Читать книгу Waking the Dead - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 10

Chapter Three

NATASHA, ALSO REFERRED to as Mistress LaBelle, was a renowned voodoo priestess in the Quarter. Danni had known her as long as she could remember—and loved her like a wonderful, eccentric aunt for every one of those years.

These days she realized that Natasha had more than just an understanding of people. Natasha’s faith was strong. She knew that spirits traveled in the world—and everything wasn’t plainly visible for the eye to see.

But Natasha also lived in the real world. Her shop was filled with wonders. The scent of incense flowed throughout; there were handcrafted masks on display, along with other artwork, jewelry and all kinds of gris-gris, since Mistress LaBelle catered to tourists, as well as the devout of her flock.

Natasha had a trusted wingman—Jeziah, who was at the counter when Danni entered the shop. He looked up when the door opened. As a few tourists clustered in a corner, choosing a mask, Jeziah smiled at her.

Jeziah was often quiet and stoic but he saw everything that went on around him. Danni knew that he gave his total loyalty to Natasha; Jez, she thought, could have done anything in life. He was intelligent and compassionate. He was also striking, his skin a beautiful dark shade and his eyes a brilliant green. Jeziah moved fluidly and with purpose and seemed able to converse on any subject. He was a good friend to have.

“She’s waiting for you,” Jez told her before she’d come even two feet into the store.

“You’re kidding me,” Danni said.

Jez shrugged. “Do I ever kid? She had a dream about you.”

“Oh?”

“She’s waiting.”

Danni could quiz him, but she knew he wouldn’t say any more, so she merely thanked him and walked out to the courtyard.

There were many beautiful courtyards in the Quarter. Danni particularly loved Natasha’s. Plants grew everywhere, adorned with wind chimes and dream catchers. She kept candles burning by her wrought-iron table, since she gave readings there, usually at night. She was pricey when tourists came calling, but a session with Mistress LaBelle was considered a coup.

Natasha didn’t rise when she saw Danni arrive. She beckoned her to the table where she sat, a burning sconce on either side.

Danni took the seat opposite her. Natasha had set out two cups of tea.

“Where’s Wolf?” she asked.

“With Billie and Bo Ray,” Danni said, shaking her head. “How do you know when I’m coming?”

Natasha met her eyes. She was beautiful in a grand way, with nearly perfect bone structure and an ageless face. Tonight she wore a red-and-orange turban that complemented her orange robe and dark mahogany skin.

“The air tells me, child. The air...you can feel the crackle when something’s up in the city.” She paused. “I’ve also seen the news. There was a massacre today.”

Danni nodded. “I don’t know much about it yet.”

“But Quinn was there, at the site.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. He thought you might want to come to my place around seven. We’ll have a meal and talk about it. We—”

“Drink your tea,” Natasha interrupted.

“Pardon?”

“Drink your tea.”

Natasha was renowned for her palm reading, her insightful reading of tarot cards—and tea leaves.

Danni shouldn’t have been surprised by Natasha’s insistence. One way or another, she could “read” any situation.

“Drink up. I have to see what there is to see.”

“This isn’t like the situation we had with the bust last year,” Danni said “There’s no object that we know of associated with any of this. Quinn was called in by Larue. It may not have anything to do with me.”

“There’s going to be an object. We just don’t know what it is yet. So drink up.”

Danni sighed but dutifully drank the tea. When she’d finished, Natasha took her cup and studied the leaves. She shook her head and made a tsking sound; before Danni could groan or ask what she’d seen, she leaned back in her chair, eyes closed.

Then her lids opened, but her eyes were rolled back and only the whites were visible. Danni was about to spring to her feet, about to call for Jez. But before she could, Natasha started speaking. “So much darkness! I see that the day is dark, there are clouds, and there is no rain, and then there is rain—thunder and lightning! Death spewed from the earth, darkness covered much of the globe. In the shadows, in the corners, in the most stygian places...evil was born. There was one who knew, and he guided the other, and there was a bright stain of blood against the darkness...and it’s coming here. It’s coming to New Orleans.”

Natasha’s head fell forward. Danni did spring to her feet then, rushing around to touch her friend. Natasha lifted her head and stared at Danni.

“Are you all right?” Danni asked urgently. “I’ve never—I’ve never seen you do anything like that! What’s going on? Do you know what you said?”

