Читать книгу Phantom Evil - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 6

Jackson Crow sat staring at the pile of dossiers before him. This was his first meeting with the man on the other side of the desk: Adam Harrison, white haired, dignified, slim and a taste for designer suits. The office was modest, nicely appointed, but far from opulent. Plate-glass windows looked over row houses in Alexandria, Virginia, and other companies with shared space in the building had names such as Brickell and Sons, Attorneys-at-Law, Chase Real Estate and B. K. Blake, Criminal Investigation.

Adam had just handed him the folders. “Jackson, do you have any idea of why you’re here?”

He’d returned to his old Behavioral Sciences Unit in D.C. to discover that he was being given a new assignment. His leave of absence, it seemed, was somehow permanent.

His last assignment, despite the excellent work done by him and his colleagues, had ended with three of them being dead. Yet if it hadn’t been for his intuition, two other fellow agents might have died as well. Local police had not responded to the call sent out, and there was no way to blame himself.

Naturally, he did.

Maybe the empathy of his superiors had caused them to give him a new assignment, in a different place—behind a desk.

He’d heard things about Adam Harrison. He’d worked solo over the years—and for the government where the government could not act officially. Adam went in where others did not.

It wasn’t because of extreme danger. Rather, it might be considered that he went in because of extreme weirdness.

“No,” he said simply.

“First, let me assure you, you are not being let go. You will still be working for Uncle Sam,” Adam told him. “The assignments will come from me, but you’ll be heading up the team. A new team.”

A cushy job somewhere behind a desk that didn’t involve serial killers, kidnapping or bodies discovered beneath concrete.

Jackson wasn’t sure how he felt; numb, perhaps.

“Take a look at this.”

He hadn’t had a chance to look at the files yet, but Adam now handed him a month-old New Orleans newspaper bearing the headline Wife of Senator David Holloway Dies from Fall into Courtyard.

He looked up at Adam.

“Read the full article,” Adam suggested.

He read silently.

Regina Holloway, the wife of beloved state Senator David Holloway, died yesterday in a fall from a balcony at their recently purchased French Quarter mansion on Dauphine Street. Six months ago, the Holloways lost their only son, Jacob, in an accident on I-10. While there is speculation that Regina cast herself over the balcony, David Holloway has strenuously denied such a possibility; his wife was doing well and coming to terms with their loss; they were planning on building a family again.

The police and the coroner’s office have yet to issue an official cause of death. The house, one of the grand old Spanish homes in the Quarter, was once the killing ground of the infamous Madden C. Newton, the “carpetbagger” responsible for the torture slayings of at least twenty people. Less than ten years ago, a teenager who had broken into the then–empty house also perished in a fall; the coroner’s office ruled his death accidental. The alleged drug dealer had raced into the vacant house to elude police.

An uneasy feeling swept over Jackson, but he calmly set the newspaper back on the desk and looked at Adam Harrison.

“That’s a tragic story,” he said. “It sounds likely that the poor woman did commit suicide, and the senator is in denial. I’m afraid I’ve seen other instances in which a woman could not accept the loss of her child.”

“Many people are insistent that the house is haunted,” Adam said.

“And that a ghost committed this murder?” Jackson asked. He leaned forward in his chair. “I’m not at all sure I believe in ghosts, Adam. And if they did exist, wouldn’t they be things of mist and imagination? Hardly capable of tossing a woman over a balcony.”

“The senator has friends in high places, though he’s still only a state senator. He absolutely insists that his wife did not commit suicide,” Adam said.

“Does he suspect murder?” Jackson asked.

“The house was locked, no lower windows were open, and the gate to the courtyard was locked as well.”

“Someone could have crawled over the wall or gotten through the gate,” Jackson suggested.

Adam nodded. “That’s possible, of course. But no witnesses have come forward in the past month to suggest that such a thing might have happened. The death was determined to be a suicide fairly quickly. Are you familiar with the city of New Orleans, the French Quarter or Vieux Carré, specifically?”

An ironic smile curled Jackson’s features. “Land of vampires, ghosts, voodoo and fantasy. But some of the world’s best cooking, and some truly great music, too.”

“All right then. You work in behavioral science. Don’t you agree that people’s beliefs can create actions and reactions?”

“Yes, of course. Son of Sam…Berkowitz believed that howling dogs were demons commanding him to kill. Or, it was a damn good defense.”

