An ironic smile curled Jacksons features. Land of vampires, ghosts, voodoo and fantasy. But some of the worlds best cooking, and some truly great music, too.
All right then. You work in behavioral science. Dont you agree that peoples beliefs can create actions and reactions?
Yes, of course. Son of SamBerkowitz believed that howling dogs were demons commanding him to kill. Or, it was a damn good defense.
Always a skeptic, Adam said. And yet youre not really, are you? Now, Adam smiled.
I am a skeptic, yes. Am I open to possibility? Yes, Jackson said carefully.
You know, both of your parents were amazing believers, Adam reminded him.
Jackson hesitated.
Yes, they had been believers, both of them, always believing in a higher power, and it didnt matter what path someone took to that power. Jeremiah Crow had been born a member of the Cheyenne Nation, although his ancestry had been so mixed God alone knew exactly what it was. He had loved the spiritualism of his People, and his mother had loved it as well. Nominally Anglican, his mother had once told him that religion wasnt bad; it was meant to be very good. Men corrupted religion; and a mans religious choice didnt matter in the least if it was his path to decency and remembering his fellow man.
But his maternal grandmother had come from the Highlands of Scotland, and her tales of witches and pixies and ghosts had filled his childhood. Maybe thats why it had been while he was in the Highlands, and not on his Native American dream quest, that he had found himself in a position to question life and death and eternity, and all that fell in between.
Youre here because you are the perfect man for this team, Jackson, Adam said. Youre not going to refuse to investigate what seems like the impossible, but youre also not going to assume a ghost is the culprit.
All right. So you want me to go to New Orleans and find out exactly why this woman died? You do realize theres a good chance that, no matter what the husband wants to believe, she committed suicide.
Heres the thing, Jackson, most people will believe that she committed suicide. It is the most obvious answer. But I want the truth. Senator Holloway has given his passion to many critical committees in our country. He has made things happen often when the rest of the country sits around twiddling its collective thumbs. He is a man who can weigh the economy and the environment, and come up with solutions. He wants the truth. Hes young in politics, barely forty, and if he doesnt bury himself in grief, he will continue to serve the American people with something our politicians have lacked heavily in the past fifty yearscomplete integrity. People in Washington need him, and Im asking that you lead the group.
If its my assignment, Ill take it on, Jackson paused. Butdo I really need a unit?
I believe so. Im giving you a group to dispel or perhaps prove the existence of ghosts in the house. They all have their expertise as investigators as well.
He was quiet, and Adam continued, When several members of your last unit were killed, you got to the ranch house quickly enough to save Lawson and Donatello. No one knew where the PickMan was killing his victims. No one knew that he had arranged for your agents to be at the ranch house.
Jackson felt his jaw lock, and despite the time he had taken for leave, he swallowed hard. Theyd lost good agents. Among them Sally Jennings, fortyfive, experienced, and yet vulnerable no matter how many years of service she had seen.
Hed felt that hed seen Sally; dreamed that hed seen her, standing there at the house.
And it had been that dream that had brought him to the ranch house, and there he had discovered that she had been the first to die.
I shot the PickMan, he said. Hes dead.
That was the only chance Lawson and Donatello had, since, had he seen you before you warned him and fired to kill, hed have put that pick through Donatellos chest, Adam said. Trust me, Ive watched you for years, Jackson. I actually knew your parents.
That was surprising.
Adam might well have known about the event when Jackson had been riding near Stirling, Scotland, and been thrown. His friends had gone on, thinking that he had left them; that hed won the race and the bet. Hed encountered a stranger after, one who had saved his life. And then.
It had been long ago.
And yet, hell. Hed spent his life debunking ghost stories and dreams like the one hed had. Finding the truth behind them. Proving that the plantation in Virginia was haunted by a cousin of the owner who wanted him out of the estate. Proving that there were no ghosts prowling the Rocky Mountains, that a human being named Andy Sitwell was the PickMan, even if he supposedly believed that the ghost of an old goldseeking mountaineer was causing him to commit murder.
