Krewe of Hunters, Volume 2: The Unseen ; The Unholy ; The Unspoken ; The Uninvited, Page 3

  “You’re welcome, but I wasn’t really given a choice—I was given an order.”

  Crow didn’t respond to that. “Coffee?”

  “Coffee sounds good,” Logan said, pulling out a chair. He noted that the table had been set for three. “Someone’s joining us?” he asked.

  “Yes—a U.S. Marshal,” Crow said. “We’ll eat when she gets here.”

  Logan slowly arched his brows. “All right, what kind of felon, madman or serial killer do we have running around San Antonio?”

  “We don’t know much about him as yet. That’s where you come in,” Crow explained. “And I’m meeting with you first. Marshal O’Brien isn’t due for another half hour or so.”

  “Doesn’t that mean you have to go through all of this twice?”

  Crow gave him a grim half smile and shrugged. Logan had the feeling that there was always method to his madness, though at the moment, he sure couldn’t tell what it was.

  A leather briefcase lay on the table. Crow reached into it and produced a sheaf of papers—photos, Logan saw.

  He didn’t immediately recognize what he was looking at. At first glance it appeared to be a trash pile, but then, peering closer, he saw human bones beneath the branches, boxes and other refuse.

  He looked back at Jackson Crow. “I wish I could say that a dead body was something unusual,” he said.

  “It’s the circumstances that are unusual,” Jackson murmured. “Here’s another.”

  The next picture was of a half-decayed body on a gurney in an autopsy room. This was a far more gruesome sight, resembling a creature imagined by a special-effects wizard; the flesh was ripped from most of the jaw and the cadaver seemed to be grinning in a macabre manner.

  “Where was this body discovered? He? She?” Logan asked.

  “She. Both sets of remains belong to women. Both disappeared from the San Antonio area, one a year and a half ago, one about a year ago. Both had made it to San Antonio and were never seen again. Or not alive, anyway,” he added.

  “I’m assuming traces were done on their credit cards, and the usual procedures carried out.”

  Jackson nodded. “Neither actually checked into a hotel. The bones in the first picture belonged to a young woman named Chelsea Martin—schoolteacher, part-time gemologist. The cadaver on the gurney was once a dancer named Tara Grissom. She worked out of New Orleans.”

  “Dancer? As in stripper?” Logan asked.

  Jackson shook his head. “She was with a modern dance company. The show she was in closed down and they weren’t due to cast the next show for a few months. She headed out to Texas. According to friends, she was fascinated with the Alamo. She flew from New Orleans to Houston and on to San Antonio, and she was never heard from again after she waved goodbye to the fellow who’d been sitting next to her on the plane.”

  “What about the other girl?”

  “Similar story. She was a new teacher, and when budget cuts came down, she lost her job. Chelsea Martin left New York City for San Antonio, took a cab straight to the Alamo and wasn’t seen again.”

  Logan frowned. “I should’ve heard about this by now.”

  “You probably did. Think about all the missing-persons reports,” Crow said with a shrug. “There are hundreds of them—thousands. Some people go missing on purpose. You have to remember that. Thing is, until you really start digging, you don’t always know if someone’s disappeared on purpose or not.” He pulled out more sets of pictures. They were all of bodies in various stages of decay. Female bodies.

  Logan frowned at Jackson Crow. “All these corpses—they’re from here?”

  Crow nodded. “Most of these women have yet to be identified. A number of them might have been prostitutes or women living on the edge. When someone doesn’t have family or close friends, there’s no one to hold law enforcement to task once the case has gone cold. We wouldn’t have known about this if an enterprising young officer hadn’t stumbled on the first body in a trash pile—just a block from the Alamo. Don’t look so appalled. No unit of Texas law enforcement has been neglectful in this case. First off, we still don’t know if the cases are related, although studying the way the killer disposed of the bodies, it seems likely.” He grimaced. “There may be a few who were killed by someone else—someone who happened upon a body-disposal system that has eluded the law—but I believe most of these women met the same killer. They all just disappeared. And of all the corpses and skeletal remains we’ve discovered so far, we’ve only been able to match two of the women to missing-persons reports.”

