скачать книгу бесплатно
“This is a right nice place to meet, but we need to get to business,” Griffin said, winking at Ashley.
“Yeah, Ramsay, looks like you need to skedaddle!” Cliff teased.
“I’m out of here!” Ramsay said, rising. He looked around. “Sadly, I do like Cliff’s digs better than being cramped up in an apartment!”
Griffin was right: they were in a nice place to meet. The office/living quarters in the stables were extremely pleasant; there was no heavy smell of hay, horses or droppings in any way, since the office had long ago been fitted out with air-conditioning and an air purifier to boot. There were a number of trophies along with books on horses, horse care, tack and maps on the shelves around the old massive desk with its iMac and printer. It was the horse master’s realm. No matter the state of riches or poverty the Donegal Plantation might be in, there was always a horse master. These days, the horse master did more than look after the six horses that remained. He was a tour guide, overseer—though they didn’t grow anything other than a few flowers now and then and a tomato plant or two—and general man about the house.
Ashley stood and gave him a shove. “Our apartments are beautiful. Get on out of here, and get this all moving!” She spoke with teasing force. “I’m going out to check on the camp setup and see that everything is running smoothly, then get ready. I’ll leave you gentlemen to agree on the final assignments and action. The day is moving on. We need to be prepared to start with the battle at sundown.”
“Hell, I hope they got a uniform that will fit me!” He winked. Ramsay was a good guy. He had a small house that had once been a working plantation, but his land had been eaten up over the years. Plantation actually meant farm, and Ramsay had no farmland left at all. He spent most of his time in the city, where he actually was a working artist making a nice income.
“I’m off to join the Yankees!”
“Thanks!” Charles Osgood lifted a hand to Ramsay, and then to Ashley, looking dazed. He was getting the prime role for the day, and he still seemed to be surprised.
It didn’t mean as much to Ramsay, Ashley thought, watching him as he walked from the stables to the old barn. He was from here; he’d been born a part of it all. He’d played soldiers over and over again, and though it had been magnanimous of him to hand over the role, she wasn’t sure that Ramsay hadn’t decided that being a Yankee might not be that bad a thing for the day. After all, they ended the day with the Pledge of Allegiance and the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Even if they did begin it with a rousing chorus of “Dixie”!
She left Cliff’s to make a quick check of the horses. “Thank God you darlings don’t care if you’re Yankees or rebels!” she said affectionately, pausing to rub Abe’s ears. She saw that the tack for the Northern cavalry was ready for each of the mounts, saddles and saddle blankets set on sawhorses and the bridles with their insignias hanging from hooks right outside the stalls. Abe, Jeff, Varina, Tigger, Nellie and Bobby were all groomed and sleekly beautiful, ready to play their parts. She paused to give Varina a pat; she loved all the horses, but Varina was her special mare, the horse she always chose to ride.
Leaving the stables, Ashley paused for a moment to look across the expanse of acreage to the left, where the tents of the living encampment had been set up. She could see the sutler’s stretch of canvas, and she walked over to see who was working that day. Tourists—parked way down the river road—were milling around the goods for sale. She heard children squealing with delight as they discovered toys from the mid-nineteenth century, just as she heard women ooh and aah over some of the corsets and clothing. She saw that a crowd had gathered around the medical tent where reenactors were doing a spectacular job of performing an amputation. The patient let out a horrific scream, and then passed out. Dr. Ben Austin—playing his ancestor, also Dr. Ben Austin—stood in an apron covered in stage blood and explained the procedure. Ben would later be part of the battle reenactment, but for now, he was explaining medicine. Ashley reached him in time to capture part of his spiel.
“Amputation was frequently the only choice for a Civil War surgeon, and field surgeons could perform an amputation in as little as ten minutes,” Ben told the crowd. “Chloroform existed, but it was scarce. The South had alcohol. When the surgeon could, he would do everything in his power to make the traumatic operation easier for his patient, but at major battles, the pile of amputated limbs could easily grow to be five feet tall. There was no real understanding of germs, and more men died from disease than from wounds or bullets. To carry that further, more men died in the Civil War than in any other American war, and more men died at Sharpsburg, or Antietam, as those of you from the North might know it, than died during the D-Day invasion.”
Ben saw Ashley watching him and lifted a bloody hand. Well, it was covered in faux blood from the faux surgery. Ben knew how to be dramatic. She smiled and waved in return and went on, stopping to chat with some of the women who were cooking, darning or sewing at the living-encampment tents. There were soldiers around as well, explaining Enfield rifles to little boys, whittling, playing harmonicas or engaging in other period activities. One laundress was hanging shirts and long johns out to dry—a nice touch, Ashley thought.
“When the war started, the North already had a commissary department—and the South didn’t,” Matty, the sutler’s wife, was explaining to a group who stood around the campfire she had nurtured throughout the day. “Hardtack—dried biscuits, really—molasses, coffee, sugar, salted beef or pork and whatever they could scrounge off the land was what fed the soldiers, and the South had to scramble to feed the troops. Didn’t matter how rich you were—you were pretty much stuck with what could be gotten. There were points, especially at the beginning of the war, during which the Southern soldiers were doing all right. They were on Southern soil. But war can strip the land. What I’m doing here is boiling salted beef and trying to come up with something like a gravy to soften up the hardtack. With a few precious spices, salt and sugar, it won’t be too bad. A few people can taste, if they like! Of course, I’ve made sure that our hardtack has no boll weevils. The soldiers were fighting every kind of varmint, big and small, to keep their own food.”
