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Chapter Two

The Longhorn had been built at a time when men were men and…men were men. The saloon had a long curving bar, a piano and a large space for gaming tables. Near the front entry, which came complete with swinging doors, a staircase led to the balcony above and to the rooms on the second floor. When Kelsey sped into the main saloon area from the kitchen, she was stunned to see a man running down the stairs as if he were being chased by every demon in hell.

A big, tough-looking man. Leanly muscled, he stood a good six foot two—and he was wearing an expression of sheer horror.

He had to be the “big ol’ rodeo cowboy” Sandy had told her about.

As Kelsey ran to the foot of the stairs to discover the cause of his terror, he nearly knocked her over in his haste to reach the door.

“Sir! What is it? What’s happened?”

Luckily, it seemed that the few other guests currently checked in to the Longhorn were already out or still asleep, and that the staff was either busy or not at work yet. No one else had appeared at the sound of the screams.

“Let me out of here! Let me out of here now!” he yelled. He seemed like a decent man. Even in his near hysteria, he wasn’t going to mow her down or pick her up bodily to toss her out of the way.

She hadn’t realized that Sandy had come behind her until she heard her speak. “Mr. Simmons, what’s wrong?” she asked.

Simmons was perhaps thirty; he had the ruggedly handsome look of a modern-day cowboy, and Kelsey assumed he was in town for the upcoming rodeo trials. The man might have been ready to brave the meanest bronco, but he pointed up the stairs with a trembling hand. “Blood…blood…blood. Oh, God, blood everywhere, all over the room!” he said. “Let me out. For the love of God, let me out of here!”

Kelsey arched a brow at Sandy and placed a hand on Simmons’s shoulder. “Sir, it’s all right. Sandy will help you,” she said.

Sandy looked back at Kelsey, her eyes filled with a silent plea. See? I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s happening again, and it’s getting worse and worse. Do something!

Kelsey stepped past Mr. Simmons and hurried up the stairs to the gallery. She paused, gazing down over the rail of the landing. Sandy held her guest by the arm and was urging him to calm down. But Simmons seemed adamant about leaving.

“If you’ll just show us, Mr. Simmons,” Sandy said.

“What, are you insane?” he shouted. He stared up at Kelsey. “Don’t…oh, God, don’t go in there! Get the police!” he cried.

“Mr. Simmons,” Kelsey called down. “I am a law enforcement agent. I’m a United States Marshal.”

“Room 207,” Sandy said gravely.

Kelsey nodded, turned and hurried down the hallway. It was a straightforward numbering system; the second floor had ten rooms, 201 through 210. Room 207 was to her left along the gallery. Her own room was 201, but she didn’t really have to check at the numbers; the door to 207 was wide open, just as Simmons had left it.

She stepped inside and paused, biting her lip. There was nothing there. Certainly no blood.

The room was handsomely appointed. In fact, Sandy had done a beautiful job restoring the whole place. She’d renovated it with authenticity, studying historic documents and outfitting it with period pieces. Kelsey knew something about all of this, because Sandy had been in love with the inn—longing to buy it—for years. The Longhorn was one of the oldest original wooden structures of a bygone era. It had opened in 1833 as the Longhorn Saloon and Gentleman’s Palace, and through its history, it had been the place where travelers to San Antonio, especially “gentlemen,” had come to enjoy the liquor, poker, ambiance and female entertainment provided here. Every now and then, Sandy arranged a night with old-time entertainment; it was no longer a house of prostitution, of course, but she held poker games for charity, and hired period singers, actors and dancers to evoke the feel of the old west.

Needless to say, any building as old as this one held its share of ghost stories. Room 207 had come with the Rose Langley legend, and much more recently, Sierra Monte had disappeared from it.

Kelsey considered what Sandy had told her about the Sierra Monte case.

Blood spray and spatter had covered the room. There had never been any sign of her body, and there had never been an arrest. DNA testing proved that the blood was hers, and the medical examiner had claimed it was highly unlikely that anyone could have lost that much blood and survived. How her remains had been removed from the room was a mystery, just like the identity of her killer.

It had been a horrible story. But in law enforcement, officers and agents heard a lot of horrible stories. And if every hotel in the world closed when something bad happened, they’d be tearing down buildings right and left.

