Ghost Walk
Ghost Walk
Heather Graham
This is no dream…
Nikki DuMonde's newest employee is standing at the end of her bed at four o'clock in the morning begging for help. It's a joke, right? Besides, as manager of a successful New Orleans haunted-tour company, Nikki doesn't scare easily. But in the light of day, harsh reality sets in as a police officer informs her that Andy was brutally murderedat the exact time Nikki swears the distraught woman was in her room.
No one believes her except Brent Blackhawk, a paranormal investigator desperately trying to forget his tragic past. Half Irish, half Lakotaand able to communicate with the deadBrent is used to living in two worlds. But when he realizes the ghost of a slain government agent is also trying to reach out to Nikki, he knows that she, too, must listen to the deadif she wants to keep living.
Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author HEATHER GRAHAM
“An incredible storyteller!”
—Los Angeles Daily News
“Graham…has penned yet another spine-tingling romantic suspense.”
—Booklist on Picture Me Dead
“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead
“Graham delivers a wonderfully inventive read.”
—Romantic Times on Picture Me Dead
“Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay
“Heather Graham writes with a unique passion for the characters and world of South Florida.”
—BookPage on Hurricane Bay
“This gripping tale strikes a perfect balance between romance and intrigue.”
—Publishers Weekly on Night of the Blackbird
“Spectacular and dazzling work…”
—Booklist on Eyes of Fire
HEATHER GRAHAM
GHOST WALK
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.
Published in Great Britain 2005
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR
© Heather Graham 2005
ISBN 9781408955864
For Molly Bolden, with all the love in the
world. Also, for Bent Pages, and the girls,
Kay Levine, Michelle Bergeron,
Bonnie Moore, Jolene Leonard
and Betti Basile.
And for Connie Perry, Al, Scott, Stacy, Josh
and Me Maw, and the Ladies of Louisiana,
Brenda Barrett, Lorna Broussard,
Karin David Debby Quebedeaux
and Mary Lomack.
There’s nowhere like New Orleans,
but people always create the heart in
the why we love a place!
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Heather Graham majored in theater arts at the University of South Florida. Heather grew up in Dade County, Florida, and toured Europe and parts of Asia and Africa as part of her studies.
After college, she acted in dinner theaters, modeled, waitressed, and tended bar. After the birth of her third child, she decided to stay home and was determined to commit herself to her dream: writing. She sold her first book in 1982. She is also now the mother of five!
Today, this author’s success is reflected not just by sales, with millions of copies of her books in print around the world and translated into over fifteen languages, but in many other ways. In addition to being a best-selling author, Heather has received numerous awards for her novels, and has been quoted in People and USA Today, been profiled in The Nation, and featured in Good Housekeeping. Her books have been selected by the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild.
She has written over one hundred novels and novellas including category, romantic suspense, historical romance, vampire fiction, time travel, occult, and Christmas-themed holiday stories. Heather Graham writes for MIRA books and under the name Shannon Drake, writes for HQN Books.
Somehow, this prolific author manages to juggle it all—a family of five, married since high school graduation and a truly remarkable career.
Prologue
The child awoke, not sure why. He could hear voices from the living room, but they were hushed, and though he immediately sensed a strangeness in their tone, he knew they hadn’t been loud enough to wake him.
He lay there, wondering.
Then he felt it.
Exactly what “it” was, he didn’t know. But it wasn’t frightening. It was just a sense of being comforted, like a blanket, like the soft brush of a feather, entirely pleasant. He felt enveloped by gentleness, care and concern. Even strength.
All the different tales that had been told to him seemed to blend together. There was a mist in the room that echoed the stories of the Great Spirit. He thought he heard a cry on the air, barely discernible, a soft keening. Perhaps it was only in his mind, but it might have been the distant cry of the banshee.
He wasn’t frightened.
Whatever it was…a mist, a shape, nothing concrete, but yet…it was there and it touched him, reassured him. The bathroom light was on; the little night-light was always kept on for him, even though he was five and already quite grown up.
But he knew that the mist or whatever it was had nothing to do with light or dark. It was simply there. It was a kiss on the forehead, a promise that everything was all right. It wasn’t a something but a someone, he thought. Someone who loved him and needed him to know that he was loved in return. Someone who had entered…
The kiss again, and the feeling of love, somehow deeper than anything real. And there were words, but not words that could be heard. They were words he simply felt.
Another world…
When the door opened quietly, he lay still. He could hear the tears in his grandfather’s voice as he whispered to his uncle, “He’s sleeping. There’s no need to wake him.”
He wanted to rise, to wrap his arms around his grandfather, to tell him that it—whatever it was—was going to be okay. But something held him silent, eyes closed, pretending he was sleeping. They were whispering again.
He was a strong child. He would be fine.
But he was an only child. He would be so alone.
No. It would be all right. He would have the rest of his family. And he was one of a great Brotherhood. He would be all right.
He definitely didn’t want anyone to know that he was awake, listening, and that in their words he had already grasped the sense of tragedy that was tearing them apart.
He was afraid that if he made the slightest sound, he might lose the precious sense of the light, the touch…the love that surrounded him.
Finally they left, the door closed.
It was in the morning that his grandfather spoke with him, stoic as always, firm in his belief in the Great Spirit, God, the Creator. There would always be an end to life here on earth, his grandfather told him, and it was how each man lived it that mattered, not the length of his lifespan. There was a world beyond, and it did not matter what a man called that world; it was simply there. His parents were gone from this place, and they could not be with him, not in the now. Nothing could hurt them anymore, ever. All they would know in the future would be the tender grace of their Maker. He—no matter what one chose to call him—would watch out for them.
His grandfather was wise, and yet the boy couldn’t help but wonder if he himself wasn’t more at peace than the man who would now raise him. His grandfather’s eyes were filled with pain. He didn’t fully feel the truth of his own words; he hadn’t felt the gentle touch.
The boy slipped his hand into his grandfather’s, then touched his face. His grandfather offered him the wisdom of the native peoples; his mother had brought him the fanciful mystery of a faraway country and the beliefs of the Old South. “It will be all right,” he said simply, knowing his parents were still alive in his heart and would always watch over him from above.
“My boy.” His grandfather wrapped him close.
Yes, the boy thought, his parents would be fine, in a world past all pain, all strife. But all the same, they were gone.
His father would never throw him up in the air again, play ball with him, teach him, tell him tales of the Great Spirit. And his mother would never match those tales with her own Gaelic whimsies. The soft tinkle of her laughter would not come again, nor would she tell him that he was a big boy, yet tuck him into bed anyway.
They would never offer him their deep, unconditional love again…
No, that wasn’t true.
He knew that love as deep and abiding as theirs had been was eternal. And there was comfort in that, a comfort that could ease loss and pain.
But there were other elements in the world that were also eternal.
Just as there was love, there was hatred.
Just as there was gratitude, there was vengeance.
He believed that he had a gift, and that his gift was special. But it wasn’t long before he learned that he was destined to face far more than the soft touch of love in the night.
Contents
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
COMING NEXT MONTH
1
“Six, please,” Nikki DuMonde said. “Six.” She was smiling, but firm as she emphasized the number, indicating the tray where there were only five cups of café au lait. She and Andrea Ciello were in line at Madame D’Orso’s, as they so often were. Madame herself was wonderful, but apparently she was busy, and the young woman behind the counter seemed overwhelmed. It seemed quiet enough right now. Though many of the little terrace tables were taken, there was only one other person inside the café at the moment, and he was slumped against the far wall. She glanced toward him. He had looked up once and had an attractive face, eyes that were intelligent, cheekbones hard and sculpted. But his clothes were ragged, with a slept-in look; he was unshaven, and his hair was shaggy and unkempt.
“Six coffees, six orders of beignets,” Andy added, flashing a smile as the girl added a cup to the tray along with plates filled with the delicious pastries so famous in New Orleans—and better, in the minds of the locals at Madame’s than any other place in the world. “S’il vous plaît,” she added.
As the girl turned to ring up their order, Andy assessed Nikki with her exotic dark eyes. “My treat today,” she said.
“Don’t be silly.”
“No, ever since I came aboard, you’ve been wonderful.” She had only been a tour guide for Myths and Legends of New Orleans for about four weeks. For Nikki, it was old hat.
“Hey, we all rely on each other, since we always work in pairs. And you’re doing just fine.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Andy said, tossing a length of her sleek dark hair over one shoulder. “I know all the stories, and sometimes I get chills, like there’s someone looking over my shoulder. But you…Nikki, it’s like you see ghosts.”
Nikki shrugged, glancing around the café. “Maybe it’s just ingrained,” she said. “I went to school with half the palm readers and voodoo queens working the Quarter these days. I guess it’s like…well, walking into any place that’s really historical…and…”
Nikki frowned and floundered, looking for the right word.
“Creepy?” Andy suggested.
Nikki shook her head. “Where deep feelings existed, where trauma occurred—like Westminster Abbey in London. When you walk in there—”
“The place is like one giant cemetery,” Andy said dryly.
Nikki laughed. “Yeah, it is. But you can get the same feeling at a Civil War battle site—even with all the bodies removed. I guess it’s a way of feeling the past, of history, people, the emotions. Remnants of the lives that were lived there, lost there.”
“You see ghosts,” Andy said, nodding sagely.
“I do not see ghosts.”
“You have an affinity for them.”
Nikki was growing uncomfortable. “No. I told you. It’s just a feeling of…history and the human condition, that’s all,” she said firmly. “Everyone gets it at some point, at some place.”
Andy reflected a moment. “Well, I do feel something in several of the cemeteries. And now and then in the cathedral, there’s a kind of…vibe.”
“Exactly,” Nikki agreed. She reached for the tray, but Andy was getting it, so she turned to head back to their table and nearly screamed.
The derelict had risen. He was in front of her, his mouth working, as he reached for her.
She couldn’t help but recoil, but even so his hands touched her shoulders. She thought he was going to collapse against her, but he straightened, his mouth still working as if he was trying to say something.
He needed money, she thought.
“Here,” she said quickly, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a bill and, pity replacing her feelings of revulsion, said, “Get yourself a real meal, please. No alcohol or drugs, please. Get food.”
She felt his touch again as she went quickly past him, Andy in her wake, hurrying with the tray.
The others were outside, but before they could reach the table, Andy said softly, “Nikki, that was really kind of you.”
“He’ll probably just drink it or shoot it up his arm,” Nikki said.
“No, maybe not. Actually, he didn’t look like a junkie.”
“Just a bum.”
“There but for the grace of God go I,” Andy murmured beneath her breath. Nikki turned to look at her, but Andy shook her head. She had been in trouble with drugs; she’d been dead honest with Nikki when the two had first met. She’d been clean for years, however. She seldom even drank now, unless it was a special night out, a celebration.
At the moment, however, she clearly didn’t want to say any more, not in front of the friends waiting for them: Nathan, Julian, Mitch and Patricia.
They all worked for the same tour company, and they were making a success of it, despite the competition in New Orleans. Maximilian Dupuis, the founder of the business, had taken Nikki on board first. Max had found her through the articles she’d been writing for one of the local tourist papers.
Max himself was really something. Tall, dark and bony, he resembled a vampire and could have haunted New Orleans just fine himself, though the cigars he loved to chomp on kind of ruined the impression. Nor was he really interested in ghostly occurrences himself.
Max was out to make a buck.
His brilliance was in putting together what the public wanted and in the art of delegating, he had told Nikki. He’d had the cash to start up the business, she’d had the ability and the knowledge. When he’d hired her, she’d suggested bringing in Julian, who’d been her best friend forever. As they’d prospered, they’d added the rest.
Nikki was Max’s number two. She was responsible for hiring new guides, then for training them. It worked out well, since Max didn’t particularly like to stick around and run the business. Max liked his money and having other people work for him, so he could travel the globe. At the moment he was hiking in Colorado.
“That took long enough,” Patricia said as they approached the table.
“Nikki was flirting,” Andy teased.
“Oh?” Patricia Broussard had been born and bred in Cajun country, and, like Andy, she had long dark hair. Her eyes were equally dark, and her grin was entirely impish. “Nikki’s got a guy?”
“Very mysterious,” Andy said.
“I gave a bum a dollar,” Nikki said, shaking her head.
“She gave him a twenty,” Andy corrected.
“He looked like he needed it,” Nikki said quickly as Julian stared at her in surprise.
“Actually, he looked like he might be pretty handsome if you cleaned him up a bit,” Andy said.
“You gave a bum a twenty?” Mitch, their out-of-towner, a blonde from Pittsburgh, demanded. “Wow…you’re making a lot more in tips than I am.”
“She’s cuter,” Patricia told him.
“He just seemed really needy,” Nikki explained. “So let’s get past this moment, shall we?”
“No, I like this conversation. All work and no play, Nikki…” Nathan, who was living with Patricia, teased.
“Actually,” Patricia said, eyeing Julian and then Nikki, “most people think you two are a couple.”
“Ugh,” Julian said.
“Thanks,” Nikki told him.
“No, no, that wasn’t about you,” Julian protested quickly.
“I know,” Nikki assured him. She stared at Patricia. “It’s just that we’ve known each other forever. It’s like a brother/sister thing. Now can we get down to business?”
But Nathan grinned, leaning forward. “Nikki, forget business. We’ve got to get you set up with someone.”
She sighed deeply. “I do not want to be set up with anyone.”
“Her last excursion into amore didn’t go so well,” Julian said with a dramatic sigh. “But, then, I did tell her not to date the creep.”
“I’ve never seen you date,” Patricia told her.
“That’s because she hasn’t in nearly a year,” Julian informed them.
“What? Why, that’s…un-American,” Mitch protested.
Nikki groaned, clenching her teeth. “He wasn’t a creep. He just wanted to go off to Hollywood and get rich and famous.”
“And he wanted Nikki to come along and support him while he did,” Julian said dryly.
“We had different agendas,” Nikki said firmly. “I love this business and I love New Orleans. I like California, but I want to live here. He really wasn’t a jerk.”
“Not a total jerk,” Patricia interjected. “He was really good looking, and he could be really sweet.”
“Sweet?” Mitch queried politely.
“Flowers, opening doors…the little things. But in the big things, he wanted his own way.”
“See, I just don’t think that she felt that thing for him, you know? Good-looking guy, charming…but when it’s just not there, it’s just not there,” Nathan said.
“Yeah, but if you always had to wait for it to be there,” Mitch laughed, “I’d spend a lot more nights alone than I already do. No wonder you’re so tense, Nikki.”
“I’m not tense,” Nikki said.
“Yeah, and if you don’t get off it, she’ll talk to Max and see that your ass is fired,” Patricia warned sweetly.
“Ouch!” Mitch said.
“Guys, please,” Nikki said. “I’m busy, and I’m discerning, and I take my time, okay? And right now we need to worry about work, okay?”
Julian turned to Andy. “Just how decent would this bum of hers be if we cleaned him up?”
“Pretty decent,” Andy said thoughtfully. “He just looked…down on his luck.”
“Okay, guys, playtime over,” Nikki said firmly. “Julian, Greg wasn’t that much of a creep, just a little self-centered. I had no intention of going anywhere with him, so it was fun, but it’s over. And thanks, but I don’t want to date the bum. I’m fine. I love my apartment, love my work and enjoy my friendship with all you guys. I’m normal, not tense, and when I want to date, I will.”
“Maybe she’s working the strip clubs at night under an alias,” Mitch teased. She shot him a glare from blue-green eyes. He lifted his hands. “I’m going to behave now. Really.”
“Okay, guys, I’ve got notes from Max. Mitch, you’re welcome to introduce any new story, as long as you validate it first. Julian, if anyone makes you feel uncomfortable on the walks, tell them you’re married.”
“What?” Julian said, startled.
Nikki shrugged. “That’s what Max said to tell you. He said it works for him all the time.”
“Oh, really? Who would be trying to pick up old Max?” Julian demanded.
“Oh, come on,” Patricia protested. “Max is cute—in a creepy kind of way.”
“Great. I say I’m married, then when the right person comes along…they think that I’m married or a liar,” Julian said. “There goes my social life.” He groaned. “I’ll end up like Nikki.”
“Oh, come on, will you guys please, please leave me alone?” Nikki demanded.
“That bum is looking better and better,” Julian said to Nathan.
“You didn’t even see him,” Nikki protested, irritated.
“We’re just trying to help,” Nathan said.
“I don’t want to be helped,” Nikki snapped. “Hey—work on Andy for a while, huh?”
On cue, they all turned to stare at Andy. She laughed. “Nikki, they don’t know me as well. I won’t be nearly as much fun to torture.”
“Besides, Andy is a flirt,” Nathan said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Really?” Andy said.
“Yeah, really,” Mitch assured her.
Andy giggled. “Okay…I am a flirt. I admit it.”
“You can flirt with me anytime,” Julian teased.
“And if he’s not around, and you’re looking for a good solid Yankee boy…” Mitch suggested.
“Never play where you work, that’s what Mom always said,” Andy told them with a sad shake of her head.
“Well, you could just sleep with me,” Mitch said. “We wouldn’t have to play at all.”
“Hey! Go back to torturing Nikki, will you?” Andy demanded.
“If you all don’t quit, tomorrow night’s off,” Nikki said.
“The tour is off?” Julian asked, puzzled.
“Of course not,” Nikki said patiently. “If you’d all just behave like adults and listen… We had a record month. Max is going to pay for a celebration at Pat O’Brien’s. Dinner and drinks on him, tomorrow, after the night tour.”
“All right!” Mitch cried happily.
At that moment Madame D’Orso made one of her sweeping appearances, bearing her elegant coffeepot, chatting with her guests.
And they were special guests. Their tours met in front of her place, bringing her lots of business.
“It’s calmed down out here some, huh?” Nikki asked her.
“Yes. Not that I complain about business, but we had a busy late lunch crowd today,” she told them, pouring them more coffee. At her place, it was premixed. Café au lait meant café au lait.
“Hey,” Mitch said to her, setting a friendly hand on her back, just above her waist. The gesture wasn’t flirtatious, just affectionate. Mitch was in his late twenties. Madame was in her late…well, hard to tell, but she was a few decades older. “Should Nikki date the bum who was in your place?”
“What bum?”
“You didn’t see him?” Andy asked.
“Honey, I wouldn’t have noticed if Robert E. Lee stopped in. It was busy in there today. As if this parish isn’t nutty enough, it’s election time. Campaigners, do-gooders and politicians everywhere, thick as flies. There’s those trying to clean up the place, make New Orleans a ‘family’ destination. And then there’s those trying to keep her wild, wicked and free.” She removed Mitch’s hand, grinned and moved on.
“Damn. Wish I’d seen the bum. Then I’d know if we could clean him up enough or not,” Mitch said with a wink.
“Drop it. Or there will be no free meal for you tomorrow night,” Nikki warned him.
“It’s dropped,” he assured her.
Nikki rose. She could see a tour group gathering out front. “Julian, it’s showtime. Andy, you’re following along. Patricia, Nathan, don’t forget you’re on tonight.”
With a last long swallow of her café au lait, Nikki started off with a smile to meet the growing crowd. Twenty minutes later, she was standing in front of the Bourbon Street bar, once a blacksmith’s shop, that the pirate turned patriot Jean Lafitte was said to haunt. She found the story of the man a fascinating puzzle, and focused her speech on his enigmatic history, along with a mention that there were definitely “spirits” of all sorts to be found there—many of them behind the bar.
Her smile was as enigmatic as her story. She was certain that Jean Lafitte’s ghost loved to have his story told. She could feel the mischief in the air, something a little wicked, and yet benign.
She always told the story of the man with affection, and she knew that she always gave her audience a few delightful chills.
Ghosts filled the streets here, between the neon lights that advertised Girls! Girls! Girls! and the shop fronts offering voodoo charms, the ever-present music, the mimes on the street, the antique shops, the boutiques and the T-shirt shops that also sold pralines and potions.
It was New Orleans, and she loved it.
Tom Garfield fought to retain his senses, fought because that was what a man did. It was simple instinct. And so many times before, it had served him well. But this time?
The girl. Had he gotten to the girl? He didn’t know. No matter how he struggled, his mind was deeply fogged.
There had been a chance.
But he hadn’t been able to talk.
And then…
Then it had been too late. He had been followed.
Well, it had been a good fight. And he had done as much good as he could. Maybe someone would come after him, someone who knew the truth. He had tried so damn hard to talk…
He felt a jostling, and he knew. He was being “taken care of.” It no longer mattered, even to him. Dreams were taking over reality. And he could see…
The woman. Like a fairy-tale princess. Long blond hair, eyes both blue and green…And that face, porcelain, and the look of pity…
The…money.
More money than anyone ever gave a bum.
Not a bum. Once…
In his mind’s eye, in dreams, all that remained, he could see himself in a suit. No, in a tux. Clean. Walking across a room. And there, the woman…
He was jostled again, the dream broken. It was her kindness, he thought, that had most moved him.
He felt the needle.
Dreams…
Dreams were good.
He was dying. And as he died, one regret tore at him.
They would never know the truth.
Unless she realized just what she had, what she had received, what he had slipped to her in that instant when they touched…
It was over. Had he lost? No, he had to die for a reason! God help him, he had to have counted. She had to realize…
Fading. Fading, fading, and then…
Death.
2
The afternoon French Quarter tour wound up being a long one. They always allowed for questions after the tour, and it turned out they had a lot of people with questions. When they finished, Julian decided to head home, but Nikki wanted to do some shopping, so she and Andy headed off.
In addition to suggesting the party, Max had given Nikki a bonus. There was a corset shop on Royal Street and a certain piece of clothing she had been coveting for quite a while. On the way they stopped by Andy’s place to check on an old woman, Mrs. Montobello, Andy seemed to have adopted. The woman was full of tales about her younger years in New Orleans. She was an Italian immigrant who’d come to marry a fellow Italian, sight unseen, but now her husband was long gone, her one son had also passed away, and her grandchildren were sweet but living their own lives in New York City.
That day, she was on a kick about the many voodoo queens, and tarot and palm readers in the French Quarter.
“All shysters,” she said, shaking her old gray head with animation. “Once upon a time voodoo was a way for the slaves to have something of their own—and to get back at their masters, eh? But I can tell you this—there were women once who really had a special gift.”
“Mrs. Montobello,” Nikki said, “Marie Laveau supported her ‘powers’ by eavesdropping.”
“Dear child,” Mrs. Montobello protested. “Don’t you go doubting things just because they can’t be seen. I hear that you give the best ghost tour out there. That people believe they’ve seen ghosts when they get back from a walk with you. That’s because you see them, don’t you?”
Nikki shook her head. “I think it’s just a matter of seeing history, feeling the emotions that must have played out. But I’m a girl who sees the real picture. We lead tours, we make money. I don’t fall for the shyster palm readers. Oh, I believe there are people who give ‘good’ readings, but I think that’s because they would have made fabulous psychologists. They know how to read people.”
“Nikki’s good. No matter what she says, I’ve stood next to her and felt chills,” Andy said.
