Darkest Journey (8 page)

“That was ten years ago,” Ethan said.

“Bet you Jonathan is still pissed,” Randy said.

“Thing is, I really have been sent down here on the case,” Ethan said. “So what have you got?”

He studied his friend, noting the man the boy had grown into. Randy was lean, but deceptively so. He had excelled on the school's wrestling team, as well as being the football team's top field-goal kicker. He'd told Ethan once that he knew he was never going to have the bulk and broad shoulders of some other men, so he had to make up for it with lean muscle.

“Nothing new. You probably know everything I do, since I'm sure they brought you up to speed before they sent you down here. You have the case folders, crime-scene photos, all that, right?”

“Yeah.”

Randy met his eyes and nodded. “Okay, so West Feliciana Parish has just under fifteen thousand people. Our annual crime rate is about two murders a year, and that includes negligent homicide, so it's not like you're looking at a major city where the cops are accustomed to investigating murders. We're not total newbies, though, so don't think we're all a bunch of toothless rednecks doing alligator wrestling for reality TV.”

“Randy, I grew up here. All my friends had their teeth, although the way you showed off opening beer bottles with yours, I'm surprised you kept yours.”

Randy shrugged. “Guess I'm glad they sent you and not some big-city know-it-all. Okay, so here's where things stand. At first, when Albion Corley was found, we were a little worried that some kind of race thing might erupt in town. We thought maybe some bigot was pissed at him for having the nerve to wear the uniform and take part in that big-deal reenactment, even as a Union orderly. Everyone liked the guy, though. Smart, a professor. Passionate about no-kill animal shelters and saving the wetlands and all that kind of thing. Then Farrell Hickory's body turned up, found by your old girlfriend.”

“Randy, we were never a couple,” Ethan said patiently.

“Proof of fatal stupidity on your part,” Randy said.

“Might be true. She was only sixteen, though.”

“Shakespeare's Juliet was thirteen, or something like that.”

“Wouldn't have been right,” Ethan said.

“Okay, okay, Mr. Morality, I'm moving on,” Randy said. “So now we have one dead black man in a Union uniform, and one dead white man who played a Confederate cavalry officer. Our investigations found that the two of them had some kind of dustup during what was billed as ‘Journey Day.' You probably remember that every year there's a big reenactment of
The Day the War Stopped
.
But
this year, because it's a situation that also draws a lot of interest, some enterprising person with a tour group of teachers had a brilliant idea—reenact the day the Confederates traded the
Journey
and her Union wounded to the Yankees for a bunch of their own prisoners. There was so much sickness aboard ship, the Rebels didn't even want it, but the Union didn't know that. Anyway, the cruise line offers special tours each year that focus on the Civil War, and this year they decided to feature a special reenactment of the
Journey
handover. To be honest, I'm surprised it took this long for someone to realize that there could be big bucks in that kind of thing, but then again, Celtic American has only owned the ship for six or seven years. The reenactment was subsidized by Gideon Oil, so the participants even got paid. Half the people I know around here were involved. Okay, that's an exaggeration. But a lot of locals turned up as extras. As far as we know, that was the last time the two victims saw each other. We actually questioned Farrell about Albion's death once we heard they'd been seen arguing. He had an alibi for the night Albion was killed, though, and then, of course, Farrell turned up the same way. I guess you're here to see the bodies?”

“It's a place to start,” Ethan said.

Inside the morgue, they found Dr. Earl Franklin on duty. He had to be nearing retirement age, Ethan knew, but he was also one of the brightest and most thorough men Ethan had met in the field, and not only in Louisiana but anywhere. He greeted Ethan warmly. When he'd been young and had already set his sights on a career in law enforcement, Ethan had plagued the man relentlessly, wanting to learn everything he could, and Franklin had been unendingly patient, as well as informative.

“Great to see you,” Franklin said to Ethan now. “Sorry you're here under such unfortunate circumstances, though.”

The ME was a stout man with wire-rimmed glasses and a head full of white hair. He would have looked at home on a big front porch, wearing a white suit and sipping a mint julep, Ethan thought wryly. Instead the man preferred libraries and skiing vacations in Colorado to sitting around anywhere.

“Good to see you. Though I'm sorry about the circumstances, too,” Ethan said.

“Well, both of you put your masks on and come in. I've got Mr. Corley and Mr. Hickory ready for your visit.”

Both men were laid out on steel gurneys. Their autopsies had already been performed. Sheets draped their lower extremities, revealing the Y incisions on their chests.

