Haunted Destiny

  * * *

  Jude dropped Clara off at rehearsal and brought Alexi back to her room; she promised she’d wait for him there, and he promised he’d be back in plenty of time so she could settle in and get organized for the night ahead.

  He told Jackson about the scene between Roger and Lorna, and how Hank and Ginny had been with them at the sushi table.

  “What do you think? Is Ginny in trouble—or is she taking advantage of Hank Osprey?” Jackson asked. “I’ll get Angela on it, see what she can find out regarding Ginny Monk.”

  Jude shrugged in response and found himself studying Jackson curiously.

  “What is it?”

  “None of my business, probably,” Jude murmured.

  “Well, whatever it is, I’d rather you spoke than stared at me.”

  “Okay. How exactly did you end up on this case?” Jude asked. “I understood from the beginning that you’re with a special unit of the bureau. But your special unit comes in when there’s something unusual about a case. When there’s an unexplained element. Or a special request. Not that this case isn’t top priority right now, but still...you’re from this ‘special’ unit in the Quantico office. There are excellent agents all over the country—not to mention profilers and behavioral scientists—studying the case. So...why the Krewe of Hunters?”

  Jackson Crow had been focused on his computer screen. Now he gave Jude his full attention. Jude wondered about his background. Had Crow spoken to someone he’d later discovered was dead? Or had his relationship with the lingering souls of the dead begun as it had for Alexi, something he had somehow known and accepted from the time he was a child?

  “Angela and I were away for a weekend vacation eight months ago,” he began. “In Charleston, South Carolina. We were staying at a bed-and-breakfast with a charming courtyard. Our room opened onto the courtyard, and I went outside in the morning, just to see the sunrise. The courtyard started to fill with light—and that’s when Peggy Carlyle came to me.”

  “Peggy Carlyle, the first victim,” Jude said.

  “As we later learned. She appeared suddenly, as if she was part of the light. She wore a beautiful white dress.”

  “But, of course, she was dead.”

  Jackson nodded slowly. “She was fragile, barely noticeable, like dust motes on the air. I was almost afraid to speak, in case she just disappeared. The doors to our room opened and Angela came out, smiling, happy, excited. She loves Charleston and that particular B and B. But she stopped, seeing what I saw. And she whispered to the young woman, asking if we could help her. Peggy looked lost, entirely lost. And then she disappeared. The next week we were back at our offices in Northern Virginia when we heard that the body of a young woman, draped with a saint’s medallion, had been found in a church near the bed-and-breakfast. I knew it was her. Peggy was a graphic artist and the medallion around her neck was St. Catherine’s. Patron saint of artists, as you’ll recall... The police were on it, and naturally they wanted the case to be under local jurisdiction, but I was able to obtain the crime scene photos—and then those of the next murder, also in Charleston. I knew I had to get myself assigned to the case. Then, while we were investigating leads, the killer moved on. Four women were killed in South Florida, and while we were following leads there, he struck in Mobile. I believed the Archangel was speeding up, and that he might well hit New Orleans next. It just seemed to fit his pattern. And you know the rest.”

  “So,” Jude said, “it was a Krewe case from the beginning.”

  Jackson shrugged. “As far as I was concerned, yes. Now we’re officially in. We’ve had Krewe members working in the cities where he’s already struck. And we have one of the finest medical examiners around, Kat Sokolov. She’s seen the bodies, determined how the killer manipulates his weapons, the way he displays his victims. Which has helped us conclude that we’re looking for one man—and not copycats.”

  “Did you ever see Peggy Carlyle again?” Jude asked.

  Jackson shook his head. “No. Just that one moment. I found out that she liked to come to the courtyard where I was sitting. The B and B had a little café, and she’d buy a coffee and bring it to the courtyard.”

  Jude digested that information. “And you investigated me before you reached New Orleans?”

  Jackson smiled at that. “As we’ve discussed, you had a reputation for solving difficult cases because of your uncanny hunches—or what you called hunches. And your military record was interesting. Yes, I had access. You managed to cover it all really well, and you were smart to agree to therapy. I doubt it answered your question—whether or not you’d talked to a dead man. At least it helped you live with yourself more easily.”

  “Maybe we all need therapy,” Jude said.

  “Maybe you’ve finally discovered the therapy that’s right for you,” Jackson said.

  Naturally, the man knew that he and Alexi had become close, that the relationship had gone beyond agent and—what? Witness?

  He raised his hands; he couldn’t tell if he was being reprimanded. If he was supposed to have an excuse for being in a situation he shouldn’t be.

  “It’s not easy for people like us to find the right partners,” Jackson went on. “Our best therapy seems to be the fact that we can speak freely to one another.”

  “Magic men,” Jude said.

  “Is that what you call it?”

  Jude smiled. “That’s what Alexi calls it. Seems the ability is genetic or inherited. In her family, anyway.”

  “Magic men,” Jackson murmured. He looked at Jude. “I’m praying we can pull off some magic. The storm’s been upgraded. It’s a hurricane now. We’re going to need all the magic we have to make it through the next day or so.”

  10

  That night even the piano bar was slow.

  The storm had put a damper on everything by then.