Natasha patted Danni’s hand where it lay on her shoulder. “I’m fine...and yes, I saw...I heard my voice. This has happened to me a few times....”

“You might need a doctor, Natasha—”

“I’m fine, Danni. Sit, please.”

Danni took her seat again, studying Natasha worriedly. Her skin had grown a little ashen, but she appeared to be in control.

“What did that mean?”

“It means that something very, very bad is in the city. It’s a good thing Quinn’s back. We’d have to send for him if he wasn’t,” Natasha said.

“But...what is it?”

“I don’t really know. I just saw the sky, and it looked as if there’d been a great storm, and then there was a great storm...but when the rain went away, the sky was still dark.”

“Okay...we’ll check the weather?” Danni said hopefully.

Natasha gave her a disapproving frown. “Something is coming,” she repeated. “And I don’t think it’s another storm, another Katrina. Storms are real. They kill, ruin, devastate, but we know them. They’re forces of nature and they can be understood. This is different.”

“Did you see anything else?” Danni asked.

Natasha was silent for a minute.

“Natasha!”

Natasha nodded. “I saw...you.”

* * *

Quinn was eager to get back to The Cheshire Cat and Danni when he left the morgue, but before he’d gone very far, his phone rang. He answered on his hands-free unit. It was Larue.

“Where are you?” Larue asked.

“Heading back to the French Quarter. Hubert said you were due at autopsy,” Quinn replied.

“Yeah, well, there’s been another situation.”

Quinn’s grip tightened on the wheel.

Five already dead and there was another situation?

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “How many?” he croaked.

“Nobody’s dead. This is different. Can you get to the station?”

None dead. He let out a sigh of relief.

“Uh, sure.”

Twenty minutes later he arrived at the station. Larue was there to meet him at the reception desk.

“What took you?” he demanded irritably.

“Uh, let me see? This area is filled with one-way streets, construction—oh, and we block off a few of our one-way streets now and then to accommodate fairs, wine tastings and musicians? Oh, yeah, and then there are the tourists who wander into the street. I always try to avoid hitting them.”

Larue wasn’t amused. “My office. Come on.”

Quinn followed Larue down a hallway to his office. As usual, a few of those who’d overpartied were being booked, some still grinning sloppily, some sobering up far too quickly and realizing the trouble they’d gotten themselves into. There was one kid, wearing a college football jersey, Quinn was sure he recognized.

“Up-and-coming quarterback,” he said quietly as they walked. “What did the kid do?”

“Thought one of the horses being ridden by a mounted patrol officer was making fun of him,” Larue said.

“And?”

“He punched the horse.”

“Horse okay?”

“Yeah, the kid will be, too. His parents are coming down.”

They went into Larue’s office. A man in uniform was sitting in front of Larue’s desk, his head in his hands. He glanced up when Quinn and Larue entered the room.

The cop was about forty and appeared to be in generally good health. Except that he looked haggard and drawn, as if he hadn’t slept for a week straight and had faced every demon in hell. Quinn thought he seemed familiar. He also looked as if he’d been in a fight; there were scuff marks on his clothing and a bruise under his eye that promised to become a massive shiner.

Larue sat on the corner of his desk. “Quinn, this is Officer Dan Petty. Dan’s been with the force for fifteen years. He’s received medals for his extraordinary valor in times of stress. He was here for the aftermath of Katrina and the summer of storms. Dan, Michael Quinn. You two might’ve met years ago. Quinn was with the force for a while.”

Dan Petty nodded at the introduction. He started to get up to meet Quinn, then fell back into the chair. As he watched Quinn, a certain expression came into his eyes—a spark of hope.

“Yeah, I remember you!” he said. “You’re that football hero who died and then became a cop!”

“I was a cop, and now I’m a private investigator,” Quinn responded.

“But you really died, huh?”

“I was resuscitated.”

“Yeah, but still...” To Petty, it was clearly a good thing. He might have been clinging to the hope that Quinn knew the secrets of the universe.

“Dan, do you want to tell Quinn what happened?” Larue suggested.

“There was something there...something in the evidence lockup. Something that wasn’t right,” Petty said. He swallowed. He’d probably tried to explain himself a few times now and hadn’t done well.