Afterward, Sandy had hired special crews to come in and clean up.

There wasn’t a drop of blood to be seen anywhere.

Kelsey walked into the bathroom, once a dressing room for the “girls” who had entertained at the Longhorn. She hadn’t been in on the investigation, although she’d researched it, primarily because of her friendship with Sandy. She knew that blood had been found in the bathroom, as well, a great deal of it. Detectives and forensic crews had determined that Sierra was most likely killed in the bedroom and possibly dismembered in the bathroom.

When the police had finished and Sandy had taken over the place, she’d had the bathroom in 207 completely remodeled. The old tub was still taking up a lot of space in the evidence room at the police station.

The bathroom looked completely ordinary. Shaving equipment and toiletries were on the counter by the sink, and the old claw-foot tub Sandy had bought to replace the original one was damp. Sandy’s guest had obviously had a bath or a shower before finding himself mesmerized by the blood his imagination had conjured up.

When Kelsey left the room and walked down the stairs, she saw that neither Sandy nor Mr. Simmons was in the main saloon area. She wasn’t sure if they’d run outside—or if Sandy had managed to calm him down. She pushed open the swinging doors and looked out at the street. No one there. Kelsey quickly returned to the kitchen and the table where she’d been about to drink her now-cold coffee.

Simmons and Sandy were sitting there, but Simmons wasn’t drinking coffee. A shot glass and a bottle of whiskey stood in front of him. He’d apparently downed several shots already.

Sandy and Simmons both turned to Kelsey. She shook her head. “There’s nothing there, Mr. Simmons. Nothing at all.”

He gaped at her, disbelief in his eyes.

“I swear to you,” she added quietly, “there’s nothing.”

He groaned, lowering his head, pressing his temples between his palms. “Well, that’s just great. I’m going crazy.”

Kelsey drew up a chair next to him, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Simmons—”

“Corey. Call me Corey, please,” he interrupted gruffly.

“Corey,” she said. “You’re not going crazy. You’re merely human, which makes you susceptible to the history of places like this. Everyone knows the stories about the Longhorn. You know the room was covered in blood at one time, and not that long ago, either. So, in your mind, you saw it covered in blood. You’re not crazy. What happened wasn’t a fun ghost story. It was reality.”

“I should just not rent out that room,” Sandy murmured.

Corey waved a hand in the air. “Not your fault,” he said. He gave them both a rueful grimace. “I asked for that room. I told the boys going to the rodeo that I’d be sleeping with the ghosts. I was a real hotshot. I didn’t know I had a crazy susceptible mind. At least…that’s what I’m going to believe, Miss…?”

“O’Brien. Actually, Marshal O’Brien,” Kelsey said.

“Kelsey’s been working with the U.S. Marshal’s Office in Key West,” Sandy explained.

“A U.S. Marshal,” he repeated, looking at her as if she were some kind of alien life form.

She smiled at him.

“You don’t look like a cop,” he said.

“Technically, I’m not a cop.”

“But you…you do cop things.” He still seemed confused.

“More or less.”

“Can a U.S. Marshal get my stuff out of that room?” he asked.

“I can do that for you, Mr. Simmons. And I’ll help you find another location to stay, too,” Sandy told him.

“Um, can you just put me in another room?” he asked.

Sandy was clearly surprised by his request. “Of course I can. But you were pretty desperate to get out the door, Mr. Simmons.”

“Corey,” he said again, smiling. He flushed. “Ladies, I’m going to ask you to do me a massive favor. Never repeat the fact that a six-foot-three two-hundred-and-thirty-pound bronco buster ran out of his room screaming like a baby.”

Sandy laughed softly. Kelsey shrugged.

“Please,” he murmured, looking at Kelsey.

“Don’t worry. I don’t really have anyone to tell,” Kelsey said. She checked her watch. “You two will have to excuse me. I have a meeting this morning. That is, if you’re sure you’re all right now, um, Corey?”

“I’m feeling like the biggest fool in Texas, and that’s some mean space,” Corey said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Kelsey glanced at Sandy. “You call me if you need anything. And, Corey, as soon as I’m back, we’ll see to it that all your things are moved to your new room.”

