Waking the Dead

  Leaping out of bed, he slid into his jeans, grabbed his Glock, plus a robe for Danni, and ran out of the room. He raced down the stairs, calling her name.

  She wasn’t in the great hall. The pale light created by naked bulbs cast an eerie glow now that the room was empty, a glow in which all kinds of things could be seen—or perceived.

  Movement.

  Yes, the suits of armor shifting just slightly.

  The eyes in the portrait above the fire, moving, following him.

  Something alive in every shadow, in every corner.

  None of that mattered. Danni wasn’t here.

  He feared that she’d gone to the crypt.

  Quinn picked up one of the heavy lantern-size flashlights they’d been using and made his way into the kitchen and through the pantry—and the maw of darkness that was the stairs down to the crypt. The light blazed before him.

  At least the crypt was no darker now than it had been during the day. And yet, it seemed worse as he hurried along the sealed shelving, passing the few stone sarcophagi that had been set on the ground.

  He entered through the archway that led to the far reaches of the crypt, the oldest area. The corpses seemed alive as he passed them, bones protruding from ancient shrouds, sightless eyes in half-exposed skulls.

  He steeled himself against imagination and fear, and proceeded to the back wall of the crypt, now destroyed by their efforts.

  It was as if he could hear mocking laughter in the silence of the night.

  We’ve taken her. She’s one of us now.

  She wasn’t there, either. He turned and ran back as fast as he could. He had to wake the others. He’d hoped to find her himself because she was probably seeking a canvas. Her nocturnal wandering usually resulted from her need to paint—either something that came to her mind when it was at rest, or something she sensed, knew or feared in some unknown way.

  Paint!

  Henry Sebastian Hubert had painted in the south tower. They hadn’t even explored any of the towers; they’d chosen bedrooms and gone immediately to the crypts.

  He raced back to the second floor and stood still for a minute, orienting himself. Then he dashed down the main hallway and found the winding staircase. Without his flashlight, he didn’t think he could have managed the stairs. He moved swiftly and yet watched every step he took. How had she negotiated the stairs in the dark?

  He reached the tower. His light played over the room.

  And then he saw her.

  There was no canvas here now, and no paints to work with.

  Danni sat, very straight, in a richly tapestried wingback chair, staring at the wall. She might have been posing for another artist or photographer, she was so beautifully seated, hair spilling down her back in wild, sensual waves, head high, hands resting lightly on her knees.

  He walked carefully to her side, wrapped the robe around her naked body and knelt by her, taking her hands. At first, she didn’t respond to him. It was as if she really saw something there. He noticed the angle of her gaze as he held her hands.

  If there’d been a canvas in the room, she would’ve been staring straight at it. He could tell because of the location of the arrow slits and the small observation window.

  She faced the direction from which the best light of day would have fallen, whatever light there was that summer when Hubert had painted.

  “Danni,” he said firmly.

  She still didn’t respond.

  He took her head between his hands and turned it toward him. “Danni!” he said again.

  She blinked; then she saw him.

  “Quinn...”

  She blinked a second time, looked around the tower room and shivered fiercely. “No...oh, Quinn!” she gasped.

  “Let’s get out of here.” He drew her to her feet; she pulled back a little, looking around again. There was almost nothing in the room, just the chair where she’d sat, a taller stool shoved against the wall and a small table beside the chair.

  There were no signs that anyone had ever worked on a canvas here.

  “Danni,” he said urgently. “Come on, let’s go.”

  A tremor shook its way through her. He brought her into his arms, holding her close. He felt the thunder of her heart and tried to warm her and reassure her with his embrace. “The others?” she whispered.

  “Still sleeping,” he said.

  “Thank God,” she murmured, following as he shone his light on the entrance and the winding stairs. “I guess you didn’t happen to come up here with a full outfit and shoes, huh?” she asked.

  “Silly me. I forgot. Just brought the robe.”

  She smiled wryly. “I should learn to get dressed before sleepwalking.”