“No reason not to get right to it,” Dr. Franklin said. “Mr. Hickory was my only client this morning—both a good thing and a bad thing. My last was Mrs. Delsie Peterson. Do you remember her? Sorry to cut her up, but she died in her own home, alone in her bed, so the law required an autopsy, despite the fact she was ninety-eight. The old girl went easily. Just fell asleep and her heart stopped.”

“Glad to hear that. I do remember Mrs. Peterson. She fixed all our collars when we were kids and on our way into church,” Ethan said.

“Aren't you proud of the man, Doctor? He remembers his roots.” Randy grinned.

“A very good thing. Meanwhile, here are my notes. Both men were in good health, other than stabbed through the heart by something long and sharply pointed. Like a bayonet,” Franklin said.

Ethan took a moment to look over the notes the ME handed him. Then he studied each man in turn.

There was something incredibly sad about a person's earthly remains, no matter how they had died. When the spark of life left the body, it seemed to take everything important with it. No matter what, the body had a gray, pasty color. It didn't matter if the person had been Caucasian, or of African, Asian, Native American or any other descent, or represented a combination of nationalities. The flesh sank in until there was nothing real left of the person who had once made the physical being vital. He'd loathed open coffins all his life. What was the point, when the person was simply gone?

Most of the time.

He made a point of touching each icy cold body. He lingered, looking over the still-visible wounds to their hearts. Both men had exercised or at least been active enough to keep their muscles tight. Neither one had been young—the wrinkles creasing their flesh testified to that—but both could have looked forward to several more decades of life if they hadn't, somewhere and for some reason, crossed the path of a murderer.

“No bruising or defensive wounds to indicate a struggle?” Ethan asked, reluctantly accepting the fact that the dead weren't going to speak with him.

“If you ask me,” Franklin said, “and I'm not the detective, of course, Randy is—it appears that both men were taken completely by surprise. They were facing their killer when he struck, and he murdered each man the same way. Quickly. No defensive wounds. I believe they knew their killer.”

“And both men were killed where their bodies were found?” Ethan asked, though he knew the answer; he'd read it in the files Jackson had given him. It never hurt to have these things confirmed, though, especially when he was talking to the medical examiner who had been at the scene.

“Definitely. The soil beneath the bodies was drenched with their blood. We're still waiting for chemical analyses in the hope that something might turn up other than the victims' blood, but...like I said, I feel strongly that both men knew their killer and were taken completely by surprise.”

“And dressed up in their reenactment uniforms,” Ethan murmured.

“And for that reason we're looking at everyone—men and women—who were involved with the victims' final reenactment,” Randy said, sounding very much like a cop and very little like the old friend with whom Ethan had gone to school.

Ethan nodded. “Last meals, Doc?”

“Gumbo—both of them,” Franklin said. “Probably from someplace here in town. They died twenty-four to forty hours apart. They weren't at dinner together or anything. If they had been, they would have been at different stages of digestion, which they weren't. And, actually, I'm waiting for the lab results before I can be definitive with regard to Mr. Hickory. I'm going by my own gut, if you'll excuse the pun, in his case.”

Ethan nodded; Franklin had been at this long enough to recognize what he saw and smelled.

“They eat long before they died?” he asked.

“A couple of hours,” Franklin said.

Ethan turned to Randy. “Is there a reason why they would have been in their uniforms?”

Randy shrugged. “There's been a photographer in town paying people to pose. He said he hadn't asked either of them, though. He
was
at the reenactment, though, and took some shots there. As I'm sure you know, Brad Thornton and his brother, Mike, are making that movie with Charlie Moreau. Maybe they wanted to be extras. Hickory told his housekeeper he would be going out for a meeting, and she didn't need to leave him dinner. His people closed up the public part of the plantation right at five. The housekeeper was the last person to see him, right about that time, and he wasn't in uniform then. As far as Corley goes, no one seems to know anything definitive. He was on a research sabbatical, so he wasn't expected in class. He called a friend and asked her to feed his cats for the next few days, and that's the last we know of his whereabouts. His home is just this side of Baton Rouge, where he taught.”

“He didn't happen to tell the friend what he was up to, did he?” Ethan asked.

“Said he had some meetings in St. Francisville. That was it,” Randy told him.

“Well,” Dr. Franklin said, pulling the sheets fully over both bodies, “I'll let these gentlemen get back to rest. Any more questions, Ethan?”

