An object of desire? or of fear?
It was stolen from a New Orleans grave—the centuries-old bust of an evil man, a demonic man. It’s an object desired by collectors—and by those with wickedness in their hearts.
One day, its current owner shows up at Danni Cafferty’s antiques shop on Royal Street, the shop she inherited from her father. But before Danni can buy the statue, it disappears, the owner is found dead…and Danni discovers that she’s inherited much more than she realized. In the store is a book filled with secret writing: instructions for defeating evil entities. She’d dismissed it as a curiosity...until the arrival of this statue, with its long history of evil and even longer trail of death.
Michael Quinn, former cop and now private investigator, is a man with an unusual past. He believes that doing the right thing isn’t a job—it’s a way of life. And the right thing to do is find and destroy this object weighted with malevolent powers. He and Danni are drawn together in their search for the missing statue, following it through sultry New Orleans nights to hidden places in the French Quarter and secret ceremonies on abandoned plantations.
Cafferty and Quinn already know that trust in others can be misplaced, that love can be temporary. And yet their connection is primal. Mesmerizing. They also know that their story won’t end when this case is closed and the dead rest in peace once again.
Also by Heather Graham
THE UNINVITED
THE UNSPOKEN
THE UNHOLY
THE UNSEEN
BRIDE OF THE NIGHT
AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS
THE EVIL INSIDE
SACRED EVIL
HEART OF EVIL
PHANTOM EVIL
NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES
THE KEEPERS
GHOST MOON
GHOST NIGHT
GHOST SHADOW
THE KILLING EDGE
NIGHT OF THE WOLVES
HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS
UNHALLOWED GROUND
DUST TO DUST
NIGHTWALKER
DEADLY GIFT
DEADLY HARVEST
DEADLY NIGHT
THE DEATH DEALER
THE LAST NOEL
THE SÉANCE
BLOOD RED
THE DEAD ROOM
KISS OF DARKNESS
THE VISION
THE ISLAND
GHOST WALK
KILLING KELLY
THE PRESENCE
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
PICTURE ME DEAD
HAUNTED
HURRICANE BAY
A SEASON OF MIRACLES
NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD
NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
EYES OF FIRE
SLOW BURN
NIGHT HEAT
New York Times bestselling author
HEATHER
GRAHAM
Let the Dead Sleep
To those who live in and out of the Big Easy and have helped make Writers for New Orleans a true benefit for this beautiful and historic city:
Marvin Andrade; Beti Basile; Molly Bolden; Zach Bolden; Camille Burgin; Tina Callais; Dionne Cherie Charlet; Beth Ciotta; Teresa Davant; Jezabel DeLuna; Rich Devin; Corrine De Winter; Keith Donato; Pam Ebel; Paula Eykelhof; Nick Genovese; Paula and Mike Hardin; Patty Harrison; Jennifer Hughes; Pamela Kopfler; Harley Jane Kozak; Cindy Krempel; Kay Levine; Veronika Levine; Kathy Love; Lisa Mannetti; Debra Maas; Erin McCarthy; Ginger McSween; James, Bonnie and Helen Moore; Stacey, Kaylyn, Scott and Joshua Perry; Kathleen Pickering; Jason, Shayne, Derek, Zhenia, Bryee-Annon and Chynna Pozzessere; “Suzie Q” Quiroz; Kevin Richard; Debbie Richardson; Helen Rosburg; Bobby Rosello; Dave Simms; Alexandra Sokoloff; Mary Stella; Lance Taubold; Jo Templeton; Mary Walkley; Greg Varricchio; Sheila Vincent; Leslie Wainger; Pat Walker; Adam Wilson; F. Paul Wilson; all the hard workers at the Hotel Monteleone; and everyone at The Vampire Boutique and Fifi Mahoney’s…
And the amazing Connie Perry!
This story is also dedicated to the memory of Kate Duffy, brilliant editor and friend to so many. She was there at the beginning. She believed that in creating this conference, we could be a nice drop in a massive bucket. I still hear her voice in my mind so often, and smile, knowing exactly what she would have to say in so many situations.
And, finally, I offer it in memory of my one and only sister, Victoria Jane Graham Davant, who loved New Orleans and showed me the magic of the city.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Prologue
“THIS IS IT, Ms. Cafferty,” Dr. Vincenzo said quietly. He cleared his throat. “We’ll, ah, leave you alone to say your goodbyes.”
Danielle Cafferty stared at Vincenzo, feeling too bewildered and stunned to cry. Until this morning she’d convinced herself that her father would live forever. He was a big man, hearty and robust, the perfect example of a he-man Highlander, rugged as the Scottish terrain that had bred him. But then the call had come from Billie McDougall that Angus Cafferty was in the hospital. His heart was giving out.
Vincenzo stared back at her awkwardly. Surely, as head of an esteemed cardiac unit, he’d dealt with other situations like this. But he hesitated, then touched her hand gently and left, followed by his sympathetic nurse.
So she understood that it was a matter of time. Her father had fallen into a coma an hour ago and now...