“Thanks, Kelsey,” Sandy said. “But I’m sure I can manage.” She hesitated. “Uh, Kelsey? Are you interested in switching rooms with Corey? That would save me a lot of bother.”

Kelsey thought about it for a moment, then said, “Sure. Why not?” She wondered whether she’d been too rash, but Sandy’s gratitude confirmed that she’d made the right decision.

Kelsey took another look at the half-empty bottle of whiskey. Corey Simmons was either going to lie down and pass out soon, or he’d be seeing more ghosts. But Sandy smiled at her with confidence, and Kelsey figured she’d manage, just as she’d said. Sandy had supported both her parents through protracted deaths due to cancer, and Kelsey believed that was one reason she’d been so caught up in the restoration of the Longhorn. She’d pulled herself out of mourning and she’d done it by throwing herself into this massive project. She could be tough as nails when she chose. Not only that, her livelihood now depended on the inn.

“I don’t even know what this meeting is,” she said. “So don’t worry about phoning if you need me.”

Sandy nodded. As she started out, Corey Simmons called her back. “Miss—I’m sorry, Marshal! Miss O’Brien, thank you.”

She gave him a tiny salute of acknowledgment. Leaving the kitchen, Kelsey hurried back up to her room to grab her handbag. She paused to study herself in the freestanding Victorian swivel mirror. She felt she looked professional—something she hadn’t worried about in ages. She was five-nine, decked out in a black suit and simple white cotton tailored blouse. Her hair was a deep auburn, secured in a band at her nape. She had what she hoped were steady green eyes, and a lean sculpted face that lent her a look of maturity—at least in her own opinion. Despite Corey Simmons’s surprise that she was a woman who did “cop things,” she made the proper appearance for a U.S. Marshal. That seemed important in light of today’s meeting.

She hurried out of her room, then walked down the hall to 207 again. Stepping inside, she held very still and closed her eyes. She’d come up here before because of Corey’s hysteria; now, she decided to take a moment to see what her intuition would show.

She opened her eyes, but didn’t focus on the room as it was now. What she saw looked similar, but…different. Out of kilter. There was a wardrobe in the corner, but it was a slightly different wardrobe. Where the bathroom should have been, she saw a slatted Oriental divider: The bed was smaller, and a white chemise lay at the foot of it.

There were two people in the room, a man and a woman. The woman was beautiful, dark curly hair piled atop her head, long legs clad in old-fashioned stockings and garters. She wore a white shirt and corset. Her dress had been thrown on a nearby chair. The man was wearing a dark suit, a tall hat and appeared to have stepped out of an 1850s fashion ad for gentlemen. He was tall and, despite his apparel, had the rugged look of a cowhand. He strode angrily across the room and grasped the woman by the shoulders. “You won’t hold out on me!” he shouted at her. “I want it, and I want it now.”

“I don’t have it,” she said.

“You’re a liar! I know what happened in Galveston that night, and I know your pretty-boy lover won it. I want it!”

“No, it’s mine!” she responded.

“You think you’ll get back to that no-good weakling? Well, give up that dream. He moved on the moment you were gone.”

“I hate you,” she told him, shaking herself free. “I hate you, Matt. I loathe you. You forced me here, and you’ve used me enough. Even if I had it, I’d never let you have it!”

“You’re an old whore already, Rose,” he said. “I want it, and I’ll get it.”

“I will never give it to you!”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he wrenched her to him again; his fingers curled around her neck. He squeezed his hands together; he shook her hard. She grabbed desperately at his arms, trying to break his hold on her.

“Please, Matt!”

“I’ll kill you, and I’ll rip this place to shreds—and find it.”

“Please!”

That one word escaped her lips, more breath than word, as her face became red and mottled and she began to flail at him helplessly. Kelsey was so horrified by the vision that she ran to the man and woman, but of course they weren’t there, not in this time and space. As she reached them, the woman went limp, and the man picked her up and tossed her onto the bed as if she were refuse.

Then they both disappeared.

Kelsey blinked. She wanted to cry for the woman who seemed to have fallen in love so foolishly, been abused and then murdered. There’d been no future for her; she had died still a beauty.

What was the it they’d been talking about?

However, that wasn’t a concern right now.

She hurried out of the room, curious about the meeting her superior had insisted she attend.