Six months had passed since he had shot and killed the PickMan. Six months in which he had tried to mourn the loss of his coworkers. Hed been back to Scotland to visit his mothers family, and hed spent a month with his fathers familyhelping them organize their new casinos and hotels.
But he was ready to get back into the kind of work for which he knew he had a talent. Digging. Following clues. Whether it meant studying history, people, beliefs or a trail of blood. He was good at it.
He had the mind for it, and the mind for the kind of unit Adam Harrison was putting together.
Im open to possibilities, he said to Adam. Possibilitiesthere are a lot of people out there manipulating spiritualism and making a lot of money off the concept of ghosts.
Adam smiled. Thats true, and I actually like your skepticism. As far as believing in ghosts, well, I do, he said. But thats not important. Ive got you scheduled for a flight into Louis Armstrong International Airport at nine tomorrow morning. Is that sufficient time to allow you to get your situation here in order?
His situation here?
The apartment in Crystal City had little in it. All right, a damn decent entertainment indent because he loved music and old movies. A closet of adequate and workable clothing. Pictures of the family and friends he had lost.
He nodded. Sure. What about these? He lifted the file folders, the dossiers on his new unit. When do I meet the crew?
Theyll arrive tomorrow and Wednesday, Adam said. Youve got the dossiers; read up on them first. I figured you might want the house all to yourself for a few hours. Angela arrives firstshell get in tomorrow evening around six. Youll know who they all are when they arrive if youve done the reading. Adam stood, a clear sign that the interview had come to an end. Thank you for taking this on, he said.
Did I actually have a choice? he asked with a rueful grin.
Adam returned the grin. Jackson was never really going to know.
He started out of the office. Adam called him back.
You know, you have a gift for this, Jackson. And you can really take on anything you want.
Jackson wasnt sure what that meant, either. Ill do my best, he promised.
I know you will. And I know that well all know what really happened in that house on Dauphine.
XFiles. The thought came to Jacksons mind as he finished with Adam Harrison.
I know you will. And I know that well all know what really happened in that house on Dauphine.
XFiles. The thought came to Jacksons mind as he finished with Adam Harrison.
He went down to his car, still wondering exactly what it was he was getting into.
Yeah, it was sounding like the XFiles. Or Ghostfiles.
And he was going to have Ghostfile helpers. Great.
In his car, he glanced through the dossiers, scanning the main, introductory page of each. Angela Hawkins, Whitney Tremont, Jake Mallory, Jenna Duffy and Will Chan. The first woman, at least, was coming from a Virginia police force. Whitney Tremont had started out life in the French Quarter; she had a Creole background and had recently done the camera work for a paranormal cabletelevision show. Jake Mallorymusician, but a man who had been heavily involved in searches after the summer of storms, and been called in as well during kidnapping cases and disappearances. Then there was Jenna Duffy. A registered nurse from Ireland. Well, theyd be covered in case of any poltergeist attacks. And Will Chanthe man had worked in theater, and as a magician.
It was one hell of a strange team.
Whatever, Jackson figured; it was time he went back to work. There was one thing hed discovered to be correctthe truth was always out there, you just had to find it.
The house seemed to hold court on the corner. It sat on Dauphine, one block in back of Bourbon and three or four blocks in from Esplanade. The location was primejust distant enough to keep the noise down in the wee hours of the morning when the music on Bourbon Street pulsed like an earthly drum, and still close enough to the wonders of the city.
The actual shape was like a horseshoe; a massive wooden gate gave entry to the courtyard, while the main entrance on Dauphine offered a sweeping curve of stairs to the front downstairs porch and a doubledoor entry that was historic and fantastic in its carvings.
Jackson turned the key in the lock. As he stepped in, the alarm began to chirp and he quickly keyed in the code he had been given.
Straight out of Gone with the Wind, Jackson murmured aloud as he surveyed the house. Tara meets city streets. The front room here served as an elegant reception area, perhaps even a ballroom at one point in time. He could almost see Southern belles in their elegant gowns swirling around, led by handsome men in frock coats. A piano sat to the far end near an enormous hearth with tiled backing and a marble mantel. A second, identical fireplace was at the other end of the wall. Midroom was the grand, curving staircase.
What furniture remained was covered in dust sheets.