  They made it down the stairs and hurried back to the room they’d chosen. When they reached it, he snatched the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her. She sank onto the foot of the bed, then looked up at him. “How do I stop this?” she whispered, a little desperately.

  He went down on one knee, clasping her hands, rubbing them between his own, restoring warmth. “Danni...I’m not sure you can. I guess I need to become better at keeping an eye on you. Or,” he teased, “I could tie you next to me when we go to bed.”

  That brought a weak smile. “Maybe not such a bad idea,” she said.

  “Kinky.” He laughed. “Could be fun, you know.”

  She tried to smile again. “Quinn, the painting. It has to be burned to ash—just like Hubert himself.”

  “We’ll find it,” he pledged, “and that’s what we’ll do.”

  “There were no more calls from Larue, were there?” she asked anxiously.

  Three dead since they’d left; that seemed bad enough.

  “No,” he told her. “No more calls.” He smoothed back her hair. “Let’s try to sleep.”

  She was still trembling, and he held her close as they lay back down.

  The night passed.

  * * *

  The only negative to riding in a first-class cabin was the fact that the seats were divided from one another. Quinn wanted to have a private talk with Hattie, but that wouldn’t be easy.

  He didn’t even try on their first short flight from Geneva to Paris. He waited until they’d boarded at Paris and been airborne for an hour. Then he went to her seat and perched on the side of her chair.

  “I still don’t want you to be alone,” he said without preamble.

  “But...we burned the body.”

  “I know, but as we’ve discussed, the painting’s still out there,” Quinn reminded her in a low voice, “and people are still dying.”

  “And I own the painting,” Hattie said. “That’s your point, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, I own it legally. But possession is the real law, isn’t it?”

  “Especially in a case like this.”

  “You want me to stay at Danni’s place?”

  “A little longer. Until this is completely over.”

  She studied him for a moment and smiled. “Other than being scared nearly to death, I’ve had some nice times with you and your friends, Quinn. I’m grateful that you care about my life. I’ll be happy to remain at The Cheshire Cat.”

  Relieved, Quinn astonished himself by giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  And she astonished him by accepting it.

  “And,” she promised, “when we find that wretched painting, I shall be the first to light a match.”

  He rose and went to Ron’s seat next. He needed Ron to stay at Danni’s place awhile longer, too.

  “What about my work?” he asked dully. “You know how we say a medical examiner speaks for the dead? I believe that, and it actually means a lot to me. Being an M.E. is my profession, yes, but it’s not just a job to me.”

  “I’m not suggesting you stop working. All the evidence is that these killings only happen at night,” Quinn told him. “Stay at Danni’s for a few more days—just until we find the painting.”

  Ron nodded. ?
??If there’s one thing this whole ordeal has taught me it’s that I like living,” he said, not for the first time.

  Satisfied, Quinn resumed his own seat.

  He saw that Danni was deep into Eloisa’s journal once again. Her forehead was puckered in a frown, but when she sensed him watching her, she looked up. “Interesting material,” she said. “I suppose it’s not really necessary to keep reading. This won’t help us find the painting, but...”

  “Can’t hurt,” he assured her.

  She returned to the journal, and he allowed the quiet hum of the engines to lull him to sleep.

  * * *

  Quinn wasn’t really surprised that Larue was waiting for them at the terminal when they arrived in New Orleans. He was hovering just beyond the TSA official who guarded the exit—making sure no one used it as an entrance.

  At first, Quinn was afraid that Larue had come because something else had happened.

  He hurried past security to Larue and asked, “My God, not more—not another murder?”

  “No, not since I called you,” Larue said. “But I thought you and Ron might want to drive to the morgue with me, study the autopsy reports.” Ron had reached them by then and nodded vigorously.

  “Did the crime scene investigators get anything on the street?” Quinn asked.

  “Nothing,” Larue said with disgust. “Seriously, what the hell would you get off a street between Bourbon and Royal? Hundreds of footprints, cigarette butts, you name it. Even though the streets are cleaned in the wee hours every morning... Well, the street’s a veritable hotbed of DNA evidence—but it’s DNA evidence that comes from hundreds of people. If not thousands.”

