“Dear Lord,” he began, “protect us, we beg You, as we enter unknown realms. Give us strength against Your enemies and ours. Help us be the best we can be, and let us move in the assurance that You will guide us. Amen.”
“You have anything?” he asked Natasha.
“I can add a little good gris-gris,” she told him. “I will say a prayer for protection and sprinkle herbs for goodness and light.”
Father Ryan nodded with a smile.
“I’m for all the gris-gris anyone’s got,” Hattie said.
“Hear, hear, I do agree!” Billie said. “Bo Ray, give me a hand. We’ll get the bags.” Billie knew damned well that Quinn and everyone else would gladly help with the bags, but to Billie’s mind, Quinn and Danni needed to get into the castle first.
Quinn strode ahead. There was a massive lock on the doors, but while they were driving, Hattie had been in touch with the cleaning crew and learned that they were just finishing up. She’d instructed them to leave the door open when they left.
Quinn entered. He could feel Danni behind him—and hear her gasp as they walked into the massive great hall.
It was exactly as it was in the Hubert painting.
Minus the people, of course. But the full medieval suits of armor were off to the far right; a painting of a medieval knight, minus helmet, hung above the huge hearth. The family crest of Guillaume, with crossed swords beneath, sat to either side of the painting.
A plush red love seat was off in a corner near the stone stairs that led to a gallery and the halls above. A wooden-planked table stood in the middle of the room, perhaps fifteen feet from the love seat.
“Well...oh, my,” Billie said, coming in behind them.
“Paint what you see,” Natasha murmured.
“Or paint what you see in the mind’s eye,” Danni said. “He worked in the south tower. And he was found dead in the south tower.”
For a moment, they all stood there, surveying the room.
“Perhaps we should get organized,” Hattie said briskly. “I don’t know about you people, but I’m careful to eat three healthful meals per day and we should choose our rooms and then find the kitchenette the cleaners set up for us. We should square ourselves away, and then get cracking on what needs to be done.”
Danni started up the stairs. Quinn, looking down at the castle’s great hall as he walked up the stairs, followed her.
There were several doors along the gallery hallway. “We’ll take the room closest to the stairs,” he said.
“Billie,” Bo Ray began. “If we can find a room with two beds...”
“Aye, lad, we’ll take it,” Billie said patiently.
Quinn opened the door at the top of the stairs. A full-size four-poster bed sat on a raised dais. Large windows overlooked the twenty-foot stone wall that surrounded the castle.
Danni headed straight for the window. “It opens up onto a balcony,” she told him.
“I guess if invaders breached the wall, you could mount a defense from here,” Quinn said.
Danni opened the window. “I have to admit I’m glad Hattie hired a cleaning crew.”
“Thank goodness, since I doubt anyone’s stayed here in years. More than a century...”
“If I hadn’t seen Ghosts in the Mind, I’d think visiting a castle like this would be wonderful. Especially a castle we have all to ourselves. That is pretty remarkable,” Danni said.
“I’ll bet no one cleaned up in the crypt.”
“No, that probably didn’t occur to Hattie—and I’m sure it’s for the best.”
“We should go back down,” Quinn said. “I know Father Ryan will be helping Billie and Bo Ray, but I want to give a hand getting the luggage up the stairs. And we should investigate the kitchenette, for what it’s worth.”
As it turned out, the kitchenette—within the original kitchen—wasn’t bad. They reached it by going through the arched doorway, passing the two knights in armor.
He noted that Danni shuddered as she walked by them. The others, though not as visibly disturbed, also reacted to the pair of sentinels.
There was a massive heavy wooden table in the middle of the room; a giant hearth still had utensils and roasting spits on the tile apron around it, and there was a giant cauldron suspended from chains over the fire pit.
New to the kitchen was a generator that hummed away, an electric stovetop and a small refrigerator.
“Did we think about running water?” Father Ryan asked.
“Yes, Father, we did. There’s a pump by that small boarded window. It was in use when Henry Hubert was here and, as far as I know, it’s remained in fine working order,” Ron told him.
“I’ll check it out right now,” Father Ryan said.
He used the pump to wash his hands with a smile on his face. “Excellent. The water is fresh and cold.”
“Let’s make ourselves some lunch, shall we?” Hattie suggested. “I ordered salads, vegetables, cheeses and cold cuts—they should be...yes! Everything’s in the refrigerator and on that table near the pump.”
“I’m going to call Larue.” Quinn glanced at his watch. “Should be seven or so back home.”
“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Danni said.
He left them in the kitchen and walked back out to the great hall. Just standing there was eerie; he could all too easily picture the scene depicted in the painting.
The woman with her knife.
The man with his pistol.
The servant at the door.
The children with the screaming chess pieces at the great planked table.
The toddler beheading dolls on the floor...
“This ain’t nothing yet,” he told himself, punching in Larue’s cell phone number. “We haven’t even gotten to the crypt.”
Jake answered his phone on the first ring, sounding tense. “I was about to call you,” he said wearily. “There’s been another killing.”
* * *
Quinn stayed on the phone for a long time.
The kitchen didn’t have chairs, but it had plenty of stools.