Ethan shook his head. “Not now, Doc. But—”

“You can call me anytime. You know that. I'm here.”

“Thank you.”

Ethan and Randy didn't speak again until they were back out on the street.

“You coming in to the office?” Randy asked. “You want to see what else we've got?”

“What else
do
you have?” Ethan asked.

“Nothing except a pretty damned good crime board with times and pictures and everything laid out in one place. I'm going to start interviewing the rest of the people involved in that
Journey
reenactment, and, after that, everyone else who was on board. Is that what the Feds would do?”

“Yep. It is.”

“So...you coming?”

“Give me an hour?” Ethan asked. “There are a few things I'd like to do. Haven't even opened up my folks' old house yet.”

“You all still own the place?”

“Yep. My folks rent it out, but they're looking for new tenants now, so it's empty. Worked out nicely for me.”

“An hour, then. I'll make some phone calls while I wait for you, get some of the St. Francisville police going door to door to see if anyone heard or saw anything. It's always quieter and easier to call when the night shift's on,” Randy told him.

“See you soon,” Ethan said.

Just then Randy's phone rang, and he motioned to Ethan to wait while he answered. After a one-sided conversation consisting mostly of “Uh-huh” and “You're sure?” he thanked the caller. His expression serious, he turned to Ethan and said, “Ethan, I just got some news, and it's something you need to know.”

“What's that?”

“Doc Franklin was right about the gumbo. Both victims were seen eating it at the Mrs. Mama's Café in town. And there's one man who was seen around the same café when the victims were there. One man who might have had a beef with both of them. A guy who knew them, and might've been dining with them,” Randy said. “One particular man I want to interview—at the station.”

“And who is that?”

“Jonathan Moreau,” Randy said, then added softly, “Charlie's father.”

4

C
harlie was half listening as Brad talked excitedly about some contacts he'd made who might help him get broad distribution for their movie when she saw Ethan enter the restaurant. She sat straighter, frowning as he greeted the owner, Emily Watson. Emily had been there as long as Charlie could remember and surely had to be in her eighties. The two of them were smiling and chatting, but Ethan was clearly looking around for someone as they talked.

Her?

Yes.

She saw him thank Emily as she pointed to Charlie and the film crew where they sat toward the back of the restaurant.

Brad nudged her to get her attention.

“Look, it's Ethan Delaney,” he whispered. He didn't wait for her to respond before he stood and called out, “Ethan! Hey!”

Ethan smiled and headed toward their table, where introductions were quickly made.

He wasn't wearing a suit the way FBI agents always seemed to in the movies. He was wearing a tailored denim shirt, blue jeans and a denim jacket. He wasn't dressed as casually as most of their crew, though. Most of them—including Jennie and Charlie—were in T-shirts and jeans or khakis.

“Guess you're here to help solve the murders, huh?” Brad said. “I would have thought they'd leave this to the local police. Then again, maybe this counts as a serial-killer case, and that's why the Feds are in on it?”

“Who really understands why the powers that be decide these things?” Ethan said, taking a spare chair at the end of the table. “But despite the reason, it's good to be home, see some old friends.”

“Glad you still think of this as home,” Mike said, leaning forward. “And I didn't mean that sarcastically, honest.”

“This will always be home,” Ethan assured him. “We still own the old house. My parents will never give it up, and honestly, neither will I. But enough about old times.” He turned to Brad. “I hear you Thornton brothers are tearing up the film world.”

“Hardly tearing it up, but...trying,” Brad said.

“You should be in the film! I'm sure we can find you a uniform and make you an extra,” Mike said.

“I'd love to be in your film, but I'm on company time right now. The taxpayers might frown on me taking time off for fun,” Ethan said. “But who knows? I hear it will be a few days before you can film out by the old church again.”

“Yeah, we've had to switch the filming schedule around,” Brad told him. “So, if you've solved the murders by then and you're still around, I'm going to hold you to that.”

“It's a deal,” Ethan said.

“I hope you'll join us for something to eat,” Brad said.

“Thanks for the offer, but actually, I'm here for Charlie,” Ethan said.

“Oh!”

Everyone around the table spoke in unison, as if perfectly on time for some predetermined cue.

Then they all turned as one to stare at Charlie.

Of course, even those who had never met Ethan knew that, ten years ago, she had found a bracelet belonging to a murdered girl, and that when the killer had come back, Ethan had tackled him, saving her life.

“So Nick and Nora Charles are back at it,” Brad said.