“Always a skeptic,” Adam said. “And yet you’re not really, are you?” Now, Adam smiled.

“I am a skeptic, yes. Am I open to possibility? Yes,” Jackson said carefully.

“You know, both of your parents were amazing believers,” Adam reminded him.

Jackson hesitated.

Yes, they had been believers, both of them, always believing in a higher power, and it didn’t matter what path someone took to that power. Jeremiah Crow had been born a member of the Cheyenne Nation, although his ancestry had been so mixed God alone knew exactly what it was. He had loved the spiritualism of his People, and his mother had loved it as well. Nominally Anglican, his mother had once told him that religion wasn’t bad; it was meant to be very good. Men corrupted religion; and a man’s religious choice didn’t matter in the least if it was his path to decency and remembering his fellow man.

But his maternal grandmother had come from the Highlands of Scotland, and her tales of witches and pixies and ghosts had filled his childhood. Maybe that’s why it had been while he was in the Highlands, and not on his Native American dream quest, that he had found himself in a position to question life and death and eternity, and all that fell in between.

“You’re here because you are the perfect man for this team, Jackson,” Adam said. “You’re not going to refuse to investigate what seems like the impossible, but you’re also not going to assume a ghost is the culprit.”

“All right. So you want me to go to New Orleans and find out exactly why this woman died? You do realize there’s a good chance that, no matter what the husband wants to believe, she committed suicide.”

“Here’s the thing, Jackson, most people will believe that she committed suicide. It is the most obvious answer. But I want the truth. Senator Holloway has given his passion to many critical committees in our country. He has made things happen often when the rest of the country sits around twiddling its collective thumbs. He is a man who can weigh the economy and the environment, and come up with solutions. He wants the truth. He’s young in politics, barely forty, and if he doesn’t bury himself in grief, he will continue to serve the American people with something our politicians have lacked heavily in the past fifty years—complete integrity. People in Washington need him, and I’m asking that you lead the group.”

“If it’s my assignment, I’ll take it on,” Jackson paused. “But…do I really need a unit?”

“I believe so. I’m giving you a group to dispel or perhaps prove the existence of ghosts in the house. They all have their expertise as investigators as well.”

He was quiet, and Adam continued, “When several members of your last unit were killed, you got to the ranch house quickly enough to save Lawson and Donatello. No one knew where the Pick–Man was killing his victims. No one knew that he had arranged for your agents to be at the ranch house.”

Jackson felt his jaw lock, and despite the time he had taken for leave, he swallowed hard. They’d lost good agents. Among them Sally Jennings, forty–five, experienced, and yet vulnerable no matter how many years of service she had seen.

He’d felt that he’d seen Sally; dreamed that he’d seen her, standing there at the house.

And it had been that dream that had brought him to the ranch house, and there he had discovered that she had been the first to die.

“I shot the Pick–Man,” he said. “He’s dead.”

“That was the only chance Lawson and Donatello had, since, had he seen you before you warned him and fired to kill, he’d have put that pick through Donatello’s chest,” Adam said. “Trust me, I’ve watched you for years, Jackson. I actually knew your parents.”

That was surprising.

Adam might well have known about the event when Jackson had been riding near Stirling, Scotland, and been thrown. His friends had gone on, thinking that he had left them; that he’d won the race and the bet. He’d encountered a stranger after, one who had saved his life. And then….

It had been long ago.

And yet, hell. He’d spent his life debunking ghost stories and dreams like the one he’d had. Finding the truth behind them. Proving that the plantation in Virginia was “haunted” by a cousin of the owner who wanted him out of the estate. Proving that there were no ghosts prowling the Rocky Mountains, that a human being named Andy Sitwell was the Pick–Man, even if he supposedly believed that the ghost of an old gold–seeking mountaineer was causing him to commit murder.

Six months had passed since he had shot and killed the Pick–Man. Six months in which he had tried to mourn the loss of his coworkers. He’d been back to Scotland to visit his mother’s family, and he’d spent a month with his father’s family—helping them organize their new casinos and hotels.

But he was ready to get back into the kind of work for which he knew he had a talent. Digging. Following clues. Whether it meant studying history, people, beliefs or a trail of blood. He was good at it.

He had the mind for it, and the mind for the kind of unit Adam Harrison was putting together.