The hallway on the second floor led to the right and left as he headed up.
He moved on around an ell and came to a long hallway of bedrooms. Here. At the end.
This was the room.
He turned on the light. It seemed to be completely benign, a pretty room, one that had already been prepared for occupancyor that had been occupied. A beautiful fourposter canopy bed sat on a Persian rug, covered in white. Handsome deco dressing tables sat to either side of the room, and large French doors, draped in white chintz and lace, opened out to the balcony that wrapped around the house as it faced the courtyard. Would he feel anything? He did not.
He walked over to the French doors and threw them open, stepping out on the balcony.
The courtyard below explained why a house that came with such a tragic history could still win over buyer after buyer. It was paved with brick, and in the indent, typical of New Orleans, was a fountain and sculpture. A beautiful crane spread its metal wings above the bowl and the water splashed melodically below it into a large basin.
There was a car park to the side, and elegant little wroughtiron tables, shaded by colorful umbrellas, sat across from them. He realized that the kitchen and dining room were behind the round tables, and that food could easily be passed out from the kitchen through a passover counter area. He wasnt sure that had been part of the original house. He was going to have to study the blueprints again.
The only thing that marred the beauty stretched before him was the chalk mark down on the bricks where Regina Holloway had lain after she had fallen.
And died.
The blood stain had been cleaned, and yet it seemed to remain.
The courtyard was closed in by the house itself, and by a ninefoot brick wall, and the double wooden gate, large enough to let a car in. But the gate was locked, and it had a keyin pad the same as the main entrances to the house. Senator Holloway had never been a fool; the alarm had gone in the second his signature had been dry on purchase papers. All this Jackson knew because he had read the police reports on the suicide.
He noted, though, that it would be almost impossible to reach the wall from the end of the house. There was a good four feet between the end of the balcony and the wall; a statue of Poseidon with a trident was positioned there, so it would be a pleasant fall if one were to attempt a leapand not make it. But, againnot impossible.
Just so damn improbable.
Maybe it was a good case for his first back in the working world; it was incredibly sad to think about the death of Regina Holloway, but he could hardly begin to imagine the loss she must have felt. Hed seen it before. Parents werent supposed to outlive their children. Any loss of a child was unbearable.
He heard the doorbell ringing and grimaced, thinking that the house had definitely been built at a time when the third floor housed a number of servants; the main entrance was a good distance from this wing. But he was expecting Detective Andy Devereaux, so he left the balcony and the room, pausing one minute in the doorway. Still, he felt nothing. The room was just a room. He hurried on back to the front door.
Andy Devereaux was a tall man, light mahogany in color, with powderblue eyes that testified to his mixed heritage, if the attractive shading of his skin did not. He was bald, cleanshaven, fit and trim and tall. He wore a baseball cap to protect his pate, jeans and a tailored shirt beneath a casual, zipup jacket. He offered Jackson a firm handshake when they met.
Detective Andrew Devereaux, Andy, to my friends, he said briefly.
Jacksonfirst name, not lastand thats what I am to my friends, Jackson told him. Thanks so much for meeting me here.
Devereaux nodded grimly. Hey, Id do anything I could for the senator and his family. Its a crying shame about Regina. A sweeter woman never drew breath.
Come on in, and just give me the lay of the land, will you? I got as far as Reginas master bedroom at the end of the horseshoe, Jackson told him.
Devereaux stepped into the house, removing the Saints cap that had shielded his eyes and sticking it into his jacket pocket after unzipping it. When the jacket front moved, Jackson could see that the man was on dutyand armed.
You know the history of the house, right? Andy asked him.
Basically, the ghost stories began back after the Civil War. And, apparently, there have been a number of suicides, or murders made to look like suicides, since then, Jackson said.
Yep. Youd never know it, though, standing in this parlor, Andy said. Rich folks keep buying the place. Its usually a good deal. One time, it went higher than a kitefolks were trying to buy places like this, chockfull of stories. Though before Senator Holloway bought the house, it had been empty for several years. Before that, it was bought by some hotshot New York banker. The fellow wanted to make a haunted bedandbreakfast out of it.