Somewhat to Danni’s surprise, Hattie didn’t expect to be served. She immediately got involved in finding the plastic cutlery and plates their hired staff had provided, and setting up an assembly line to prepare sandwiches.
When Quinn had rejoined them and the sandwiches had been consumed, they all sat around the large wooden table. They weren’t talking about the painting or the murders; they were talking about the castle, imagining the era when it was built—and what it was like in the early 1800s when Henry Sebastian Hubert had rented it.
Danni found herself studying another archway at the end of the kitchen. She rose, unnoticed. The others were deep in a discussion about Switzerland’s history.
Danni wandered through the archway—no scary men in armor here—and into the room behind the kitchen. She assumed it had served as a pantry or storeroom.
But it also offered another gaping archway to the rear. Stone steps led downward.
Into darkness.
It had to be the entry to the crypt.
And while the gaping darkness sent a chill sweeping through her...
It seemed to beckon her, as well.
Come...
Chapter Twelve
DANNI TOLD HERSELF sternly that darkness didn’t speak. She frequently tried to convince herself that it was her own subconscious mind that tugged at her—especially after an episode of nocturnal painting. But she knew damned well that they had to go down to the crypt.
Still, the castle was creepy. Maybe it really was true that the violence of the past lived on in the stone walls of the place.
She hated the great hall.
Naturally; it was the setting for Hubert’s incredibly disturbing picture.
Thankfully, he hadn’t painted an image of the crypt.
She was certain that if they were visiting a preserved castle now functioning as a museum, she would’ve seen a chain across the crypt opening and a sign that wa
rned Entrance Strictly Forbidden! Staff Members Only.
But they weren’t in a museum. They were in a castle—owned by a New Orleans medical examiner.
And nothing here was forbidden to them.
“Wish it was,” she murmured aloud.
Digging in her pocket, Danni pulled out the little penlight she usually carried. She started down the steps; she was only going so far and no farther. She just wanted to know what lay beyond once she got to the bottom.
There were a lot of steps. She began counting them—twenty-two until she reached the ground. And when she did, she felt as if she’d walked into an old horror film; Vincent Price should’ve been there saying something like, “I’ve been expecting you, my dear.”
Vincent Price wasn’t there.
What she found was more archways. She assumed they were all part of the support structure of the castle. Cobwebs clung to them like decorations for a wild Halloween party. It was dark and dank.
There were gates, also covered in cobwebs, to the largest archway. They, too, looked as if they hadn’t been touched in years. Even before she got to the gates that actually led to the tombs, she saw a number of stone sarcophagi scattered along the way.
The words on them were timeworn, but she had the feeling they might be the latest ones brought to the crypt—which still made them two centuries old. This was farther than she’d meant to go, but she walked toward them, seeking names. One was for a Marie Lisbet Jordain, another for Tomas L’Enfant. The third was smaller than the others; it touched her heart. This tomb was for Jacques Benoit Jordain, 1816. She dusted the tomb to read that he was the son of Marie, who died in childbirth. Danni wondered whether Marie might have been a servant at the castle. If Eloisa Hubert had purchased the castle that same year, then it stood to reason that these people had been interred here before ownership had changed.
She glanced back at the gates. They stood ajar. There was a large metal plaque with the Guillaume coat of arms and a warning in French. She translated as best she could, reading aloud. “Rest in darkness, rest from the light. Take care when mourning the dead, for dead we all shall be. May the spirit rest with the weariness of the body spent and gone. Take care lest you wake the dead.”
“Not very charming or religious.”
Danni nearly jumped sky-high. She hadn’t heard Father Ryan come down the steps behind her.
“Sorry,” he apologized quickly. “Thanks for reading that. My own French is rusty—oh, wait. I don’t know any,” he told her, smiling.
“I think it’s a strange epitaph. Or maybe a prayer of some kind,” she said, and read the words again.
“A strange epitaph indeed,” Hattie said, walking carefully down the steps. “And you do have it right, Danni. ‘May the spirit rest with the weariness of the body spent and gone. Take care lest you wake the dead.’ The last part seems to be more of a warning,” she noted.
“That’s what I thought, too,” Danni said.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit,” Billie muttered, joining them.
“Well, one doesn’t like to think of death,” Hattie said. “But...we’ve come to this place with a purpose. Where’s Quinn?”
“Here.” He was on his way down the stairs; Bo Ray, Natasha and Ron were with him.
They were all armed with big, heavy flashlights that revealed the crypt beyond the gates.
It seemed to stretch on forever.
Danni looked over at Quinn. His expression was grim and stoic but he didn’t say anything as he studied the long hallway of the dead. “Everything okay with Larue?” she asked.
He didn’t respond, and Danni decided she’d ask him again later, in privacy. “Let’s get this done, shall we?” he said softly.
“The bad thing here,” Ron told them, “is that I have no idea where Henry Sebastian Hubert’s interred in this crypt.”
“Hopefully, there’ll be engraving on a tomb or a plaque or something,” Quinn said. “You don’t all have to be down here. Father Ryan and Billie and I can handle finding him and getting him out, and then, of course, we’ll have Natasha and Father Ryan say words over the burning bones.”