She found herself remembering the bird on the window ledge that morning and, once again, couldn’t shake the strange feeling it had given her.

She was about to meet men named Crow and Raintree. She wondered if this meeting had something to do with the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

And yet, somehow, she had the feeling it didn’t.

She suspected it would have to do with her so-called “special” abilities. Abilities she usually kept to herself, but in the recent situation…

In all honesty, she knew why she’d been called.

This had to be connected to the body she’d found three weeks ago in Key West. That was when Archie had really begun to look at her strangely.

Body? No…she hadn’t actually discovered a body.

Just bones. Broken and disarticulated bones. They might’ve all wound up in the garbage heap or a landfill if the trucks had come through a few more times. But Kelsey had seen the woman standing there, sobbing over the heap. And when she’d looked again, there had been no woman, but…

But there’d been the bones.

* * *

Logan shook his head, staring at Jackson Crow. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what? The gravity of the situation?” Crow inquired.

“No. I don’t understand what setting up a team with the FBI will accomplish that various law enforcement agencies working together won’t,” Logan said. “I don’t believe a ghost killed her.”

“I don’t, either,” Jackson said. “There are two possibilities, and since you’re a Texan, I should think either one would bother you. One, a killer is dressing up as a Texas hero to attack innocent women.”

“Or?”

“Dead Texas heroes remain…heroes. They’re still trying to save the lives of others, and warn them away. Because they recognize a killer when they see one.”

Logan wanted to argue with him; he even raised a hand to do so, but didn’t find the right words. He was suddenly reminded of the very strange experience with the birds that morning.

Strange, but certainly natural. A physical phenomenon.

And, of course, he knew that things could happen, things that didn’t always fall into the realm of natural physical phenomena.

“You don’t have to answer me now. My people are working on it. But,” Crow added wryly, “we’re being stretched far too thin.”

“I’m glad you’re not expecting an answer yet,” Logan said. “Because if you were, I’d have to say no.”

Crow shrugged. “We don’t expect anyone to just say, ‘Hey, I’ll jump on it.’ But I’ve studied law enforcement profiles, and I’d like to begin with you and Marshal O’Brien.” He sent Logan a quick smile. “I wasn’t keen on this when it first came up, either. I assumed I was receiving a major demotion. But you’d be astonished by what can be accomplished when you put the right network of people together.”

“When you have a good team, yes, it can work exceptionally well. But you don’t really know someone until you’ve met him. Or her. So, you study profiles. What happens if you meet someone you don’t like?” Logan asked.

“Then I don’t make the offer. Just so you know, I don’t work alone. A man named Adam Harrison started this…experiment, shall we say. He had friends, and he identified people around the country who had abilities. Instincts, if you prefer. He put my team together. Adam’s an interesting man, not particularly talented in this area, but he’s developed a sense for people with these uncanny skills. So far, he’s zeroed in perfectly every time.”

“Adam Harrison. The name’s familiar.”

“He’s done a great deal of good. He and his team have uncovered many charlatans, and found the truth behind their mist and mirrors. He watches people carefully. He knows who to approach for the Krewe.”

“I’m not trying to be argumentative,” Logan muttered, “but a lot of what you hear about Texans is true. We were our own country for a short while, and we’re still dedicated to being Texans.”

“Dedication is a good thing. But, like I said, you can think about it. And regardless of what you decide, you’re now apprised of this situation.” Crow indicated the pictures, then got to his feet. “I believe Marshal O’Brien has arrived.” He smiled, glancing at his watch. “Precisely on time.”

Logan stood, too. He saw a woman coming toward them. He noted first that she had a thick head of auburn hair that fell to her shoulders, and then he went on with his assessment. She moved with fluid confidence, and she was tall, about five-ten. Slim and well-built. She wasn’t wearing a badge, but there was a quality about her that spoke of law enforcement. He was pretty certain the bulge on her hip was a Glock.

As she came nearer, he realized that she had exceptionally fine features and might have graced a model’s runway rather than a crime scene. But before she reached them and offered each man a firm handshake as introductions were exchanged, he could tell that she wasn’t some kind of delicate hothouse flower. Her walk, her movements, the way she’d looked for them and found them instantly—they all registered authority and determination. Maybe she’d perfected her manner to offset her beauty, which was vivid and startling. When she removed her sunglasses, he saw that she had green eyes, their color almost as deep as a forest.