  People who didn’t normally get seasick were seasick.

  The infirmary was the busiest place on board.

  Captain Thorne had done a good job advising his passengers, giving them all the information the meteorologist and the executives at Celtic American were giving him.

  He’d been told to head toward the port of Galveston; as soon as they’d made a slight turn in that direction, the storm had taken another turn in a different direction. Now the cruise line’s management was asking him to wait once again. Everyone hoped the vicious weather would leave Cozumel—which was being pummeled—and travel in yet another direction. That would allow the ship to make a speedy turn toward a safe port.

  At first, people seemed to be okay. But since the storm had actually followed them, or so it seemed, they were now getting worried.

  Bradley Wilcox had actually been very decent to the employees in his sector, reminding them how important they were to shipboard morale. The Les Miz cast would still plan for the show, but further rehearsals would be cut short so they could entertain at other venues on the ship.

  Alexi and other employees involved in individual or group entertainment would also be called upon. In Alexi’s case, she’d be asked to do impromptu music the next morning with children and others waiting for assistance at the infirmary.

  That was fine; she didn’t mind being busy.

  But as for that night...

  They’d all been asked to “play on,” even if only one passenger showed up at their venues.

  It wasn’t quite that bad for Alexi.

  For one thing, since the rehearsal for Les Miz had ended early, she started her performance with the able assistance of Clara, Ralph, Simon and Larry and a few other members of the cast. Regulars, including Roger Antrim and Hank Osprey, were there.

  So was Jude McCoy.

  Couples with older children seemed to opt for the piano bar as a way for the family to stay together.

  The Alg
iers Saloon filled to capacity, many people standing to enjoy her crowd-teasing or to sing along.

  Blake and Minnie appeared after a few minutes.

  They seemed subdued, as if they were watching over her like anxious parents. It bothered her that her ghosts were acting so worried. The storm hadn’t bothered her, but the fact that the two of them were so uneasy made her uneasy, too. Except, of course, she had to hide it from the audience.

  “All I can think of is the Titanic,” Clara whispered to her at the piano bench.

  “There are some great stories about our ship,” Alexi reminded her. “Like the one about that huge storm off Dover during the 1940s. The Destiny—laden with injured men!—made it safely to shore.”

  “I know, I know. I’m feeling a little frantic. This storm, and possibly a homicidal maniac on the ship, who might be after an actress and a musician.”

  “And a cook or a chef,” Alexi pointed out. “But we have two FBI agents here on board with us.”

  “It is good to have Jude nearby,” Clara murmured. “And the way he’s watching over us... He’s even ignoring that couple beside him.”

  Alexi frowned.

  Blake and Minnie had moved closer to Jude.

  “The pretty woman in the old-fashioned dress—and the nice-looking guy she’s with?”

  “Yeah. He’s such a solid guy. I’m surprised he’s not trying to reassure them. They seem kind of nervous.”

  Alexi had been playing a medley of tunes, but she stopped, managed to jokingly welcome some parents and children just joining them, and started again. She tried not to gawk at Clara.

  But it was difficult not to stand up and ask Clara if she was sure she saw those two—and to explain that they didn’t need reassuring for themselves.

  They were already dead.

  “How about some Disney tunes?” a woman with a girl of about ten called out.

  Alexi realized it had to be hard for parents to stay calm themselves—and to keep their children feeling secure.

  “You got it!” she said happily. “And look! I have an ‘Aurora’ right by my side. Clara, how about ‘Once Upon a Dream’?”

  “I’ll help her out,” Larry Hepburn offered, coming up to join them. “Every Sleeping Beauty needs a prince!”

  The kids seemed to love it, especially when, in the middle of the song, Larry went to the ten-year-old and danced her around the chairs. Larry caught her and helped her back into her chair just as the ship made one of its pitching movements and might have sent them both sprawling.

  Alexi went on to do “Let it Go” from Frozen. Simon sang his favorite song from Hercules, and Ralph and Clara did a duet from Aladdin.

  Around midnight the parents who’d allowed their children to stay up late, no doubt hoping they’d become sleepy, finally decided to call it quits.

  The crowd was mainly an adult crowd then.

  “They’re both alone tonight. Did you notice that?” Clara asked Alexi.

  Alexi had. Roger was there without Lorna.

  And Hank was there without the woman he’d fallen in lust or love or enchantment with.

  “Do you think...” Alexi began.

  “What?”

  “Okay, so Roger’s wife was behaving a little strangely, but they’ve been married for years. An argument here and there is bound to happen. And as for Ginny Monk—maybe she doesn’t like piano bars,” Alexi said. “Maybe she only claimed that she did to be polite. Or to please Hank.”

  “Speaking of Hank... Here he comes now,” Clara said, forcing a smile. “I don’t know how she feels about piano bars, but I do get the impression that Ms. Ginny Monk is very fond of our geek’s money.”

  “Cynical, cynical!”

  “And probably right!” Clara retorted.

  “Hey!” Hank Osprey had reached them. He was smiling, apparently undisturbed by the fact that his drink had nearly slid off the table when he stood up. “Will one of you do ‘Picture’ with me?”