She sat in the hospital chair by his bed, holding his hand. She stroked the back of it, fighting tears, feeling as if her head were the size of a melon—dull, aching and hollow. “Hey, I still believe in you,” she told him. “I’ve always believed in you. You’ve been such an amazing father with your tall tales and stories—I feel like I know my mother, and Mom died when I was four. New Orleans is home, but you’ve taken me to places around the world. Now, come on, you can survive this! We’ve been through all these years together and weathered so many storms...right, Dad?”
Her father didn’t answer.
She glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. The television was on with the volume low; she listened to ads for the year’s new cars and the newscaster interviewing a businessman, Brandt Shumaker, about his plans to go into politics. A local blues group came on and she listened to the music for a minute and said, “Good group, Dad. When you’re better, we’ll go see them.”
Her father didn’t reply.
She had to keep talking. “I bought a new print last week. A Blue Dog print. I don’t know what it is, but I love them. My work’s completely different, but of course that’s true for most artists. We all have our individual visions....”
She was speaking inanely. Anything. She refused to accept that his life was slipping away.
And then...
Angus Cafferty sat bolt upright, gazing at her. His snow-white hair was mussed and wild; his sky-blue eyes settled on her intently.
“Lass, so late, too late! I should have spoken to you about this so many times, so long ago. I’d thought...I’d thought I’d wait until you got to the age of thirty, never thinking this
could come so quick upon me. Just a few more years...just a few to leave you in a normal life, to know innocence—I was a fool. I have let you down, but you hear me now, Danni, please, hear me now! You mustn’t sell the shop. You must never sell the shop. It’s our lot in life, that’s what it is, and one that matters in a manner most dire. Ah, girl, what have I done? Wanting all to be safe and serene for you....” His Scottish burr, somewhat softened by his many years in the American South, was suddenly strong again. His words were filled with passion. He leaned toward her, gripping her hand so hard that it hurt, but he was alive and touching her and she couldn’t cry out.
“No, Dad, don’t worry, I’ll never sell the store. It’s your store. You’ll get better, I can see that now. You’ll come home and—”
“No! Ye canna sell the store! And the book, lass, you must read the book. Never doubt what you see or hear, never fear for your sanity or that of the world—turn to the book. The answers are in the book and it will bring you through heaven and hell and all realms in between. Do you hear me, lass, do you hear me? Ah, I love you, Danni, my girl, I love you so much. Cling to my words and live long but, mostly, live well. You’re brilliant and beautiful, but the world changes.... The book, Danni, read the book, and look to it in all things!”
His grip on her hand eased; he fell back on the bed, his eyes closed and his lips silent.
Danni jumped up and rushed to the door, her tone frantic as she called out. “Dr. Vincenzo, come quickly!”
Vincenzo appeared in another doorway and strode down the hall toward her.
“He spoke to me! He spoke and fell back...but he spoke!”
Vincenzo frowned and walked over to the bed. He laid a hand on Angus’s arm, then turned to face her. “Ms. Cafferty, I know this is a difficult time... I was trying...I...” He paused and shook his head. “Ms. Cafferty, he did not speak to you. He had passed when I left this room. I wanted to give you a few minutes alone with him before having him brought down to the morgue.”
“What?” Danni gaped at him blankly. “No, no,” she said. “My father sat up and spoke to me.”
Vincenzo looked at her pityingly. “He’s been gone for at least thirty minutes now, Ms. Cafferty. Feel his arm. He’s growing colder already. I’m so sorry, I can see how you loved him. But he’s what...almost ninety. He had a good life. And he was certainly loved.”
“No, no, you don’t understand. He talked to me. He sat upright and he spoke to me,” Danni protested.
Vincenzo wasn’t going to argue with her. He pursed his lips as if forcing himself to keep silent. “Is there someone you could call to be with you?” he asked. “I can see if we have a chaplain or a priest in the hospital.”
She frowned at him, shaking her head. “I haven’t lost my mind.”
“He’s gone, Ms. Cafferty. I’m so sorry, but your father has passed.”
Danni winced. She held back the tears that threatened and said with dignity, “I’m fine. I will stay with him a moment longer if that’s all right.”
He left. She sat at her father’s side, and when she took his hand then, she knew the truth—the mighty Scot who had filled her life with love and adventure was dead. Her tears came then in a river.
“Danni?”
She looked up.
Billie McDougall, tall and thin as a reed, a man who had seemed as old as her father but was twenty-odd years younger, stood in the door. He was accompanied by Jane Pearl, her father’s office manager, bookkeeper and sometime clerk. They were like family; they were her family now.
“Come, lass,” Billie said. “Come away now. Your father was old and tired, and he needs to sleep now and rest from the weary rigors of this world. He loved you, lass, and he was loved in return, and that is the true measure of any man’s life.”
“Danni, we’ll take you home. We’ll get you a nice cup of tea with a shot of Scotch or whiskey and it will help you through the night,” Jane said.
Billie walked in and stood over Angus’s body, his cap in hand. “I will continue in your place, my dear friend,” he said. And, to Danni’s ears, it was like a vow.
As if Billie, too, believed that Angus could still hear him.