  Father Ryan set a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “You and Hubert go in with Larue. I’ll get everyone back to The Cheshire Cat.”

  “You’re going to stay there, too?” Quinn asked him.

  “Only until you return,” Father Ryan replied.

  “Maybe we should all stay there,” Quinn said. “Including you. Just until this situation is...resolved.”

  Father Ryan shook his head. “I’ve never had anything to do with the painting. I never possessed the painting. And I’m a man of God. My parishioners need me. For one thing, the Garcia family’s bodies were released for burial just before we left. I’m their priest and must see to their funerals. My faith is with me,” he added quietly. “But I won’t leave until you’re back. And I’m always close at hand.”

  “Quinn, we’ll be fine,” Danni assured him. “Hey, it’s daylight. And we’ll be together.”

  She didn’t say anything else, but she seemed pensive, as if she’d had a new thought or idea.

  “All right, Ron and I are going with you,” Quinn told Larue.

  They followed him out. He knew that Danni would see that their bags got home. “What time were the three tourists killed?” Quinn asked as they walked to Larue’s unmarked car, left outside the door at arrivals.

  “Around 3:30 a.m.,” Larue said. “It was late enough that the streets were starting to slow down a bit. The victims couldn’t have been dead long when they were discovered. Some girls on their way back from a bachelorette evening stumbled on them. The girls are still pretty traumatized. Oh, and two officers from the Bourbon Street mounted patrol had just gone by about ten minutes before, so the three were killed in full view of Bourbon in a matter of minutes.” Larue paused to look at Quinn. “I’m sure you were doing something that you needed to do on your jaunt to the Old World, but you know as well as I do that there’s someone flesh-and-blood and very much alive causing these murders.”

  “Yes,” Quinn agreed.

  “We can’t find any forensic evidence, not on the bodies and not on the streets,” Ron Hubert said in a hopeless voice. “Think I’ll be able to keep living in the city after all this?”

  “You can’t help who your ancestors are,” Quinn said. “And like Jake said, regardless of the role of that damned painting, these murders were committed by a living, breathing human being.”

  “We need you,” Larue added. “Don’t even think about leaving the city.”

  When they got to the morgue, Quinn figured Ron should feel relieved; he was greeted with affection and respect, as if he’d been gone a long time rather than a few days.

  Another medical examiner, Gerry Vassery, had performed the autopsies on the three who’d been killed while they were gone. He was waiting for Ron, his reports ready. The bodies were on steel gurneys in the chilled room. Quinn stood with Larue while the two medical examiners talked.

  When Ron had finished questioning the other M.E., he came back to where Quinn waited with Larue.

  “Lynn and Marty Seabold and their friend, Justin Ottaway. Ages sixty-two, sixty-four and sixty-six, respectively. At least they’d had some time to live,” Ron Hubert said with chagrin. “Come on over and you can see how the wounds were inflicted.”

  They went from body to body. “Mrs. Seabold probably died first and almost instantly,” Ron said. “It looks as if an executioner swung a sword to behead someone, even though he didn’t quite decapitate her. The other two... Mr. Seabold’s arm is nearly severed—he put it up like this....” Ron demonstrated. “A defensive wound. Then he was slashed across the stomach. Half his internal organs are damaged. Death wouldn’t have been as instantaneous, but it would’ve come quickly. Mr. Ottaway has several defensive wounds, too—and he tried to run. He was slashed from his neck downward at an angle. His spinal column was severed.”

  Quinn pictured a medieval horseman riding down the street—slashing, slashing, slashing. Killing as quickly as possible.

  Of course, there’d been no medieval horseman. Whoever had come to the street had done it stealthily—taking a chance on not being seen or heard.

  “These people weren’t murdered the way Mrs. Lamont’s butler, Bryson Arnold, was,” Quinn mused aloud, “but very much like Andrea Garcia, Mr. Garcia’s wife, who was killed in the kitchen at their home.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Larue murmured.