“I’m open to possibilities,” he said to Adam. “Possibilities—there are a lot of people out there manipulating spiritualism and making a lot of money off the concept of ghosts.”

Adam smiled. “That’s true, and I actually like your skepticism. As far as believing in ghosts, well, I do,” he said. “But that’s not important. I’ve got you scheduled for a flight into Louis Armstrong International Airport at nine tomorrow morning. Is that sufficient time to allow you to get your situation here in order?”

His situation here?

The apartment in Crystal City had little in it. All right, a damn decent entertainment indent because he loved music and old movies. A closet of adequate and workable clothing. Pictures of the family and friends he had lost.

He nodded. “Sure. What about these?” He lifted the file folders, the dossiers on his new unit. “When do I meet the crew?”

“They’ll arrive tomorrow and Wednesday,” Adam said. “You’ve got the dossiers; read up on them first. I figured you might want the house all to yourself for a few hours. Angela arrives first—she’ll get in tomorrow evening around six. You’ll know who they all are when they arrive if you’ve done the reading.” Adam stood, a clear sign that the interview had come to an end. “Thank you for taking this on,” he said.

“Did I actually have a choice?” he asked with a rueful grin.

Adam returned the grin. Jackson was never really going to know.

He started out of the office. Adam called him back.

“You know, you have a gift for this, Jackson. And you can really take on anything you want.”

Jackson wasn’t sure what that meant, either. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

“I know you will. And I know that we’ll all know what really happened in that house on Dauphine.”

X–Files. The thought came to Jackson’s mind as he finished with Adam Harrison.

He went down to his car, still wondering exactly what it was he was getting into.

Yeah, it was sounding like the X–Files. Or Ghost–files.

And he was going to have Ghost–file helpers. Great.

In his car, he glanced through the dossiers, scanning the main, introductory page of each. Angela Hawkins, Whitney Tremont, Jake Mallory, Jenna Duffy and Will Chan. The first woman, at least, was coming from a Virginia police force. Whitney Tremont had started out life in the French Quarter; she had a Creole background and had recently done the camera work for a paranormal cable–television show. Jake Mallory—musician, but a man who had been heavily involved in searches after the summer of storms, and been called in as well during kidnapping cases and disappearances. Then there was Jenna Duffy. A registered nurse from Ireland. Well, they’d be covered in case of any poltergeist attacks. And Will Chan—the man had worked in theater, and as a magician.

It was one hell of a strange team.

Whatever, Jackson figured; it was time he went back to work. There was one thing he’d discovered to be correct—the truth was always out there, you just had to find it.

The house seemed to hold court on the corner. It sat on Dauphine, one block in back of Bourbon and three or four blocks in from Esplanade. The location was prime—just distant enough to keep the noise down in the wee hours of the morning when the music on Bourbon Street pulsed like an earthly drum, and still close enough to the wonders of the city.

The actual shape was like a horseshoe; a massive wooden gate gave entry to the courtyard, while the main entrance on Dauphine offered a sweeping curve of stairs to the front downstairs porch and a double–door entry that was historic and fantastic in its carvings.

Jackson turned the key in the lock. As he stepped in, the alarm began to chirp and he quickly keyed in the code he had been given.

“Straight out of Gone with the Wind,” Jackson murmured aloud as he surveyed the house. “Tara meets city streets.” The front room here served as an elegant reception area, perhaps even a ballroom at one point in time. He could almost see Southern belles in their elegant gowns swirling around, led by handsome men in frock coats. A piano sat to the far end near an enormous hearth with tiled backing and a marble mantel. A second, identical fireplace was at the other end of the wall. Midroom was the grand, curving staircase.

What furniture remained was covered in dust sheets.

The hallway on the second floor led to the right and left as he headed up.

He moved on around an ell and came to a long hallway of bedrooms. Here. At the end.

This was the room.

He turned on the light. It seemed to be completely benign, a pretty room, one that had already been prepared for occupancy—or that had been occupied. A beautiful four–poster canopy bed sat on a Persian rug, covered in white. Handsome deco dressing tables sat to either side of the room, and large French doors, draped in white chintz and lace, opened out to the balcony that wrapped around the house as it faced the courtyard. Would he feel anything? He did not.

He walked over to the French doors and threw them open, stepping out on the balcony.