He also realized that she was as curious as he had been about the meeting. “Shall we order?” he suggested. “We’re all here now.”

He lifted his hand to summon their waitress. Crow was polite and friendly as he ordered his meal, and despite the fact that Kelsey O’Brien couldn’t have done more than glance at the menu, she ordered quickly. He did, as well, although he wasn’t hungry. Something about this meeting was causing his stomach to knot.

Jackson Crow began the new conversation casually. “How are you enjoying Texas, Marshal O’Brien?”

“It’s great,” she said. “San Antonio is beautiful.”

“Have you been able to see or do much yet?” Crow asked.

“I’m staying at the Longhorn, a historic saloon. I can see the Alamo from my window. Very poignant, really.”

“The Longhorn has quite a reputation,” Logan commented. Ridiculous! he told himself. For some reason, he’d just had to throw that out.

He was irritated at his own pleasure in thinking he might know something Agent Crow didn’t. This meeting was confusing him. He was usually willing to do whatever it took to stop crime, especially murder. But this…

It felt as if once he took a step, he’d fall into a pit, and he wasn’t sure he’d know how to maneuver his way out.

Maybe because he hadn’t known that there seemed to be a pattern of disappearances. It was true that the FBI could recognize the similarities between these crimes.

Maybe he was still off his stride because of what had happened on his way here—the scene with the birds.

Logan began to explain. “A murder took place there around the time of the Texas Revolution,” he said. “And about a year ago, a young woman disappeared from the ‘murder room.’ Local homicide detectives tore the room and half the hotel apart, and she was never discovered. The room looked like there’d been a bloodbath. I’m not sure if that fits with the cases you’ve been showing me.”

“Sounds like it does,” Jackson said. “What do you think, Marshal O’Brien?”

Logan studied the young woman he had so recently met.

She smiled awkwardly and looked around before answering. “We seem to be pretty casual here. Please call me Kelsey. And I’m sorry but I’m not up to speed. What cases?” she asked.

“One moment,” Crow murmured. “Our food is coming.”

Kelsey O’Brien had ordered salmon. Logan wondered if she avoided red meat and realized he’d ordered fish that afternoon, too. When their waitress left the table, Jackson launched into the story he’d already told Logan.

Logan sat back, listening, while Jackson Crow explained the FBI involvement. He waited until they had finished eating and then spread out the pictures to show her.

“Horrible,” she whispered.

“I do believe we’re looking for one killer. Although, as I told Raintree, it is possible that these murders and the unknown remains we’ve discovered aren’t all connected. We’re talking about a huge population here and, obviously, the larger the population, the easier it is for people to get lost in the crowd,” Crow said.

Logan saw that Marshal Kelsey O’Brien wasn’t turning away from the pictures, but neither was her expression devoid of empathy and distress. She raised her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve seen the dead before, but…in my area, it’s often a drug runner shot and down. Nothing like…this.”

Jackson Crow scooped up the pictures as the waitress came to clear the table and bring them more coffee. When it had been poured and they were alone once again, Logan found that he was intrigued to discover what Kelsey knew about the Longhorn Inn.

“What have you learned about the murder?” he asked her.

She looked at him, and he gazed into her clear green eyes. “You mean Sierra Monte? Very little, I’m afraid. The owner, Sandy Holly, is an old friend of mine. That’s why I’m staying at the Longhorn. So I only know what Sandy’s told me and a few things I read online. I also know it was incredibly complicated when she purchased the place, because she had a nonrefundable deposit down, with access to begin the renovations, and then Sierra Monte disappeared. Sandy still had to pay on the closing date and everything was put on hold while the police finished their investigation and then the people hired to do the crime-scene cleanup were brought in. She was devastated about the young woman, of course, but she was also in a predicament herself.”

“It’s up and running now, and doing well, right?” Logan asked.

Kelsey nodded. “She did a stunning job with it. There are parts of the inn that make you feel as if you’ve been transported almost two hundred years back in time. And, of course, Room 207 was gutted, and yet there’ve been people clamoring to get into it—and people claiming they’ve seen ghosts and blood… .” She paused. “Some people are fascinated by this stuff. Sandy was worried about it, naturally. And now…”

She stopped speaking. There was a lot more to the “and now…” but she didn’t seem sure she should be talking about it.