  “Are you putting together a task force?” Logan asked him.

  “More or less. I’m putting together a team.”

  Logan began to feel uneasy. He’d looked up Jackson Crow. He had a reputation for being a crack behavioral profiler; he also had a reputation for running a crew of—for lack of a better term—ghost hunters. Hired by a somewhat reclusive government bigwig, Adam Harrison, he investigated the unusual. To the man’s credit, it seemed that his team generally found real human beings who’d perpetrated the crimes and brought them to justice.

  Still…

  Somehow, he felt Crow knew something about him. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

  “And you want me to be on this team?” Logan asked.

  “We have one special unit working now—a team of six, and six seems to be the optimal number. I’m starting a second team. I don’t just want you to be on the team—I want you to head the team.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve had incredible success finding missing people,” Jackson said smoothly.

  Logan didn’t blink. “Logic,” he told Crow. And a little luck…

  “Logic is the most important tool we have,” Crow agreed. “I’m a man of logic myself.”

  Logan winced, then said flatly, “You look for ghosts.”

  “I look for killers,” Crow said, correcting him. He indicated the briefcase. “I have a lot of info on you, too, of course. I know you’re exceptionally talented.” Crow hesitated, thoughtful for a minute. When he spoke again, it was with both respect and empathy. “And I know that your wife was kidnapped by the brother of a drug runner you put in jail. I know you found her—buried in a pine box. The killer had been playing a game with you, but he screwed up. He didn’t provide enough oxygen. You were able to find her, although no one ever really knew how. You just found her too late.”

  Logan felt tension seep into his bones. Alana had been gone nearly three years, yet he still couldn’t think about her without a sense of loss and rage burning in his gut. She’d died because he was who he was. She’d been a shimmering spirit of laughter and giving, and she had died because of him. His exceptional talents had been useless.

  Her death had sent him into the hills on a long leave; only a return to the land far from the city had somehow kept him halfway sane.

  Maybe that was why he hadn’t been aware of what had gone on with these missing women. And maybe everyone had overlooked the real and horrendous danger for the reason Jackson Crow had just given him. Sad, but true. Those on the fringes of life were often simply not missed.

  “You have what we need,” Crow told him.

  No, I don’t, Logan thought. I failed the woman I loved.

  “I’m a Texas Ranger,” Logan said, startled by the sound of his own voice, which was almost a growl.

  “Yes. You returned to being a Ranger,” Crow said. “Because you can’t help yourself. You have to work in law enforcement. But, even as a Ranger, you have limitations. I can provide unlimited resources for you.”

  “Thanks. I like being a Ranger. I’m not so sure about being a fed.”

  “It’s a matter of choice. Texas pride aside, there are a few things you might want to keep in mind, such as the fact that federal services have jurisdiction everywhere. In our case, of course, we work where we’re invited in, except when we’re talking about criminals and situations that cross state lines. That’s always our jurisdiction. Crossing state lines is s
omething killers do often enough. It’s as if they know they can throw law enforcement into confusion and break chains of evidence when they do, and that’s one reason the FBI is so important. Of course, your superiors know about this offer, and although they’d be sorry to lose you, they understand the unique possibilities of the position I’m offering you.”

  Logan shook his head. “Thank you. No. You’ve got a serial killer on your hands. Or—since one way or another, I’ll get involved—we’ve got a serial killer on our hands. We’ll dig in, too, work with the FBI. But I think I’ll stay right where I am. I don’t see any reason to change.”

  Crow nodded. “As I’ve been saying, it is your choice. But there’s something different about this case that does require an extra ability to see.”

  “See what?”

  “Beneath the obvious.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Chelsea Martin called a friend just before she disappeared,” Jackson Crow said.