The courtyard below explained why a house that came with such a tragic history could still win over buyer after buyer. It was paved with brick, and in the indent, typical of New Orleans, was a fountain and sculpture. A beautiful crane spread its metal wings above the bowl and the water splashed melodically below it into a large basin.

There was a car park to the side, and elegant little wrought–iron tables, shaded by colorful umbrellas, sat across from them. He realized that the kitchen and dining room were behind the round tables, and that food could easily be passed out from the kitchen through a pass–over counter area. He wasn’t sure that had been part of the original house. He was going to have to study the blueprints again.

The only thing that marred the beauty stretched before him was the chalk mark down on the bricks where Regina Holloway had lain after she had fallen.

And died.

The blood stain had been cleaned, and yet it seemed to remain.

The courtyard was closed in by the house itself, and by a nine–foot brick wall, and the double wooden gate, large enough to let a car in. But the gate was locked, and it had a key–in pad the same as the main entrances to the house. Senator Holloway had never been a fool; the alarm had gone in the second his signature had been dry on purchase papers. All this Jackson knew because he had read the police reports on the “suicide.”

He noted, though, that it would be almost impossible to reach the wall from the end of the house. There was a good four feet between the end of the balcony and the wall; a statue of Poseidon with a trident was positioned there, so it would be a pleasant fall if one were to attempt a leap—and not make it. But, again—not impossible.

Just so damn improbable.

Maybe it was a good case for his first back in the working world; it was incredibly sad to think about the death of Regina Holloway, but he could hardly begin to imagine the loss she must have felt. He’d seen it before. Parents weren’t supposed to outlive their children. Any loss of a child was unbearable.

He heard the doorbell ringing and grimaced, thinking that the house had definitely been built at a time when the third floor housed a number of servants; the main entrance was a good distance from this wing. But he was expecting Detective Andy Devereaux, so he left the balcony and the room, pausing one minute in the doorway. Still, he felt nothing. The room was just a room. He hurried on back to the front door.

Andy Devereaux was a tall man, light mahogany in color, with powder–blue eyes that testified to his mixed heritage, if the attractive shading of his skin did not. He was bald, clean–shaven, fit and trim and tall. He wore a baseball cap to protect his pate, jeans and a tailored shirt beneath a casual, zip–up jacket. He offered Jackson a firm handshake when they met.

“Detective Andrew Devereaux, Andy, to my friends,” he said briefly.

“Jackson—first name, not last—and that’s what I am to my friends,” Jackson told him. “Thanks so much for meeting me here.”

Devereaux nodded grimly. “Hey, I’d do anything I could for the senator and his family. It’s a crying shame about Regina. A sweeter woman never drew breath.”

“Come on in, and just give me the lay of the land, will you? I got as far as Regina’s master bedroom at the end of the horseshoe,” Jackson told him.

Devereaux stepped into the house, removing the Saints cap that had shielded his eyes and sticking it into his jacket pocket after unzipping it. When the jacket front moved, Jackson could see that the man was on duty—and armed.

“You know the history of the house, right?” Andy asked him.

“Basically, the ‘ghost’ stories began back after the Civil War. And, apparently, there have been a number of suicides, or murders made to look like suicides, since then,” Jackson said.

“Yep. You’d never know it, though, standing in this parlor,” Andy said. “Rich folks keep buying the place. It’s usually a good deal. One time, it went higher than a kite—folks were trying to buy places like this, chock–full of stories. Though before Senator Holloway bought the house, it had been empty for several years. Before that, it was bought by some hotshot New York banker. The fellow wanted to make a haunted bed–and–breakfast out of it.”

“Yes. And one of his first guests wound up dead—in the courtyard—and he sold out, right?” Jackson asked. He hadn’t read all the material on the house—that would have taken several years. But he’d gotten the gist of what had gone down.

“That one was cut–and–dried, too, I’m pretty damn sure, though I was still a kid in high school when it happened. Apparently, the banker was expecting all the people who oohed and aahed over a good ghost story. What he got was a fellow who had just had his life seized by the IRS. Man’s wife left him, and his kids disowned him. Guess he figured it would be a good place to check in—and check out. There was lots of whispering when it happened,” Andy said. “But, from what I understand, the police work that was done was solid back then, too. That was about fifteen years ago, now. Place was sitting around, mostly all renovated but covered in dust, when Senator Holloway bought it. His son was killed in an accident soon after, which set them back on the renovations, for want of a better way to put it. He and his wife had just started fixing up the place until a couple of weeks ago.”