“You want the rest of us to go upstairs and wait?” Hattie demanded. “No, no. I’m just fine down here. I’d rather we were together in this place.”
Danni frowned at Quinn. “You know I’m going wherever you go.”
Bo Ray said, “Hey, Natasha, I’m willing not to be here!”
Natasha shook her head. “No, my boy, we’re meant to do this as a team. Quinn, you’ll need all of us to find the dead man you’re seeking.”
The iron gates made a screaming sound as Quinn pulled them fully open.
“This isn’t good,” Bo Ray said. “Ohhh, this isn’t good.”
“The dead in their tombs offer no danger, son,” Father Ryan reassured him.
“Yeah? How do I know they’re all really in their tombs?”
Quinn ignored their conversation. “I’m pretty sure he should be toward the front,” he said. “Usually, the first interments would be at the end, and the crypt would be filled from the back to the front. Or, at least, that’s what I assume.”
“Me, too,” Danni commented. “So, we start looking in the front.” She used her light and went down the line. The wall of tombs—set one upon the other—was sealed. She saw only a few cracks and chips as she walked in, shining her penlight over the engraving and small plaques that identified the dead.
She found more Jordains and thought that perhaps the family had worked for the Guillaumes for a several generations.
“The castle was in the Guillaume family for years and I believe they were respected. They prospered until Alain Guillaume, who apparently destroyed the family—well, certainly the family holding—with his wickedness.”
“I’m not finding any family members yet—oh, wait! Here’s one.” Billie pointed at it. “Yvonne Chambeau Guillaume, 1811!”
“She must have been Alain’s wife, poor woman,” Danni said.
“Or a daughter...no, probably not. She died at the age of thirty-five. I imagine that would make her the man’s wife,” Billie agreed.
Danni was across from him. She took a few steps and suddenly felt a keen sense of the darkness and dankness within the crypt. She was chilled and wanted to run back and touch another human being.
She swallowed, glancing around. Everyone was close by; there was no reason to be afraid.
Danni inhaled and then exhaled and moved toward the wall. As she did, she slammed into something in her way. She gasped for breath.
“Danni?” Quinn called.
In a second he was behind her. She felt his warmth and his strength, a bulwark against her own fear.
“Walked into a sarcophagus,” she said.
“A free-standing tomb. Maybe this is it—let’s see...” Quinn shone his light over the tomb. “No, this isn’t it. It’s Alain Guillaume,” he read.
“The hedonist himself.” Ron shrugged. “But not my ancestor.”
“Okay, we keep going. I guess it’s natural that he’d be near his wife,” Quinn said.
“Do you think she’d be so pleased?” Natasha asked.
“Probably not,” Ron said. “He must’ve made her life hell.”
They kept moving, each calling out more and more names, but none of the names was Hubert.
Danni paused. They’d come to yet another archway. Rows and rows of funerary slabs stretched out before her. These interments weren’t walled.
The decaying dead lay in fragmented shrouds.
She turned around. Quinn and the others seemed far away.
And the feeling of fear and darkness began to sweep over her again.
Wait! she told herself.
But she sensed that it was important to keep moving forward.
She even felt compelled to do so.
The others receded behind her. She was alone.
And she had to move forward. Into greater darkness.
Deeper into the realm
of the dead.
* * *
Shelf after shelf, row after row, of coffins. Quinn was astonished by the sheer number.
There were a lot of dead in the Guillaume crypt, that was for sure. But the castle was old; there’d been a lot of Guillaume family members—as well as servants, friends, neighbors.... It was impossible to tell just who’d been brought down here and why they’d been interred at the castle.
Studying one of the tombs, he suddenly realized that Danni had moved ahead of them. She was far deeper into the crypt.
“Danni?” he called out.
She stopped, turned back and smiled at him. He thought she smiled, anyway. Their flashlights, against the darkness of the tomb, created a strange and eerie light.
She was as pale as a ghost herself. But then he looked through the next archway, where she seemed to be headed. It was a chilling sight. He guessed that when the crypt was first created, perhaps the living hadn’t worried quite so much about the dead. These “shelving” tombs had not been sealed.
Bones broke through the shrouds that had frayed with time. Everything was covered in the dust of the stone and brick that formed the basement, the foundation of the castle, and had become an enormous graveyard within its walls.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
“Sure, I’m fine.”
“Don’t move so quickly,” Quinn warned her. “Don’t get too far ahead of us.”
“She’s not all right and neither am I,” Hattie said. She’d evidently followed Quinn. “There’s really only so long that any of us should breathe down here. We need to make some kind of masks before we inhale all this dust, mold and rot.”
“She’s got a good point, Quinn,” Ron told him.
“I think so, too,” Natasha said.
Quinn knew they were right. He was angry with himself for not planning better. He should’ve arranged for masks before they spent any time in the crypts.
But this was urgent. People had been killed.
He was afraid that more could be killed. He wanted to find the damned body and burn it!
“We could use a break, anyway.” It wasn’t going to help if one of them got ill in the process of doing what needed to be done. “Let’s take half an hour, get something to drink, step outside and breathe.”