Jane set her hands on Danni’s shoulders. “Come with us now, Danni. The doctor said you’ve been with the corp—that you’ve been with your father for over an hour. It’s time to take care of yourself, as he would have wanted.”
Jane had strong hands and arms for a woman. She could be forceful.
Danni moved to the door. But then she turned and came back to place a kiss on her father’s forehead and laid her head against his chest as she had so many times as a little girl. “I love you,” she whispered. “I will always love you. You’ll live forever in my heart.”
He was growing colder; he was a corpse.
But he was her father.
“Let’s go now,” Jane urged.
“You will always be with me,” Danni told her father passionately as she was led out at last.
Billie remained, looking sadly down at his mentor, his friend and boss.
“Oh, Angus!” he said, anguish in his voice. “She doesn’t know yet, does she? I told you that you’d not live forever. Poor lass. Danni has not yet begun to know just how you will stay with her—just what you’ve left behind!”
Chapter One
IT WAS SPRING in New Orleans, a beautiful April day, and Angus Cafferty had been dead for three months the afternoon Michael Quinn followed the widow, Gladys Simon, to The Cheshire Cat, an antiques and curio store on Royal Street.
The house itself, now a shop, was one of the few buildings that had survived the Great New Orleans Fire of 1788 that had destroyed 856 buildings—followed by the fire of 1794 that destroyed another 212. It was one of the only structures from the mid-1700s that remained on Royal Street. It had a two-storied facade, with an inner courtyard and balconies surrounding the building streetside. He knew the layout of the old building; the original parlor, study and dining rooms were set up as the shop’s display area, while the old pantry was Danielle Cafferty’s studio. The basement was not really a basement at all. This was New Orleans, and even on high ground, the basement was just the lowest level of the house. Six steps led up from the street, and courtyard entries led to the porches and the house. The shop’s basement was filled with treasures Angus had collected and kept away from the view of others. Upstairs, above the store, were the office and a small apartment used by the Cafferty family. Billie McDougall slept in the attic, ever watchful, while a second street entry, which had once been a carriage house, was now a two-car garage.
Following Gladys Simon was easy; Quinn was directly behind her and she was oblivious. He felt like a stalker, having to trail her like this, but when he’d discovered that morning that she had the bust, he’d tried to see her. According to her housekeeper, she refused to see anyone. No amount of cajoling had gotten him in.
He’d waited outside her house, but she’d run to her car, turning away when he’d begun to speak to her. All he could do was follow—and pray that she was going to the curio shop.
She approached the shop and so did Quinn, practically on her heels. As they entered, he saw Billie reading a book behind the counter and Jane Pearl, the clerk and bookkeeper, walking up the stairs, presumably going to her office. She paused, however, when she heard the door open.
Gladys Simon was unaware of her surroundings. She headed straight to the old mahogany bar that had been refashioned into a sales counter. Quinn stepped in right after her and feigned great interest in a grandfather clock that was situated just inside the front door.
Billie might have been perfectly cast as Riff Raff in a Rocky Horror remake or as an aging Ichabod Crane. He was as skinny as his mentor and employer had been robust. Billie had steel-gray eyes and a shock of neck-length white hair and was dressed in jeans and a Grateful Dea
d T-shirt. He must have been a startling and imposing figure to a Versace-clad and perfectly manicured matron like Gladys Simon.
But Gladys didn’t seem to notice anything about Billie at all. She rushed over to him.
“You buy antiquities, unusual items, don’t you? You have to buy the bust from me—you must buy it from me. No, no, you don’t need to buy it. You can have it. Please, come to my house and take the bust away. It belongs in a place like this!”
Billie glanced briefly at Quinn, a frown furrowing his wrinkled brow. “I’d love to help you, ma’am. I’m not the owner, but—”
“Oh, dear! That’s right!” she said with a gasp. “But...the owner died, didn’t he? Oh, please tell me the new owner is available...please! I must... I can’t live with that thing anymore....”
“Now, try to calm down, Mrs....?”
“Simon. Gladys Simon. It was my husband’s. He’s dead now. He’s dead because of that...thing!”
“Please calm down, Mrs. Simon,” he said again. “The object is a bust?”
“Yes, very old—and exquisite, really.”
“You want to give me an old and exquisite piece?” Billie’s voice was incredulous.
“Are you deaf, sir?” she shrieked. “Yes—I must be rid of it!”
By then, the woman’s frantic tone had drawn the new owner from her studio in the back of the store.
Quinn had watched her on the day of Angus Cafferty’s funeral. He had chosen not to approach her then; he had kept his distance when Cafferty was laid to rest in the Scottish vault at the old cemetery—the “City of the Dead,” where he had long stated he would go when the time came. There’d been a piper at the grave site, but Cafferty was accompanied by the traditional New Orleans jazz band and a crowd of friends to his final resting place. He’d been loved by many in the city. Of course, a tourist or two—or ten or twenty—fascinated by the ritual, had joined in, as well. The vaults in the cemetery didn’t allow for the immediate grouping around the grave that was customary at in-ground burials, so he’d been able to hover on the edges of the crowd, paying his own respects from afar.