Everything seemed to be in perfect order; Ashley’s dreams had been for nothing.
Except, of course, that the reenactment always made her think about Jake.
They were due to leave soon, within the next few days, but since Adam Harrison’s group was still in New Orleans, they finished with the training they were doing there, and waiting for the move, Jake had agreed to go wandering around the French Quarter with his fellow newly minted agent, Whitney Tremont.
“I must admit, I’m going to be sorry to leave New Orleans,” Whitney said. She stared out toward Jackson Square. “There was so much paperwork after the Holloway case, it felt like we were picking up the pieces for days at first. But it’s been nice to have this bit of time to get ready for our move, since we’re all taking up residence in the D.C. area. Though, I’m ex-cited—I mean, we’re going to have offices, Jake. Like really cool offices, in a building in Alexandria—with help! A forensics lab! State-of-the-art equipment.”
Jake grinned. “Yes, it’s going to be interesting to get settled in.”
Whitney grinned back. Her skin was like the café au lait that sat before them. He knew that the others had thought the two of them might wind up together, but what they had formed instead was a friendship, deep and binding.
“But it was good, I think—just being thrown together as freelancers of a sort for our first case. Don’t you think?” she asked. “But federal positions … though I don’t think we really get to stay in those fancy buildings that often, do you?”
“We’re like any other team or unit for the FBI, I believe. The cases come in, and I’m assuming that Adam Harrison and Jackson Crow decide what looks like something we should take on. We’ll get to discuss the situation then. And make the plans.”
“Do you think that any of us could put a case forward?” she asked.
“Sure.” He smiled. “Let’s face it, Whitney, we are an experiment in paranormal investigations. We’re unique, and I’m sure there are those who will make fun of the ‘Krewe of Hunters’ unit.”
“Not anymore. Not after the Holloway case,” she said proudly.
“We have to keep proving that we’re good at what we do,” Jake said. The name “Krewe” they’d given themselves had begun as a joke, but they’d become a real crew through their passion for the work.
“Hmm,” Whitney said, twirling her straw in her iced café au lait. “It’s here somewhere.”
“Here? What’s here? Sometimes you make no sense.”
That made her laugh. “Only sometimes? I think that our new case is going to be here. Somewhere in Louisiana.”
“We’re about to move to Alexandria,” he pointed out.
“I don’t know … I just have a feeling. I don’t think we’ll be going yet. You wait and see.”
“What makes you think that?” Jake asked. Whitney’s prowess was with film, sound and video. But she also seemed to have amazing intuition. Of course, they had all been gathered into the group because of their intuition, their ability to solve problems where others could not, but where Angela Hawkins was quiet, finding what she found without much ado, and Jackson would always be the skeptic, Whitney went in wide-eyed, eager for whatever might not be considered normal.
“Feelings and logic, that’s kind of the Krewe of Hunters motto, right?” she asked.
He laughed, but something was knotting in the pit of his stomach. “I think it’s supposed to be logic—and then feelings,” he told her. He gazed idly across the street. The mule-drawn carriages were starting to arrive in front of Jackson Square. An early-morning tour group was forming on Decatur Street. One of the history tours, he thought.
“Well, of course, good old Jackson, he’s still swearing solving cases is all logic, and we all know that he knows best,” Whitney said.
Jake wasn’t really paying attention. He had seen the tour-group leader come out—he wasn’t sure where she had come from. Of course, there were a number of restaurants and bars in the area, and some had been open forever. It was New Orleans. No one frowned if you discovered you were dying for that 8:00 a.m. drink.
The tour guide was a blonde woman dressed in Civil War attire. Her bonnet hid her face, but she was tall and statuesque, and he had a feeling that she was going to be an attractive woman before he saw her face. Assured, probably in her mid to late thirties, she moved among the chattering crowd as they waited.
She was coming toward the sidewalk, politely excusing herself as she did so, but people didn’t seem to notice as she made her way through them, which said a lot for the good nature of the group, since she was wearing a respectable day dress with large hoops.
She paused when she reached the sidewalk.
Jake started. She was staring straight at him, and she smiled, but her smile seemed to be very sad. Her mouth moved. He squinted. He wasn’t all that much at reading lips, but it was almost as if he could hear her.
“We’re waiting, we need you. Hurry,” he thought she said.
“Jake?”
“Huh?” He turned back to look at Whitney.
“Want to move on?” she asked.
“Yes, sure,” he agreed. He stood and left a tip on the table, having already paid the waiter.
When he glanced up again, the tour had moved on down toward the cathedral. He didn’t see the woman, but they would be walking in the same direction.
“Whitney,” he asked as they did so, “did you understand what that woman was trying to say?”
“What woman?”