“So you really do talk to ghosts, huh?” Mrs. Montobello said, rheumy blue eyes studying Nikki in far too serious a manner.
“No. I have a feel for history, and I think I’m a good storyteller,” Nikki said. “I do not talk to ghosts.”
“So you don’t talk to them, but do they talk to you?” Mrs. Montobello asked.
“Good heavens, no!” Nikki said. “I’d have a heart attack on the spot if that happened. And if they’re out there,” Nikki said mischievously, “they apparently know that.”
“Maybe they will talk to you one day,” Mrs. Montobello murmured. “I suppose, just like plain folk, ghosts need to have something to say. But you believe they’re out there—I can tell.”
Nikki felt a sudden chill. Yes, she believed in ghosts, or if not ghosts, per se, in a memory that lingered in certain places.
It sure as hell wasn’t something she was going to share with anyone.
Not even Mrs. Montobello.
“At my age,” the old woman said, “you come to know a difference in this world, perhaps because you’re so close to the next.”
She was still studying Nikki closely. Nikki found herself staring back for a long moment.
For a moment she found herself thinking, I can see a fog. And I can feel the cold, an essence, a feeling…when someone is lost, when they’re frustrated. Looking for something. They’re benign, meaning no harm, and they are no more than mist, something in my heart, or imagination.
Then she shook off the feeling, and they continued to chat as Nikki and Andy picked up the tea they had made for Mrs. Montobello, washed and dried and straightened, and then headed out.
At the door, Mrs. Montobello stared at Nikki strangely again. “Go shopping. Listen to the music. But stay away from shysters.”
As they walked along the streets, past neon lights, garish come-ons, charming boutiques, and bars and clubs that wailed with blues and pop and everything in between, Andy suddenly stopped. “Isn’t it funny? I feel like a little kid. Mrs. Montobello just said we shouldn’t stop by a voodoo shop, so now I’m itching for a palm reading.”
“Andy, come on, they’re just silly.”
“Okay, how about a tarot card reading?”
Nikki hesitated, staring at her. “Just let me buy that corset I want and I’ll take you to a good place.”
“Yeah?”
“We won’t tell Mrs. Montobello.”
Nikki liked the boutique where she purchased the corset. Everything was unique and handmade. But since Andy seemed restless, she didn’t take the time to look around, just made her purchase, and then they headed for Conte Street.
The name of the place was Contessa Moodoo’s Hoodoo Voodoo. Not promising, Nikki admitted as Andy stared at her, but she knew the woman who owned the shop fairly well. She was large, of mixed ancestry, African, Native American, white…maybe even some Asian, and whatever her real name might have been, she didn’t use it. She just went by Contessa. She had long ago told Nikki that her potions were just what they said on the bottles—vitamins, with maybe a few herbs thrown in. And in her readings…well, she told people what they wanted to hear.
After purchasing a love potion, a bottle of vitamin E and a few sachets, Nikki introduced Andy.
“And,” she said, “my friend wants a reading.”
Contessa had remarkable eyes, like marbles, so many colors it would be hard to describe them in any customary way. Hazel was the best Nikki could summon, but they sometimes looked almost blue, sometimes gray, and sometimes they seemed very dark and mysterious.
She stared at Andy with a shrug. “Come on, then.” Contessa had a little nook, filled with the pleasant scent of incense, and blocked off from the rest of the room by a bead curtain. They walked by voodoo dolls, more potions and curios to reach it.
Contessa took a seat behind a table with a beautiful crystal ball in the middle—she had long ago told Nikki it was just for looks. She indicated that Andy should take the chair opposite her.
She picked up her deck of cards and asked Andy to hold them. Then she took them and dealt them out.
But as she flipped the first over, she paused. Andy touched a card, and this time, Contessa swept up the deck, shaking her head. “The cards aren’t talking tonight, I’m sorry,” she said.
Nikki stared at her, puzzled. She brought people here because she knew that Contessa would find something uplifting to say to her clients. A decision looms before you, think long and carefully. Or There has beena division of sorts in your life and you must consider the past and remember that forgiveness is something we all must feel, if we are to be happy with ourselves. Or even, The future is bright, go for it.
“Okay, how about a palm reading?” Andy suggested.
Contessa stiffened, lowering her head. Nikki saw Andy smile, as if she were applauding the act. But Nikki knew this was no act.
With a sigh, Contessa held Andy’s palm, looking very serious. At last she looked up at her. “You be careful, young woman. Very careful.”
“Why?” Andy demanded.
“When you’re home, you lock yourself in. Don’t go talking to no strangers. And…”
“And?” Andy demanded.
“There’s something…” Contessa muttered.
“Oh,” Andy said lightly. “I lived a pretty hard life for a while. Drugs,” she admitted. “But I’m clean as a whistle now. Honestly.”
“You lock your doors,” Contessa said. “And you keep away from those no-accounts, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. And thank you. What else? Am I going to fall in love?” Andy demanded.
Contessa kept her strange mottled eyes on Andy; she didn’t look at her hand again.
“We all fall in love, don’t we?” she asked. Then she added, “Okay, shoo, now. Off you go. And keep those doors locked!”
Nikki was surprised when Contessa all but hustled them out the door.
“But I didn’t pay you!” Andy protested.
“Honey, you don’t owe me a thing. Now git. There’s a world out there to be lived. You go live it quick.”
The door closed behind them with a soft ringing of bells.
Andy burst into laughter. “Well, you and Mrs. Montobello are right. She sounds more like a mother than a psychologist. Go home, lock your doors. Watch out for strangers. Well, she was fun, anyway. Thanks, Nikki.”
Nikki nodded, not knowing why she was feeling disturbed when Andy was amused.
“Strange, though, huh? I’ll bet she could tell I’d been a junkie once upon a time.” Andy sighed. “Hey…you don’t think, if Max knew about my past, that he’d fire me, do you?”
“No. And who knows about Max’s past, anyway?” Nikki joked. Then she turned serious. “Andy, you had a hard life, but you’ve risen above it. Contessa gave you good advice. Watch out for anyone who might want to drag you down again. That’s it.”
“She warned me to watch out for strangers. Let me tell you, there were some damn strange people in my past, that’s for sure.”
“So leave them in the past.”
“Yeah, well…sometimes I wonder if they’ll come back to haunt me, no matter where I leave them.” She hesitated. “Did you ever smoke, Nikki?”
“Smoke…you mean cigarettes?”
Andy laughed. “Yes, I meant cigarettes!”
“In high school and college. Then I quit.”
“Yeah, but were you ever really addicted?”
“You bet. I went to a hypnotist, and I chewed the gum like crazy.”
“They say cigarettes are the hardest addiction to break,” Andy said. “But you know how it is. You quit smoking—you may have given it up for years—but sometimes you’ll see someone with a cigarette, and you just want one so badly you can barely stand it. But you know you can’t have that one cigarette because you’ll wind up with the addiction all over again, no matter what you tell yourself. Do you know what I’m saying?”
“Yes, I know I can’t have one cigarette.”
“It’s like that with other stuff… Every once in a while, you think, man, I’d love to have that high, just one more time. But you know you can’t do it.”
“You’re not afraid you’ll be tempted, are you?” Nikki asked her, worried.
Andy shook her head. “No. Because I know what could happen. And I’ve seen far too many lives destroyed. I’m straight as an arrow now.”
“Good for you,” Nikki said.
“And I love my job.”
“That’s great. Hey!” Nikki said suddenly. She lowered her voice. “Speaking of drugs and addictions…look.”
“What?”
“There’s that guy again.”
“What guy?”
“The one we saw today, at Madame D’Orso’s.”
Andy turned, looking across Conte. There was a crowd around the popular bar on the corner, which was supposedly haunted by a cool jazz guitarist. “Where?” she demanded.
“Right there. Great. I gave him a twenty, and he used it to go drinking,” Nikki said in disgust.
“I don’t see him,” Andy said, craning her neck and frowning.
“There…right there.” Nikki pointed. The man was there, staring straight at her. He still looked as if he longed to reach out, touch her…talk to her.
Then the crowd moved. People laughing, talking. A sad trumpet lament began to play. And he was gone.
“Well, go figure. No more twenties to junkies, huh?” Andy said. She walked on.
And Nikki followed, trying to shake off the sudden chill that seemed to wash over her like ice from a not-so-distant past.
Another day.
Another corpse.
A junkie, lying beneath one of the highway overpasses, nearly covered by newspapers and other debris, needle by his side.
Detective Owen Massey and his partner had been called in after the patrol cops had cordoned off the scene. The ME had arrived, too, and agreed that this was just another life wasted, tragic but simple.
Not dead too long. At least the poor sucker hadn’t rotted and decayed like a misbegotten rat. By the ME’s estimation, this particular John Doe had only been a goner for a matter of hours. Cause of death seemed obvious. Heroin overdose.
Nearly quitting time, and he was tired. He loved the French Quarter like he might his child, if he’d ever had one. But there were days…
A few more lines to fill in, and he could go home, he thought, sitting at his desk.
Massey had nearly finished with the paperwork—not a homicide, death by misadventure—when his partner came striding across the room.
“Hold the presses,” Marc Joulette said.
“You got an ID?” Massey asked. “A match on the prints?”
“Yeah. Tom Garfield. FBI. Under cover for the last three months.”
“What?”
“FBI,” Joulette repeated.
Massey groaned, nearly letting his head fall on the table.
It would be one hell of a long time before he’d be going home that night.
“The feds will be sending someone.”
“Oh, great.”
He let his head crash to the desk.
No one noticed. A bunch of uniforms were heading out, talking as they went.
Massey looked up, frowning. “Politics,” Joulette told him. “Going to provide security for some rally.”
Massey arched both brows. Joulette shrugged. “It’s a hot race for that senate seat,” he explained. “I haven’t seen this much activity in a coon’s age.”
“Politics. In Louisiana. There’s a cesspool for you.”
“Hey!” Joulette protested. “There are a lot of good guys out there, trying to make a difference. Not to mention right here in the department.”
Actually, Massey agreed. There were plenty of good men in the department. And he hated the fact that Louisiana politics had too often been on the shady side. It was a good state. He loved New Orleans with a passion. He shrugged. “Problem is, no two guys seem to have the same opinion when it comes to what constitutes the greater good.”
“Well, we’re not politicians. We’re cops. And we’ve got a dead fed on our hands.”
“Right,” Massey said.
“Hey, Massey, Joulette.” It was Robinson, a street cop who had spent some time in forensics.
“What’s up?” Joulette asked.
“Purse snatcher,” Robinson said. Young and wiry, he was a good cop, capable of running down perps who were convinced they could outrun any of the parish’s beignet-eaters.
Massey cleared his throat. “Um…wrong fellow to get after a purse snatcher,” he said.
Robinson grinned. “Hey, I know.”
“You mean you didn’t run the guy down?” Joulette asked him.
“Naw, I got the call too late.”
“So…?” Massey prompted.
“This is just curious. Maybe nothing. But I thought that I’d show you.”
Robinson produced the small sketchbook he’d been carrying. He was a good artist, and the sketch he’d produced appeared to be a likeness of Tom Garfield, their dead FBI agent.
Frowning, Massey stared hard at the picture. “What’s this?”
“The woman whose purse was snatched told me that she never saw the man who swiped her bag, but she said she’d seen a suspicious-looking down-and-outer right before it happened. On Bourbon Street. I asked her to describe the guy. And this is what I got. A picture of your corpse.”
“Robinson, you’ve seen the pictures of Garfield. You just drew him ’cause those images were in your mind,” Joulette said.
“No. The woman told me this was the guy she saw—to a T.”
“Couldn’t have been. If this purse snatching just happened, Garfield was already dead,” Massey said more gently. He liked Robinson.
“The woman swears up and down that this is who she saw.”
“So our fed is dead but snatching purses?” Joulette scoffed.
“Maybe he’s got a look-alike running around the city, that’s what I’m suggesting,” Robinson said. “Who knows how or why, but it could mean something. I just thought you two should know.”
“Did you show the boss?” Massey asked.
Robinson nodded. “Weird, huh?”
“Thanks,” Massey told him. “Hey, can I keep the sketch?”
“I’ll make you a copy,” Robinson assured him. “The boss already has one.” He gave Joulette an aggravated stare and moved on.
“Everybody’s just got to get in on the act, huh?” Joulette said.
Massey shook his head. Robinson was a bright officer, and the sketch was disturbing.
He sighed.
It was going to be a hell of a long night.
Brent Blackhawk fought the dream, because he knew what the dream meant. But it was too strong for him.
First there was the mist.
Then there was his grandfather.
Finally he was back on the day when they had gone to the battlefield where Custer had made his last stand. Where the combined forces of many tribes had conquered.
As a child, he had seen them.
There had been awful moments when he had felt sheer terror. He had seen the soldiers and the warriors. Heard the savage war cries. The shouts of the cavalry.
The cries for mercy.
He had seen the agony and fear, tasted the acrid scent of gunpowder.
He had kept silent, had not corrected the tour guide. It would be wrong for a little boy to correct his elders, even though he knew what they did not. He had listened to the tours; he had gone to the encampments. He had sat with his grandfather in a sweat lodge, and the old men and the younger ones had discussed how Custer’s last stand had in reality been the last stand of the American Indian.
Later his grandfather had talked to him. He had known.
“It’s all right,” he had assured him. “It’s all right.”
“Is it because I’m a quarter Indian?” he had asked.
And his grandfather had taken him into his arms. “Well, boy, I don’t know. Your mom, now, she was what they called a truly lovely lass from the old country. And her people are known for being what they call a bit ‘fey.’ What matters is that you have a gift, and you have it for a reason. Perhaps in time you’ll see that it’s not frightening, and you’ll know why it’s been given to you. And that it’s good.”
Sometimes, he still wondered when the “good” would kick in. He had learned to use it, just as a policeman learned to use his weapon. There were times when he knew that his help changed lives, even made them bearable again.
But as for himself…
In the dream, he groaned.
It’s time again, his grandfather told him.
I know, he replied. I’ve felt it coming.
His grandfather nodded.
So they stood together again in that valley near the Black Hills, and the mist began to swirl around them.
Those who thought that native peoples were stoic, that they did not show their emotions, were wrong. He felt, in the deep recesses of the dream, the love that came to him through time, through space. Through the darkest boundary of death.
He woke. And when he did, he sighed, looking at the rays of sun that streaked through his bedroom window.
Nothing to do about it. Go along with his life as it had been planned.
When he was needed, Adam would find him.
Nikki awoke in the morning, feeling oddly exhausted.
She felt as if she had barely slept at all, and she knew it was because she had tossed and turned in a series of weird nightmares.
She couldn’t remember her dreams; she just had the lingering sense of having spent the night in a whirl of very strange sensation. It left her with an odd feeling.
A foreboding.
Oh, man!
She tried to shake it off. It was a beautiful morning. The sun…she could just see it peeking in through her drapes.
She rose, thinking it must have been the conversation with Mrs. Montobello and then Contessa’s reading.
This sense of unease wasn’t something she usually felt. Even when the “ghosts” were around. The ghosts were benign…faint indentations upon the present that simply lingered. There was a sweet nostalgia to what she saw and felt, something that made her feel even more affectionate toward her home, reassured her that New Orleans was special.
But there had been something about the dreams last night. Something…
Something that was malignant rather than benign.
Something that seemed to be a warning.
“Hey, it’s a beautiful day,” she said aloud, and went into the bathroom, where she splashed her face with cold water.
Suddenly she was afraid to look up. Afraid to look in the mirror above the sink. If she looked into the mirror…
Would someone else be looking back at her?
She had to look up, of course. She couldn’t remain in her bathroom forever, bent over the sink.
She looked up. And felt like a fool. There was nothing there but her own reflection.
She gave herself a shake, got ready quickly and left the house.
And still…
That sense of foreboding clung to her, like a gray mist, damp and chill against her flesh.
3
“At first man wandered the earth with little thought as to the great beyond, to right or wrong, and the way that he should live. Then came the White Buffalo Woman. Two hunters were out one day, and she appeared. She was very beautiful, dressed in white skins, and she carried something in a pack that she wore on her back. Now, when I say beautiful, she was stunning. And one of the hunters thought, ‘Hmm, now there’s a woman I would like to have in my tepee,’” Brent Blackhawk said, scanning the eyes of his audience.
“Have in his tepee?” one of the older boys teased lightly.
“Do you mean date?” asked one of the girls.
“Something like that,” Brent said dryly. “But, you see, she was the White Buffalo Woman, and not to be taken lightly. She saw that the hunter had designs on her, so she crooked her finger toward him, and thinking himself the big and mighty hunter and warrior, he approached her. But as he did so, white fog rolled out around the both of them. And when it dissipated, the great and mighty warrior had been turned to bone. And as the bones fell to the earth, they were covered with snakes that writhed and crawled among them.”
“Ugh!” cried one of the younger girls.
“What happened then?” asked the older boy who had heckled him before.
“Ah, well, the other hunter was naturally amazed—and more than a little afraid. But the woman told him to hurry to his village and tell the elders, chiefs, shamans and all the people that she was coming, and that she had a message to give that all must heed. The hunter hurried to the village and relayed his story, and everyone—from the great chief to the smallest child—dressed in his and her best and gathered in the great tepee as if for a council, and awaited her. She came, beautiful in her white, carrying the bundle that she had previously worn on her back.”
“And what then?” asked a boy of about eleven.
“First she took a stone from the bundle and set it on the ground. Then she took out a pipe. It had a red stone bowl, the color of the earth, and she said that it stood for the earth. There was a calf carved upon it, and the carving stood not just for the calf but for all the creatures that walked the earth. The stem of the pipe was wood, and that stood for all things that grew. There were beautiful feathers attached to the pipe, and they stood not just for the hawks and eagles, but for all the birds that flew in the sky. When she had explained all this, she said that those who smoked the pipe would learn about relationships—first, with the Wakantanka, had come before them, grandfather, grandmother, father, mother, and those who would follow, sons and daughters. All relatives were bound as one and meant to be honored. All the earth was sacred and to be cared for. All were to be respected.”
The boy of eleven looked troubled.
“What is it?” Brent asked.
“We’re not supposed to smoke,” the boy told him solemnly.
Brent smiled. “You’re Michael?” he asked, trying to remember all the names.
“Michael Tiger,” the boy said proudly.
“Michael, you’re right. Smoking isn’t just very bad for your health, it’s an expensive and annoying habit.”
“Then how can anyone smoke the sacred pipe?” the girl at Brent’s side asked.
Brent lowered his head, smiling. “The sacred pipe is now part of a ceremony. There are very specific times when the pipe may be smoked among the Lakotas, you see.”
“You never finished the story,” another of the girls pointed out.
“Ah, yes,” Brent said. “Well, the rest of the story relates to what we’re saying now. The stone that the White Buffalo Woman put down at first had seven little cuts in it. They indicated those very special times when the pipe might be smoked, ceremonies to honor all that she was teaching. They would be part of the relationships that the people must learn so that they would not be like animals, wandering the earth, without care for it or those around them. When she had taught them a bit more, she walked a few steps away. Then she turned into a brown and white calf. Again she walked, and this time she became a white calf. After a few more feet, she became a great black buffalo. She left the council tepee and walked up a hill and there she bowed to the four corners of the earth, north and south, east and west, and then…”
“And then?” Michael Tiger demanded.
“She vanished,” Brent said.
“But…why did she come, if she was only going to disappear?” Michael asked.
“She came to teach the people to respect and care for one another, for the earth itself, and for all creatures, and for all the gifts that were given to man, even the stones and the river and the ground,” Brent said. He smiled, rising. “That is the Lakota legend of the White Buffalo Woman.” He swept an arm out, indicating the many people who were attending the festival, a gathering of tribes deep in the Florida Everglades. It wasn’t a reenactment of the old days—vendors sold soda, popcorn, tribal T-shirts, corn dogs and other non-native foods, while rock bands filled the air with sounds that would certainly have shocked the White Buffalo Woman. He’d come with a group called the Wild Chieftains, and since he had something of a reputation as a storyteller, he’d been asked to tell a few legends to the children. They weren’t all Indian, and that pleased him. The children represented local tribes, such as the Miccosukee and Seminole, along with Cree, Creek, Cherokee and others. There were also a number of African-Americans, Hispanics and whatever mix the so-called “whites” might be. He’d heard British and German accents in the crowd, so even the tourists had come out for the festival.
“The truth is, every group has its own legend. The Great Spirit is God to some and Allah to others. There are many paths a man—or woman—might take to reach the same place. The important part of the story is that we all need to respect and take care of one another, and respect the earth, as well,” Brent said, grinning.
Then his grin faded as he looked past the children, and saw, in the group of adults standing behind them, a familiar face.
A too-familiar face. That of a man he knew well.
But hadn’t he been expecting him?
“Are you really a Lakota?” one of the little girls asked him. “Your eyes are green.”
“Oh, Heidi,” Michael Tiger said, sighing, as if he were possessed of a great deal more wisdom than she, a younger child, and a girl. “My sister’s eyes are blue, because my stepmother is mostly German. People mix up.”
“Was your mother mostly German?” the girl asked.
He grinned. “Irish,” he told her.
“But your father was all Lakota?” Michael asked hopefully.
“How about this—my grandfather, Chief Soaring Blackhawk, was all Lakota,” Brent said. He could feel the eyes of Adam Harrison boring into him as he spoke. He could also see the man’s smile. Adam was very much enjoying the way the children were putting him on the spot.
“Is it easier to be only half-Indian?” Susan asked, her tone serious.
Brent ignored Adam for a moment, hunkering down in front of the little girl. “Let’s hope that very soon it won’t matter whether we’re red, black, tan, yellow, white…male or female. Or whether we believe in the White Buffalo Woman, the teachings of Buddha, Allah or God.”
“Yeah!” The little girl turned to stare at Michael.
“She is really smart,” Michael told Brent grudgingly. “She makes the best grades in school. Especially in math.” He made a face.
“I said I’d help you,” the girl protested.
Brent had a feeling he was watching a budding romance. “Take her up on it, eh, Tiger?” he said, and smiling, he waved a hand, starting away from the group that had gathered around him. His departure was acknowledged with a nice round of applause. He smiled, waved again, and Adam caught up with him.
“You’ve got quite a talent there,” Adam told him.
Brent shrugged. “Kids like fables from any land, about any people.” He stopped walking and stared at Adam. “All right, why did you track me down?”
“I need you to go to New Orleans.”
Brent groaned inwardly as a wave of dread washed over him. He avoided New Orleans like the plague. Not that he disliked the city. It was full of wonderful people, great food, incredible music.
But it was one of the places a man such as himself should never go.
“New Orleans,” he muttered bitterly. He stared at Adam, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m supposed to be back at the Pine Ridge Reservation on Tuesday,” he said.
“You’re needed?” Adam said.
“Every man is needed,” Brent told him.
Adam smiled, looking away from the area where the festival was taking place, out to the rich areas of saw grass that seemed to stretch forever, though the road, the Tamiami Trail, was really within a few hundred feet.