  “From the Alamo?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “She said she saw a ghost. She thought it had to be the ghost of a Texas hero. He was trying to urge her to get away.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “She phoned Nancy McCall, a friend in New York, when she reached the Alamo. At first, according to Nancy, she was laughing, telling her that a reenactor was playing a game with her. Then she was concerned, saying that the ‘performer’ was getting very dramatic, insisting she leave the Alamo, go and hide somewhere. At the end of the conversation, Chelsea seemed to believe she’d seen a ghost. She sounded frightened, and said this ghost or whatever he was had just disappeared.”

  “And then?”

  “Nothing. The line went dead. Her phone was never used again, and it was never found—and I’ve shown you what was left of Chelsea Martin.”

  Chapter 2

  The Longhorn had been built at a time when men were men and…men were men. The saloon had a long curving bar, a piano and a large space for gaming tables. Near the front entry, which came complete with swinging doors, a staircase led to the balcony above and to the rooms on the second floor. When Kelsey sped into the main saloon area from the kitchen, she was stunned to see a man running down the stairs as if he were being chased by every demon in hell.

  A big, tough-looking man. Leanly muscled, he stood a good six foot two—and he was wearing an expression of sheer horror.

  He had to be the “big ol’ rodeo cowboy” Sandy had told her about.

  As Kelsey ran to the foot of the stairs to discover the cause of his terror, he nearly knocked her over in his haste to reach the door.

  “Sir! What is it? What’s happened?”

  Luckily, it seemed that the few other guests currently checked in to the Longhorn were already out or still asleep, and that the staff was either busy or not at work yet. No one else had appeared at the sound of the screams.

  “Let me out of here! Let me out of here now!” he yelled. He seemed like a decent man. Even in his near hysteria, he wasn’t going to mow her down or pick her up bodily to toss her out of the way.

  She hadn’t realized that Sandy had come behind her until she heard her speak. “Mr. Simmons, what’s wrong?” she asked.

  Simmons was perhaps thirty; he had the ruggedly handsome look of a modern-day cowboy, and Kelsey assumed he was in town for the upcoming rodeo trials. The man might have been ready to brave the meanest bronco, but he pointed up the stairs with a trembling hand. “Blood…blood…blood. Oh, God, blood everywhere, all over the room!” he said. “Let me out. For the love of God, let me out of here!”

  Kelsey arched a brow at Sandy and placed a hand on Simmons’s shoulder. “Sir, it’s all right. Sandy will help you,” she said.

  Sandy looked back at Kelsey, her eyes filled with a silent plea. See? I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s happening again, and it’s getting worse and worse. Do something!

  Kelsey stepped past Mr. Simmons and hurried up the stairs to the gallery. She paused, gazing down over the rail of the landing. Sandy held her guest by the arm and was urging him to calm down. But Simmons seemed adamant about leaving.

  “If you’ll just show us, Mr. Simmons,” Sandy said.

  “What, are you insane?” he shouted. He stared up at Kelsey. “Don’t…oh, God, don’t go in there! Get the police!” he cried.

  “Mr. Simmons,” Kelsey called down. “I am a law enforcement agent. I’m a United States Marshal.”

  “Room 207,” Sandy said gravely.

  Kelsey nodded, turned and hurried down the hallway. It was a straightforward numbering system; the second floor had ten rooms, 201 through 210. Room 207 was to her left along the gallery. Her own room was 201, but she didn’t really have to check at the numbers; the door to 207 was wide open, just as Simmons had left it.

  She stepped inside and paused, biting her lip. There was nothing there. Certainly no blood.

  The room was handsomely appointed. In fact, Sandy had done a beautiful job restoring the whole place. She’d renovated it with authenticity, studying historic documents and outfitting it with period pieces. Kelsey knew something about all of this, because Sandy had been in love with the inn—longing to buy it—for years. The Longhorn was one of the oldest original wooden structures of a bygone era. It had opened in 1833 as the Longhorn Saloon and Gentleman’s Palace, and through its history, it had been the place where travelers to San Antonio, especially “gentlemen,” had come to enjoy the liquor, poker, ambiance and female entertainment provided here. Every now and then, Sandy arranged a night with old-time entertainment; it was no longer a house of prostitution, of course, but she held poker games for charity, and hired period singers, actors and dancers to evoke the feel of the old west.