“She was the guide for that group that’s ahead of us. She looked right over at us and said something,” Jake told her.
Whitney arched a delicately formed brow. “First, I didn’t see the woman, but I wasn’t looking. And second, if she’d spoken from across the street, unless she’d been yelling, how could I have heard anything she had to say?”
He shrugged. “Good point.”
They walked up St. Ann Street, took a pedestrian thruway as they passed by the square, then turned in right in front of the cathedral, where the tour group had now paused.
The woman wasn’t with them. There was a man in a top hat and frock coat leading the tour.
Jake stopped short.
“Hey! Hey there, remember me?” Whitney said, nudging him.
“Just a second,” Jake said. He knew that the man would finish his spiel about St. Louis Cathedral, and then allow the group to take pictures.
This guide, however, apparently liked to hear himself speak. He added in several personal anecdotes regarding the cathedral, before allowing his group to disperse for pictures.
When the group finally thinned, Jake approached him. The fellow, in his mid-twenties, saw them coming.
“The tour offices are actually on Decatur, sir, if you’re interested in any of our offerings. We do history tours, ghost tours, vampire tours, plantation tours—”
“Actually, we’re locals and could do the tours,” Jake said, interrupting him with a pleasant tone. “I’m just curious—why did you all change tour guides at the last minute?”
The man frowned. “We didn’t. I’ve been scheduled for over a week to do this tour.”
Jake frowned. “I saw a woman with your group. She was dressed in antebellum clothing, bonnet and all.”
“Oh, she was probably heading for Le Petit Theatre,” the tour guide said. “They’re doing several performances of Our American Cousin. She’s a bit early to be in costume for the matinee, but I imagine you saw one of the actresses.”
“Oh, well, thanks,” Jake said.
“Why?”
“Oh, I just thought she was trying to tell me something,” Jake said.
“If she was trying to tell you something, wouldn’t she have just done so?” the man asked.
Jake was irritated by the tone; frankly, he hadn’t liked the man since he’d heard him giving his own life’s history along with the tour.
He felt Whitney’s hand on his arm.
He forced a smile. “Thanks, thanks for the help,” he said.
Whitney pulled him along. “Jerk,” she said.
“Ass,” Jake agreed.
“I meant you,” Whitney teased. “No, sorry—he was a jerk. But come on now! We don’t have any reason to go to the theater.”
“But we’re going to pass it!” Jake protested.
“Let it go, Jake. You saw an actress, and you thought she had something to say. Without sounding just as jerky as that jerk, it’s true—if she’d really wanted to talk to you, she would have come on over. I don’t want to help you stalk a woman, Jake.”
“I don’t want to stalk her. I want to know who she is,” Jake said.
But they did pass right by Le Petit Theatre. He couldn’t help but stop to read the playbill and look at the pictures of the actors in the show.
“She’s not here,” he said.
“Well, God knows, this is New Orleans. Maybe she’s just a kook who likes to dress up in Southern belle attire, though God knows why, the heat can be a bitch. Forget it, Jake.”
Jake agreed. He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much that he’d seen the woman and hadn’t been able to talk to her.
That wasn’t true. He did know. There had been something vaguely familiar about her, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.
“Jake? Are you okay?” Whitney asked.
“Fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“It’s nothing, really. Hey, nothing that car bombs tonight after dinner with the group won’t cure, right?” he said, setting an arm around her shoulders as he led her down the street.
Car bombs weren’t going to fix anything. He was truly disturbed by the woman.
Why was she so familiar? Was she real, or was she in his imagination? Had he brought his dream world to the surface, and did he want her to be from Donegal?
It was absurd, even for a ghost hunter, to believe that someone from the past was calling out to him, trying to reach him.
Logic—and then feelings. That was Jackson Crow’s motto. It was only logical that he think about Ashley now, and logical that even after all these years, he wanted her to need him.
Logic …
Somehow, it just wasn’t working. Feelings were taking over. And thoughts of Ashley and Donegal Plantation.
2
Ashley surveyed the expanse of the property one last time; everything was going extremely well. Children were playing and laughing, the camp looked wonderful and there were activities going on everywhere.
She headed for the house. It was time for her to become Emma Donegal and get ready for the evening’s battle.
But as she walked toward the house, she slowed, paused and looked over at the cemetery. The gate was locked.
Still, a creeping feeling of unease swept over her.
She shrugged it off; a dream was a dream. Good God, she’d dreamed once that she’d kissed Vance Thibault in high school one day, and she loathed him! She hurried on toward the house, trying to forget her unease.
Her grandfather, Frazier Donegal, was sitting on the back porch. She grinned; he looked spectacular, she thought. Frazier was eighty-three, but he showed little sign of slowing down. Today he was dressed in a frock coat, pinstripe breeches and high riding boots—a pure gentleman of the age with his full head of snow-white, a Colonel Sanders mustache and goatee, and bright blue eyes. She worried about him constantly; his health was good, but he was eighty-three.
He was really in the mood today, though, she thought. He was sipping a mint julep. He didn’t even like mint juleps.
“There you are!” he said. “I was starting to wonder.”
