found the poor man, because now the police can try to find some justice for him.”

Jonathan Moreau set his arm around Charlie’s shoulders and hugged her gently.

She was sitting with her father on a bluff high above the Mississippi. It was a short distance from Grace Church and the place where she’d found the body of a man who’d been identified as Farrell Hickory dressed in his Confederate cavalry uniform.

That area still had crime-scene tape around it.

From her perch atop the bluff she could see the people she assumed were forensic investigators searching the area. The police had told her that they hoped to finish by that evening. Meanwhile, Brad had rearranged the shooting schedule until they were free to use the fields again.

Since then she’d spent a lot of time on the phone in a three-way conversation with Clara Avery and Alexi Cromwell, good friends she’d worked with a number of times in the past. They were now working with the FBI and knew a number of agents, including Ethan.

“You can’t let it get to you, Charlie,” her father said.

She knew he was right. The murder had nothing to do with her or the film crew. A vicious killer had murdered Farrell Hickory, and it was likely that the same person had murdered Albion Corley, as well. He’d been of mixed African and Caucasian descent, and had been wearing a replica Union uniform when he’d been killed.

Not long before Albion’s death, he and Farrell Hickory had performed with a number of other reenactors on the same riverboat, the Journey, where her father worked, as part of an in-depth Civil War–themed cruise.

Charlie turned to her father and asked, “Why, Dad? Why them? This is nuts! I mean, one victim was half black and one was white, one was reenacting the Confederate side and the other the Union side. What was the killer thinking?”

“Maybe he’s just someone who hates war,” her father said.

“That doesn’t make any sense. He hates war, so he commits cold-blooded murder instead?”

“Charlie,” her father said, “if you ask me, murder never makes sense. Taking another man’s—or woman’s—life is brutal, cruel and ultimately senseless. But the police are investigating, so leave it to them. You’re an actress, and a darned good one. You’re not a cop. You...” He paused, looking off into the distance.

Charlie loved her father. Her mom had died suddenly the summer after her first year of college. It had been an aneurysm—one day a minor headache she laughed off, the next day...gone. She and her dad had been devastated. Her father was a handsome man, fifty-four years old. But he still hadn’t even gone on a date. When she’d actually tried to get him to go out with one of the entertainers on the riverboat, he’d just smiled and told her, “Maybe one day I’ll be ready for someone, but let’s face it—in my heart and mind, no one can begin to live up to your mom.”

She’d decided to let him be. When he was ready, she would be ready, too. She knew that—right or wrong—if he’d gotten involved with another woman right after her mother had died, she would have been bitter. Now, though, enough time had passed that she could deal with equanimity with the idea of him falling in love again. More than anything, she wanted to see him happy. Of course, she knew he loved her, and she made him happy—as did his work. He loved the old riverboat—the Journey—and he loved talking to people about history. He excelled at it. Still, she thought he would be happier if he had someone in his life. However, finding someone who loved the Mississippi, an old riverboat and being regaled with historical tales at every turn might be a bit of a challenge.

“You’re not a cop,” he repeated softly. “Even if you do play one on TV every now and then,” he added lightly. “Sometimes you know things, but you’re not trained law enforcement. You know how to shoot because I taught you when you were a kid, not so you’d shoot anyone or anything, but because we live out in the sticks, and I wanted you to be able to defend yourself. But snooping around...well, that could be dangerous. So don’t even think about it, okay? No matter what you...know.”

She understood he was talking about what her family called “insight.” It wasn’t really insight at all, of course. Most people called it the “gift” or the “sight.” Her family seemed to think if you referred to seeing ghosts or speaking with the dead as insight, people wouldn’t immediately think you were slightly daft or totally out of your mind.

Her father didn’t see the dead. Her ability had come from her mother’s family. However, Jonathan Moreau didn’t doubt the existence of the insight for a minute. He’d delighted in her mother’s abilities. How else could he possibly have learned some of the historical detail he cherished so much?

“Dad,” Charlie murmured, and then hesitated. She looked at her father. He had deep blue eyes, the color of her own, but now they seemed even darker with concern. He knew what she was going to say, she thought.

Now, that was actually insight.