“The senator is absolutely convinced that she didn’t commit suicide,” Jackson said.

Andy grimaced, angling his head to the side. “And what do you think?” he asked. “That a ghost pushed her over the balcony?”

Jackson shook his head. “No.”

“Then?”

“We’re just here to explore every possibility. I don’t believe that ghosts push people to their deaths. I do believe that people do.”

“The alarm never went off. No one tampered with the locks. Maybe Mrs. Holloway let someone in, but how did he get out? I suppose it’s possible that someone scaled the wall, but hopping down? He’d have surely broken a few bones,” Andy said.

“Unless he had help from the outside,” Jackson said.

“I don’t say that something of the kind is impossible, but I can tell you that we searched this place up and down and inside out. There was just no evidence, no evidence whatsoever that anyone else was ever in the house.”

“I believe you,” Jackson said.

“But you’re still here.”

Jackson shrugged and grimaced. “I work for the man. I go where I’m told,” he said. And it was pretty much so the truth. The last thing he wanted to do was offend a good officer who had probably made all the right moves. Hell, he wanted the police on his side—and because they wanted to be, not because they had been told they had to be.

“Thing is,” Andy told him, “we all wish to hell there was something that we could tell him. Senator Holloway is a fellow who isn’t all talk, air out the backside, you know what I mean? Not many can keep their souls once they get into politics. He’s rare. He’s one of the few representatives the people have faith in these days.”

“But he must have enemies,” Jackson said. “What about the people around him? Anybody have arguments with his wife? Someone who wanted something from him, and she might have been the naysayer?”

“Not that I know about. David Holloway insisted it wasn’t anybody close to him,” Andy said.

“What about household staff?” Jackson asked.

“There were two maids. They were employed full time, nine to five, but they’re not working anymore. I’ll get you the files on them,” Andy told him. “And those closest to the family. That would include the chauffeur, a fellow named Grable Haines, and…” He was thoughtful for a minute, scratching his chin. “Well, most importantly, the senator’s aide, Martin DuPre. He can help you with other things you might want to know. He’s with the senator all the time. Then there’s Blake Conroy. He’s Senator Holloway’s bodyguard. I’ve got those files all set for you.” He studied Jackson for a minute. “I’ve got two shootings and an apparent drug overdose right now, but I’m here to help you anytime you want. You get top priority. I can even drop the files by.”

Andy Devereaux was telling the truth when he said that he liked the senator; Jackson wasn’t sure that investigating what had already been investigated and ruled a suicide was more important than the other cases in his workload.

“I’ll bother you as little as possible,” he promised.

“You bother me when you need to. I understand there are others coming?” Andy asked.

“Five,” Jackson said. “They’re here to inspect the house, more than anything else. A woman named Angela Hawkins is due tonight. She’s good at talking to people, so she’ll probably have a few conversations with the senator and those around him. I—”

“What’s inspecting the house going to do?” Andy asked. “I’m telling you that our forensics people are damn good.”

“And I don’t have a problem in the world believing that,” Jackson assured him. “And that means you know this house.”

“Yes, I do,” Andy told him. Hands on his hips, he looked around. “It sure is a beautiful place. No one mucked it up too much, modernizing it. Back before the 1880s, the kitchen was on the outside. They attached the place after that point, according to the plans. Added the second two stories over there, and added it all on together. It became an academy for young ladies in the 1890s, but…”

“But there was a suicide. One of the girls went out a third–story window,” Jackson said.

“You’ve done your reading,” Andy said approvingly. “Some say there was just an evil presence in the house, and it caused people to do bad things. The local rags picked it up at the time. There’s rumor the girl was pregnant, but there wasn’t an autopsy on her. The parents wanted her interred right off, and they were rich and they got their way. The records still exist, they just don’t say much,” Andy told him. “I’ve got copies of all the old stuff at the station—the house has become a bit of an obsession for me.” He paused for a minute, and then said, “I guess that history is why you ghost people are here, right?”

“We’re not ghost people,” Jackson said.

Andy shrugged. “Sure. But it’s odd, I’ll say that. It all goes back to Madden C. Newton. He was pure evil, and evil doesn’t just go away.”