“Brad, no one knows who Nick and Nora are these days,” Barry said.

“Okay, think
Remington Steele
,” Brad suggested.

“Still too far back,” Luke said with a laugh.

“Oh, come on!” Brad protested.

“Try
The X-Files
, Dana Scully and Fox Mulder,” Blane offered. “They just made a comeback.”

“Booth and Brennan—
Bones
,” George said.

Ethan looked over at Charlie and smiled. “Charlie's an actress. She's not involved in the investigation in any way. I just want her to go out to the field by the graveyard with me.”

“Relive old memories?” Jennie asked, shaking her head. “Not a good idea, especially when an old, abandoned cemetery is involved.”

Brad cleared his throat. “I don't think they're trying to relive the past, Jennie. He wants her to show him where she found the body. Actually, I can help,” he offered, turning to Ethan. “Spare Charlie from having to go through it all again.”

Ethan and Charlie were already out of their chairs.

“Brad, I'm fine. It's not a problem, and I
am
the one who found the body. Besides, I know you. You're already thinking about revising the shooting schedule yet again, then calling everyone to let them know the latest plans before you look over the dailies and moan about the fact that you have to be your own editor. Just call me when you have a final shooting schedule, okay?”

“She knows me,” Brad said to Ethan, smiling, then added, “We went to college together. We're kind of like a sister-brother team, you know?”

“Sure,” Ethan said. “And as soon as I can get away, I'd love to hang out on set.”

“Cool. Anytime,” Brad offered.

Charlie was already heading for the door, waving goodbye to everyone over her shoulder. She wanted to smack someone, she just wasn't sure whether that someone was Ethan for being so smooth or her friends for being so naive. Sure, he wanted to hang around on set, but not because he had any interest in being in the movie. He was suspicious of everyone involved with the film because, as far as he was concerned, any one of them could be a killer.

Ethan quickly joined her on the street.

“That was pretty rude, making them think you're interested in their movie when all you really want is to figure out if one of them—one of my friends—is a murderer,” Charlie snapped at him.

He shrugged, looking at her as if he was trying to figure out what changes the years had made. “You're the reason I'm here, and I assume it's because you want the truth. Because we both know that it will haunt you forever if these murders aren't solved. And, yes, some of your friends are under suspicion, though they're hardly the only ones. But I'll also have you know I was in one of Brad's movies before.”

“You were not!”

“Yes, I was. I was ten, Brad was seven. My mother made me. She and Brad's mom were pretty tight. He and Mike were already playing with cameras. He wanted to make a cowboys and Indians movie. He made me be a cowboy.”

“You don't like cowboys?”

“In Brad's film, the Choctaws were victorious. Cowboys had to die. I did so pretty dramatically, if I remember correctly.”

“So you'd really be in Brad's film?” she asked him.

“Why not?”

“You wouldn't get in trouble with the FBI?”

“With enough makeup, no one would even recognize me. And extras aren't credited, so who would even know?”

Charlie looked at him doubtfully. “Whatever. So, I've got my car. I can meet you on the bluff and—”

“No, we'll leave your car here. I'll drive.” He met her eyes, his expression serious. “This is important, and we both know why.” He started walking toward his car.

“Because a dead man spoke to me?” Charlie asked.

“That would be it, yes. But afterward, you've got to stay out of the investigation,” he told her firmly.

She'd been walking briskly alongside him, but now she stopped abruptly.

“You said it yourself. You're only on this case because of me,” she reminded him.

“Yes, and I'm not taking chances with your safety again.”

“We didn't take chances. You called the cops. We waited for them to get there. It was the right thing to do. Period. No one could have known the killer was going to come back to find the bracelet,” she said emphatically.

“And no one can deny the terror we felt when we saw the bastard with his knife out,” Ethan said.

“You weren't terrified. You always planned on being a cop, and you knew just what to do,” she said.

“I
was
terrified, because I saw him coming at you with a knife,” Ethan said quietly. “And I was lucky he was nothing but a skinny coward who relied on the fact that his victims were weaponless and not as strong as he was. I was a fool kid. I just jumped at him, and he went down.”

“Yes, and even though you didn't plan to, you stopped a serial killer,” she said firmly. “I found Farrell Hickory. I didn't start out the day wanting to find a body. It happened. I'm part of this.”

“Do you have a death wish or something?” Ethan demanded.

“No. Do you?”