“He called my name, Dad. The dead man, Farrell Hickory, he called me by name. Or at least I think it was him.” She hesitated; she had never told her father about the Confederate cavalry officer who had led Ethan to her that horrible night ten years ago. She’d told her mom, but her mom was gone now. Her father had been so upset about the entire situation that she’d never told him the whole story. Would it seem strange to him now that she thought a different dead man had called to her for help? “He called my name,” she said again. “That’s how I found him.”

Her father shook his head. “Charlie, I barely knew him. How would he have known your name. Did you know him at all?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, if I’d met him, I didn’t recognize him. I haven’t been around that much in years, so I don’t know how he’d know my name.”

“Farrell Hickory’s family’s owned a sugarcane plantation downriver for over two hundred years,” Jonathan reminded her drily.

“I think I’ve been there once,” Charlie said. She loved history, too; she had to, to survive in her father’s house. But few people had his passion for the past. “Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure he was part of a reenactment I saw that revolved around the Confederate capture of the Journey. That was years ago, though.” She paused, then asked, “Did you see him the day he and Albion Corley worked together?”

“I might have, Charlie. It was a crazy busy day, and I didn’t really have much to do with the reenactors. I just put on my white cotton shirt and period breeches, added a straw hat and a pipe, and stepped ashore to give lectures in the old boathouse at the dock. And while we’re a pretty small parish, I move in a pretty circumscribed orbit, and like a lot of locals, he might not have been around that much. Lots of people hail from here, but head down to New Orleans for the oil business.”

“I doubt he was in the oil business, Dad. Like you were saying, his family has that plantation on the river. I was there with a school group when I was a sophomore in high school. The teachers love taking classes to the Hickory Plantation for a firsthand look at what working a plantation really meant. Mr. Hickory kept his private rooms on the second floor, and the ground floor was open to the public. I know the Hickory Plantation isn’t grand like Oak Alley or San Francisco or some of the others, but I loved the fact that it was all about the way life was and the work people did and still do.”

Her father looked at her, nodding. “Charlie, I know. And I’m sorry he’s gone, even if I can’t say he was a friend or even a close acquaintance. But I’d met the man, and I know a fair amount about the family plantation.” He sighed. “According to the news, he left behind a twenty-four-year-old son. I hope he’ll keep the plantation running, not just the tourist part but the sugarcane business, too. I probably saw his son around sometime over the years, but...”

“I don’t know him,” Charlie said. “He would have been two years behind me in school.” She looked out over the water for a long moment, then said, “It just doesn’t make sense, Dad. At first the press were theorizing that Albion Corley was killed because of some dispute with another reenactor. Something about him getting better parts than someone who’d been part of the group longer. But now, with another reenactor murdered, too... The two of them had nothing in common, other than that they were both reenactors and they were both in that program on the Journey.”

“Don’t forget, both men were born in Louisiana,” her father reminded her. “And both of them were apparently killed with what looks to be a Civil War–era bayonet or a damn good replica.”

“You know how they were killed?” She couldn’t keep the amazement from her voice.

“I heard about Corley on the news yesterday, and I heard a cop theorizing about Hickory at the diner this morning.”

She fell silent, thinking back to everything that had happened after she’d discovered the body. The police had arrived quickly, and she’d told a uniformed officer what had happened. Later a Detective Laurent had shown up, and she’d told him what had happened, too. But she had talked, and the police had listened. She hadn’t thought to ask questions. She’d screamed once when she found the body, but after that she’d become almost numb, unnaturally calm, when she spoke to the police, her usual curiosity tamped down by her shock.

Every member of the crew had been questioned, as well. They’d all been asked if they’d seen any strange people hanging around the set.

In their ghostly makeup, half the actors had looked very strange indeed, but nobody had noticed anyone who might have been the murderer. Brad had told the police he had lots of film of the field, and they were welcome to see the footage. Naturally they’d accepted his offer.

Charlie had heard the medical examiner talking to Detective Laurent, telling him that Mr. Hickory had been dead at least twenty-four hours. But she hadn’t heard anything about how he’d been killed, and it had never occurred to her to ask.

“I wish I had thought to ask the police more questions,” she murmured.

“You should go back to New Orleans,” her father told her gruffly.

“I can’t! I can’t walk out on Brad’s movie.”

“You’re with me today.”

“I’m not scheduled to work today.”

Jonathan sighed deeply. “Well, I am. I’ve got to get back.” He stood, reached down a hand and pulled her to her feet. “Stay and film your movie, Charlie. But go home—”

“Dad, I told you—I can’t walk out on Brad.”