Petty grimaced. “It was coming at me... It was...well, you know how the fog sets over Lake Ponchartrain and it’s so damned misty you can’t see anything but shapes? The room was filled with the stuff...gray, with black shadows. It...it touched me. The gunk touched me and it was jerking me around and...I couldn’t stop it! I couldn’t stop it—I couldn’t control my own muscles, my own body—it was in me, do you understand? The damned gunk was in me. I started picking up confiscated knives and guns and then...”

“Then?” Quinn encouraged.

“I screamed. I was so damned scared and...then I felt that things were on me...trying to kill me.”

“His fellow officers, at that point.” Larue spoke in a low voice.

“They got me out eventually,” Petty said, looking at Larue. “I’m sorry. I hope those guys know...”

“They know,” Larue reassured him. He turned back to Quinn. “The other officers corroborate what Officer Petty just said. They swear there was some kind of fog in the evidence lockup.”

Quinn nodded. “So, did any of them stay behind?”

“There are men there now, three of them. The fog dissipated.”

“You saw it, too?” Quinn asked.

“Don’t know what it was, but I saw it, yes.”

“All right. I’ll talk to these guys, see what they have to say,” Quinn said. He patted Officer Petty on the knee. “Something bizarre happened in there. No need to feel like a crazy man. I’ll take a look and see if I can figure out what went on.”

“You’re not just, uh, patronizing me, are you?” Petty asked.

“I don’t patronize anyone,” Quinn told him. “Did you hear voices? Did you hear anyone speaking? Could you see anything in the fog?”

Petty shook his head. “No...just black within shadows, if that makes any sense. And—and I couldn’t stop myself. I’ve never had a stroke...I’m in great health. I don’t know...I just don’t know.”

Quinn glanced over at Larue. He wondered what his friend was thinking and quickly found out when Larue said, “I came in at the tail end when everything was pure chaos. But...”

“But?” Quinn prodded.

“But as I said, I saw it, too. Fog. Like the fog you get when the weather’s about to change and you know there might be a storm on the horizon. At first, although I couldn’t smell smoke, I thought there’d been a fire. It was a mess. Hell, maybe my mind’s going...except that if it was some hallucination, we were all affected.”

“Was anything missing?”

“The first assessment we made was on confiscated weapons,” Larue said. “All accounted for. The crew in there now is still checking.”

“I think I should see the evidence room,” Quinn said.

Larue nodded and then returned his attention to Officer Petty. “Dan, you know you’ll need to spend an evening in the...the hospital for assessment yourself, right?” Larue asked gently.

“A night in the loony bin,” Petty said. “I don’t care. Anywhere except the evidence lockup.”

Larue gestured at the doorway. There was a man in some kind of medical uniform waiting. Petty rose and shook Quinn’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you for listening. And you...you weren’t even here. You didn’t see. Thank you for believing.”

Quinn nodded gravely.

Petty left the room; one of Larue’s men was outside the office, too, ready to accompany the medical man and Officer Petty.

“What do you think?” Larue asked Quinn.

“I think you’re going to find something missing from your evidence room. We have to determine exactly what it is.”

“You mean someone was trying to break in?”

“Break in—or break out. I’m not sure which,” Quinn replied. But he immediately thought of the Garcia murders and the evidence that might have been taken from the house....

“Look for a little glass jar,” he said. “Like a vial.”

“What’s in it?” Larue asked.

“I don’t know, since it was empty—except for a trace of...something. Anyway, Grace and I felt it needed to be tested. But, whatever it was, I think the killer brought it to the house with him. And I’ll bet it’s gone.”

* * *

Danni returned to the shop, but she didn’t stay. She smiled cheerfully at Billie and Bo Ray and promised she’d be back—and they should plan for a nice dinner party. Billie just nodded. Bo Ray, relatively new to their team, still looked anxious.

She told them she was going to drop in on Father Ryan and invite him over for dinner. She could call him, of course, but this way, even if he couldn’t come that evening, she’d get a chance to see him.

Bo Ray, who’d gained a life thanks to the priest, seemed to like the fact that Father Ryan might be coming to visit.

They’d actually met Bo Ray because he’d been a suspect when people started dying during the Pietro Miro case. Sadly, he’d become caught up in it all, an alcoholic in the early stages of liver failure. Quinn had a good eye for people, just as Father Ryan did. They’d both seen that Bo Ray could be saved. He’d become a great asset to the store—and to their lives, Danni thought.