He let out a sigh of aggravation and walked ahead of her. Charlie followed. If he wanted to drive, he could drive.

He opened the passenger side door for her, and she slid in. They didn't speak as he headed toward the bluff.

They still didn't speak when he stopped the car. She hopped out quickly and headed toward the place where she had found the body. Trampled crime-scene tape remained, but the crime-scene techs had finished their work and the site was deserted.

“Here, obviously. Right here,” she said quietly.

She stood still. There was a gentle breeze blowing that high up, and it was the time right before true darkness fell. The nearby trees seemed to sway and move like great dark beings with a life of their own. Traces of sunset remained, thin, quickly fading streaks of color in the sky. She stood there and relished the sensual movement of the breeze across her skin.

Ethan walked over and stood beside her, but she knew he wasn't feeling the breeze. He looked toward the area with the unhallowed graves, and then beyond, toward the church.

“So he was killed right here,” he murmured.

“Could the killer have brought the body here?” Charlie suggested.

Ethan shook his head. “Died right here.” Then he added quietly, “The ME could tell by the amount of blood in the ground.” He hesitated. “There was a lot—he was stabbed in the heart. Thing is, what the hell was he doing up here? In uniform?”

“He wasn't part of the movie,” Charlie said. “And we'd been out here for several hours before I...before I found him.”

“He told people the night before that he had a meeting, but he didn't say where. We do know he was killed with something long and sharply pointed, like a bayonet.”

“Are you suggesting that his meeting was with someone involved with the film? Someone with access to props?” she asked, trying to keep a defensive note out of her voice.

“I'm not suggesting anything. I'm saying that both of these men put on their reenactment uniforms, went out to meet with someone and wound up dead. I'm trying to think of reasons for why they were in their uniforms. If you can come up with any, please feel free to share.”

“People are always doing things in uniform around here. There are historical reenactments around every corner, living-history plantations... There's the
Journey
, the riverboat my dad works on, and when it's in port—”

Charlie broke off. Something in Ethan's face had changed. She stared at him for a moment, realizing that the police
were
suspicious of reenactors, which meant they were suspicious of her friends on the film.

Worse, she could tell that they were also suspicious of everyone involved with the
Journey
—including her father. And the way Ethan was looking at her...

“No! Oh, no, no, no. You can't possibly think my father had anything to do with this in any way,” Charlie said.

“I don't,” Ethan said.

“Of course not,” she said. But something in his eyes, an evasiveness she had never seen from him before, told her that he wasn't telling her the whole truth.

“But there are those who do.”

She froze, staring at him in shock.

He took a deep breath and said, “There's no one person who's a prime suspect at the moment. What we know is that Farrell Hickory and Albion Corley had some kind of a disagreement when they were working that reenactment and your father stepped in. From what I understand, it was heated, and he wasn't pleased with either of them, but in the end he got them calmed down. He was also seen at the restaurant, having a meal with them.”

“You don't kill someone because you've had an argument!” Charlie insisted vehemently. “And certainly not if you ate with them after!”

“No, and as I said, I don't believe your father had anything to do with this.”

“But you—you don't even like my father,” Charlie said.

“Charlie, I don't
dis
like him.
He's
the one who doesn't like
me
. But whatever our feelings, they have nothing to do with the situation. Right now, I'm floundering in the dark. I'm looking for motive, a reason why the killer targeted these two men. I'd hoped if we came out here together, we might find some clue, that if a dead man did call your name...”

“You know I didn't make it up.”

“I know. I'd hoped he might come back again,” he said quietly.

Who was he hoping might come back? she wondered. A Confederate cavalryman? Or had it been Farrell Hickory himself who'd called to her?

Charlie stood there silently for a minute, then shrugged. “I'm sorry,” she said. “No one came back.”

“We have two groups of people to consider,” Ethan told her. “Reenactors, including the people on your film, and everyone who was aboard the
Journey
the day of the fight.”

She stared at him, but night was falling in earnest, making it hard for her to read his expression.

“Let me get you back to your car,” he told her.

“Yes, thank you,” she said tightly.

He turned away, and she followed right behind him, then paused to look back.

Right where she had been standing, something seemed to be taking form in the air, a deeper shadow forming against the darkness.

And then she saw him. The Confederate cavalry officer she had seen before, Anson McKee.

He looked at her gravely, then pointed toward the river.

Seconds later he was gone, leaving Charlie to wonder if she had really seen him at all, or if he had been only a shift in the light or a haunting figment of her imagination.