Kelsey was aware that both men were watching her, waiting. She shrugged. “It’s odd—just before I left today, a big bruiser of a cowboy came running out of that room, screaming. He was convinced that the entire room was covered in blood. Of course it wasn’t.” She grinned. “Eventually, he calmed down and I went up to the room and looked around.”

“And?” Jackson asked her.

“It was just as the cowboy had left it,” Kelsey O’Brien said slowly.

Logan noticed that she’d hesitated before she spoke. Her words were smooth enough, but there was something she wasn’t saying. She didn’t fully trust them; however, that was okay. He wasn’t sure of his own feelings about Jackson Crow or Marshal O’Brien yet, either.

“Impressionable minds can create ghosts,” Crow said.

“Very true,” Kelsey O’Brien agreed.

But Crow homed in on her words. “What about you? What did your mind see in that room?”

She leaned back, startled, but composing herself as she returned Jackson Crow’s gaze.

“Anyone could get impressions in that room—once you know what happened there,” she replied. “And, of course, I know.”

“Does it ever distress your friend?” Crow asked her.

“Definitely. She’s sunk a lot of money into the Longhorn, especially since she bought it in bad condition—and under bad circumstances. Sandy’s wanted to own it for ages, though.”

“Anything unusual occur during your nights at the inn?” Crow asked next.

“In my room? Not a thing,” Kelsey said.

She didn’t share easily, Logan thought.

“But you do feel the saloon is haunted?” Crow persisted.

She hesitated again, frowning, and then answered with “What exactly do you consider haunted, Agent Crow? When I walk through places that are steeped in history, there’s always an air about them. The Alamo? I feel like I’m walking on hallowed ground. I get that same feeling at the Tower of London and the battlegrounds at Gettysburg. I think many people feel this way in certain places. The Longhorn Inn is no different. It witnessed history. I suppose many people imagine they see the past when they’re going through places like that.”

Crow listened, nodding, a small smile curving his lips. “Nice reply. And not an answer to my question.”

“Well, what do you want?” Kelsey asked him, clearly irritated. “Do I pass ghosts walking up and down the stairs or in the saloon? No.”

“Have you seen them at all?”

She looked as if she’d been trapped. Obviously, she had to be competent and able to stand on her own, but Logan suddenly felt that he wanted to step in; he hated being cornered himself, and he didn’t like to watch it being done to someone else.

“What kind of haunting are you talking about, Agent Crow?” he asked. “Residual haunting, where the same traumatic event occurs over and over again? Or are you referring to intelligent or active haunting, where the ghosts actually partake in life?”

“Either,” Crow said, shrugging. “I’m curious.” He leaned across the table, his casual manner gone. “Kelsey, I know damned well that you see what others don’t. What did you see in Room 207?”

She frowned. “What did I see? A murder.” She looked over at Logan, and he couldn’t tell whether she saw anger or appreciation in his eyes. “Absolutely nothing that could help us with the here and now. I saw a murder that took place over a hundred and fifty years ago, and the murderer himself is long gone. I guess what I saw was a residual haunting. No blood—the poor woman was strangled. So, perhaps we should get back to what we’re actually dealing with. Dead women. Corpses dumped here, there and everywhere in San Antonio. I’m assuming you have more to work with than just photos, Agent Crow?”

He nodded. “I’m set up at the police station, about a mile away. I’ll pay for our meal, then we’ll go there and you can see how far we’ve gotten. Tomorrow, I’ll be briefing local law enforcement, but for now, you can come over and get started.”

“Whoa, Agent Crow. I haven’t agreed to be part of this team,” Logan reminded him.

Crow raised one shoulder. “You don’t want to see what we have?” he asked.

Logan let out a deep breath.

Of course he did. This was happening in his city, and Jackson Crow had been right about one thing—he had to be in law enforcement.

He had to be involved.

And since he’d seen the pictures of the remains…

He turned to face Kelsey O’Brien. She was watching him with her intent green eyes, and he wondered if she felt the same sense of urgency he did. The same need to know, despite the risks.

“Ready when you are,” he said quietly.