“Your eyes are green,” Adam commented, looking at him again.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Brent asked.
“Well, I just listened to you give the most marvelous speech to those children. About acceptance.”
“Yes?”
Adam smiled. “Heritage is a wonderful thing. The Irish arrived after a potato famine. Italians poured into the country in the 1920s. Cubans and South Americans and immigrants from the Caribbean all came to South Florida. You know what happens after we’re all here a while? We become Americans.”
Brent had to smile. “And…?”
“My point is the one you were just making. We’re all many things. You’re more Irish than you are Lakota. You’re just an American.”
“So?”
“So you should support your heritage—all of it. You teach, you counsel…and then you have your special gifts. Your mother was full-blooded Irish, you know.”
“Is that a comment on my ‘gift’?” Brent asked.
“It’s a comment on the fact that you’re a mongrel, like most people. And right now the mixed-up all-American part of you is needed,” Adam said.
“In New Orleans?”
Adam looked away for a moment. “Look, I know how you feel about New Orleans. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t believe this was important.”
“It’s where Tania died,” Brent said quietly.
“I know. I said that I wouldn’t have asked you if it weren’t important.”
“A lot of things are important.”
“I need you, Brent.”
“You have other people.”
Adam hesitated. “You know I always weigh what I need to do very carefully. And in this circumstance, I need you.”
“I assume you’re going to explain?”
“The government lost an agent.”
Brent was still puzzled, and he said softly, “I’m not without sympathy, Adam, but agents put their lives on the line. And sometimes they die.”
“This agent was seen walking around—after he’d been killed,” Adam said.
Brent arched a brow. “All right,” he said after a moment. “I guess you’re going to tell me all of it?”
“I’m going to tell you everything I know,” Adam assured him solemnly.
“And I’m going to guess that I already have a plane ticket?”
“You leave tomorrow.”
“The new Storyville district is a great place to visit,” Nikki assured the crowd around her. “As in the past, there’s music and great food, but you won’t find the same…business that flourished years ago. Alderman Sydney Story knew he couldn’t get rid of the oldest profession as it’s been called, but he was hoping to control it. I can’t imagine he was happy when the red light district he worked so hard to contain was named Storyville, after him. The district limited prostitution and, in time, other vices to the area from the south side of Customhouse Street to the north side of St. Louis Street, from the lower side of North Basin Street to the lower side of Robertson Street.
“There are endless tales to go with the area. The bordellos ranged from the poor and ragged to the rich and classy, the girls from young and green to long in the tooth. But the true reigning queen of Storyville was Josie. She was born just about the end of the Civil War, raised by a very religious family, and seduced at an early age into the arms of a fancy man. But at heart, Josie was an entrepreneur. In her early days, she was red-haired and wild-tempered, and her place was known for some of the fiercest and most entertaining catfights to be seen anywhere. Then, when the brawling became too much even for Josie, she reinvented herself and ran ads for ladies of the highest rank. She managed to make a fortune and buy herself a splendid home in an affluent quarter of the city. Eventually she became obsessed with death. Not that she seemed to be terribly worried about her immortal soul. She was consumed, however, with concern regarding her physical remains. She wanted to be as grand in death as she presumed herself to be in life. So she had a tomb built, a truly magnificent tomb. It incorporated pilasters and urns and torches. And a beautiful sculpture of a woman, one foot on a step, her hand reaching for the door.
“In time Josie died and was entombed. But an heir squandered away her money. Her house was sold, as was her tomb. The new owners did not want her remains, so they were removed. In New Orleans, after a year and a day, that’s no problem. Where they lie today…it’s one of the best-kept secrets of the cemetery. But it’s often said that Josie’s spirit slips into the statue of the woman that still stands at the entry to her former tomb. Is she trying to get into heaven? Or merely beckoning others to follow her? If you happen to see the elegant statue moving, don’t be afraid. Josie had a temper, but she was also a social creature, and it’s said that she’s merely visiting gentlemen callers who happened to have ended their days in the same cemetery.”
“Where is the tomb?” a slender woman called to her.
“Metairie. It’s featured on another of our tours, and we hope you’ll join us for it,” Nikki replied. “Well, folks, that’s it for the evening, except that my colleagues—the tall, dark handsome fellow there, Julian, and the beautiful young woman to my right, Andrea—will join me in answering any questions you might have. And thank you so much for joining us. There are many tour groups here in New Orleans, so we hope we’ve fulfilled your expectations, and enlightened and entertained you.”
The usual round of questions followed. Nikki never minded, but that night, she knew, she was glancing at her watch. At last she was able to extricate herself from the last family eager to learn more.
It had been a good evening. In fact, it had been a good day. Her ridiculous sense of foreboding hadn’t meant a thing. When she finished with the family, she waved to Andy and Julian, and they headed off for Pat O’Brien’s.
“Man, I have never seen so many posters up before an election,” Julian commented as they passed the wooden barricade around a construction site. The posters advertised the current sensation, an older man named Harold Grant. “He looks like you, Nikki. Far too serious,” Julian teased. “Maybe we need new blood running the place. Have you seen all the posters for what’s-his-name?”
“Billy Banks,” Andy reminded him. “Yeah, and he’s a cutie. Have you seen him, Nikki? Vibrant guy, lots of charisma. Poor old Harold probably doesn’t have a chance against him.”
“Some people don’t vote for a candidate because he’s cute,” Nikki said.
Julian shrugged. “They’re both swearing they’re the one who can clean up crime in the parish,” he said. “Politicians. Who do you believe?”
“None of them,” Andy said.
“Hey…lots of people out tonight,” Julian said, forgetting politics as they neared their destination.
Despite the popularity of the place—an absolute must for tourists—they were able to garner a table. It was almost as if Max could see them in his mind’s eye from wherever he was, because they had just started on their first round of Hurricanes when Nikki’s cell rang.
“Drunk yet?” Max asked her.
“Funny,” she told him.
A soft chuckle came over the phone. “Come on, kid. Celebrate. Let yourself go. Drop down among the mortals and do a little sinning, huh?”
“Who is it?” Mitch asked, over the din.
“Is it Max?” Julian demanded.
She nodded, pressing the phone closer to her ear and mouthing, “He wants to know if we’re drunk yet. He’s telling us to celebrate.”
“Tell him I’m on my way to happily inebriated—since he’s picking up the tab,” Nathan yelled, slipping an arm around Patricia’s shoulder. “And Tricia’s doing fine, too.”
“Hot time tonight, huh?” Julian asked.
Patricia laughed. “Like he needs to get me drunk at this point.”
“Just…perky,” Nathan teased, hugging her.
“Would you guys quit with the sex thing? At least until you see the rest of us coupled up for the night, huh?” Mitch said. “By the way, Nikki, make sure you’re hearing Max correctly. He’s telling you to celebrate, not to be celibate.”
“Funny, Mitch,” she mouthed.
“What was that Mitch said?” Max asked. He said something else, but the music was playing and there were voices all around.
Nikki waved a hand at them, frowning. “I can’t hear you, Max,” she said.
The others ignored her.
“You won’t see me coupled up—not in the near future,” Andy said. “A voodoo queen warned me to watch out for strangers,” she assured them
“Max?” Nikki said, narrowing her eyes fiercely at the others.
“I’m here, Nick,” he said. “I just called to say that you’re doing a great job—one of the travel magazines just rated us as the top tour bargain in the Big Easy. So tell Nathan to drink himself silly. And you do the same.”
She realized that the idea actually appealed to her. What had it been? The weird junkie at Madame’s yesterday? That sense of foreboding this morning? The back-to-back tours she had done that day? She needed to take it a little easier. Once Max got back, she was going to tell him that they needed to hire more people.
The Hurricane she had assumed she would nurse all night was already empty. A waitress replaced it without being asked.
She smiled her thanks and spoke to her boss.
“Max, thanks, that’s great. I’ll tell the others.”
“Tell us what?” Patricia demanded.
She waved an impatient hand again, trying to get them to shut up while she was still talking.
“When are you coming back?” she asked Max. “I need to ask you—”
“Do what you need to do. I’m not sure yet when I’m coming back. You’ve got my cell—call me with any problems. And for tonight, let loose. Eat, drink and be merry. We’ll talk soon.”
“Max—”
He’d hung up.
“What did he say?” Julian demanded.
She told them about their ranking in the tourist mag. A cheer went up, and then a toast. “Did we order food?” Nikki demanded.
“Our little China doll is getting tipsy!” Patricia teased.
Nikki groaned. “Hey, for real.”
“Hey, for real,” Julian assured her. “We’ve got a shrimp and crawfish appetizer coming, gumbo and a special thing, pork, red beans and rice…succotash, darlin’!” he teased, managing to sound just like Max.
“Thank God,” she murmured.
“Indeed. Another toast,” Nathan said, raising his glass. “We’re the best. And congrats to Nikki, our blond beauty.”
“Hey, don’t look now, but that guy over there is looking to be a couple tonight,” Patricia said, nodding toward the other side of the room.
“He’s looking at Nikki, not me,” Andy said.
Nikki twisted around. The guy in question was nice looking, sandy-haired, either a businessman letting down his hair, or maybe a college student.
“No, I think he’s looking at you, Andy,” she said.
“Ladies, ladies, I hate to disappoint you, but I think he’s looking at me,” Mitch said.
Another round of drinks came to the table. Nikki’s head was beginning to buzz, but it was a celebration, and she did need to let loose now and then.
So she ate crawfish and had another Hurricane, and laughed at the banter around the table.
The plane rose, angling into the air.
Below, there was light.
And darkness.
Along the coast, the highly populated sections were ablaze with artificial light. Housing and commercial development were pushing the boundaries, eating up great chunks of the Everglades.
And yet the great area of no-man’s-land remained, thick with grass and slow-moving water—and darkness.
South Florida. From the air, it was easy to see just how much of the landscape was still taken up by the “river of grass,” since, technically, the Glades weren’t swampland at all.
Brent loved it, loved the festivals held by the Seminole and Miccosukee Indians. He loved playing guitar with his friends. Loved the seemingly endless expanse of the Glades, even with the mosquitoes, snakes and alligators.
The Everglades made a great place to dump bodies, too. When someone went missing…well, the police knew where to look.
This was his home now, the place he’d chosen to live. But there was also the home of his childhood.
After the deaths of his parents, his grandfather had been his legal guardian, so he’d spent a great deal of time, school vacations, holidays, summers, in South Dakota. But his mom’s family had been among many Irish immigrants to the Deep South, and until recently, they’d lived in the parish of his birth. Most of the time when he’d been growing up had been spent with that side of his family, in Louisiana.
New Orleans. The French Quarter. Where he’d been born.
He knew the area far too well.
New Orleans. And beyond the Vieux Carré, the bayous. Endless canals. Alligators, shrimp and shrimpers, crawfish, Cajun food…
There were bodies there, too. And strange events that went beyond the accepted norm…
It was what he did, he reminded himself.
But not always by choice.
New Orleans.
Damn, but he hated to go home.
4
“Help me! Nikki, wake up and help me!”
Nikki woke groggily from a deep sleep. She forced her eyes open.
“Nikki, please, for the love of God…there’s nothing. I have nothing. Tell them—you’ve got to tell them!”
She blinked. There was a soft glow of green light emanating from her clock, and a thin gleam coming from the bathroom, from the night-light she kept on. She had failed to fully close the draperies across the sliding doors in her bedroom. Though she faced the small garden area at the rear of the house, enough light made it into the back that a gentle glow came in through the window. Though the light seemed pale and misty, she could see the basic shapes of the furniture in her room.
And the woman at the foot of the bed.
Andrea was standing there, clad in a long T-shirt advertising the New Orleans Saints. Her long dark hair was tousled, as if she’d just gotten out of bed.
“Andy, what are you doing here? What are you talking about?” she asked, glancing over at her bedside clock. Almost 4:00 a.m. They had only parted at two, and after all those Hurricanes, Nikki felt as if her mind was moving on a very slow track. In fact, her head was pounding. She had to be dreaming, but it was unfair for her head to hurt so badly in a dream.
“Go away, Andy. You’re the one who kept ordering the drinks,” she grumbled miserably.
“The bum in the coffee shop, he’s dead, Nikki.”
Nikki shook her head, which made it hurt even more. “Andy, we didn’t know the guy. We couldn’t know if he’s dead.” She stopped to think for a minute, but between the liquor and exhaustion, she knew she wasn’t doing too well.
“How did you get in here, anyway? If you guys are trying to scare me… Did Julian put you up to this? Hell, I don’t really care right now. Go away. And lock the door behind you when you go.”
“Nikki! Please…help!”
“I understand a joke, Andy, but I really feel like hell. So…ha, ha, go away.”
“Nikki, for the love of God,” Andy implored. “Wake up…I think…I think it’s you they’re after.”
“Andy, go away. Go home. What the hell are you doing out dressed like that, anyway? Look—I’m closing my eyes. When I open them, you’re going to be gone. And if those other idiots are with you, tell them to get out, too.”
“Okay, I’m going to open my eyes, Andy, and you’d best be gone!”
She opened her eyes. To her amazement, Andy was gone.
“Make sure my front door is locked when you go!” she called.
She sighed. She needed to get up and make sure that the door had been locked. She should close the drapes—and avoid the sun that was going to tear into her eyes in the morning. But none of them had to work tomorrow morning. Not until night…the eight o’clock tour. Ample time to recover, and so, to get in all the healing sleep she needed. She should get up…
She couldn’t quite do it. Couldn’t quite make herself get up.
She closed her eyes, and went back to sleep.
When Nikki woke in the morning, she didn’t even remember at first that she’d opened her eyes to see Andrea in her room. Her head was still thudding. She managed to crawl out of bed and into the bathroom, and down several aspirins. In the kitchen, she decided toast would be a good thing. Coffee first, because she couldn’t bear life without it, then toast and orange juice.
Walking back into her bedroom, she unlatched her glass doors and walked out on the little balcony that looked over the small courtyard in the back of the house where she lived. The antebellum grande dame had been restored beautifully—into six apartments. She had chosen her own when the work had barely been completed because of the two upstairs bedrooms, hers, that she slept in, with the windows that faced the garden, and the spare bedroom, that she used as an office, that overlooked Bourbon just beyond the small front yard and brick fence. Then, to make it all the more wonderful, downstairs her front entry wasn’t through the main hall, but was a separate entrance, a one-time servants’ door. It opened to the far end of the broad porch, an amenity accessible to all the tenants, but convenient to her. The porch looked on to grass and flowers and the swing that fell from a huge old oak. Downstairs, the street was blocked from view—and vice versa—by the brick fence. From the front, all the music and mayhem of the city could be heard, but in the rear, all was quiet.
A slight breeze filtered in. Fall was coming, and with it, days and nights that were beautiful, still warm, but relieved of the drop-dead humidity that could plague the city.
She determined to shower quickly and dress. That might help.
It did. Her hair still damp, in jeans and a knit shirt, she walked out to pour her coffee. The headache was beginning to recede. She took her coffee outside.
It was at the front door—where she discovered both her bolt and the chain lock still in place—that she remembered the dream. She smiled to herself.
Hurricanes.
She’d never have another.
So—the crew hadn’t sneaked in on her last night, determined to play the world’s most annoying practical joke.
She really had dreamed it all up!
Andrea would be amused when she heard about it. No…she wasn’t going to say anything to Andrea at all. That would only bolster the teasing concept that she had no life other than her work, that her life would be much more fun if she did submit to more alcohol upon occasion, and that she was…well, something of a workaholic.
She took her coffee outside, sat in one of the big wicker chairs on the porch, and looked out at the lawn and the eternal flowers there. Pretty. The breeze was pleasant.
A few more cups of coffee, her toast…and she might feel like living again.
She closed her eyes, letting the air caress her cheeks, ease away the night of living it up a bit too much—well, for her, anyway. But she was very serious about her work for Max. She might be underpaid for the amount of responsibility she was taking on now, but she knew that Max had big plans. He wanted to go around the country with his tours. Nikki had always loved to travel, and once Max got going, she wanted in on the whole thing. People simply loved this kind of tour. And no matter where a city might lure lots of tourists, there were surely ghosts to be found!
All right, this was her special turf. She’d spent her life here, right here, in the French Quarter. If there was a story out there, she’d heard it. The history of the city was something she could recite in her sleep. And she loved it. Funny, that made her think of Andy.
When she’d first met the girl, her friend had been amazed that she still loved living in New Orleans. In fact, she’d burst into laughter when Nikki had urged her to tell her why she was grinning like an imp.
“It’s just…well, you’re not a drinker. And it seems you always want to go somewhere without crowds…so, why live in and love New Orleans?”
The question had startled Nikki. “It’s home. It’s all I know. And, okay, so I’m not a big boozer. I love jazz! I love the artists on the street, and the performers…and even the people who pass through!”
And she did.
“What on earth do you do during Mardi Gras?” Andy had demanded, still laughing.
“Visit friends in Biloxi,” she said dryly.
It was true. There were always tourists in New Orleans. She liked tourists. She just didn’t like the melee that came along with Mardi Gras in New Orleans.
Well, she thought, yawning and stretching, she would stay in New Orleans for Mardi Gras next year. They all wanted a party. She’d do it—for Andy, and the others, as well, she figured. Julian was Mr. Party himself, a good friend, and she loved him—even if she was ready to clobber him right now. She’d known him her whole life, and he’d taken the job when she’d asked him on Max’s behalf because of her, not because he’d originally thought they could really do something new and special. He was wickedly tall and good looking, and great at this work, even if he was overly dramatic. Didn’t matter—those who went on the ghost walk with him were always thrilled.
Sure, this year, she’d have a party. Patricia, who had grown up not too far away, in Cajun country, longed to have a really good Mardi Gras party, too. She’d grown up close—but far enough away so that she longed to be part of the real heart of the celebration, too—from the above-the-vomit line, as she called it. Mitch, of course, was from Pittsburgh, and he was dying to get into the dead center of it all. As he had told Patricia, he didn’t care what evils lurked on the street; he wanted to see it all. Of course, he’d prefer a nice party place, but…
Nathan was more like her. He was shy, except with friends, unless he was on, and then, like Julian, he was on. Now, he was madly in love with Patricia, and he was comfortable with their close group of workers. Though Nikki was certain Nathan would just as soon head for Biloxi during Mardi Gras, too, he would want a party because Patricia would want a party.
And, of course, it would be an important time for them to be working.
They were doing so well.
Nikki felt a real sense of pride—despite her pounding headache. A lot of the time, tourists thought that costumes and makeup on tour guides was just schmaltz.
Not so with their group.
They were good. They knew their subject matter. They could answer questions. They didn’t just give a tour—they were an event.
And though the whole thing had been created through Max’s plan, vision—and money—Nikki felt as if it were her own dream child finding real fruition. She had been there with Max at the very beginning, when there had been just the two of them, working hard, footing it all over the place by herself. Befriending the concierge staff at the hotels, begging store managers for flyer space. She had been the one to give the free tours to travel agents, thanking God that Max had saved up enough to be able to bring the people in. After the first go, Max had told her to bring Julian in. He hadn’t been convinced that he’d ever really get a substantial income from the enterprise, but he’d been willing to take a chance because she was so impassioned.
And he was a total ham.
They had begun to thrive, and so, Max had told her to increase the program, and the staff. She had found the others later—they’d had to “audition,” both for historical accuracy, and for their ability to tell a damned good and eerie story without getting into outright lies. No one in their group ever said that such things as vampires, ghosts, or any other metaphysical creature existed. They told the stories that had been told. The legends. They were still known as the “ghost” walk, though officially, the company was called “Myths and Legends of New Orleans.”
Nikki ran her fingers through her hair, trying to let it dry in the breeze.
A newspaper came flying over the brick wall. The newsboy—late as he was!—had cast it over the brick with amazing accuracy.
It landed in front of her. Staring down at the headline, she let out a sigh. There were two pictures on the front page. One of the statelier Harold Grant and one of the more charismatic Billy Banks.
“Billy Banks,” she muttered aloud. “Who the hell votes for a guy named Billy Banks?”
As she leaned down to pick up the paper, she heard the front gate opening.
As it did, she felt a vicious cold sweep through her, as if an arctic blast had suddenly hit her entire bloodstream. Her breath caught.
Her sense of foreboding… It was coming true.
She looked up, remnants of her dream flashing through her mind’s eye like a chaotic movie trailer.
She knew, though he was in plainclothes, that the man who approached her was a policeman, and that he was about to tell her something terrible.
She stood up, her mouth working, no words coming.
“You—you’re a cop. Something’s happened,” she finally gasped out.
The officer nodded. He cleared his throat. “I’m Detective Massey, Owen Massey, Miss DuMonde.”
Nikki stared at him, hating the wave of knowledge that filled her, muscles constricting as she denied everything rushing into her mind.
“No, no…there’s a mistake.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Someone is…hurt?”
“I’m here about Miss Ciello, Miss Andrea Ciello.”
He looked helpless—big, kind and helpless. Cops like him must have to give people bad news all the time, but it looked as if it had never gotten easy for this guy. “We were referred to you. A Mrs. Montobello is the one who called us…insisted we go in, swore that Miss Ciello would have come to see her first thing in the morning. She said that you were Miss Ciello’s best friend? I’m sorry, so sorry. I wish there were an easier way to do this. Um…should we go inside?”
“What’s happened? Tell me what’s happened!”
“Perhaps—”
“No! Talk to me, tell me, what’s happened?”
“Overdose, I’m afraid. We believe it was accidental, but you know, we have to go through procedure…. The thing is, we need someone to make a formal identification of the body.”
“Body?” Nikki gasped.
“Yes, I’m afraid—”
“No!” Nikki stared at him in disbelief. No. It had to be an elaborate joke. Andy—vivacious, fun-loving, rowdy Andy—couldn’t be dead.
“I’m truly sorry. It appears that she—”
“Andy was clean.”
“I’m sure she wanted to be clean.”
“No! She was clean.” Nikki realized that she was backing away from the man, denying everything that he was saying. But it couldn’t be true. “She was clean. She knew not to touch the stuff. It’s impossible that she did this to herself. It’s impossible that…”
But from the way he was looking at her, she knew it was true.
Just as the dream had been true. She wanted to black out; she wanted the world to go away. Yes, she had always had a sense of the past, of spirits that remained, but never, never, had she felt…seen…anything like…
Last night. Andy had been dead. Or dying. And she had come to Nikki for help. She had failed her friend somehow.
She shook her head again. Her words were fierce. “Andrea Ciello was off drugs. I know it. If something’s happened to Andy, it was not self-inflicted, and it was not accidental. She was murdered.”
Murdered.
The officer was staring at her, troubled, frowning.
“I’m telling you, she was clean. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll raise a stink in this parish that you won’t believe. She can’t be…oh, God.”
No. This was impossible. She was still dreaming. Imagining this cop just the way she’d imagined Andy last night.
“I’m sorry, Miss DuMonde. Look, is there someone I can call? Are your folks here…a sister, brother, friend?” he asked.