  Needless to say, any building as old as this one held its share of ghost stories. Room 207 had come with the Rose Langley legend, and much more recently, Sierra Monte had disappeared from it.

  Kelsey considered what Sandy had told her about the Sierra Monte case.

  Blood spray and spatter had covered the room. There had never been any sign of her body, and there had never been an arrest. DNA testing proved that the blood was hers, and the medical examiner had claimed it was highly unlikely that anyone could have lost that much blood and survived. How her remains had been removed from the room was a mystery, just like the identity of her killer.

  It had been a horrible story. But in law enforcement, officers and agents heard a lot of horrible stories. And if every hotel in the world closed when something bad happened, they’d be tearing down buildings right and left.

  Afterward, Sandy had hired special crews to come in and clean up.

  There wasn’t a drop of blood to be seen anywhere.

  Kelsey walked into the bathroom, once a dressing room for the “girls” who had entertained at the Longhorn. She hadn’t been in on the investigation, although she’d researched it, primarily because of her friendship with Sandy. She knew that blood had been found in the bathroom, as well, a great deal of it. Detectives and forensic crews had determined that Sierra was most likely killed in the bedroom and possibly dismembered in the bathroom.

  When the police had finished and Sandy had taken over the place, she’d had the bathroom in 207 completely remodeled. The old tub was still taking up a lot of space in the evidence room at the police station.

  The bathroom looked completely ordinary. Shaving equipment and toiletries were on the counter by the sink, and the old claw-foot tub Sandy had bought to replace the original one was damp. Sandy’s guest had obviously had a bath or a shower before finding himself mesmerized by the blood his imagination had conjured up.

  When Kelsey left the room and walked down the stairs, she saw that neither Sandy nor Mr. Simmons was in the main saloon area. She wasn’t sure if they’d run outside—or if Sandy had managed to calm him down. She pushed open the swinging doors and looked out at the street. No one there. Kelsey quickly returned to the kitchen and the table where she’d been a
bout to drink her now-cold coffee.

  Simmons and Sandy were sitting there, but Simmons wasn’t drinking coffee. A shot glass and a bottle of whiskey stood in front of him. He’d apparently downed several shots already.

  Sandy and Simmons both turned to Kelsey. She shook her head. “There’s nothing there, Mr. Simmons. Nothing at all.”

  He gaped at her, disbelief in his eyes.

  “I swear to you,” she added quietly, “there’s nothing.”

  He groaned, lowering his head, pressing his temples between his palms. “Well, that’s just great. I’m going crazy.”

  Kelsey drew up a chair next to him, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Simmons—”

  “Corey. Call me Corey, please,” he interrupted gruffly.

  “Corey,” she said. “You’re not going crazy. You’re merely human, which makes you susceptible to the history of places like this. Everyone knows the stories about the Longhorn. You know the room was covered in blood at one time, and not that long ago, either. So, in your mind, you saw it covered in blood. You’re not crazy. What happened wasn’t a fun ghost story. It was reality.”

  “I should just not rent out that room,” Sandy murmured.

  Corey waved a hand in the air. “Not your fault,” he said. He gave them both a rueful grimace. “I asked for that room. I told the boys going to the rodeo that I’d be sleeping with the ghosts. I was a real hotshot. I didn’t know I had a crazy susceptible mind. At least…that’s what I’m going to believe, Miss…?”

  “O’Brien. Actually, Marshal O’Brien,” Kelsey said.

  “Kelsey’s been working with the U.S. Marshal’s Office in Key West,” Sandy explained.

  “A U.S. Marshal,” he repeated, looking at her as if she were some kind of alien life form.

  She smiled at him.

  “You don’t look like a cop,” he said.

  “Technically, I’m not a cop.”

  “But you…you do cop things.” He still seemed confused.

  “More or less.”