With Wolf in the car this time, Danni started out.

Father Ryan ministered well to his flock, gave great sermons, tended to the poor and downtrodden and did everything that a priest should do. He even looked like the perfect priest. Middle-aged with snow-white hair, big and brawny but possessing a gentle manner, he seemed to inspire trust. He was also a no-nonsense man, unafraid to take a stand. Willing to confront the unknown...

Father John Ryan was standing at the front door of the rectory, almost as if he was waiting for someone, when Danni drove up and parked on the street. He didn’t seem surprised when she and Wolf got out of her car and approached him.

“You knew I was coming,” she said.

“I did.”

Danni offered him a curious half grin. “You speak with the Almighty?”

“I do.”

“Oh?”

He smiled ruefully. “I speak with Him the same as you and every other man and woman out there, Danni. Actually, I knew you were coming for a far more mundane reason—Natasha called me.”

“Ah! But I didn’t tell her I was going to see you.”

“That’s where instinct kicks in,” Father Ryan told her. “But I had a feeling you or Quinn would be by soon enough. I heard about the massacre this morning.”

“I believe the police are looking into Garcia’s financials and other records,” Danni said. “It’s the type of thing that could happen if a big drug deal went wrong.”

Father Ryan shook his head fiercely. “There was no drug deal gone wrong, Danni. I’m sure of that.”

“How?”

“You and Wolf come on in. I’ll tell you what I can.”

“You know something?”

“Let’s have tea, shall we?”

Father Ryan didn’t want to be rushed. She and Wolf followed him into the rectory kitchen. First, Wolf got treats; Father Ryan kept them on hand just for him. Then, he put the kettle on and took his time setting out cups. Only when the tea was brewed and they sat down to drink it did he start talking. “James and Andrea Garcia were my parishioners. I’ve already been called in by social services—I’m helping place the children with relatives. This is a terrible blow. There are three children left behind—a ten-year-old, an eight-year-old and a five-year-old. The two older kids were James and Andrea’s and the youngest was the aunt’s little girl. Luckily, Andrea has another sister and brother in the city and they’re doing their best to comfort and care for the children, but...well, the only good thing about the situation is that the children weren’t there.”

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea you knew these people,” Danni murmured.

Father Ryan nodded. “There was no drug deal,” he said again. “And don’t tell me we don’t know what people are really like. James Garcia was a hardworking man. He was with the same company for years. He made deliveries for one of the most trusted services in our city and there was never a single complaint against him. His wife took care of her family—her parents lived with them—and neither Andrea nor James ever minded any burden put upon them. That family did nothing wrong.”

“The police are investigating. It won’t ease things for the children, but hopefully justice will be done.”

“And what are you doing about it?” Ryan demanded, looking her hard in the eyes.

“What can I do? There’s no indication that an object might be involved, not like the Pietro Miro case, Father.” Before Father Ryan could protest, she continued. “Quinn just got back last night. He was called to the scene this morning. But that’s why I’m here. Can you come to dinner at my place around seven tonight? Quinn wants all of us there to discuss what happened.”

”Yes, of course,” he said. “I promise you this isn’t a random murder. Nor is James Garcia part of it. Something isn’t right here—aside from the obvious, I mean. James Garcia was a good man who spent his life hauling packages and received commendations from his employer. His wife was a model of virtue. And the parents...hard workers, retired, enjoying their last years with the grandkids. The old man didn’t have much time left as it was—cancer. They’d given him six months.”

“I’m so sorry, Father Ryan,” Danni said again.

He drummed his fingers absently on the table. “What I’m afraid of is that we all may wind up much sorrier. Danni, we have to find out what the hell is going on here.”

* * *

“Dr. Hubert is a descendant of the Hubert who painted the original of the giclée at your friend’s gallery,” Quinn told Danni, setting plates on the table. The meal Billie had prepared, his version of the classic jambalaya, simmered on the stove.

She stopped patting dry the lettuce she’d just washed and looked over at him. They’d decided to get dinner ready and wait until Natasha and Father Ryan arrived to discuss the situation, so she was surprised that he’d brought up the painting. She’d reported that Father Ryan had known the Garcia family well and that he strenuously denied they could’ve been doing anything illegal. And Quinn had said only that the autopsy reports had yielded nothing they didn’t already know.

“A direct descendant,” he added.