She ignored him, shaking her head, anger keeping her standing. “She did not overdose. If she had drugs in her system, someone else put them there. I am going to demand an investigation. I want to see a homicide officer.”
“I handle homicide cases,” he said gently. “We have to look into any death that’s questionable in any way.”
“Oh?” She stared at him anew, heart racing.
“It wasn’t a natural death,” he said. “So they call us in.”
“What time was she killed?” Nikki managed to ask.
“What time did she die?” he countered gently.
“Please. Yes, whatever. What time—did she die?” Nikki gasped out again.
The detective looked wary, as if he wasn’t sure why that information should be so pertinent.
“The ME only had an estimate, but it would have been right around 4:00 a.m.,” he told her.
She reached out, grasping for a railing…for help…for something that wasn’t there. Too late, the detective realized what was happening.
Nikki crashed down on the porch as the world faded before her, Andy’s words suddenly echoing in her ears.
“Help me!”
“Sorry,” the taxi driver told Brent as they slowed to a near halt on entering the French Quarter.
“No problem,” Brent told him.
It was usually a slow process, maneuvering the tourist-filled streets. Delivery vans could block a narrow byway, and any little snarl could close things off, though in the tight confines of the place—with many streets blocked off for pedestrian traffic only—most people preferred to walk. Still, vehicles were sometimes necessary, and delays were just a fact of life.
Brent breathed a deep sigh as he looked around. Charming. That was definitely a word to describe the architecture, the handsome wrought-iron railings the locals called iron lace. The sound of the music, the colors, the architecture itself. Yes, the place had charm.
And once upon a time he had loved it.
But that was then, and this was now, and if he’d never come back, it would have been just fine.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked as a patrolman in the street brought the traffic to a stop.
“Debate,” the taxi driver said.
“Debate?” Brent said, and frowned.
“Politicians, and I’m not sure what they’re debating. They both claim to have the same platform. Working to keep the history and unique quality of the place while cleaning up crime. I guess the old guy is saying that he knows what he’s doing, that his record is great, and we’re already on the way, while the younger guy is claiming the old guy hasn’t done a thing, hasn’t moved fast enough…well, you know. It’s politics. Everyone swears to move the moon, and everyone out there is a liar, just the same.” He winked at Brent in the rearview mirror.
“The crime rate has come down, though, hasn’t it?”
“Crime rate goes down, crime rate goes up. Hey, no matter who wants to run what, nothing changes. Those that have want to keep what they have. Those that don’t have want to get. We have real poverty in some areas, some pretty rich folk in others. Same old, same old, the human condition. Unless you change the conditions…well, that’s what both our boys say they mean to do, so…you know how you usually vote for the guy you dislike the least? Well, both these guys are likable, so I guess we can’t lose.”
“That’s good.”
“I think so. But then, I love this place. You visit often?”
“No.”
“Where you from?”
Brent started to say, All over.
But he didn’t. He told the truth.
“Here. Right here.”
“Yeah? Well, welcome home!”
The traffic began to move again.
They passed the police station on Royal.
At last they came to the bed-and-breakfast where Brent was planning to stay, after crashing at a hotel out by the airport the night before.
He paid the driver, met the hefty man who owned the place, paid and found his room.
And crashed down on the bed. New Orleans.
Arriving here was like having his blood drained from his body. Like being on the wrong side of a bout in a boxing ring. The pain in his head crashed like hurricane waves on the shore.
Drapes were drawn, door was closed…darkness.
All he needed was a little time. And he could adjust.
He didn’t want to adjust.
But he would.
5
A year and a day.
That thought kept going through Nikki’s head as she stood in the graveyard. Andrea hadn’t hailed from New Orleans, but she didn’t have any family left anywhere else, either. She’d been orphaned, like Nikki, and had grown up in a series of foster homes.
There had been no one to call. Andrea had been out of school for two years, traveling and taking odd jobs along the way. She’d left no names to contact in any kind of an emergency. She had gone to Tulane and probably still had friends in the area, but who they were and how they could be reached, Nikki hadn’t had the faintest idea.
And because there was no place Andrea had called home and no one she had called family, Nikki had decided that she would take care of all the arrangements.
So Andy was being buried in Nikki’s family vault, since there was plenty of room and no one left to fill it. The DuMondes had lived in the area since the late 1700s. Where her very early ancestors had been buried, Nikki didn’t know. But in the 1800s they had acquired a plot in the Garden District. Someone at some time had put some money into the family mausoleum. Giant angels guarded the wrought-iron doors to the elaborate family tomb that boasted the name DuMonde in large chiseled letters.
The last interment had been her parents, killed in an automobile accident when she had been a toddler, and her grandparents, gone just a few years ago.
As she stood in front of the door, she realized that it was truly sad, but she barely remembered either her mother or her father. She had pictures, of course, and because of the pictures, she had convinced herself that she remembered much more than she really did.
A year and a day…
The time it took for the fierce New Orleans heat to cremate the earthly remains of a once-living soul. Then the ashes could be scraped back into a holding cell in the niche within the vault, and a new body could be interred. There were actually twelve burial vaults within the family mausoleum. Nikki had decided that Andrea should be buried with her own folks. She certainly didn’t believe that corpses or remains could find comfort with one another, but it made her feel a little better to know that they would be interred together.
Of course, funerals were for the living.
Julian wrapped an arm around her shoulder. They all thought she was in serious shock. She was. They all thought it was because she and Andy had bonded so quickly. It wasn’t.
She had liked Andrea, really liked her. But none of them had known her more than a few weeks.
It was partly because Nikki was convinced Andrea had been murdered, no matter what anyone else said or thought. But there was more.
It wasn’t the fact that a monster was out there, still at liberty, unknown by the police, that was the greatest horror.
It was the dream….
“Sweetie, it’s over,” Julian whispered to her. “Set your flower on the coffin.”
She nodded, swallowing. And set the flower on the coffin.
The funeral had cost a mint, a mint she didn’t really have. But the rest of the group had been wonderful, contributing what they could, and Max had told her to take whatever she needed from the corporate account.
After she set her flower down, she turned. The glass-enclosed, horse-drawn hearse, empty now, remained on the dirt path that led from the street to the vault. The band began to play—a typical New Orleans band, a small group that Nikki was convinced would have meant a great deal to Andrea. It hadn’t exactly been a full-blown New Orleans jazz funeral, but it had been close.
Andy had wanted to be a part of the real New Orleans.
Now she was.
Andrea had been dead for four days. Despite the fact that an autopsy had been not only demanded by Nikki but required by law, nothing the ME had been able to tell them had shed any light on the situation. Nikki had continued to insist to Massey that there had been a killer.
To her relief, he didn’t try to convince her that she was simply in denial, grieving for the loss of a friend. Perhaps he didn’t believe her, but he had at least gone through the motions of an investigation.
All they knew was that Andrea had gone to Pat O’Brien’s with her friends, and at 2:00 a.m. they had parted company.
What had happened after that, none of them knew.
The police had found her—forcing the door of her apartment at the insistence of Mrs. Montobello—at nine o’clock in the morning. Andy had checked in with Mrs. Montobello with such regularity that the woman had been worried, and rightly so.
Andy had no longer been clad in the short sassy skirt and bandeau top she had been wearing when they celebrated. She had been in a New Orleans Saints shirt and nothing else.
Just as Nikki had seen her.
She had been found with a needle and other drug paraphernalia at her side. The only prints found in her place could be traced to her friends, and even those had been sparse. Many surfaces had been wiped clean. Nikki knew that some of the officers involved in the case believed that was because Andy had recently cleaned the apartment. Thankfully, Massey seemed to find it a bit suspicious.
But…other than that…
There had been no forced entry, nothing to show that anyone else had been with her that night. There was nothing….
Nothing. Nothing at all. Or, if the police did have anything, they weren’t sharing.
Nikki didn’t think any of her own friends believed her. They had tried, however, to help her cover any possible angle. They had all spent hours in the police station, trying to remember if they had seen anyone, anyone at all, looking at Andrea oddly or threateningly. Hard to decide, though they did remember the sandy-haired guy who might have been looking at Nikki herself. Admittedly, they had all been smashed.
Even Andy.
Oh, God, please let it be that she didn’t feel fear and pain, Nikki thought.
Had Andy been followed home? By someone who had been watching her at the bar? Or by someone who had seen her on the streets as she walked home.
Were the others right, when they looked at her with sympathy, thinking that she just couldn’t accept the fact that Andy had fallen back into using? God knew, it was easy enough to buy whatever drugs you might want.
No. There had been someone else, someone who had forced the drug on Andy.
Mrs. Montobello hadn’t heard a thing, which wasn’t surprising. She couldn’t hear a bomb go off without her hearing aid, which she wouldn’t have been wearing at four o’clock in the morning. She was here now, softly crying into an embroidered handkerchief. Andy had always been so good to her, checking up on her, bringing her gourmet treats and other little presents. Poor Mrs. Montobello was really going to miss Andy. But as to being much help when it came to the investigation…well, she wasn’t any.
The account executive who lived above Andy had been in New York on business. The single mother of two next to him had taken her toddlers to her mother’s house. So there had been no one in Andy’s quaint Victorian manor who might have heard anything, or have any clue as to what had happened.
The police had posted an appeal in the newspaper seeking anyone who might have seen Andy that night. And people had come in, trying to be helpful with stories about any strange character they might have met.
In New Orleans, that could be practically anybody.
The police were at a loss. As far as Nikki knew, the crime scene investigation department had gone over Andy’s apartment with the best forensics available. They hadn’t found as much as a hair that might help unravel the mystery of her death. Not a single clue.
Naturally, Nikki had kept silent about her strange dream. She could barely remember it, anyway—other than the fact that Andy had been there at the foot of her bed. But she hadn’t been there. She had been either dead or dying by that time.
She was pretty sure, though, that even as they went through the motions, the police believed that Andy’s death had been self-inflicted, even if accidentally so. Still, Massey had assured Nikki that, as tragic and frustrating as it was, finding a murderer could take a long time. Months or even years. Though Detective Massey didn’t say it, she knew that far too often a killer was never discovered and walked away free.
That made her think that maybe she should mention her dream to someone. The only person she had told was Julian, and he had looked at her with such incredulity that she had immediately felt foolish. Julian had gone on to warn her that telling her bizarre tale would either make the police think she was a kook who had been giving her own tours for too long or a suspicious individual herself.
But the dream bothered her on a daily basis. No. Hourly. Constantly.
She felt a pang in her heart that was so sharp it might have been delivered by a knife.
Oh, God, Andy, I can’t stop believing that you came to me for help.
And I failed you.
She closed her eyes tightly as she stood near the coffin, desperately trying to remember everything that she had seen that night.
“Nikki.”
It was Patricia, looking at her with dampened eyes. “Come on, now. Let them finish.”
Nikki nodded and looked around. The funeral had been small, but a few people had made it. There were her neighbors, and even Madame D’Orso from the coffee shop, and a few other local business owners.
As always, there were the curious, tourists, who happened to be at the cemetery and slipped in to join the crowd at the service.
A stretch limo awaited their group, and Nikki knew it was time to walk away.
She looked back. The cemetery workers were in the tomb, getting ready to slide the remains into the appropriate vault.
The band played to the end.
They drove back into the French Quarter, and then went through another ritual, the after-service gathering at Madame D’Orso’s.
Madame was in her element. Tall and buxom, with her silver hair swept high on top of her head, she took charge naturally. She had liked Andy. Besides, it was her place. Nikki realized that she was one of the few people who knew that Madame’s real name was Debra Smith and she’d actually had ancestors come over on the Mayflower. But a pretense of being French was a good thing for business in the French Quarter.
She had come through today, closing her café in the morning, then opening in honor of Andrea in the afternoon.
Julian, Nathan, Mitch and Patricia were trying to do what was usually done on such occasions, remember the person with affection and a smile.
It wasn’t easy, when some people clearly thought it was her own fault for being a junkie.
People cared, but Nikki knew, too, that most of them would not think about that day much after they had returned to their regular lives.
At last, as the hour grew late, people began to leave.
Madame, who had truly been the perfect hostess, settled tiredly into a chair by Nikki. She patted her hand where it lay on the table. “Come on, child,” she said. “Andy wouldn’t want you to be morose forever.”
Nikki nodded. “No, of course, you’re right.”
Madame smoothed a stray lock of hair from Nikki’s face. “You’re plumb ashen, girl. Pale as if you’d seen a ghost.”
Nikki’s brows arched. Julian, who was standing nearby, turned and stared at Nikki.
She frowned back at him, then turned to Madame.
“Hey…do you remember that last day when Andy and I were in here?” she asked.
“Well, vaguely,” Madame said. “You all come in most days, you know.”
“I know, but that day, there was a…kind of a bum hanging around. He looked as if he’d be good looking if he had a bath and a haircut.”
Madame looked at her blankly.
“You must have seen him,” Nikki persisted. “I asked you about him, so I figured you would have noticed him when you went back inside.”
“Honey, I see lots of folks. And we get our share of bums. If one passed out on my floor, I’d have the police in so fast he wouldn’t even get to exhale. Other than that, I doubt I’d notice.”
“He must have come and gone while you were busy,” Nikki murmured.
Madame smiled. “Do you know what I do remember? Andy teasing you about the fact that you needed to get yourself a fellow.”
“That’s when the guy was in here,” Nikki said triumphantly.
“Honey, I’m really sorry, I don’t know why it’s so important, but I really didn’t see him.”
Julian, frowning, took a chair at the table. “Nikki…do you think the guy followed you and Andy? Maybe that’s something you should report to the police.”
She shook her head, aware that Julian’s gray gaze was intense and serious. “You guys were sitting out here when Andy and I brought out the beignets and coffee, and you didn’t see him—did you?”
“No…but we weren’t paying any attention. We weren’t paying any attention that night, either,” Julian said ruefully.
Patricia came over and slid into another chair. She, too, patted Nikki’s hand. “You holding up?”
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Patricia, you did make sure that any tours for tonight were rescheduled, right?”
“Yes, I did. I spoke with Max, just as you told me, and he apologized again for not being here, by the way,” she said, offering Nikki a weak smile. She shrugged. “We had no problem rescheduling—there was a mention about the funeral in the paper. People—” she glanced dryly at Julian “—even tourists, tend to be sympathetic—still curious, yes, but sympathetic….”
“Did everyone reschedule?” Nikki asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Patricia said.
“Those sympathetic tourists are sure we’ll be the best tour out there now,” Julian said, and flashed a stern look at Patricia.
“What was that look all about?” Nikki demanded.
Patricia stared at Julian, then shook her head with a sigh. “Oh, one woman said that she was certain the spirit of our departed comrade would remain with us on our tours, making them even better,” she murmured.
“How awful,” Madame breathed.
“Some people are just heartless that way,” Mitch said, sliding into another chair at the large round wrought-iron table. “Hey,” he said pragmatically, “some of the stories we tell are pretty grim. It’s just that now…well, now Andy’s part of it, whether we like it or not.”
“We will never, ever mention Andy on a tour!” Nikki said fiercely.
“Of course not, but, Nikki, in our business, you know that this will come up,” Mitch reminded her. He offered her an ironic smile. Mitch wasn’t as dramatic a guide as either Julian or Nathan, but his knowledge of the area was inexhaustible. He had a wonderful all-American, corn-fed look, ash-blond, flyaway hair, bright blue eyes, handsome face. He was very popular with the younger crowd. Nikki was certain that they often had repeat local customers just because a certain teenage crowd loved to follow him around the city.
He frowned, looking at her suddenly. “We will never, ever mention Andy,” he agreed. He hesitated, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, you knew her much better than we did. She was only with us a few weeks…. Nikki, are you doing all right?”
She nodded.
“I think one of us should come stay with you,” he said firmly.
She shook her head. “Thanks, Mitch. Julian has been hanging around for me.” She stared at them all. “Okay, I’m telling you, and I mean it. I’m convinced that someone forced that heroin on Andy. Whether it had to do with her past or not, I don’t know. But also, I’m okay, and I don’t need my friends to babysit me. But thanks.”
“Well, I don’t know how you’re living alone,” Patricia said, flipping aside a length of her long dark hair. She glanced sideways at Nathan, who was saying goodbye to the last of their comourners. She grinned suddenly. “I was wondering if maybe Nathan and I weren’t making a mistake…rushing to live with one another. Now I thank God every minute that we’re living together. Because those drugs came from somewhere. From someone. I just think I’d be pretty miserable and scared right now, if I were alone.”
“Hey, you two are just right for each other,” Nikki commented. “And that’s why it’s good that you’re living together. Anyway, I’m going to shake this off. It’s just that it’s only been a few days. But I’m not going to turn into a coward. I’m going to be proactive and bug the police until they discover her murderer—don’t look at me like that. There was a murderer. That’s the least I can do for her.”
“One way or another, I agree with Nikki. Whether someone just pushed the purchase on the streets or plunged the needle into her vein, someone caused Andy’s death. And for the sake of everyone in the parish, we need to know who. We’ll all work on that, right, guys?” Mitch asked.
They all nodded.
“And by the way,” Julian said, “I am staying with you tonight, Nikki.”
“Julian, I’m all right.”
“And so am I. But I think we ought to be all right together.”
“The bed in the guest room is as hard as a rock. You said so yourself,” Nikki reminded him.
“Honey, I’m all in. Tonight, I could sleep on a real rock just fine.”
She was about to protest again, then sighed. “Okay, thanks. I guess, tonight, I’ll be glad of the company.”
The two of them were the last out of Madame D’Orso’s. Julian decided they should walk Madame home first. It was around midnight, which in New Orleans, in the Vieux Carré, wasn’t all that late. Madame said that they really didn’t need to walk her anywhere, there were plenty of police about and the streets were crowded.
Julian, however, told her that they could use the walk anyway. The night was beautiful, with fall just beginning. The oppressive humidity that could press down on the city had lightened.
“Hey, it’s a nice night just for being alive,” he said cheerfully, then winced.
Nikki slipped an arm through his. “Hey, don’t worry. I don’t want to spend my days walking on eggshells, worrying about every word that comes out of my mouth. It is a beautiful night—and a great night to be alive.”
They walked Madame the few blocks to her place, then turned and started back toward Bourbon Street.
“Want a nightcap or anything?” Julian asked, a brotherly arm around her shoulder.
She shook her head. “Honestly, you know what’s strange? I’ve never been much of a drinker, and I had such a bad hangover the day we found out about Andy that I just haven’t wanted anything since.”
“Maybe you need a hair of the dog that bit you,” Julian said.
“Actually, I’d like to get home. I haven’t been sleeping much.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Lots of people in your position would be on sedatives, you know. I mean, you hired her. You two bonded right away. And you had to deal with trying to find out if there was someone to contact, and then arrange the funeral and all…well, that’s a tough load. And it’s tough just to have known someone who was…murdered.”
“The rest of you seem to be doing all right.”
“Like I said, you two kind of bonded. You and Andy, well, you were both orphans. You had that in common.”
“I had my grandparents, at least,” Nikki said. “Cousins, aunts and uncles…though they’ve mostly moved pretty far away these days. But I had family. Andy didn’t have even that.”
“She had us. We were family,” Julian assured her. “Well, we would have been,” he said.
They reached the iron gate in the brick wall that surrounded Nikki’s place. “What is the trick to this damn thing?” he muttered.
“The latch is under and over. It’s not a lock, it just keeps the curious out,” Nikki said. She bit her lip, wanting to reach over and open it herself, but Julian seemed determined. She folded her arms across her chest, looking around.
It was always amazing how life went on.
A couple, arm in arm, strolled leisurely down the street, leaning toward one another. He was ebony. She was ivory. Nikki smiled, loving the ease with which people lived their lives in New Orleans now. There had been a time when old “Beast” Butler had ruled the city, but that was long ago. They were on the move here now.
A rowdy group of young men walked along the street, then paused nearby, drinks in hand, talking about a sax player who was working down on the square.
More couples strolled along.
A larger group of young men joined the first.
“Damn this thing, but I will get it,” Julian said, determined.
Nikki barely heard him. She straightened against the brick wall.
There was someone in the midst of the group in the street, but he wasn’t one of them. He was shaggy-haired. Clothes wrinkled, worn. He turned toward her.
Handsome face…
Beneath the scraggly growth of beard.
He stared at her as if he recognized her.
And she stared back, certainly recognizing him.
She swung around, tapping hard on Julian’s shoulder. “Julian…Julian. Turn around quick. I just saw him.”
“Him, who?”
Julian turned to her, confused.
“The bum who was at Madame’s that day.”
“Where?”
“He’s there—in that group of college guys,” she declared.
Julian stared out to the street and searched the clean-shaven faces. So did she.
“Where?” Julian said.
“There, in the middle of them,” Nikki announced. She ran into the street, into the midst of the ten or so young men.
“Hey!” said one, almost falling into her.
“Hi, there, babe,” another slurred. He cast an arm sloppily around her shoulder.
“Hey, get your hands off her,” Julian demanded forcefully.
Nikki was barely aware of their exchange.
“He…he was here,” she said, puzzled.
“Who was here, honey? I’m available,” a blond kid with a New York accent said, smiling stupidly and coming up on her other side.
“Leave her alone,” Julian said angrily.
“Yeah? And who are you? Her daddy…pimp daddy, something like that?”
Julian hauled off, catching the young man beneath the jaw. He sucked in his breath, staggered back and fell.
“Julian…shit!” Nikki breathed, her attention wrenched back to their current situation.
“Hey, asshole, there was no call for that,” the blonde from New York said. He dropped his plastic drink cup and strode menacingly toward Julian.
Others began to follow suit, circling him as their friend staggered to his feet.
“Everyone!” Nikki announced loudly. “Stop it right now. I’m going to scream, I’ll get the police. Just calm down.”
No one seemed to hear her. The first kid reached Julian. He dodged that blow, but another one of the youths was to his right, and he took a swing.
“Stop!” Nikki jumped onto the back of one of them. He didn’t even seem to notice her weight. She banged a fist on the top of his head. “Stop it right now!”
He still didn’t seem to notice her. She slid off his back, landing on her rump.
In a fair fight, Julian could handle himself. Against ten or so…
He didn’t stand a chance.
Nikki opened her mouth to start screaming. The police had to come, and come quickly.
“Hey!”
The voice that suddenly thundered through the crowd was deep and resonant, and had a note of such pure authority that everyone, including Nikki, suddenly went dead still.
A man came striding into the frozen tableau. From her position on her butt in the street, he seemed extraordinarily tall, dark, broad shouldered and well muscled beneath a casual knit polo shirt and jeans. He caught hold of the kid who was about to deck Julian.
“What the hell is going on here?”
“He started it.” The college boy sounded like a grade-school kid in trouble.
“They were coming on to Nikki,” Julian said.
“Just break it up, all of you,” the man said irritably.
“Or what?” ventured one of the drunker college boys.
The man stared at him. That was it; he just stared.
“Just asking,” the boy muttered. He turned and started down the street. “Come on, guys, let’s get out of here.”