  “Can I speak with the girls who found them?” Quinn asked.

  “I’ll take you to them now,” Larue replied.

  “I’m going to stay here, catch up on all the notes...go back over everything,” Ron told them.

  “Call when you’re ready to leave for the night,” Quinn said. “Someone will come and get you and bring you back to Danni’s.”

  Ron didn’t argue with him, and Quinn and Jake headed out.

  The three young women who’d come across the bodies were staying not far from The Cheshire Cat, at one of the grand old hotels off Royal.

  Larue called them before they reached the hotel, and the three were waiting for them. They had a small suite on the third floor and Quinn and Larue went directly there.

  The young women were all in their early twenties. Katie Dobinsky, the bride-to-be, was still nervous and shaky. The other two were Sissy Dobinsky, a cousin, and Julia Seton, a close friend.

  Katie, although she swallowed a lot when she spoke, seemed to be the calmest and to have the best memory of the night.

  “I can’t tell you how horrible it was,” she said. “We were laughing...we were, I will admit, pretty drunk. I mean, it was my wild and crazy bachelorette night for the three of us. Jimmy—my fiancé—was home in Pittsburgh.”

  Sissy placed an arm around her shoulders. “He’s here now,” she said.

  “He ran out a few minutes ago to buy us some takeout meals,” Julia explained. “We...we’re not really up to going out. We would’ve gone back home already except that Detective Larue asked us to stay for a couple of days.”

  “Thank you,” Quinn said sincerely. “Can you tell me anything else?”

  “Like I was saying,” Katie began, “we were...smashed. We were walking down the street arm-in-arm, and then...”

  “I remember thinking some drunks had passed out on the street,” Sissy put in.

  “But then we saw the blood,” Julia said.

  Katie cleared her throat. “It
was even worse than that. We couldn’t see the blood at first. Then we did see it. I mean, I almost tripped over the woman.... But when I saw all the blood, I started screaming. And then the cops on their horses came...and, oh, God! So much blood!”

  Quinn patted her hand. “Thank you. You just said, ‘It was even worse than that.’ What did you mean? And don’t apologize—lots of brides-to-be have been inebriated on the streets of New Orleans.” He gave her what he hoped was an understanding smile.

  She tried to smile back. “What was even worse...was the reason we couldn’t see.”

  “The fog,” Sissy clarified. “So bizarre! We walked off Bourbon, and suddenly there was fog everywhere. Heavy fog. Like pea soup. We couldn’t see at all for a few minutes. You can ask the officers. It was just beginning to lift when they arrived on the scene.”

  Eyebrows raised, Quinn looked at Larue, who returned his stare.

  Larue had known about the “fog” the young women had seen.

  He’d wanted Quinn to hear it for himself.

  * * *

  It should’ve felt good to get home. And, of course, it did.

  They reached the shop on Royal and she opened it up. In a few minutes, the bags, including Quinn’s and Ron’s, were inside, and Natasha had called Jez to tell him they were back. Natasha was going to stay a while, so Bo Ray walked down to retrieve Wolf, while Danni and the others carried the various pieces of luggage to the rooms where they needed to go.

  She should’ve felt comfortable, she kept telling herself; she should’ve felt relieved.

  She didn’t. Not really. And she knew why.

  When she discussed the situation with Natasha, her friend said, “Don’t worry so. We’ll track down the painting. Anyway, it’s lost some of its power. We will find it.”

  “Yeah?” Danni asked. “Why don’t you sound convinced?”

  Natasha shrugged. “It’s going to be difficult to find, that’s all.”

  “But it still has power,” Danni argued. “If whoever has it uses his own blood to ‘feed’ it...”

  That was when Bo Ray returned with the dog.

  Wolf whimpered when he saw Danni. She was so happy to see him that she forgot her misgivings—for about a minute.

  But even after greeting her and then everyone else, Wolf seemed restless, too. He kept pacing the kitchen, as if there was something he should be doing, something he should be hunting down, but he didn’t know what.