Darkest Journey (6 page)

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.

3

T
hey stood some distance apart still, neither one rushing forward to initiate a warm old-friends' hug.

It had been a long time.

But, looking at her now, Ethan wished he could just walk over and take her in his arms.

Charlie had changed.

He would never forget the way she had looked when he'd found her that night—truthfully, he would never forget anything about that night. Charlie had always been beautiful.

She had become more so over the last ten years. The bone structure of her face was sharper. Her eyes, the deepest blue he'd ever seen, seemed even larger. She had delicately shaped brows, a nearly perfectly straight nose and a generous, well-defined mouth. She was tall—five-ten, at a guess—and carried her height well. She was thin, but had all the right curves. Everything about Charlie was...

Pretty damned perfect. Her hair was a rich chestnut. She wore it long, and it seemed to move with her at all times, even when she was standing still. In fact, when she'd had a crush on him, it had seemed like manna from above.

But, of course, he'd been nineteen. In college. She'd been sixteen, still just a sophomore in high school. Any thought of a relationship was simply doomed. And so, despite every objection posed by his heart—and his libido—he had turned her away. He wondered if, with age, she'd understood. He hadn't seen her since Frank Harnett's trial. She'd never tried to contact him.

Until now.

He wondered if she had any clue to the way she had haunted his dreams. The way he remembered her face when she'd looked up at him, her beauty, her hope—her faith.

“So how are you doing?” he asked her quietly. “Other than stumbling across a dead man.”

She smiled. “Good. Thanks. In a nutshell, college, performing-arts major, some theater, some webisodes, a few nicely paying commercials. I've really been enjoying filming here. I love the project, love that we're all a part of the production as a whole—and glad to be home again. I don't get here often—not on purpose or anything. It's just I've been living in New Orleans, because that's where most of the work is. But it's great being here, because I get to see more of Dad, though the
Journey
's home port is NOLA, so I get to see him when he's in town. I'm talking too much. Sorry. How about you?”

He shrugged and smiled. Talking too much? She'd managed to cover ten years in a pretty compact nutshell.

“College, service, master's degree, FBI Academy, a few years with a regular unit, and now the Krewe of Hunters.”

“I heard.”

He nodded. “So I gather. You're friends with Alexi Cromwell and Clara Avery, right? You've all worked together in New Orleans?”

“Yes, in
Godspell
,” Charlie agreed. “Alexi was the musical director, Clara and I were in the show. They're both from the NOLA area. And I saw the news about what happened on the
Destiny
and the
Fate
, and how they were involved... So I knew from them what you'd been up to and the work you're doing now.”

He nodded. “I know about some of your work, too.” He grinned. “I've seen you on that new cop series they film in NOLA.”

“It's just a recurring role right now, but I keep hoping that I'll get upgraded to series regular,” she said lightly.

“I especially liked that condom commercial you did.”

“Hey. I made good money on that!”

At that, he took off his glasses, and they both laughed softly.

Then the laughter faded, and they were left staring awkwardly at each other.

Business, he reminded himself. He was here on business. To break the tension he said, “Okay, so our head honcho is getting me on the task force looking into the murders, but in the meantime, want to bring me up to speed on what happened the other night?”

She nodded somberly. “I didn't know anything about the first murder until one of my friends on the film told me about it after we finished shooting for the day. Apparently the information hit the news after I left for the set, and I'd been blocking and rehearsing and filming all day long.” Her face lit up. “It's really a good movie, Ethan. I think you'd like it. Brad's captured the flavor of the Civil War era in the historical scenes, a real sense of what people were thinking and feeling. There's a great scene with one of the ghosts. He talks about the way a man's home state was everything to him back then. You get a real feel for people, and why they did what they did. And the soldiers... Did you know they would throw away their pipes and playing cards before they went into battle, anything it might have upset their families to find if they were killed. Of course, the movie's really about our present day—ecologists, big oil, and the need to preserve the land while also making sure that people have jobs and can afford to eat.”

Ethan nodded, loving how passionate she was about the project. “I'm sure it's going to be a great movie. But what I need to know now is what happened to you last night.”

“Right, last night.” She was quiet for a moment. “I'm never in that area without remembering, you know? I'm not afraid, not usually, despite what happened out there. I mean, the whole unhallowed ground thing doesn't matter to me, because...because too many people were buried there just because they weren't from here or up to local standards at the time, or whatever. But then I heard my name being called. I don't really know if it was the murdered man calling me or if it was Anson McKee—Captain McKee, the cavalry commander who led you to me back when I was stupid enough to think I wanted to be a Cherub.” She let out a breath. “But I found him. Farrell Hickory, I mean. Brad called the police, and the rest you know.”

“I gather both men performed aboard the
Journey
,” Ethan said.

Charlie nodded, looking around. “Most reenactors own their own uniforms, swords and other props. So when someone's looking for actors to fill specific historical roles, they can find the people they need easily enough, and the same people end up working together a lot. Friends of mine do it for fun—and for pay, when they can. They filmed a Civil War epic down near Houma not that long ago, and a lot of my friends worked as extras and made nice money at it.”

“Right. So we need to find out who has a grudge against one or both men, who else was on the ship when the victims were, who might have been fighting with whom....” He sighed. “Hell, maybe some idiot just decided to refight the Civil War.”

“It's not some idiot refighting the war. The victims represented both sides of the conflict. If you were a bitter Confederate, you'd kill Union men. And if you lost a relative fighting for the Union during the war, you'd want to bring down the Confederates.”

“It's not race. One man was half black, and the other one was white,” Ethan said. “But they were both in that reenactment on the
Journey
, so my gut tells me it has to go back to that somehow.”