“I mean our home, the one you grew up in. And stay there unless you’re surrounded by friends. Stop fixating on this, sweetheart. You don’t need to be asking any questions. Leave it alone and watch out for yourself. Promise?”

“I promise. I’ll go home right now,” she told him, then kissed him on the cheek. “Our home—the one I grew up in. And I won’t fixate. Okay?” She smiled, feeling like a horrible liar even though she hadn’t actually lied. She had simply neglected to tell him that she’d asked to have Ethan Delaney assigned to the case because she knew he had joined the FBI and was part of an elite team tasked with dealing with the unusual.

Was it unusual that two men involved in Civil War reenactments had been murdered?

Maybe not. Maybe it should be a matter for the local police. Except...

Except she was certain a corpse had called her name.

“You can always come and stay on the Journey with me. I’ve been with them so long that my original cabin has been upgraded to a pretty nice suite. It’s not huge, but you could have the bedroom, and I’d take the sofa.”

“Dad. I’m fine. I promise. I love the Journey, but I’m doing a movie, remember?” she told him. “I promise I’ll go right home from here, okay?”

This was a beautiful spot, she thought. They’d been coming here to sit and talk since she’d been a little girl. He had to get back to the port now, though. The Journey was heading on to Baton Rouge, Houmas House and then New Orleans, where her passengers would debark, new ones would board, and the cycle would begin again, NOLA to Oak Alley in Vacherie to Houmas House in Darrow to Baton Rouge to St. Francisville, Natchez, then Vicksburg. The itinerary stayed basically the same, but specific tours with different emphases were planned for aficionados of country music, history, art, theater and fine dining. As her father said goodbye and bent to kiss her on the cheek, Charlie really did intend to go home. But as he walked away toward his car, parked behind hers on the road just below the bluff, she noticed that someone was walking up the slope from that road. Her heart began to beat too quickly.

It wasn’t because Ethan was back, she was certain. The years had stretched into an eternity between them. She hadn’t asked for him to come for any reason other than that she knew he would take her seriously when she said she’d heard the dead talking to her again.

It was just that his timing was so damned bad.

Her father turned and saw Ethan. And then he turned and looked at her, and she felt as if she’d run over a puppy or slapped an infant. Why couldn’t he let go of the past, of the way he’d felt about Ethan ten years ago...

“You called Ethan?” he asked.

“Dad, I called on a special group of FBI agents who are used to dealing with...insight. My friend Clara—you know Clara, she used to work for Celtic American, too—is seeing a guy who works with Ethan, so I asked her to contact him for me,” she said quickly. “Ethan’s law enforcement now, federal law enforcement.”

It was actually impressive that she was making something resembling a living by acting, she thought, hearing the pleading tone in her own voice when she’d hoped to project confidence instead.

“I see,” her father said, staring at Ethan as he approached them.

He’d changed. The Ethan she’d known had been a tall boy, still slender with youth, not muscular like the man walking her way now. His hair had been on the shaggy side, and he hadn’t yet shed the small-town football-hero swagger half the young men she’d known at school had affected. He’d been nineteen.

He’d filled out since the last time she’d seen him. Character seemed to have been etched into his face. He’d been a striking teenager, but this Ethan, with those green-gold eyes, dark hair and features that could have been painted by an Old Master, was something else altogether. His hair was cropped short now, his eyes had a sharper edge to them, and his chin had squared. He’d been a boy, she realized. Now he was a man.

As he walked up to them, he slipped on a pair of sunglasses against the brutal rays of the sun, and suddenly he became a total stranger.

“Ethan Delaney,” her father said in an unreadable tone.

“Mr. Moreau,” Ethan said, his voice now deep and rich. “Hope you’re doing well, sir.”

“We were doing well enough,” Jonathan said gruffly. He turned and looked at Charlie again, then nodded toward the two of them and started to head down the slope.

He stopped after a moment and turned back. He stood very tall and straight, and said, “Don’t let her get involved in this, Ethan. You watch out for her. Don’t you let anything happen to Charlie.”

“I didn’t before, sir,” Ethan said quietly. “And I won’t now.”

Charlie watched her father go, feeling a little ill. She loved him so much.

Then he was gone, and she was left alone with Ethan Delaney.