They all followed suit, heading down the street.
The man turned toward where Nikki was still sitting on the street. He strode toward her, offering her a hand up.
She saw his face.
His complexion was a deep tan, almost bronze, his eyes a startling, brilliant green. The hard chiseled angles and planes clearly denoted a Native American background somewhere. His hair was pitch dark and dead straight, just a little long. It wasn’t so much that he was typically handsome, but he was one of the most arresting individuals she had ever seen. He seemed to emit confidence and authority, and not just because of his imposing height or the breadth of his shoulders. There was a sleek agility about him for a man of his size, and his features were hard cut, seeming to exude an essentially masculine sensuality mixed with stark assurance.
His hand, outstretched to her, was large, the fingers long, nails neatly clipped, clean—and powerful, she quickly discovered.
But it wasn’t the strength of his grip, bringing her easily to her feet that so disturbed her.
It was his touch.
Energy, almost like a fire, or a current, streaking from him to her.
And then…
His eyes.
They looked into hers.
And they saw something.
What, she didn’t know. He released her instantly, stepping back, surveying her, not in a sexual way, and not with disdain or disinterest.
As if he recognized her.
“Are you all right?” he asked politely.
“Um…fine,” she murmured.
He nodded. “You?” he asked Julian.
“Yeah, thanks to you,” Julian told him, eyeing the stranger curiously. “Hey, we kind of owe you. Can we buy you a drink or something?”
The man shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything.” He cracked a slight smile, which transformed his face. He was suddenly striking. Still hard, but striking.
“I just wouldn’t mess with large crowds in the future, huh?” he suggested.
With a wave, he turned and left them.
6
Brent walked down the street, shaking his head.
New Orleans.
America’s most European city. A mixture of architecture and mood, sultry heat and shifting shadows. It was as if time had cast a mood over the city that had sunk into the very bones of its man-made structures. History piled upon the passions of those who had lived before.
It held the remnants of days gone by, mixed with the new, the lively, the present-day city, with its love of gardens, jazz, good times and voodoo.
There was unbelievable talent to be found with the turn of a corner, like the old black man two streets over who had played a banjo better than he’d ever heard before. The man had just been sitting there, playing and smiling and, Brent hoped, making a fair amount of money from the passersby who were dropping bills in his instrument case.
Brent passed a closed shop with a storefront announcing “Dolly’s Dolls,” and next to it was a neon light advertising “Girls, Girls, Naked Girls.”
People laughing, drinking, admiring artists, musicians, mimes…
People drinking themselves silly, picking fights.
The encounter he’d just had was disturbing, and he didn’t want to think about it.
He could still feel her hand in his.
And he’d walked away. Which had been smart. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder about the woman. She had the biggest, brightest eyes he’d ever seen. Green. Blue. Aqua. Something like the sea, somewhere in between. Fairly tall, nice figure, obvious even in the long black dress she’d been wearing.
A Goth? Hell, everybody in this city seemed to think they were a voodoo queen, a long-dead duchess, a vampire or a tarot reader.
No, maybe not. The guy with her had been wearing a somber black suit.
Funeral, he realized suddenly.
He shook his head, stopped in the street. From the corner to his right, a rock band hammered out a Stones tune. From the other corner, he could hear jazz. Somewhere down the street, a blues guitar was belting out an indiscernible tune.
He swore softly.
New Orleans.
Hell, welcome home.
Oh, yeah. It was just great to be here.
“You’re going off the deep end, Nikki,” Julian said. “That was just great. Throwing yourself into a group of drunks. What were you expecting? And don’t even think about giving me a lecture on how no one deserves to be attacked. You went flying into a sludge of inebriated testosterone in its sweet young prime, so what were you expecting?”
“I saw him!” she said, finding the catch on the gate and pushing it open herself. Julian’s words made her feel guilty—he was a good friend, and he would have defended her to the death, which, considering the drunken mood of the rowdy gang, just might have been the sad finale if it hadn’t been for their strange savior—but he couldn’t begin to understand how she was feeling. “Julian, I’m sorry, but…I saw him,” she repeated.
“Yeah, and I saw him, too, whoever the hell he was, and I have to admit, it was a damn good thing he showed up when he did. I’m not much brighter than you are, apparently, since I got it into my head to defend you from a pack of wolves.”
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Heather Graham
This is no dream…
Nikki DuMonde's newest employee is standing at the end of her bed at four o'clock in the morning begging for help. It's a joke, right? Besides, as manager of a successful New Orleans haunted-tour company, Nikki doesn't scare easily. But in the light of day, harsh reality sets in as a police officer informs her that Andy was brutally murderedat the exact time Nikki swears the distraught woman was in her room.
No one believes her except Brent Blackhawk, a paranormal investigator desperately trying to forget his tragic past. Half Irish, half Lakotaand able to communicate with the deadBrent is used to living in two worlds. But when he realizes the ghost of a slain government agent is also trying to reach out to Nikki, he knows that she, too, must listen to the deadif she wants to keep living.
Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author HEATHER GRAHAM
“An incredible storyteller!”
—Los Angeles Daily News
“Graham…has penned yet another spine-tingling romantic suspense.”
—Booklist on Picture Me Dead
“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead
“Graham delivers a wonderfully inventive read.”
—Romantic Times on Picture Me Dead
“Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay
“Heather Graham writes with a unique passion for the characters and world of South Florida.”
—BookPage on Hurricane Bay
“This gripping tale strikes a perfect balance between romance and intrigue.”
—Publishers Weekly on Night of the Blackbird
“Spectacular and dazzling work…”
—Booklist on Eyes of Fire
HEATHER GRAHAM
GHOST WALK
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.
Published in Great Britain 2005
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR
© Heather Graham 2005
ISBN 9781408955864
For Molly Bolden, with all the love in the
world. Also, for Bent Pages, and the girls,
Kay Levine, Michelle Bergeron,
Bonnie Moore, Jolene Leonard
and Betti Basile.
And for Connie Perry, Al, Scott, Stacy, Josh
and Me Maw, and the Ladies of Louisiana,
Brenda Barrett, Lorna Broussard,
Karin David Debby Quebedeaux
and Mary Lomack.
There’s nowhere like New Orleans,
but people always create the heart in
the why we love a place!
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Heather Graham majored in theater arts at the University of South Florida. Heather grew up in Dade County, Florida, and toured Europe and parts of Asia and Africa as part of her studies.
After college, she acted in dinner theaters, modeled, waitressed, and tended bar. After the birth of her third child, she decided to stay home and was determined to commit herself to her dream: writing. She sold her first book in 1982. She is also now the mother of five!
Today, this author’s success is reflected not just by sales, with millions of copies of her books in print around the world and translated into over fifteen languages, but in many other ways. In addition to being a best-selling author, Heather has received numerous awards for her novels, and has been quoted in People and USA Today, been profiled in The Nation, and featured in Good Housekeeping. Her books have been selected by the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild.
She has written over one hundred novels and novellas including category, romantic suspense, historical romance, vampire fiction, time travel, occult, and Christmas-themed holiday stories. Heather Graham writes for MIRA books and under the name Shannon Drake, writes for HQN Books.
Somehow, this prolific author manages to juggle it all—a family of five, married since high school graduation and a truly remarkable career.
Prologue
The child awoke, not sure why. He could hear voices from the living room, but they were hushed, and though he immediately sensed a strangeness in their tone, he knew they hadn’t been loud enough to wake him.
He lay there, wondering.
Then he felt it.
Exactly what “it” was, he didn’t know. But it wasn’t frightening. It was just a sense of being comforted, like a blanket, like the soft brush of a feather, entirely pleasant. He felt enveloped by gentleness, care and concern. Even strength.
All the different tales that had been told to him seemed to blend together. There was a mist in the room that echoed the stories of the Great Spirit. He thought he heard a cry on the air, barely discernible, a soft keening. Perhaps it was only in his mind, but it might have been the distant cry of the banshee.
He wasn’t frightened.
Whatever it was…a mist, a shape, nothing concrete, but yet…it was there and it touched him, reassured him. The bathroom light was on; the little night-light was always kept on for him, even though he was five and already quite grown up.
But he knew that the mist or whatever it was had nothing to do with light or dark. It was simply there. It was a kiss on the forehead, a promise that everything was all right. It wasn’t a something but a someone, he thought. Someone who loved him and needed him to know that he was loved in return. Someone who had entered…
The kiss again, and the feeling of love, somehow deeper than anything real. And there were words, but not words that could be heard. They were words he simply felt.
Another world…
When the door opened quietly, he lay still. He could hear the tears in his grandfather’s voice as he whispered to his uncle, “He’s sleeping. There’s no need to wake him.”
He wanted to rise, to wrap his arms around his grandfather, to tell him that it—whatever it was—was going to be okay. But something held him silent, eyes closed, pretending he was sleeping. They were whispering again.
He was a strong child. He would be fine.
But he was an only child. He would be so alone.
No. It would be all right. He would have the rest of his family. And he was one of a great Brotherhood. He would be all right.
He definitely didn’t want anyone to know that he was awake, listening, and that in their words he had already grasped the sense of tragedy that was tearing them apart.
He was afraid that if he made the slightest sound, he might lose the precious sense of the light, the touch…the love that surrounded him.
Finally they left, the door closed.
It was in the morning that his grandfather spoke with him, stoic as always, firm in his belief in the Great Spirit, God, the Creator. There would always be an end to life here on earth, his grandfather told him, and it was how each man lived it that mattered, not the length of his lifespan. There was a world beyond, and it did not matter what a man called that world; it was simply there. His parents were gone from this place, and they could not be with him, not in the now. Nothing could hurt them anymore, ever. All they would know in the future would be the tender grace of their Maker. He—no matter what one chose to call him—would watch out for them.
His grandfather was wise, and yet the boy couldn’t help but wonder if he himself wasn’t more at peace than the man who would now raise him. His grandfather’s eyes were filled with pain. He didn’t fully feel the truth of his own words; he hadn’t felt the gentle touch.
The boy slipped his hand into his grandfather’s, then touched his face. His grandfather offered him the wisdom of the native peoples; his mother had brought him the fanciful mystery of a faraway country and the beliefs of the Old South. “It will be all right,” he said simply, knowing his parents were still alive in his heart and would always watch over him from above.
“My boy.” His grandfather wrapped him close.
Yes, the boy thought, his parents would be fine, in a world past all pain, all strife. But all the same, they were gone.
His father would never throw him up in the air again, play ball with him, teach him, tell him tales of the Great Spirit. And his mother would never match those tales with her own Gaelic whimsies. The soft tinkle of her laughter would not come again, nor would she tell him that he was a big boy, yet tuck him into bed anyway.
They would never offer him their deep, unconditional love again…
No, that wasn’t true.
He knew that love as deep and abiding as theirs had been was eternal. And there was comfort in that, a comfort that could ease loss and pain.
But there were other elements in the world that were also eternal.
Just as there was love, there was hatred.
Just as there was gratitude, there was vengeance.
He believed that he had a gift, and that his gift was special. But it wasn’t long before he learned that he was destined to face far more than the soft touch of love in the night.
Contents
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
COMING NEXT MONTH
1
“Six, please,” Nikki DuMonde said. “Six.” She was smiling, but firm as she emphasized the number, indicating the tray where there were only five cups of café au lait. She and Andrea Ciello were in line at Madame D’Orso’s, as they so often were. Madame herself was wonderful, but apparently she was busy, and the young woman behind the counter seemed overwhelmed. It seemed quiet enough right now. Though many of the little terrace tables were taken, there was only one other person inside the café at the moment, and he was slumped against the far wall. She glanced toward him. He had looked up once and had an attractive face, eyes that were intelligent, cheekbones hard and sculpted. But his clothes were ragged, with a slept-in look; he was unshaven, and his hair was shaggy and unkempt.
“Six coffees, six orders of beignets,” Andy added, flashing a smile as the girl added a cup to the tray along with plates filled with the delicious pastries so famous in New Orleans—and better, in the minds of the locals at Madame’s than any other place in the world. “S’il vous plaît,” she added.
As the girl turned to ring up their order, Andy assessed Nikki with her exotic dark eyes. “My treat today,” she said.
“Don’t be silly.”
“No, ever since I came aboard, you’ve been wonderful.” She had only been a tour guide for Myths and Legends of New Orleans for about four weeks. For Nikki, it was old hat.
“Hey, we all rely on each other, since we always work in pairs. And you’re doing just fine.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Andy said, tossing a length of her sleek dark hair over one shoulder. “I know all the stories, and sometimes I get chills, like there’s someone looking over my shoulder. But you…Nikki, it’s like you see ghosts.”
Nikki shrugged, glancing around the café. “Maybe it’s just ingrained,” she said. “I went to school with half the palm readers and voodoo queens working the Quarter these days. I guess it’s like…well, walking into any place that’s really historical…and…”
Nikki frowned and floundered, looking for the right word.
“Creepy?” Andy suggested.
Nikki shook her head. “Where deep feelings existed, where trauma occurred—like Westminster Abbey in London. When you walk in there—”
“The place is like one giant cemetery,” Andy said dryly.
Nikki laughed. “Yeah, it is. But you can get the same feeling at a Civil War battle site—even with all the bodies removed. I guess it’s a way of feeling the past, of history, people, the emotions. Remnants of the lives that were lived there, lost there.”
“You see ghosts,” Andy said, nodding sagely.
“I do not see ghosts.”
“You have an affinity for them.”
Nikki was growing uncomfortable. “No. I told you. It’s just a feeling of…history and the human condition, that’s all,” she said firmly. “Everyone gets it at some point, at some place.”
Andy reflected a moment. “Well, I do feel something in several of the cemeteries. And now and then in the cathedral, there’s a kind of…vibe.”
“Exactly,” Nikki agreed. She reached for the tray, but Andy was getting it, so she turned to head back to their table and nearly screamed.
The derelict had risen. He was in front of her, his mouth working, as he reached for her.
She couldn’t help but recoil, but even so his hands touched her shoulders. She thought he was going to collapse against her, but he straightened, his mouth still working as if he was trying to say something.
He needed money, she thought.
“Here,” she said quickly, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a bill and, pity replacing her feelings of revulsion, said, “Get yourself a real meal, please. No alcohol or drugs, please. Get food.”
She felt his touch again as she went quickly past him, Andy in her wake, hurrying with the tray.
The others were outside, but before they could reach the table, Andy said softly, “Nikki, that was really kind of you.”
“He’ll probably just drink it or shoot it up his arm,” Nikki said.
“No, maybe not. Actually, he didn’t look like a junkie.”
“Just a bum.”
“There but for the grace of God go I,” Andy murmured beneath her breath. Nikki turned to look at her, but Andy shook her head. She had been in trouble with drugs; she’d been dead honest with Nikki when the two had first met. She’d been clean for years, however. She seldom even drank now, unless it was a special night out, a celebration.
At the moment, however, she clearly didn’t want to say any more, not in front of the friends waiting for them: Nathan, Julian, Mitch and Patricia.
They all worked for the same tour company, and they were making a success of it, despite the competition in New Orleans. Maximilian Dupuis, the founder of the business, had taken Nikki on board first. Max had found her through the articles she’d been writing for one of the local tourist papers.
Max himself was really something. Tall, dark and bony, he resembled a vampire and could have haunted New Orleans just fine himself, though the cigars he loved to chomp on kind of ruined the impression. Nor was he really interested in ghostly occurrences himself.
Max was out to make a buck.
His brilliance was in putting together what the public wanted and in the art of delegating, he had told Nikki. He’d had the cash to start up the business, she’d had the ability and the knowledge. When he’d hired her, she’d suggested bringing in Julian, who’d been her best friend forever. As they’d prospered, they’d added the rest.
Nikki was Max’s number two. She was responsible for hiring new guides, then for training them. It worked out well, since Max didn’t particularly like to stick around and run the business. Max liked his money and having other people work for him, so he could travel the globe. At the moment he was hiking in Colorado.
“That took long enough,” Patricia said as they approached the table.
“Nikki was flirting,” Andy teased.
“Oh?” Patricia Broussard had been born and bred in Cajun country, and, like Andy, she had long dark hair. Her eyes were equally dark, and her grin was entirely impish. “Nikki’s got a guy?”
“Very mysterious,” Andy said.
“I gave a bum a dollar,” Nikki said, shaking her head.
“She gave him a twenty,” Andy corrected.
“He looked like he needed it,” Nikki said quickly as Julian stared at her in surprise.
“Actually, he looked like he might be pretty handsome if you cleaned him up a bit,” Andy said.
“You gave a bum a twenty?” Mitch, their out-of-towner, a blonde from Pittsburgh, demanded. “Wow…you’re making a lot more in tips than I am.”
“She’s cuter,” Patricia told him.
“He just seemed really needy,” Nikki explained. “So let’s get past this moment, shall we?”
“No, I like this conversation. All work and no play, Nikki…” Nathan, who was living with Patricia, teased.
“Actually,” Patricia said, eyeing Julian and then Nikki, “most people think you two are a couple.”
“Ugh,” Julian said.
“Thanks,” Nikki told him.
“No, no, that wasn’t about you,” Julian protested quickly.
“I know,” Nikki assured him. She stared at Patricia. “It’s just that we’ve known each other forever. It’s like a brother/sister thing. Now can we get down to business?”
But Nathan grinned, leaning forward. “Nikki, forget business. We’ve got to get you set up with someone.”
She sighed deeply. “I do not want to be set up with anyone.”
“Her last excursion into amore didn’t go so well,” Julian said with a dramatic sigh. “But, then, I did tell her not to date the creep.”
“I’ve never seen you date,” Patricia told her.
“That’s because she hasn’t in nearly a year,” Julian informed them.
“What? Why, that’s…un-American,” Mitch protested.
Nikki groaned, clenching her teeth. “He wasn’t a creep. He just wanted to go off to Hollywood and get rich and famous.”
“And he wanted Nikki to come along and support him while he did,” Julian said dryly.
“We had different agendas,” Nikki said firmly. “I love this business and I love New Orleans. I like California, but I want to live here. He really wasn’t a jerk.”
“Not a total jerk,” Patricia interjected. “He was really good looking, and he could be really sweet.”
“Sweet?” Mitch queried politely.
“Flowers, opening doors…the little things. But in the big things, he wanted his own way.”
“See, I just don’t think that she felt that thing for him, you know? Good-looking guy, charming…but when it’s just not there, it’s just not there,” Nathan said.
“Yeah, but if you always had to wait for it to be there,” Mitch laughed, “I’d spend a lot more nights alone than I already do. No wonder you’re so tense, Nikki.”
“I’m not tense,” Nikki said.
“Yeah, and if you don’t get off it, she’ll talk to Max and see that your ass is fired,” Patricia warned sweetly.
“Ouch!” Mitch said.
“Guys, please,” Nikki said. “I’m busy, and I’m discerning, and I take my time, okay? And right now we need to worry about work, okay?”
Julian turned to Andy. “Just how decent would this bum of hers be if we cleaned him up?”
“Pretty decent,” Andy said thoughtfully. “He just looked…down on his luck.”
“Okay, guys, playtime over,” Nikki said firmly. “Julian, Greg wasn’t that much of a creep, just a little self-centered. I had no intention of going anywhere with him, so it was fun, but it’s over. And thanks, but I don’t want to date the bum. I’m fine. I love my apartment, love my work and enjoy my friendship with all you guys. I’m normal, not tense, and when I want to date, I will.”
“Maybe she’s working the strip clubs at night under an alias,” Mitch teased. She shot him a glare from blue-green eyes. He lifted his hands. “I’m going to behave now. Really.”
“Okay, guys, I’ve got notes from Max. Mitch, you’re welcome to introduce any new story, as long as you validate it first. Julian, if anyone makes you feel uncomfortable on the walks, tell them you’re married.”
“What?” Julian said, startled.
Nikki shrugged. “That’s what Max said to tell you. He said it works for him all the time.”
“Oh, really? Who would be trying to pick up old Max?” Julian demanded.
“Oh, come on,” Patricia protested. “Max is cute—in a creepy kind of way.”
“Great. I say I’m married, then when the right person comes along…they think that I’m married or a liar,” Julian said. “There goes my social life.” He groaned. “I’ll end up like Nikki.”
“Oh, come on, will you guys please, please leave me alone?” Nikki demanded.
“That bum is looking better and better,” Julian said to Nathan.
“You didn’t even see him,” Nikki protested, irritated.
“We’re just trying to help,” Nathan said.
“I don’t want to be helped,” Nikki snapped. “Hey—work on Andy for a while, huh?”
On cue, they all turned to stare at Andy. She laughed. “Nikki, they don’t know me as well. I won’t be nearly as much fun to torture.”
“Besides, Andy is a flirt,” Nathan said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Really?” Andy said.
“Yeah, really,” Mitch assured her.
Andy giggled. “Okay…I am a flirt. I admit it.”
“You can flirt with me anytime,” Julian teased.
“And if he’s not around, and you’re looking for a good solid Yankee boy…” Mitch suggested.
“Never play where you work, that’s what Mom always said,” Andy told them with a sad shake of her head.
“Well, you could just sleep with me,” Mitch said. “We wouldn’t have to play at all.”
“Hey! Go back to torturing Nikki, will you?” Andy demanded.
“If you all don’t quit, tomorrow night’s off,” Nikki said.
“The tour is off?” Julian asked, puzzled.
“Of course not,” Nikki said patiently. “If you’d all just behave like adults and listen… We had a record month. Max is going to pay for a celebration at Pat O’Brien’s. Dinner and drinks on him, tomorrow, after the night tour.”
“All right!” Mitch cried happily.
At that moment Madame D’Orso made one of her sweeping appearances, bearing her elegant coffeepot, chatting with her guests.
And they were special guests. Their tours met in front of her place, bringing her lots of business.
“It’s calmed down out here some, huh?” Nikki asked her.
“Yes. Not that I complain about business, but we had a busy late lunch crowd today,” she told them, pouring them more coffee. At her place, it was premixed. Café au lait meant café au lait.
“Hey,” Mitch said to her, setting a friendly hand on her back, just above her waist. The gesture wasn’t flirtatious, just affectionate. Mitch was in his late twenties. Madame was in her late…well, hard to tell, but she was a few decades older. “Should Nikki date the bum who was in your place?”
“What bum?”
“You didn’t see him?” Andy asked.
“Honey, I wouldn’t have noticed if Robert E. Lee stopped in. It was busy in there today. As if this parish isn’t nutty enough, it’s election time. Campaigners, do-gooders and politicians everywhere, thick as flies. There’s those trying to clean up the place, make New Orleans a ‘family’ destination. And then there’s those trying to keep her wild, wicked and free.” She removed Mitch’s hand, grinned and moved on.
“Damn. Wish I’d seen the bum. Then I’d know if we could clean him up enough or not,” Mitch said with a wink.
“Drop it. Or there will be no free meal for you tomorrow night,” Nikki warned him.
“It’s dropped,” he assured her.