“Maybe someone on the
Journey
had a fight with both of them,” Charlie said.

Ethan shrugged. He still had a lot of investigating ahead of him. It was much too early to settle on any one theory. He'd just gotten to town—and he'd headed straight out to see Charlie. He didn't ask himself why that had seemed like the most important thing to do.

Now he'd seen her.

And while so much was different after a decade had passed, everything he felt about her was just the same.

“I have to meet with the police and find out what they know,” he said.

“Can I go with you?”

“No, not this time, anyway. Besides, when I was headed up here, I overheard you telling your father you were going straight home.” When she looked as if she might object, he added, “Charlie, this doesn't really involve you, you know.”

“Neither did the last murder,” she said sharply.

Once again they looked at one another in silence, and he thought back to that night in the graveyard.

She'd found the bracelet; he'd called the police. He'd known it would be important for them to know exactly where the bracelet had been found, so he'd insisted on waiting there until the cops arrived.

Restless, Charlie had gotten up and perched on a headstone, while he'd walked off and leaned against a tree. Neither one of them had seen the killer when he'd come, searching for the bracelet, his trophy from his last victim. Then something, a rustle, a whisper, a movement—maybe even the Confederate officer who had led him to Charlie—had alerted him, and he'd turned just in time to see a man bearing down on Charlie with a raised butcher knife.

Luckily for him, the killer was nothing but a coward with a knife—a sick little bastard who didn't even put up a fight when Ethan tackled him. He screamed and cried like a baby when Ethan brought him down, knocking the knife from his hand.

By the time the police arrived, the killer had been caught.

He and Charlie had been credited with bringing him down.

Charlie had quit the Cherubs and sworn she would never have anything to do with such a ridiculous organization again.

And Jonathan Moreau had despised Ethan ever since. He said a real man would have gotten Charlie to safety, not made her stay anywhere near the site of a murder when the killer could return at any moment. Charlie had almost been killed, and as far as he was concerned, that was entirely Ethan's fault.

Charlie's mother, on the other hand, had applauded the fact that his quick thinking and determination had saved Charlie.

And Charlie herself...

She'd visited him once after he'd gone back to college. They'd talked a lot about seeing the dead. They'd wondered why some spirits stayed and others didn't, wondered why, when loved ones died, the living rarely got to speak with them. They agreed that they would never fathom it, not while they were here on earth. They'd come so close....

And then he'd made her leave.

He hadn't wanted to. Even at sixteen, she was already elegant as well as beautiful. Some might have said that a three-year age difference wasn't enough to make him give up the attraction—intellectual as well as physical—that sparked between them.

But in his mind, it wouldn't have been right; she was still a kid, still in high school. He was grown and out of the house, already in college.

Not to mention that he couldn't help thinking maybe her father had the right to hate him.

Looking at her now, he realized she'd grown even more beautiful, even more elegant.

“The killer was caught and tried, and it was all over and done with quickly, Charlie,” he said.

“Really? Quickly? It still haunts me,” she said. “I'd really like to go with you to talk to the police, now that it's all happening again.”

“Do me a favor,” he said after a moment. “For now, just do what you told your father you would and go home, okay? I'll let you know if I learn anything after I've had a chance to talk to Randy.”

“Randy?”

“Randall Laurent, the detective heading up the case. He's an old friend, so I'm hoping things will go smoothly between us.”

“I can't imagine they won't. I only vaguely remember him from school. Like you, he was three years older—a huge difference back then—and I know you were both on the football team. He seemed like a decent man when I talked to him last night. He wanted all the facts, but he was very understanding about asking. I guess he knew I was pretty much in a state of shock.”

“That sounds like him,” Ethan agreed. He wished her eyes weren't so blue. And that she wouldn't look at him the way she was, as if he'd become a stranger.

She walked past him, moving toward the path down to the road. They still hadn't touched, but he could smell her perfume, something as light as air and yet inexplicably provocative.

“Charlie?”

She waved to him without turning around. “I'm going home. Call me when you've got something.”

Ethan watched her go. She might be going home now, but he had a very strong feeling that she wasn't going to stay there.

With a soft groan he decided to locate Laurent and find out everything he knew about the victims and whatever they'd pieced together about the killer.

Charlie just might be investigating on her own, relying on that special talent of hers.

And that could prove very dangerous.

* * *

Charlie paced the old house her dad owned just on the outskirts of St. Francisville. It was a wonderful old place, built sometime right before the start of the Civil War. It wasn't a plantation house and had never been a working farm. It had been built by a man who had worked the riverboats, which made it a perfect fit for her father, with his passion for history and his current position on a riverboat himself. It wasn't a large place, but there had always been enough room for their family, with three bedrooms upstairs plus a living room, dining room, office and library/family room—and modern kitchen—downstairs. Each bedroom had a fireplace, as did the living room. It was furnished with a mishmash of antiques that somehow worked, and her dad knew the origin of each piece of furniture. Only the big-screen television and entertainment center were new.

She loved her home....

Loved to remember her mom working in the kitchen or the seasonal flower beds she was so proud of. The sense of loss remained, of course, but Charlie thought both she and her dad had adjusted well, loving the memories and embracing them, but also finding satisfaction, even joy, in the lives they led now.

Right now, though, she didn't want to be home. She didn't want to care for her mother's flowers, look through scrapbooks or even learn lines for her upcoming scenes. She didn't want to read or catch a movie on Netflix, not when two people had been murdered and either a newly dead man or a long-ago ghost had called out to her by name. She felt connected to this case, compelled to do something to help solve it, but Ethan had sent her home instead, leading to her current restless frustration.