  “‘Picture,’” Clara repeated. “Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow. That’s you, Alexi. You do a wicked Sheryl Crow!”

  “Of course, Hank,” Alexi said, handing him one of the mics.

  She played and sang, studying Hank as she did. Yes, he was a geek. Yes, he was a multimillionaire. Not muscled, but not flabby. Not tall, but not short. Not handsome—but not ugly, either.

  Tomorrow, she decided, she’d find out more about Ginny Monk.

  What if Ginny was just after Hank’s money?

  What if Hank was a serial killer?

  She looked over at Jude. He was studying Hank, as well. And, she realized, she could ask him about Ginny.

  The FBI must be researching her already. Hank was on their radar, which meant that anyone with him would be, too.

  The night wore on, and soon it was after one. She saw that Blake and Minnie remained in the room, still peering anxiously around. They didn’t come up to tease her or ask her to do any numbers.

  Minnie didn’t even want to sing.

  As the time to close the Algiers Saloon for the night approached, she noticed that Bradley Wilcox was standing in the hallway, watching her.

  To her surprise, he gave her a thumbs-up and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  And while Bradley apparently wanted to be pleasant, she had to force herself to smile in return.

  Bradley was off the list, she reminded herself. He was off the list of suspects.

  And yet, as he stood there, she saw someone slipping around behind him. It was Byron Grant.

  And the way Byron studied Bradley...

  Alexi was suddenly getting chills.

  She had to keep playing.

  And the band played on... As the Titanic sank.

  Her sheet music suddenly went flying as the ship heaved and swayed.

  Clara hopped up quickly to retrieve the pages.

  Someone in the audience giggled.

  “Why don’t you play the theme song from Titanic!” someone else called out.

  “Uh, that might be in bad taste at the moment,” Alexi replied. “How about something fast and light?”

  She began a Billy Joel song, and Roger jumped up to sing.

  Jude just sat there until the night came to a close.

  Watching all the while.

  * * *

  Jude noticed everything that went on and everyone who came in.

  And yet...

  He still knew nothing.

  He saw how interested Byron Grant had been in the entertainment manager, Bradley Wilcox.

  But Bradley was in Texas when the New Orleans murders took place.

  Every profiler in the FBI had been asked for an opinion. Each one seemed convinced that the murders were the work of one man. So was the Krewe’s ME, Kat Sokolov.

  The ghost of Byron Grant was equally convinced that the killer was on the ship.

  There were medallions left in the Archangel’s collection for a cook, a musician and an actor.

  There were many cooks, musicians and actors aboard the Destiny.

  Then again, the killer had always struck on land. Or so far he had. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t strike on the ship. While timetables—and Byron Grant—suggested that the killer was likely a habitual passenger or a crew member, they still really had no actual proof that he was even aboard. Byron claimed he’d seen a ticket in his killer’s pocket. But maybe the killer had missed the sailing.

  He might’ve been in the crowd outside the historic church in New Orleans. Someone they’d missed in their determination to follow Byron Grant.

  Jude was frustrated; the Krewe and other agents in the home offices had been eliminating suspects, but he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

  He couldn’t just barge into Roger and Lorna??
?s stateroom and demand to know what was going on between them. And even if Ginny Monk was a gold digger stepping into some very dangerous territory, he couldn’t stop Hank Osprey from seeing her.

  And if she wanted to be with Hank, he could only warn her to be careful. He doubted she’d worry about the fact that Hank might be a murderer. Might. They had no proof; he didn’t know if Hank was guilty of anything. To Ginny, the prospect of an affair—or perhaps marriage—with a man of his means might be worth the risk.

  It wasn’t until the bartender announced last call that Jensen Hardy made an appearance. He took a seat recently abandoned by a burly businessman and ordered a drink.

  Jude admitted to himself that he just didn’t like Jensen Hardy. He didn’t like him because of the look in his eyes that morning when he’d realized Alexi was with Jude.

  He had a thing for Alexi, or so it seemed.

  But that didn’t mean anything; Jude was sure that lots of men had a thing for Alexi Cromwell.

  There was something about Hardy, though, something that disturbed him. And that predatory gleam in his eyes...

  Jude rose and walked to the bar. Hardy glanced over and didn’t seem thrilled to see him. Still, he was cordial.

  “Long day,” he said to Jude.

  “Must be hard for you right now,” Jude commiserated.

  “Oh, very. I’m good at my job. I like people, I like doing fun and crazy things. But trying to keep morale up when so many of the passengers are terrified—wow.” He took the glass of scotch the bartender had poured for him and downed it in a swallow. “Sorry, but if this is going to get me fired, fire away,” he muttered.

  “I’m not here to fire anyone,” Jude told him.

  “Good. I’ll have another,” Hardy said.

  “I’ll be happy to buy you a drink.” Jude signaled the bartender.

  “Well, thank you! I accept. Then I’m going to try to sleep. Gotta be up and at ’em first thing tomorrow!”

  The bartender brought his drink; Jude signed the tab.

  Hardy turned and leaned against the bar, lifting his glass toward the piano where Alexi and Clara sat, now doing a Broadway song together.