Nikki rose. She could see a tour group gathering out front. “Julian, it’s showtime. Andy, you’re following along. Patricia, Nathan, don’t forget you’re on tonight.”
With a last long swallow of her café au lait, Nikki started off with a smile to meet the growing crowd. Twenty minutes later, she was standing in front of the Bourbon Street bar, once a blacksmith’s shop, that the pirate turned patriot Jean Lafitte was said to haunt. She found the story of the man a fascinating puzzle, and focused her speech on his enigmatic history, along with a mention that there were definitely “spirits” of all sorts to be found there—many of them behind the bar.
Her smile was as enigmatic as her story. She was certain that Jean Lafitte’s ghost loved to have his story told. She could feel the mischief in the air, something a little wicked, and yet benign.
She always told the story of the man with affection, and she knew that she always gave her audience a few delightful chills.
Ghosts filled the streets here, between the neon lights that advertised Girls! Girls! Girls! and the shop fronts offering voodoo charms, the ever-present music, the mimes on the street, the antique shops, the boutiques and the T-shirt shops that also sold pralines and potions.
It was New Orleans, and she loved it.
Tom Garfield fought to retain his senses, fought because that was what a man did. It was simple instinct. And so many times before, it had served him well. But this time?
The girl. Had he gotten to the girl? He didn’t know. No matter how he struggled, his mind was deeply fogged.
There had been a chance.
But he hadn’t been able to talk.
And then…
Then it had been too late. He had been followed.
Well, it had been a good fight. And he had done as much good as he could. Maybe someone would come after him, someone who knew the truth. He had tried so damn hard to talk…
He felt a jostling, and he knew. He was being “taken care of.” It no longer mattered, even to him. Dreams were taking over reality. And he could see…
The woman. Like a fairy-tale princess. Long blond hair, eyes both blue and green…And that face, porcelain, and the look of pity…
The…money.
More money than anyone ever gave a bum.
Not a bum. Once…
In his mind’s eye, in dreams, all that remained, he could see himself in a suit. No, in a tux. Clean. Walking across a room. And there, the woman…
He was jostled again, the dream broken. It was her kindness, he thought, that had most moved him.
He felt the needle.
Dreams…
Dreams were good.
He was dying. And as he died, one regret tore at him.
They would never know the truth.
Unless she realized just what she had, what she had received, what he had slipped to her in that instant when they touched…
It was over. Had he lost? No, he had to die for a reason! God help him, he had to have counted. She had to realize…
Fading. Fading, fading, and then…
Death.
2
The afternoon French Quarter tour wound up being a long one. They always allowed for questions after the tour, and it turned out they had a lot of people with questions. When they finished, Julian decided to head home, but Nikki wanted to do some shopping, so she and Andy headed off.
In addition to suggesting the party, Max had given Nikki a bonus. There was a corset shop on Royal Street and a certain piece of clothing she had been coveting for quite a while. On the way they stopped by Andy’s place to check on an old woman, Mrs. Montobello, Andy seemed to have adopted. The woman was full of tales about her younger years in New Orleans. She was an Italian immigrant who’d come to marry a fellow Italian, sight unseen, but now her husband was long gone, her one son had also passed away, and her grandchildren were sweet but living their own lives in New York City.
That day, she was on a kick about the many voodoo queens, and tarot and palm readers in the French Quarter.
“All shysters,” she said, shaking her old gray head with animation. “Once upon a time voodoo was a way for the slaves to have something of their own—and to get back at their masters, eh? But I can tell you this—there were women once who really had a special gift.”
“Mrs. Montobello,” Nikki said, “Marie Laveau supported her ‘powers’ by eavesdropping.”
“Dear child,” Mrs. Montobello protested. “Don’t you go doubting things just because they can’t be seen. I hear that you give the best ghost tour out there. That people believe they’ve seen ghosts when they get back from a walk with you. That’s because you see them, don’t you?”
Nikki shook her head. “I think it’s just a matter of seeing history, feeling the emotions that must have played out. But I’m a girl who sees the real picture. We lead tours, we make money. I don’t fall for the shyster palm readers. Oh, I believe there are people who give ‘good’ readings, but I think that’s because they would have made fabulous psychologists. They know how to read people.”
“Nikki’s good. No matter what she says, I’ve stood next to her and felt chills,” Andy said.
“So you really do talk to ghosts, huh?” Mrs. Montobello said, rheumy blue eyes studying Nikki in far too serious a manner.
“No. I have a feel for history, and I think I’m a good storyteller,” Nikki said. “I do not talk to ghosts.”
“So you don’t talk to them, but do they talk to you?” Mrs. Montobello asked.
“Good heavens, no!” Nikki said. “I’d have a heart attack on the spot if that happened. And if they’re out there,” Nikki said mischievously, “they apparently know that.”
“Maybe they will talk to you one day,” Mrs. Montobello murmured. “I suppose, just like plain folk, ghosts need to have something to say. But you believe they’re out there—I can tell.”
Nikki felt a sudden chill. Yes, she believed in ghosts, or if not ghosts, per se, in a memory that lingered in certain places.
It sure as hell wasn’t something she was going to share with anyone.
Not even Mrs. Montobello.
“At my age,” the old woman said, “you come to know a difference in this world, perhaps because you’re so close to the next.”
She was still studying Nikki closely. Nikki found herself staring back for a long moment.
For a moment she found herself thinking, I can see a fog. And I can feel the cold, an essence, a feeling…when someone is lost, when they’re frustrated. Looking for something. They’re benign, meaning no harm, and they are no more than mist, something in my heart, or imagination.
Then she shook off the feeling, and they continued to chat as Nikki and Andy picked up the tea they had made for Mrs. Montobello, washed and dried and straightened, and then headed out.
At the door, Mrs. Montobello stared at Nikki strangely again. “Go shopping. Listen to the music. But stay away from shysters.”
As they walked along the streets, past neon lights, garish come-ons, charming boutiques, and bars and clubs that wailed with blues and pop and everything in between, Andy suddenly stopped. “Isn’t it funny? I feel like a little kid. Mrs. Montobello just said we shouldn’t stop by a voodoo shop, so now I’m itching for a palm reading.”
“Andy, come on, they’re just silly.”
“Okay, how about a tarot card reading?”
Nikki hesitated, staring at her. “Just let me buy that corset I want and I’ll take you to a good place.”
“Yeah?”
“We won’t tell Mrs. Montobello.”
Nikki liked the boutique where she purchased the corset. Everything was unique and handmade. But since Andy seemed restless, she didn’t take the time to look around, just made her purchase, and then they headed for Conte Street.
The name of the place was Contessa Moodoo’s Hoodoo Voodoo. Not promising, Nikki admitted as Andy stared at her, but she knew the woman who owned the shop fairly well. She was large, of mixed ancestry, African, Native American, white…maybe even some Asian, and whatever her real name might have been, she didn’t use it. She just went by Contessa. She had long ago told Nikki that her potions were just what they said on the bottles—vitamins, with maybe a few herbs thrown in. And in her readings…well, she told people what they wanted to hear.
After purchasing a love potion, a bottle of vitamin E and a few sachets, Nikki introduced Andy.
“And,” she said, “my friend wants a reading.”
Contessa had remarkable eyes, like marbles, so many colors it would be hard to describe them in any customary way. Hazel was the best Nikki could summon, but they sometimes looked almost blue, sometimes gray, and sometimes they seemed very dark and mysterious.
She stared at Andy with a shrug. “Come on, then.” Contessa had a little nook, filled with the pleasant scent of incense, and blocked off from the rest of the room by a bead curtain. They walked by voodoo dolls, more potions and curios to reach it.
Contessa took a seat behind a table with a beautiful crystal ball in the middle—she had long ago told Nikki it was just for looks. She indicated that Andy should take the chair opposite her.
She picked up her deck of cards and asked Andy to hold them. Then she took them and dealt them out.
But as she flipped the first over, she paused. Andy touched a card, and this time, Contessa swept up the deck, shaking her head. “The cards aren’t talking tonight, I’m sorry,” she said.
Nikki stared at her, puzzled. She brought people here because she knew that Contessa would find something uplifting to say to her clients. A decision looms before you, think long and carefully. Or There has beena division of sorts in your life and you must consider the past and remember that forgiveness is something we all must feel, if we are to be happy with ourselves. Or even, The future is bright, go for it.
“Okay, how about a palm reading?” Andy suggested.
Contessa stiffened, lowering her head. Nikki saw Andy smile, as if she were applauding the act. But Nikki knew this was no act.
With a sigh, Contessa held Andy’s palm, looking very serious. At last she looked up at her. “You be careful, young woman. Very careful.”
“Why?” Andy demanded.
“When you’re home, you lock yourself in. Don’t go talking to no strangers. And…”
“And?” Andy demanded.
“There’s something…” Contessa muttered.
“Oh,” Andy said lightly. “I lived a pretty hard life for a while. Drugs,” she admitted. “But I’m clean as a whistle now. Honestly.”
“You lock your doors,” Contessa said. “And you keep away from those no-accounts, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. And thank you. What else? Am I going to fall in love?” Andy demanded.
Contessa kept her strange mottled eyes on Andy; she didn’t look at her hand again.
“We all fall in love, don’t we?” she asked. Then she added, “Okay, shoo, now. Off you go. And keep those doors locked!”
Nikki was surprised when Contessa all but hustled them out the door.
“But I didn’t pay you!” Andy protested.
“Honey, you don’t owe me a thing. Now git. There’s a world out there to be lived. You go live it quick.”
The door closed behind them with a soft ringing of bells.
Andy burst into laughter. “Well, you and Mrs. Montobello are right. She sounds more like a mother than a psychologist. Go home, lock your doors. Watch out for strangers. Well, she was fun, anyway. Thanks, Nikki.”
Nikki nodded, not knowing why she was feeling disturbed when Andy was amused.
“Strange, though, huh? I’ll bet she could tell I’d been a junkie once upon a time.” Andy sighed. “Hey…you don’t think, if Max knew about my past, that he’d fire me, do you?”
“No. And who knows about Max’s past, anyway?” Nikki joked. Then she turned serious. “Andy, you had a hard life, but you’ve risen above it. Contessa gave you good advice. Watch out for anyone who might want to drag you down again. That’s it.”
“She warned me to watch out for strangers. Let me tell you, there were some damn strange people in my past, that’s for sure.”
“So leave them in the past.”
“Yeah, well…sometimes I wonder if they’ll come back to haunt me, no matter where I leave them.” She hesitated. “Did you ever smoke, Nikki?”
“Smoke…you mean cigarettes?”
Andy laughed. “Yes, I meant cigarettes!”
“In high school and college. Then I quit.”
“Yeah, but were you ever really addicted?”
“You bet. I went to a hypnotist, and I chewed the gum like crazy.”
“They say cigarettes are the hardest addiction to break,” Andy said. “But you know how it is. You quit smoking—you may have given it up for years—but sometimes you’ll see someone with a cigarette, and you just want one so badly you can barely stand it. But you know you can’t have that one cigarette because you’ll wind up with the addiction all over again, no matter what you tell yourself. Do you know what I’m saying?”
“Yes, I know I can’t have one cigarette.”
“It’s like that with other stuff… Every once in a while, you think, man, I’d love to have that high, just one more time. But you know you can’t do it.”
“You’re not afraid you’ll be tempted, are you?” Nikki asked her, worried.
Andy shook her head. “No. Because I know what could happen. And I’ve seen far too many lives destroyed. I’m straight as an arrow now.”
“Good for you,” Nikki said.
“And I love my job.”
“That’s great. Hey!” Nikki said suddenly. She lowered her voice. “Speaking of drugs and addictions…look.”
“What?”
“There’s that guy again.”
“What guy?”
“The one we saw today, at Madame D’Orso’s.”
Andy turned, looking across Conte. There was a crowd around the popular bar on the corner, which was supposedly haunted by a cool jazz guitarist. “Where?” she demanded.
“Right there. Great. I gave him a twenty, and he used it to go drinking,” Nikki said in disgust.
“I don’t see him,” Andy said, craning her neck and frowning.
“There…right there.” Nikki pointed. The man was there, staring straight at her. He still looked as if he longed to reach out, touch her…talk to her.
Then the crowd moved. People laughing, talking. A sad trumpet lament began to play. And he was gone.
“Well, go figure. No more twenties to junkies, huh?” Andy said. She walked on.
And Nikki followed, trying to shake off the sudden chill that seemed to wash over her like ice from a not-so-distant past.
Another day.
Another corpse.
A junkie, lying beneath one of the highway overpasses, nearly covered by newspapers and other debris, needle by his side.
Detective Owen Massey and his partner had been called in after the patrol cops had cordoned off the scene. The ME had arrived, too, and agreed that this was just another life wasted, tragic but simple.
Not dead too long. At least the poor sucker hadn’t rotted and decayed like a misbegotten rat. By the ME’s estimation, this particular John Doe had only been a goner for a matter of hours. Cause of death seemed obvious. Heroin overdose.
Nearly quitting time, and he was tired. He loved the French Quarter like he might his child, if he’d ever had one. But there were days…
A few more lines to fill in, and he could go home, he thought, sitting at his desk.
Massey had nearly finished with the paperwork—not a homicide, death by misadventure—when his partner came striding across the room.
“Hold the presses,” Marc Joulette said.
“You got an ID?” Massey asked. “A match on the prints?”
“Yeah. Tom Garfield. FBI. Under cover for the last three months.”
“What?”
“FBI,” Joulette repeated.
Massey groaned, nearly letting his head fall on the table.
It would be one hell of a long time before he’d be going home that night.
“The feds will be sending someone.”
“Oh, great.”
He let his head crash to the desk.
No one noticed. A bunch of uniforms were heading out, talking as they went.
Massey looked up, frowning. “Politics,” Joulette told him. “Going to provide security for some rally.”
Massey arched both brows. Joulette shrugged. “It’s a hot race for that senate seat,” he explained. “I haven’t seen this much activity in a coon’s age.”
“Politics. In Louisiana. There’s a cesspool for you.”
“Hey!” Joulette protested. “There are a lot of good guys out there, trying to make a difference. Not to mention right here in the department.”
Actually, Massey agreed. There were plenty of good men in the department. And he hated the fact that Louisiana politics had too often been on the shady side. It was a good state. He loved New Orleans with a passion. He shrugged. “Problem is, no two guys seem to have the same opinion when it comes to what constitutes the greater good.”
“Well, we’re not politicians. We’re cops. And we’ve got a dead fed on our hands.”
“Right,” Massey said.
“Hey, Massey, Joulette.” It was Robinson, a street cop who had spent some time in forensics.
“What’s up?” Joulette asked.
“Purse snatcher,” Robinson said. Young and wiry, he was a good cop, capable of running down perps who were convinced they could outrun any of the parish’s beignet-eaters.
Massey cleared his throat. “Um…wrong fellow to get after a purse snatcher,” he said.
Robinson grinned. “Hey, I know.”
“You mean you didn’t run the guy down?” Joulette asked him.
“Naw, I got the call too late.”
“So…?” Massey prompted.
“This is just curious. Maybe nothing. But I thought that I’d show you.”
Robinson produced the small sketchbook he’d been carrying. He was a good artist, and the sketch he’d produced appeared to be a likeness of Tom Garfield, their dead FBI agent.
Frowning, Massey stared hard at the picture. “What’s this?”
“The woman whose purse was snatched told me that she never saw the man who swiped her bag, but she said she’d seen a suspicious-looking down-and-outer right before it happened. On Bourbon Street. I asked her to describe the guy. And this is what I got. A picture of your corpse.”
“Robinson, you’ve seen the pictures of Garfield. You just drew him ’cause those images were in your mind,” Joulette said.
“No. The woman told me this was the guy she saw—to a T.”
“Couldn’t have been. If this purse snatching just happened, Garfield was already dead,” Massey said more gently. He liked Robinson.
“The woman swears up and down that this is who she saw.”
“So our fed is dead but snatching purses?” Joulette scoffed.
“Maybe he’s got a look-alike running around the city, that’s what I’m suggesting,” Robinson said. “Who knows how or why, but it could mean something. I just thought you two should know.”
“Did you show the boss?” Massey asked.
Robinson nodded. “Weird, huh?”
“Thanks,” Massey told him. “Hey, can I keep the sketch?”
“I’ll make you a copy,” Robinson assured him. “The boss already has one.” He gave Joulette an aggravated stare and moved on.
“Everybody’s just got to get in on the act, huh?” Joulette said.
Massey shook his head. Robinson was a bright officer, and the sketch was disturbing.
He sighed.
It was going to be a hell of a long night.
Brent Blackhawk fought the dream, because he knew what the dream meant. But it was too strong for him.
First there was the mist.
Then there was his grandfather.
Finally he was back on the day when they had gone to the battlefield where Custer had made his last stand. Where the combined forces of many tribes had conquered.
As a child, he had seen them.
There had been awful moments when he had felt sheer terror. He had seen the soldiers and the warriors. Heard the savage war cries. The shouts of the cavalry.
The cries for mercy.
He had seen the agony and fear, tasted the acrid scent of gunpowder.
He had kept silent, had not corrected the tour guide. It would be wrong for a little boy to correct his elders, even though he knew what they did not. He had listened to the tours; he had gone to the encampments. He had sat with his grandfather in a sweat lodge, and the old men and the younger ones had discussed how Custer’s last stand had in reality been the last stand of the American Indian.
Later his grandfather had talked to him. He had known.
“It’s all right,” he had assured him. “It’s all right.”
“Is it because I’m a quarter Indian?” he had asked.
And his grandfather had taken him into his arms. “Well, boy, I don’t know. Your mom, now, she was what they called a truly lovely lass from the old country. And her people are known for being what they call a bit ‘fey.’ What matters is that you have a gift, and you have it for a reason. Perhaps in time you’ll see that it’s not frightening, and you’ll know why it’s been given to you. And that it’s good.”
Sometimes, he still wondered when the “good” would kick in. He had learned to use it, just as a policeman learned to use his weapon. There were times when he knew that his help changed lives, even made them bearable again.
But as for himself…
In the dream, he groaned.
It’s time again, his grandfather told him.
I know, he replied. I’ve felt it coming.
His grandfather nodded.
So they stood together again in that valley near the Black Hills, and the mist began to swirl around them.
Those who thought that native peoples were stoic, that they did not show their emotions, were wrong. He felt, in the deep recesses of the dream, the love that came to him through time, through space. Through the darkest boundary of death.
He woke. And when he did, he sighed, looking at the rays of sun that streaked through his bedroom window.
Nothing to do about it. Go along with his life as it had been planned.
When he was needed, Adam would find him.
Nikki awoke in the morning, feeling oddly exhausted.
She felt as if she had barely slept at all, and she knew it was because she had tossed and turned in a series of weird nightmares.
She couldn’t remember her dreams; she just had the lingering sense of having spent the night in a whirl of very strange sensation. It left her with an odd feeling.
A foreboding.
Oh, man!
She tried to shake it off. It was a beautiful morning. The sun…she could just see it peeking in through her drapes.
She rose, thinking it must have been the conversation with Mrs. Montobello and then Contessa’s reading.
This sense of unease wasn’t something she usually felt. Even when the “ghosts” were around. The ghosts were benign…faint indentations upon the present that simply lingered. There was a sweet nostalgia to what she saw and felt, something that made her feel even more affectionate toward her home, reassured her that New Orleans was special.
But there had been something about the dreams last night. Something…
Something that was malignant rather than benign.
Something that seemed to be a warning.
“Hey, it’s a beautiful day,” she said aloud, and went into the bathroom, where she splashed her face with cold water.
Suddenly she was afraid to look up. Afraid to look in the mirror above the sink. If she looked into the mirror…
Would someone else be looking back at her?
She had to look up, of course. She couldn’t remain in her bathroom forever, bent over the sink.
She looked up. And felt like a fool. There was nothing there but her own reflection.
She gave herself a shake, got ready quickly and left the house.
And still…
That sense of foreboding clung to her, like a gray mist, damp and chill against her flesh.
3
“At first man wandered the earth with little thought as to the great beyond, to right or wrong, and the way that he should live. Then came the White Buffalo Woman. Two hunters were out one day, and she appeared. She was very beautiful, dressed in white skins, and she carried something in a pack that she wore on her back. Now, when I say beautiful, she was stunning. And one of the hunters thought, ‘Hmm, now there’s a woman I would like to have in my tepee,’” Brent Blackhawk said, scanning the eyes of his audience.
“Have in his tepee?” one of the older boys teased lightly.
“Do you mean date?” asked one of the girls.
“Something like that,” Brent said dryly. “But, you see, she was the White Buffalo Woman, and not to be taken lightly. She saw that the hunter had designs on her, so she crooked her finger toward him, and thinking himself the big and mighty hunter and warrior, he approached her. But as he did so, white fog rolled out around the both of them. And when it dissipated, the great and mighty warrior had been turned to bone. And as the bones fell to the earth, they were covered with snakes that writhed and crawled among them.”
“Ugh!” cried one of the younger girls.
“What happened then?” asked the older boy who had heckled him before.
“Ah, well, the other hunter was naturally amazed—and more than a little afraid. But the woman told him to hurry to his village and tell the elders, chiefs, shamans and all the people that she was coming, and that she had a message to give that all must heed. The hunter hurried to the village and relayed his story, and everyone—from the great chief to the smallest child—dressed in his and her best and gathered in the great tepee as if for a council, and awaited her. She came, beautiful in her white, carrying the bundle that she had previously worn on her back.”
“And what then?” asked a boy of about eleven.
“First she took a stone from the bundle and set it on the ground. Then she took out a pipe. It had a red stone bowl, the color of the earth, and she said that it stood for the earth. There was a calf carved upon it, and the carving stood not just for the calf but for all the creatures that walked the earth. The stem of the pipe was wood, and that stood for all things that grew. There were beautiful feathers attached to the pipe, and they stood not just for the hawks and eagles, but for all the birds that flew in the sky. When she had explained all this, she said that those who smoked the pipe would learn about relationships—first, with the Wakantanka, had come before them, grandfather, grandmother, father, mother, and those who would follow, sons and daughters. All relatives were bound as one and meant to be honored. All the earth was sacred and to be cared for. All were to be respected.”
The boy of eleven looked troubled.
“What is it?” Brent asked.
“We’re not supposed to smoke,” the boy told him solemnly.
Brent smiled. “You’re Michael?” he asked, trying to remember all the names.
“Michael Tiger,” the boy said proudly.
“Michael, you’re right. Smoking isn’t just very bad for your health, it’s an expensive and annoying habit.”
“Then how can anyone smoke the sacred pipe?” the girl at Brent’s side asked.
Brent lowered his head, smiling. “The sacred pipe is now part of a ceremony. There are very specific times when the pipe may be smoked among the Lakotas, you see.”
“You never finished the story,” another of the girls pointed out.