“Really? How interesting.”

He nodded pensively and didn’t say any more.

“You okay?” she asked him.

He gazed at her for a long moment, then smiled, and walked over to her, slipping his arms around her. “I’m going to be more okay later on,” he whispered huskily.

They were pressed tightly together. It suddenly felt like months rather than weeks since they’d stood this way. She was acutely aware of his body heat and the strength of his muscles. Memory reflexes were going to kick in hard any minute. The urge to do far more than stand together was almost overwhelming.

They looked into each other’s eyes and backed away at the same time. He smiled ruefully. “Sorry.” He might have intended to keep his thoughts to himself a while longer, but touching her had obviously changed that.

“We should have scheduled this for...any time other than now!” Danni said.

He grinned but then grew serious again. “I don’t think we could have.”

Even as he spoke, Danni heard someone at the courtyard’s side entrance. Excusing herself, she went to open the back door. Father Ryan had arrived. She tried to push away her visions of Quinn, naked, as she greeted the priest, but she could feel a flush rise to her cheeks. She had to curb her thoughts about Quinn for the moment.

“Hey, glad you’re here,” she said. “Come on in, Father.”

“Wait up, wait up!” Natasha called, hurrying through the courtyard. Father Ryan turned; the two embraced warmly. An odd couple to many, no doubt—the priest and the voodoo priestess.

Father Ryan had once told her that he was true to his faith, but that, at heart, he and Natasha were kindred souls, seeking the same truth. Which had little to do with the way you sought that truth or the path you took.

She liked his view of the world.

“We’re sitting around the little table in the kitchen,” Danni said. The Cheshire Cat was similar to many places on Royal Street; it had been built as a house but now the shop took up the downstairs, with the small kitchen and one-time pantry on the first floor and her bedroom on the second. Billie’s apartment—and now Bo Ray’s, too—was located in what had been the attic. Luckily, it was big, and both men had their own rooms and ample space.

And downstairs, in the basement, really the ground level, was her father’s office or den and special collection of “curios.” Her studio, in the former pantry, was where she worked when she had time for her own art.

“Billie’s made jambalaya and cheese grits,” Danni announced as she led them in. “And we’ve got salad.”

“Scottish jambalaya!” Father Ryan said. “I can’t wait.”

Billie was behind them. He threw Father Ryan an evil glare and muttered, “Lucky I didn’t get the urge for haggis, friend, that’s all I have to say.”

When Bo Ray entered a few minutes later, Billie asked them all to grab plates and line up at the stove to help themselves. Natasha designated herself the beverage server and poured tea, lemonade and water, as each person chose. They were still in the act of greeting one another with casual jokes and hugs and getting organized at the table when Danni heard the buzzer at the shop’s main door. She excused herself and hurried down the hall, then out to the showroom. Looking through the glass, she saw Jake Larue standing there. He appeared to be tense, worried about something.

When she opened the door, he said, “You’re all here?”

Danni nodded. “Yeah. Hi, Jake. How are you?”

“May I?” he asked.

“Of course.”

She let him in, wondering why he was here. We’re just having dinner,” she said. “Hungry?”

“I don’t mean to impose,” he said.

“We have tons of food,” she assured him, leading the way through the darkened showroom to the kitchen.

As he walked in, everyone froze in position.

“Hey, guys. Jake’s here,” Danni said. “Billie made jambalaya.”

“Scottish jambalaya?” Jake’s confused words broke the freeze. The others laughed; Billie groaned, “Not again,” and shook his head.

“Get a plate and join us,” Quinn said. If he was surprised to see Jake, he didn’t let on.

Jake started to dish up food, but halfway through he turned to Quinn. “The log-in list disappeared from the evidence room computer. The sign-out sheets are missing, as well.”

They all looked at Jake and then back at Quinn. “Nothing there?” he asked.

“It was wiped clean. God knows, we’ve got our best techs and computer whiz kids on it. They’ve come up with nothing,” Jake said, taking a seat.

Quinn seemed to understand him. The others didn’t. But Quinn said, “Jake, sit and we’ll figure out what we can.”