“Ah, yes,” Brent said. “Well, the rest of the story relates to what we’re saying now. The stone that the White Buffalo Woman put down at first had seven little cuts in it. They indicated those very special times when the pipe might be smoked, ceremonies to honor all that she was teaching. They would be part of the relationships that the people must learn so that they would not be like animals, wandering the earth, without care for it or those around them. When she had taught them a bit more, she walked a few steps away. Then she turned into a brown and white calf. Again she walked, and this time she became a white calf. After a few more feet, she became a great black buffalo. She left the council tepee and walked up a hill and there she bowed to the four corners of the earth, north and south, east and west, and then…”
“And then?” Michael Tiger demanded.
“She vanished,” Brent said.
“But…why did she come, if she was only going to disappear?” Michael asked.
“She came to teach the people to respect and care for one another, for the earth itself, and for all creatures, and for all the gifts that were given to man, even the stones and the river and the ground,” Brent said. He smiled, rising. “That is the Lakota legend of the White Buffalo Woman.” He swept an arm out, indicating the many people who were attending the festival, a gathering of tribes deep in the Florida Everglades. It wasn’t a reenactment of the old days—vendors sold soda, popcorn, tribal T-shirts, corn dogs and other non-native foods, while rock bands filled the air with sounds that would certainly have shocked the White Buffalo Woman. He’d come with a group called the Wild Chieftains, and since he had something of a reputation as a storyteller, he’d been asked to tell a few legends to the children. They weren’t all Indian, and that pleased him. The children represented local tribes, such as the Miccosukee and Seminole, along with Cree, Creek, Cherokee and others. There were also a number of African-Americans, Hispanics and whatever mix the so-called “whites” might be. He’d heard British and German accents in the crowd, so even the tourists had come out for the festival.
“The truth is, every group has its own legend. The Great Spirit is God to some and Allah to others. There are many paths a man—or woman—might take to reach the same place. The important part of the story is that we all need to respect and take care of one another, and respect the earth, as well,” Brent said, grinning.
Then his grin faded as he looked past the children, and saw, in the group of adults standing behind them, a familiar face.
A too-familiar face. That of a man he knew well.
But hadn’t he been expecting him?
“Are you really a Lakota?” one of the little girls asked him. “Your eyes are green.”
“Oh, Heidi,” Michael Tiger said, sighing, as if he were possessed of a great deal more wisdom than she, a younger child, and a girl. “My sister’s eyes are blue, because my stepmother is mostly German. People mix up.”
“Was your mother mostly German?” the girl asked.
He grinned. “Irish,” he told her.
“But your father was all Lakota?” Michael asked hopefully.
“How about this—my grandfather, Chief Soaring Blackhawk, was all Lakota,” Brent said. He could feel the eyes of Adam Harrison boring into him as he spoke. He could also see the man’s smile. Adam was very much enjoying the way the children were putting him on the spot.
“Is it easier to be only half-Indian?” Susan asked, her tone serious.
Brent ignored Adam for a moment, hunkering down in front of the little girl. “Let’s hope that very soon it won’t matter whether we’re red, black, tan, yellow, white…male or female. Or whether we believe in the White Buffalo Woman, the teachings of Buddha, Allah or God.”
“Yeah!” The little girl turned to stare at Michael.
“She is really smart,” Michael told Brent grudgingly. “She makes the best grades in school. Especially in math.” He made a face.
“I said I’d help you,” the girl protested.
Brent had a feeling he was watching a budding romance. “Take her up on it, eh, Tiger?” he said, and smiling, he waved a hand, starting away from the group that had gathered around him. His departure was acknowledged with a nice round of applause. He smiled, waved again, and Adam caught up with him.
“You’ve got quite a talent there,” Adam told him.
Brent shrugged. “Kids like fables from any land, about any people.” He stopped walking and stared at Adam. “All right, why did you track me down?”
“I need you to go to New Orleans.”
Brent groaned inwardly as a wave of dread washed over him. He avoided New Orleans like the plague. Not that he disliked the city. It was full of wonderful people, great food, incredible music.
But it was one of the places a man such as himself should never go.
“New Orleans,” he muttered bitterly. He stared at Adam, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m supposed to be back at the Pine Ridge Reservation on Tuesday,” he said.
“You’re needed?” Adam said.
“Every man is needed,” Brent told him.
Adam smiled, looking away from the area where the festival was taking place, out to the rich areas of saw grass that seemed to stretch forever, though the road, the Tamiami Trail, was really within a few hundred feet.
“Your eyes are green,” Adam commented, looking at him again.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Brent asked.
“Well, I just listened to you give the most marvelous speech to those children. About acceptance.”
“Yes?”
Adam smiled. “Heritage is a wonderful thing. The Irish arrived after a potato famine. Italians poured into the country in the 1920s. Cubans and South Americans and immigrants from the Caribbean all came to South Florida. You know what happens after we’re all here a while? We become Americans.”
Brent had to smile. “And…?”
“My point is the one you were just making. We’re all many things. You’re more Irish than you are Lakota. You’re just an American.”
“So?”
“So you should support your heritage—all of it. You teach, you counsel…and then you have your special gifts. Your mother was full-blooded Irish, you know.”
“Is that a comment on my ‘gift’?” Brent asked.
“It’s a comment on the fact that you’re a mongrel, like most people. And right now the mixed-up all-American part of you is needed,” Adam said.
“In New Orleans?”
Adam looked away for a moment. “Look, I know how you feel about New Orleans. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t believe this was important.”
“It’s where Tania died,” Brent said quietly.
“I know. I said that I wouldn’t have asked you if it weren’t important.”
“A lot of things are important.”
“I need you, Brent.”
“You have other people.”
Adam hesitated. “You know I always weigh what I need to do very carefully. And in this circumstance, I need you.”
“I assume you’re going to explain?”
“The government lost an agent.”
Brent was still puzzled, and he said softly, “I’m not without sympathy, Adam, but agents put their lives on the line. And sometimes they die.”
“This agent was seen walking around—after he’d been killed,” Adam said.
Brent arched a brow. “All right,” he said after a moment. “I guess you’re going to tell me all of it?”
“I’m going to tell you everything I know,” Adam assured him solemnly.
“And I’m going to guess that I already have a plane ticket?”
“You leave tomorrow.”
“The new Storyville district is a great place to visit,” Nikki assured the crowd around her. “As in the past, there’s music and great food, but you won’t find the same…business that flourished years ago. Alderman Sydney Story knew he couldn’t get rid of the oldest profession as it’s been called, but he was hoping to control it. I can’t imagine he was happy when the red light district he worked so hard to contain was named Storyville, after him. The district limited prostitution and, in time, other vices to the area from the south side of Customhouse Street to the north side of St. Louis Street, from the lower side of North Basin Street to the lower side of Robertson Street.
“There are endless tales to go with the area. The bordellos ranged from the poor and ragged to the rich and classy, the girls from young and green to long in the tooth. But the true reigning queen of Storyville was Josie. She was born just about the end of the Civil War, raised by a very religious family, and seduced at an early age into the arms of a fancy man. But at heart, Josie was an entrepreneur. In her early days, she was red-haired and wild-tempered, and her place was known for some of the fiercest and most entertaining catfights to be seen anywhere. Then, when the brawling became too much even for Josie, she reinvented herself and ran ads for ladies of the highest rank. She managed to make a fortune and buy herself a splendid home in an affluent quarter of the city. Eventually she became obsessed with death. Not that she seemed to be terribly worried about her immortal soul. She was consumed, however, with concern regarding her physical remains. She wanted to be as grand in death as she presumed herself to be in life. So she had a tomb built, a truly magnificent tomb. It incorporated pilasters and urns and torches. And a beautiful sculpture of a woman, one foot on a step, her hand reaching for the door.
“In time Josie died and was entombed. But an heir squandered away her money. Her house was sold, as was her tomb. The new owners did not want her remains, so they were removed. In New Orleans, after a year and a day, that’s no problem. Where they lie today…it’s one of the best-kept secrets of the cemetery. But it’s often said that Josie’s spirit slips into the statue of the woman that still stands at the entry to her former tomb. Is she trying to get into heaven? Or merely beckoning others to follow her? If you happen to see the elegant statue moving, don’t be afraid. Josie had a temper, but she was also a social creature, and it’s said that she’s merely visiting gentlemen callers who happened to have ended their days in the same cemetery.”
“Where is the tomb?” a slender woman called to her.
“Metairie. It’s featured on another of our tours, and we hope you’ll join us for it,” Nikki replied. “Well, folks, that’s it for the evening, except that my colleagues—the tall, dark handsome fellow there, Julian, and the beautiful young woman to my right, Andrea—will join me in answering any questions you might have. And thank you so much for joining us. There are many tour groups here in New Orleans, so we hope we’ve fulfilled your expectations, and enlightened and entertained you.”
The usual round of questions followed. Nikki never minded, but that night, she knew, she was glancing at her watch. At last she was able to extricate herself from the last family eager to learn more.
It had been a good evening. In fact, it had been a good day. Her ridiculous sense of foreboding hadn’t meant a thing. When she finished with the family, she waved to Andy and Julian, and they headed off for Pat O’Brien’s.
“Man, I have never seen so many posters up before an election,” Julian commented as they passed the wooden barricade around a construction site. The posters advertised the current sensation, an older man named Harold Grant. “He looks like you, Nikki. Far too serious,” Julian teased. “Maybe we need new blood running the place. Have you seen all the posters for what’s-his-name?”
“Billy Banks,” Andy reminded him. “Yeah, and he’s a cutie. Have you seen him, Nikki? Vibrant guy, lots of charisma. Poor old Harold probably doesn’t have a chance against him.”
“Some people don’t vote for a candidate because he’s cute,” Nikki said.
Julian shrugged. “They’re both swearing they’re the one who can clean up crime in the parish,” he said. “Politicians. Who do you believe?”
“None of them,” Andy said.
“Hey…lots of people out tonight,” Julian said, forgetting politics as they neared their destination.
Despite the popularity of the place—an absolute must for tourists—they were able to garner a table. It was almost as if Max could see them in his mind’s eye from wherever he was, because they had just started on their first round of Hurricanes when Nikki’s cell rang.
“Drunk yet?” Max asked her.
“Funny,” she told him.
A soft chuckle came over the phone. “Come on, kid. Celebrate. Let yourself go. Drop down among the mortals and do a little sinning, huh?”
“Who is it?” Mitch asked, over the din.
“Is it Max?” Julian demanded.
She nodded, pressing the phone closer to her ear and mouthing, “He wants to know if we’re drunk yet. He’s telling us to celebrate.”
“Tell him I’m on my way to happily inebriated—since he’s picking up the tab,” Nathan yelled, slipping an arm around Patricia’s shoulder. “And Tricia’s doing fine, too.”
“Hot time tonight, huh?” Julian asked.
Patricia laughed. “Like he needs to get me drunk at this point.”
“Just…perky,” Nathan teased, hugging her.
“Would you guys quit with the sex thing? At least until you see the rest of us coupled up for the night, huh?” Mitch said. “By the way, Nikki, make sure you’re hearing Max correctly. He’s telling you to celebrate, not to be celibate.”
“Funny, Mitch,” she mouthed.
“What was that Mitch said?” Max asked. He said something else, but the music was playing and there were voices all around.
Nikki waved a hand at them, frowning. “I can’t hear you, Max,” she said.
The others ignored her.
“You won’t see me coupled up—not in the near future,” Andy said. “A voodoo queen warned me to watch out for strangers,” she assured them
“Max?” Nikki said, narrowing her eyes fiercely at the others.
“I’m here, Nick,” he said. “I just called to say that you’re doing a great job—one of the travel magazines just rated us as the top tour bargain in the Big Easy. So tell Nathan to drink himself silly. And you do the same.”
She realized that the idea actually appealed to her. What had it been? The weird junkie at Madame’s yesterday? That sense of foreboding this morning? The back-to-back tours she had done that day? She needed to take it a little easier. Once Max got back, she was going to tell him that they needed to hire more people.
The Hurricane she had assumed she would nurse all night was already empty. A waitress replaced it without being asked.
She smiled her thanks and spoke to her boss.
“Max, thanks, that’s great. I’ll tell the others.”
“Tell us what?” Patricia demanded.
She waved an impatient hand again, trying to get them to shut up while she was still talking.
“When are you coming back?” she asked Max. “I need to ask you—”
“Do what you need to do. I’m not sure yet when I’m coming back. You’ve got my cell—call me with any problems. And for tonight, let loose. Eat, drink and be merry. We’ll talk soon.”
“Max—”
He’d hung up.
“What did he say?” Julian demanded.
She told them about their ranking in the tourist mag. A cheer went up, and then a toast. “Did we order food?” Nikki demanded.
“Our little China doll is getting tipsy!” Patricia teased.
Nikki groaned. “Hey, for real.”
“Hey, for real,” Julian assured her. “We’ve got a shrimp and crawfish appetizer coming, gumbo and a special thing, pork, red beans and rice…succotash, darlin’!” he teased, managing to sound just like Max.
“Thank God,” she murmured.
“Indeed. Another toast,” Nathan said, raising his glass. “We’re the best. And congrats to Nikki, our blond beauty.”
“Hey, don’t look now, but that guy over there is looking to be a couple tonight,” Patricia said, nodding toward the other side of the room.
“He’s looking at Nikki, not me,” Andy said.
Nikki twisted around. The guy in question was nice looking, sandy-haired, either a businessman letting down his hair, or maybe a college student.
“No, I think he’s looking at you, Andy,” she said.
“Ladies, ladies, I hate to disappoint you, but I think he’s looking at me,” Mitch said.
Another round of drinks came to the table. Nikki’s head was beginning to buzz, but it was a celebration, and she did need to let loose now and then.
So she ate crawfish and had another Hurricane, and laughed at the banter around the table.
The plane rose, angling into the air.
Below, there was light.
And darkness.
Along the coast, the highly populated sections were ablaze with artificial light. Housing and commercial development were pushing the boundaries, eating up great chunks of the Everglades.
And yet the great area of no-man’s-land remained, thick with grass and slow-moving water—and darkness.
South Florida. From the air, it was easy to see just how much of the landscape was still taken up by the “river of grass,” since, technically, the Glades weren’t swampland at all.
Brent loved it, loved the festivals held by the Seminole and Miccosukee Indians. He loved playing guitar with his friends. Loved the seemingly endless expanse of the Glades, even with the mosquitoes, snakes and alligators.
The Everglades made a great place to dump bodies, too. When someone went missing…well, the police knew where to look.
This was his home now, the place he’d chosen to live. But there was also the home of his childhood.
After the deaths of his parents, his grandfather had been his legal guardian, so he’d spent a great deal of time, school vacations, holidays, summers, in South Dakota. But his mom’s family had been among many Irish immigrants to the Deep South, and until recently, they’d lived in the parish of his birth. Most of the time when he’d been growing up had been spent with that side of his family, in Louisiana.
New Orleans. The French Quarter. Where he’d been born.
He knew the area far too well.
New Orleans. And beyond the Vieux Carré, the bayous. Endless canals. Alligators, shrimp and shrimpers, crawfish, Cajun food…
There were bodies there, too. And strange events that went beyond the accepted norm…
It was what he did, he reminded himself.
But not always by choice.
New Orleans.
Damn, but he hated to go home.
4
“Help me! Nikki, wake up and help me!”
Nikki woke groggily from a deep sleep. She forced her eyes open.
“Nikki, please, for the love of God…there’s nothing. I have nothing. Tell them—you’ve got to tell them!”
She blinked. There was a soft glow of green light emanating from her clock, and a thin gleam coming from the bathroom, from the night-light she kept on. She had failed to fully close the draperies across the sliding doors in her bedroom. Though she faced the small garden area at the rear of the house, enough light made it into the back that a gentle glow came in through the window. Though the light seemed pale and misty, she could see the basic shapes of the furniture in her room.
And the woman at the foot of the bed.
Andrea was standing there, clad in a long T-shirt advertising the New Orleans Saints. Her long dark hair was tousled, as if she’d just gotten out of bed.
“Andy, what are you doing here? What are you talking about?” she asked, glancing over at her bedside clock. Almost 4:00 a.m. They had only parted at two, and after all those Hurricanes, Nikki felt as if her mind was moving on a very slow track. In fact, her head was pounding. She had to be dreaming, but it was unfair for her head to hurt so badly in a dream.
“Go away, Andy. You’re the one who kept ordering the drinks,” she grumbled miserably.
“The bum in the coffee shop, he’s dead, Nikki.”
Nikki shook her head, which made it hurt even more. “Andy, we didn’t know the guy. We couldn’t know if he’s dead.” She stopped to think for a minute, but between the liquor and exhaustion, she knew she wasn’t doing too well.
“How did you get in here, anyway? If you guys are trying to scare me… Did Julian put you up to this? Hell, I don’t really care right now. Go away. And lock the door behind you when you go.”
“Nikki! Please…help!”
“I understand a joke, Andy, but I really feel like hell. So…ha, ha, go away.”
“Nikki, for the love of God,” Andy implored. “Wake up…I think…I think it’s you they’re after.”
“Andy, go away. Go home. What the hell are you doing out dressed like that, anyway? Look—I’m closing my eyes. When I open them, you’re going to be gone. And if those other idiots are with you, tell them to get out, too.”
“Okay, I’m going to open my eyes, Andy, and you’d best be gone!”
She opened her eyes. To her amazement, Andy was gone.
“Make sure my front door is locked when you go!” she called.
She sighed. She needed to get up and make sure that the door had been locked. She should close the drapes—and avoid the sun that was going to tear into her eyes in the morning. But none of them had to work tomorrow morning. Not until night…the eight o’clock tour. Ample time to recover, and so, to get in all the healing sleep she needed. She should get up…
She couldn’t quite do it. Couldn’t quite make herself get up.
She closed her eyes, and went back to sleep.
When Nikki woke in the morning, she didn’t even remember at first that she’d opened her eyes to see Andrea in her room. Her head was still thudding. She managed to crawl out of bed and into the bathroom, and down several aspirins. In the kitchen, she decided toast would be a good thing. Coffee first, because she couldn’t bear life without it, then toast and orange juice.
Walking back into her bedroom, she unlatched her glass doors and walked out on the little balcony that looked over the small courtyard in the back of the house where she lived. The antebellum grande dame had been restored beautifully—into six apartments. She had chosen her own when the work had barely been completed because of the two upstairs bedrooms, hers, that she slept in, with the windows that faced the garden, and the spare bedroom, that she used as an office, that overlooked Bourbon just beyond the small front yard and brick fence. Then, to make it all the more wonderful, downstairs her front entry wasn’t through the main hall, but was a separate entrance, a one-time servants’ door. It opened to the far end of the broad porch, an amenity accessible to all the tenants, but convenient to her. The porch looked on to grass and flowers and the swing that fell from a huge old oak. Downstairs, the street was blocked from view—and vice versa—by the brick fence. From the front, all the music and mayhem of the city could be heard, but in the rear, all was quiet.
A slight breeze filtered in. Fall was coming, and with it, days and nights that were beautiful, still warm, but relieved of the drop-dead humidity that could plague the city.
She determined to shower quickly and dress. That might help.
It did. Her hair still damp, in jeans and a knit shirt, she walked out to pour her coffee. The headache was beginning to recede. She took her coffee outside.
It was at the front door—where she discovered both her bolt and the chain lock still in place—that she remembered the dream. She smiled to herself.
Hurricanes.
She’d never have another.
So—the crew hadn’t sneaked in on her last night, determined to play the world’s most annoying practical joke.
She really had dreamed it all up!
Andrea would be amused when she heard about it. No…she wasn’t going to say anything to Andrea at all. That would only bolster the teasing concept that she had no life other than her work, that her life would be much more fun if she did submit to more alcohol upon occasion, and that she was…well, something of a workaholic.
She took her coffee outside, sat in one of the big wicker chairs on the porch, and looked out at the lawn and the eternal flowers there. Pretty. The breeze was pleasant.
A few more cups of coffee, her toast…and she might feel like living again.
She closed her eyes, letting the air caress her cheeks, ease away the night of living it up a bit too much—well, for her, anyway. But she was very serious about her work for Max. She might be underpaid for the amount of responsibility she was taking on now, but she knew that Max had big plans. He wanted to go around the country with his tours. Nikki had always loved to travel, and once Max got going, she wanted in on the whole thing. People simply loved this kind of tour. And no matter where a city might lure lots of tourists, there were surely ghosts to be found!
All right, this was her special turf. She’d spent her life here, right here, in the French Quarter. If there was a story out there, she’d heard it. The history of the city was something she could recite in her sleep. And she loved it. Funny, that made her think of Andy.
When she’d first met the girl, her friend had been amazed that she still loved living in New Orleans. In fact, she’d burst into laughter when Nikki had urged her to tell her why she was grinning like an imp.
“It’s just…well, you’re not a drinker. And it seems you always want to go somewhere without crowds…so, why live in and love New Orleans?”
The question had startled Nikki. “It’s home. It’s all I know. And, okay, so I’m not a big boozer. I love jazz! I love the artists on the street, and the performers…and even the people who pass through!”
And she did.
“What on earth do you do during Mardi Gras?” Andy had demanded, still laughing.
“Visit friends in Biloxi,” she said dryly.
It was true. There were always tourists in New Orleans. She liked tourists. She just didn’t like the melee that came along with Mardi Gras in New Orleans.
Well, she thought, yawning and stretching, she would stay in New Orleans for Mardi Gras next year. They all wanted a party. She’d do it—for Andy, and the others, as well, she figured. Julian was Mr. Party himself, a good friend, and she loved him—even if she was ready to clobber him right now. She’d known him her whole life, and he’d taken the job when she’d asked him on Max’s behalf because of her, not because he’d originally thought they could really do something new and special. He was wickedly tall and good looking, and great at this work, even if he was overly dramatic. Didn’t matter—those who went on the ghost walk with him were always thrilled.
Sure, this year, she’d have a party. Patricia, who had grown up not too far away, in Cajun country, longed to have a really good Mardi Gras party, too. She’d grown up close—but far enough away so that she longed to be part of the real heart of the celebration, too—from the above-the-vomit line, as she called it. Mitch, of course, was from Pittsburgh, and he was dying to get into the dead center of it all. As he had told Patricia, he didn’t care what evils lurked on the street; he wanted to see it all. Of course, he’d prefer a nice party place, but…
Nathan was more like her. He was shy, except with friends, unless he was on, and then, like Julian, he was on. Now, he was madly in love with Patricia, and he was comfortable with their close group of workers. Though Nikki was certain Nathan would just as soon head for Biloxi during Mardi Gras, too, he would want a party because Patricia would want a party.
And, of course, it would be an important time for them to be working.
They were doing so well.
Nikki felt a real sense of pride—despite her pounding headache. A lot of the time, tourists thought that costumes and makeup on tour guides was just schmaltz.
Not so with their group.
They were good. They knew their subject matter. They could answer questions. They didn’t just give a tour—they were an event.