Squeezing him in meant they were tightly wedged around the table, but they made room. Once Jake was seated, Quinn said, “It’s on the news, so we’re all aware of what happened to the Garcia family. I went to see Hubert at autopsy, and he said the murders were all different—like a game of Clue, in his words. Nothing at autopsy dispelled his original findings, but we still can’t explain why we haven’t found a single weapon or worked out exactly what went on. Did James Garcia kill everyone and then slit his own throat? If so, where? Or was there someone else in the house, a person or maybe more than one person, who managed to perform acts of unspeakable horror—and walk away without being seen or leaving a blood trail? Then, before I could return from autopsy, Jake called me and I went down to the police station. There was fog in the evidence room.”

“Fog?” Natasha asked hoarsely.

Larue gestured vaguely. “Fog, smoke...something. Anyway, an officer on duty went insane, needing help. Help came—and so did I. And the fog or whatever it might’ve been was still there. The officer said that a shadow went after him. It was all extremely strange. We have nothing on the computer anymore—and nothing on the cameras except for the fog or gray smoke that hides the entire area for maybe twenty minutes.”

“So they don’t know what was taken,” Quinn finished. But he was looking curiously at Larue.

“Here’s what we do know. A number of things that had been removed from the Garcia house were taken from the evidence room. The vial you mentioned earlier, and three wrapped packages. In other words, things that were spattered with blood or might have given us a clue as to what a murderer was looking for,” Jake said.

That caused Father Ryan to thump a fist on the table, which in turn caused all the dishes and glasses and flatware to clatter.

“Sorry,” Father Ryan muttered. “But I’ve told Danni—those people were part of my flock and I knew them. I knew them well. There were no drugs, no arms, no implements of any illegality in that house. I’d stake my life on it!”

“I’m not suggesting James Garcia was doing anything illegal,” Larue said. “Not really illegal.”

“What do you mean?” Father Ryan demanded.

“Garcia was one of the most trusted men in his business,” Larue began. “He would pick up items for delivery when he finished for the night so he’d be ready to head out first thing in the morning. This wasn’t official policy, but his supervisors have admitted they had an understanding with certain employees and Garcia was one. He’d had packages waiting to go out at his home. Some had blood spatter. We don’t know precisely what they were, but one of the crime scene techs who’d been collecting objects from the house for analysis told us the packages weren’t in the evidence room. She and a few others were brought down to try to remember. You can knock out a computer, but as long there are still people around, memory serves.” He paused. “The only detail she could recall was that one of the packages was large and flat—presumably a piece of art—and another seemed to contain jewelry....”

They all stared at him. “I just wanted to let you know.” He shrugged. “Garcia might have been killed over something in his house—something he knew nothing about.”

“Are you finding out exactly what packages were being held at Garcia’s house?” Quinn asked.

“We’ll have a full report from Garcia’s company by morning.”

“So where are we? What’ve we got?” Billie asked.

“Five corpses—and a seasoned cop scared out of his wits,” Larue said. “That’s what we’ve got.”

“Plus missing evidence. And fog, mist, smoke,” Quinn added thoughtfully. “Natasha?”

“I haven’t heard a thing from the street,” she replied. “But...”

“But what?” Quinn asked sharply.

Danni stood quickly; she didn’t want Quinn trying to read her mind when her thoughts were still so jumbled. If she acted casual and began to clear the table, he might not notice.

Okay, so Natasha had some kind of sight. She’d told Danni a dozen times that with most people who came to the shop, she read the person more than she ever read a tarot card or tea leaf. And she was very good at it; as a priestess, she knew her followers. She knew when they needed guidance, when they should take a chance and when they should keep their heads down.

But that day, when she’d read Danni’s tea leaves, something had been different. Danni had never seen Natasha quite like she’d been that day.

“I’m sensing that this is a situation we all need to be involved in,” Natasha said, glancing at Danni.

Danni felt Quinn’s eyes on her. Then, when she reached for a plate, she felt his hand. He looked at her as he asked Natasha, “What did you see?”

Natasha seemed to carefully gauge her words. “A very strange sight, and that’s why I’m so curious about your ‘fog’ at the station. I saw Danni standing on a hill, and there was a castle in the background...a medieval castle, I believe. She was shouting, warning someone. The fog—the mist or whatever it was—seemed dark and shadowy. Gloomy. But there was something else.”

“Like what?” Quinn pressed.

“There was a crimson cast to it. Crimson...red...” She paused. “I wish I’d seen more. I wish I knew more.”

“Crimson. Red,” Larue repeated.

“The color of blood,” Billie said.