And though the whole thing had been created through Max’s plan, vision—and money—Nikki felt as if it were her own dream child finding real fruition. She had been there with Max at the very beginning, when there had been just the two of them, working hard, footing it all over the place by herself. Befriending the concierge staff at the hotels, begging store managers for flyer space. She had been the one to give the free tours to travel agents, thanking God that Max had saved up enough to be able to bring the people in. After the first go, Max had told her to bring Julian in. He hadn’t been convinced that he’d ever really get a substantial income from the enterprise, but he’d been willing to take a chance because she was so impassioned.
And he was a total ham.
They had begun to thrive, and so, Max had told her to increase the program, and the staff. She had found the others later—they’d had to “audition,” both for historical accuracy, and for their ability to tell a damned good and eerie story without getting into outright lies. No one in their group ever said that such things as vampires, ghosts, or any other metaphysical creature existed. They told the stories that had been told. The legends. They were still known as the “ghost” walk, though officially, the company was called “Myths and Legends of New Orleans.”
Nikki ran her fingers through her hair, trying to let it dry in the breeze.
A newspaper came flying over the brick wall. The newsboy—late as he was!—had cast it over the brick with amazing accuracy.
It landed in front of her. Staring down at the headline, she let out a sigh. There were two pictures on the front page. One of the statelier Harold Grant and one of the more charismatic Billy Banks.
“Billy Banks,” she muttered aloud. “Who the hell votes for a guy named Billy Banks?”
As she leaned down to pick up the paper, she heard the front gate opening.
As it did, she felt a vicious cold sweep through her, as if an arctic blast had suddenly hit her entire bloodstream. Her breath caught.
Her sense of foreboding… It was coming true.
She looked up, remnants of her dream flashing through her mind’s eye like a chaotic movie trailer.
She knew, though he was in plainclothes, that the man who approached her was a policeman, and that he was about to tell her something terrible.
She stood up, her mouth working, no words coming.
“You—you’re a cop. Something’s happened,” she finally gasped out.
The officer nodded. He cleared his throat. “I’m Detective Massey, Owen Massey, Miss DuMonde.”
Nikki stared at him, hating the wave of knowledge that filled her, muscles constricting as she denied everything rushing into her mind.
“No, no…there’s a mistake.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Someone is…hurt?”
“I’m here about Miss Ciello, Miss Andrea Ciello.”
He looked helpless—big, kind and helpless. Cops like him must have to give people bad news all the time, but it looked as if it had never gotten easy for this guy. “We were referred to you. A Mrs. Montobello is the one who called us…insisted we go in, swore that Miss Ciello would have come to see her first thing in the morning. She said that you were Miss Ciello’s best friend? I’m sorry, so sorry. I wish there were an easier way to do this. Um…should we go inside?”
“What’s happened? Tell me what’s happened!”
“Perhaps—”
“No! Talk to me, tell me, what’s happened?”
“Overdose, I’m afraid. We believe it was accidental, but you know, we have to go through procedure…. The thing is, we need someone to make a formal identification of the body.”
“Body?” Nikki gasped.
“Yes, I’m afraid—”
“No!” Nikki stared at him in disbelief. No. It had to be an elaborate joke. Andy—vivacious, fun-loving, rowdy Andy—couldn’t be dead.
“I’m truly sorry. It appears that she—”
“Andy was clean.”
“I’m sure she wanted to be clean.”
“No! She was clean.” Nikki realized that she was backing away from the man, denying everything that he was saying. But it couldn’t be true. “She was clean. She knew not to touch the stuff. It’s impossible that she did this to herself. It’s impossible that…”
But from the way he was looking at her, she knew it was true.
Just as the dream had been true. She wanted to black out; she wanted the world to go away. Yes, she had always had a sense of the past, of spirits that remained, but never, never, had she felt…seen…anything like…
Last night. Andy had been dead. Or dying. And she had come to Nikki for help. She had failed her friend somehow.
She shook her head again. Her words were fierce. “Andrea Ciello was off drugs. I know it. If something’s happened to Andy, it was not self-inflicted, and it was not accidental. She was murdered.”
Murdered.
The officer was staring at her, troubled, frowning.
“I’m telling you, she was clean. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll raise a stink in this parish that you won’t believe. She can’t be…oh, God.”
No. This was impossible. She was still dreaming. Imagining this cop just the way she’d imagined Andy last night.
“I’m sorry, Miss DuMonde. Look, is there someone I can call? Are your folks here…a sister, brother, friend?” he asked.
She ignored him, shaking her head, anger keeping her standing. “She did not overdose. If she had drugs in her system, someone else put them there. I am going to demand an investigation. I want to see a homicide officer.”
“I handle homicide cases,” he said gently. “We have to look into any death that’s questionable in any way.”
“Oh?” She stared at him anew, heart racing.
“It wasn’t a natural death,” he said. “So they call us in.”
“What time was she killed?” Nikki managed to ask.
“What time did she die?” he countered gently.
“Please. Yes, whatever. What time—did she die?” Nikki gasped out again.
The detective looked wary, as if he wasn’t sure why that information should be so pertinent.
“The ME only had an estimate, but it would have been right around 4:00 a.m.,” he told her.
She reached out, grasping for a railing…for help…for something that wasn’t there. Too late, the detective realized what was happening.
Nikki crashed down on the porch as the world faded before her, Andy’s words suddenly echoing in her ears.
“Help me!”
“Sorry,” the taxi driver told Brent as they slowed to a near halt on entering the French Quarter.
“No problem,” Brent told him.
It was usually a slow process, maneuvering the tourist-filled streets. Delivery vans could block a narrow byway, and any little snarl could close things off, though in the tight confines of the place—with many streets blocked off for pedestrian traffic only—most people preferred to walk. Still, vehicles were sometimes necessary, and delays were just a fact of life.
Brent breathed a deep sigh as he looked around. Charming. That was definitely a word to describe the architecture, the handsome wrought-iron railings the locals called iron lace. The sound of the music, the colors, the architecture itself. Yes, the place had charm.
And once upon a time he had loved it.
But that was then, and this was now, and if he’d never come back, it would have been just fine.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked as a patrolman in the street brought the traffic to a stop.
“Debate,” the taxi driver said.
“Debate?” Brent said, and frowned.
“Politicians, and I’m not sure what they’re debating. They both claim to have the same platform. Working to keep the history and unique quality of the place while cleaning up crime. I guess the old guy is saying that he knows what he’s doing, that his record is great, and we’re already on the way, while the younger guy is claiming the old guy hasn’t done a thing, hasn’t moved fast enough…well, you know. It’s politics. Everyone swears to move the moon, and everyone out there is a liar, just the same.” He winked at Brent in the rearview mirror.
“The crime rate has come down, though, hasn’t it?”
“Crime rate goes down, crime rate goes up. Hey, no matter who wants to run what, nothing changes. Those that have want to keep what they have. Those that don’t have want to get. We have real poverty in some areas, some pretty rich folk in others. Same old, same old, the human condition. Unless you change the conditions…well, that’s what both our boys say they mean to do, so…you know how you usually vote for the guy you dislike the least? Well, both these guys are likable, so I guess we can’t lose.”
“That’s good.”
“I think so. But then, I love this place. You visit often?”
“No.”
“Where you from?”
Brent started to say, All over.
But he didn’t. He told the truth.
“Here. Right here.”
“Yeah? Well, welcome home!”
The traffic began to move again.
They passed the police station on Royal.
At last they came to the bed-and-breakfast where Brent was planning to stay, after crashing at a hotel out by the airport the night before.
He paid the driver, met the hefty man who owned the place, paid and found his room.
And crashed down on the bed. New Orleans.
Arriving here was like having his blood drained from his body. Like being on the wrong side of a bout in a boxing ring. The pain in his head crashed like hurricane waves on the shore.
Drapes were drawn, door was closed…darkness.
All he needed was a little time. And he could adjust.
He didn’t want to adjust.
But he would.
5
A year and a day.
That thought kept going through Nikki’s head as she stood in the graveyard. Andrea hadn’t hailed from New Orleans, but she didn’t have any family left anywhere else, either. She’d been orphaned, like Nikki, and had grown up in a series of foster homes.
There had been no one to call. Andrea had been out of school for two years, traveling and taking odd jobs along the way. She’d left no names to contact in any kind of an emergency. She had gone to Tulane and probably still had friends in the area, but who they were and how they could be reached, Nikki hadn’t had the faintest idea.
And because there was no place Andrea had called home and no one she had called family, Nikki had decided that she would take care of all the arrangements.
So Andy was being buried in Nikki’s family vault, since there was plenty of room and no one left to fill it. The DuMondes had lived in the area since the late 1700s. Where her very early ancestors had been buried, Nikki didn’t know. But in the 1800s they had acquired a plot in the Garden District. Someone at some time had put some money into the family mausoleum. Giant angels guarded the wrought-iron doors to the elaborate family tomb that boasted the name DuMonde in large chiseled letters.
The last interment had been her parents, killed in an automobile accident when she had been a toddler, and her grandparents, gone just a few years ago.
As she stood in front of the door, she realized that it was truly sad, but she barely remembered either her mother or her father. She had pictures, of course, and because of the pictures, she had convinced herself that she remembered much more than she really did.
A year and a day…
The time it took for the fierce New Orleans heat to cremate the earthly remains of a once-living soul. Then the ashes could be scraped back into a holding cell in the niche within the vault, and a new body could be interred. There were actually twelve burial vaults within the family mausoleum. Nikki had decided that Andrea should be buried with her own folks. She certainly didn’t believe that corpses or remains could find comfort with one another, but it made her feel a little better to know that they would be interred together.
Of course, funerals were for the living.
Julian wrapped an arm around her shoulder. They all thought she was in serious shock. She was. They all thought it was because she and Andy had bonded so quickly. It wasn’t.
She had liked Andrea, really liked her. But none of them had known her more than a few weeks.
It was partly because Nikki was convinced Andrea had been murdered, no matter what anyone else said or thought. But there was more.
It wasn’t the fact that a monster was out there, still at liberty, unknown by the police, that was the greatest horror.
It was the dream….
“Sweetie, it’s over,” Julian whispered to her. “Set your flower on the coffin.”
She nodded, swallowing. And set the flower on the coffin.
The funeral had cost a mint, a mint she didn’t really have. But the rest of the group had been wonderful, contributing what they could, and Max had told her to take whatever she needed from the corporate account.
After she set her flower down, she turned. The glass-enclosed, horse-drawn hearse, empty now, remained on the dirt path that led from the street to the vault. The band began to play—a typical New Orleans band, a small group that Nikki was convinced would have meant a great deal to Andrea. It hadn’t exactly been a full-blown New Orleans jazz funeral, but it had been close.
Andy had wanted to be a part of the real New Orleans.
Now she was.
Andrea had been dead for four days. Despite the fact that an autopsy had been not only demanded by Nikki but required by law, nothing the ME had been able to tell them had shed any light on the situation. Nikki had continued to insist to Massey that there had been a killer.
To her relief, he didn’t try to convince her that she was simply in denial, grieving for the loss of a friend. Perhaps he didn’t believe her, but he had at least gone through the motions of an investigation.
All they knew was that Andrea had gone to Pat O’Brien’s with her friends, and at 2:00 a.m. they had parted company.
What had happened after that, none of them knew.
The police had found her—forcing the door of her apartment at the insistence of Mrs. Montobello—at nine o’clock in the morning. Andy had checked in with Mrs. Montobello with such regularity that the woman had been worried, and rightly so.
Andy had no longer been clad in the short sassy skirt and bandeau top she had been wearing when they celebrated. She had been in a New Orleans Saints shirt and nothing else.
Just as Nikki had seen her.
She had been found with a needle and other drug paraphernalia at her side. The only prints found in her place could be traced to her friends, and even those had been sparse. Many surfaces had been wiped clean. Nikki knew that some of the officers involved in the case believed that was because Andy had recently cleaned the apartment. Thankfully, Massey seemed to find it a bit suspicious.
But…other than that…
There had been no forced entry, nothing to show that anyone else had been with her that night. There was nothing….
Nothing. Nothing at all. Or, if the police did have anything, they weren’t sharing.
Nikki didn’t think any of her own friends believed her. They had tried, however, to help her cover any possible angle. They had all spent hours in the police station, trying to remember if they had seen anyone, anyone at all, looking at Andrea oddly or threateningly. Hard to decide, though they did remember the sandy-haired guy who might have been looking at Nikki herself. Admittedly, they had all been smashed.
Even Andy.
Oh, God, please let it be that she didn’t feel fear and pain, Nikki thought.
Had Andy been followed home? By someone who had been watching her at the bar? Or by someone who had seen her on the streets as she walked home.
Were the others right, when they looked at her with sympathy, thinking that she just couldn’t accept the fact that Andy had fallen back into using? God knew, it was easy enough to buy whatever drugs you might want.
No. There had been someone else, someone who had forced the drug on Andy.
Mrs. Montobello hadn’t heard a thing, which wasn’t surprising. She couldn’t hear a bomb go off without her hearing aid, which she wouldn’t have been wearing at four o’clock in the morning. She was here now, softly crying into an embroidered handkerchief. Andy had always been so good to her, checking up on her, bringing her gourmet treats and other little presents. Poor Mrs. Montobello was really going to miss Andy. But as to being much help when it came to the investigation…well, she wasn’t any.
The account executive who lived above Andy had been in New York on business. The single mother of two next to him had taken her toddlers to her mother’s house. So there had been no one in Andy’s quaint Victorian manor who might have heard anything, or have any clue as to what had happened.
The police had posted an appeal in the newspaper seeking anyone who might have seen Andy that night. And people had come in, trying to be helpful with stories about any strange character they might have met.
In New Orleans, that could be practically anybody.
The police were at a loss. As far as Nikki knew, the crime scene investigation department had gone over Andy’s apartment with the best forensics available. They hadn’t found as much as a hair that might help unravel the mystery of her death. Not a single clue.
Naturally, Nikki had kept silent about her strange dream. She could barely remember it, anyway—other than the fact that Andy had been there at the foot of her bed. But she hadn’t been there. She had been either dead or dying by that time.
She was pretty sure, though, that even as they went through the motions, the police believed that Andy’s death had been self-inflicted, even if accidentally so. Still, Massey had assured Nikki that, as tragic and frustrating as it was, finding a murderer could take a long time. Months or even years. Though Detective Massey didn’t say it, she knew that far too often a killer was never discovered and walked away free.
That made her think that maybe she should mention her dream to someone. The only person she had told was Julian, and he had looked at her with such incredulity that she had immediately felt foolish. Julian had gone on to warn her that telling her bizarre tale would either make the police think she was a kook who had been giving her own tours for too long or a suspicious individual herself.
But the dream bothered her on a daily basis. No. Hourly. Constantly.
She felt a pang in her heart that was so sharp it might have been delivered by a knife.
Oh, God, Andy, I can’t stop believing that you came to me for help.
And I failed you.
She closed her eyes tightly as she stood near the coffin, desperately trying to remember everything that she had seen that night.
“Nikki.”
It was Patricia, looking at her with dampened eyes. “Come on, now. Let them finish.”
Nikki nodded and looked around. The funeral had been small, but a few people had made it. There were her neighbors, and even Madame D’Orso from the coffee shop, and a few other local business owners.
As always, there were the curious, tourists, who happened to be at the cemetery and slipped in to join the crowd at the service.
A stretch limo awaited their group, and Nikki knew it was time to walk away.
She looked back. The cemetery workers were in the tomb, getting ready to slide the remains into the appropriate vault.
The band played to the end.
They drove back into the French Quarter, and then went through another ritual, the after-service gathering at Madame D’Orso’s.
Madame was in her element. Tall and buxom, with her silver hair swept high on top of her head, she took charge naturally. She had liked Andy. Besides, it was her place. Nikki realized that she was one of the few people who knew that Madame’s real name was Debra Smith and she’d actually had ancestors come over on the Mayflower. But a pretense of being French was a good thing for business in the French Quarter.
She had come through today, closing her café in the morning, then opening in honor of Andrea in the afternoon.
Julian, Nathan, Mitch and Patricia were trying to do what was usually done on such occasions, remember the person with affection and a smile.
It wasn’t easy, when some people clearly thought it was her own fault for being a junkie.
People cared, but Nikki knew, too, that most of them would not think about that day much after they had returned to their regular lives.
At last, as the hour grew late, people began to leave.
Madame, who had truly been the perfect hostess, settled tiredly into a chair by Nikki. She patted her hand where it lay on the table. “Come on, child,” she said. “Andy wouldn’t want you to be morose forever.”
Nikki nodded. “No, of course, you’re right.”
Madame smoothed a stray lock of hair from Nikki’s face. “You’re plumb ashen, girl. Pale as if you’d seen a ghost.”
Nikki’s brows arched. Julian, who was standing nearby, turned and stared at Nikki.
She frowned back at him, then turned to Madame.
“Hey…do you remember that last day when Andy and I were in here?” she asked.
“Well, vaguely,” Madame said. “You all come in most days, you know.”
“I know, but that day, there was a…kind of a bum hanging around. He looked as if he’d be good looking if he had a bath and a haircut.”
Madame looked at her blankly.
“You must have seen him,” Nikki persisted. “I asked you about him, so I figured you would have noticed him when you went back inside.”
“Honey, I see lots of folks. And we get our share of bums. If one passed out on my floor, I’d have the police in so fast he wouldn’t even get to exhale. Other than that, I doubt I’d notice.”
“He must have come and gone while you were busy,” Nikki murmured.
Madame smiled. “Do you know what I do remember? Andy teasing you about the fact that you needed to get yourself a fellow.”
“That’s when the guy was in here,” Nikki said triumphantly.
“Honey, I’m really sorry, I don’t know why it’s so important, but I really didn’t see him.”
Julian, frowning, took a chair at the table. “Nikki…do you think the guy followed you and Andy? Maybe that’s something you should report to the police.”
She shook her head, aware that Julian’s gray gaze was intense and serious. “You guys were sitting out here when Andy and I brought out the beignets and coffee, and you didn’t see him—did you?”
“No…but we weren’t paying any attention. We weren’t paying any attention that night, either,” Julian said ruefully.
Patricia came over and slid into another chair. She, too, patted Nikki’s hand. “You holding up?”
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Patricia, you did make sure that any tours for tonight were rescheduled, right?”
“Yes, I did. I spoke with Max, just as you told me, and he apologized again for not being here, by the way,” she said, offering Nikki a weak smile. She shrugged. “We had no problem rescheduling—there was a mention about the funeral in the paper. People—” she glanced dryly at Julian “—even tourists, tend to be sympathetic—still curious, yes, but sympathetic….”
“Did everyone reschedule?” Nikki asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Patricia said.
“Those sympathetic tourists are sure we’ll be the best tour out there now,” Julian said, and flashed a stern look at Patricia.
“What was that look all about?” Nikki demanded.
Patricia stared at Julian, then shook her head with a sigh. “Oh, one woman said that she was certain the spirit of our departed comrade would remain with us on our tours, making them even better,” she murmured.
“How awful,” Madame breathed.
“Some people are just heartless that way,” Mitch said, sliding into another chair at the large round wrought-iron table. “Hey,” he said pragmatically, “some of the stories we tell are pretty grim. It’s just that now…well, now Andy’s part of it, whether we like it or not.”
“We will never, ever mention Andy on a tour!” Nikki said fiercely.
“Of course not, but, Nikki, in our business, you know that this will come up,” Mitch reminded her. He offered her an ironic smile. Mitch wasn’t as dramatic a guide as either Julian or Nathan, but his knowledge of the area was inexhaustible. He had a wonderful all-American, corn-fed look, ash-blond, flyaway hair, bright blue eyes, handsome face. He was very popular with the younger crowd. Nikki was certain that they often had repeat local customers just because a certain teenage crowd loved to follow him around the city.
He frowned, looking at her suddenly. “We will never, ever mention Andy,” he agreed. He hesitated, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, you knew her much better than we did. She was only with us a few weeks…. Nikki, are you doing all right?”
She nodded.
“I think one of us should come stay with you,” he said firmly.
She shook her head. “Thanks, Mitch. Julian has been hanging around for me.” She stared at them all. “Okay, I’m telling you, and I mean it. I’m convinced that someone forced that heroin on Andy. Whether it had to do with her past or not, I don’t know. But also, I’m okay, and I don’t need my friends to babysit me. But thanks.”
“Well, I don’t know how you’re living alone,” Patricia said, flipping aside a length of her long dark hair. She glanced sideways at Nathan, who was saying goodbye to the last of their comourners. She grinned suddenly. “I was wondering if maybe Nathan and I weren’t making a mistake…rushing to live with one another. Now I thank God every minute that we’re living together. Because those drugs came from somewhere. From someone. I just think I’d be pretty miserable and scared right now, if I were alone.”
“Hey, you two are just right for each other,” Nikki commented. “And that’s why it’s good that you’re living together. Anyway, I’m going to shake this off. It’s just that it’s only been a few days. But I’m not going to turn into a coward. I’m going to be proactive and bug the police until they discover her murderer—don’t look at me like that. There was a murderer. That’s the least I can do for her.”
“One way or another, I agree with Nikki. Whether someone just pushed the purchase on the streets or plunged the needle into her vein, someone caused Andy’s death. And for the sake of everyone in the parish, we need to know who. We’ll all work on that, right, guys?” Mitch asked.
They all nodded.
“And by the way,” Julian said, “I am staying with you tonight, Nikki.”
“Julian, I’m all right.”
“And so am I. But I think we ought to be all right together.”
“The bed in the guest room is as hard as a rock. You said so yourself,” Nikki reminded him.
“Honey, I’m all in. Tonight, I could sleep on a real rock just fine.”
She was about to protest again, then sighed. “Okay, thanks. I guess, tonight, I’ll be glad of the company.”
The two of them were the last out of Madame D’Orso’s. Julian decided they should walk Madame home first. It was around midnight, which in New Orleans, in the Vieux Carré, wasn’t all that late. Madame said that they really didn’t need to walk her anywhere, there were plenty of police about and the streets were crowded.
Julian, however, told her that they could use the walk anyway. The night was beautiful, with fall just beginning. The oppressive humidity that could press down on the city had lightened.
“Hey, it’s a nice night just for being alive,” he said cheerfully, then winced.
Nikki slipped an arm through his. “Hey, don’t worry. I don’t want to spend my days walking on eggshells, worrying about every word that comes out of my mouth. It is a beautiful night—and a great night to be alive.”
They walked Madame the few blocks to her place, then turned and started back toward Bourbon Street.
“Want a nightcap or anything?” Julian asked, a brotherly arm around her shoulder.
She shook her head. “Honestly, you know what’s strange? I’ve never been much of a drinker, and I had such a bad hangover the day we found out about Andy that I just haven’t wanted anything since.”
“Maybe you need a hair of the dog that bit you,” Julian said.
“Actually, I’d like to get home. I haven’t been sleeping much.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Lots of people in your position would be on sedatives, you know. I mean, you hired her. You two bonded right away. And you had to deal with trying to find out if there was someone to contact, and then arrange the funeral and all…well, that’s a tough load. And it’s tough just to have known someone who was…murdered.”
“The rest of you seem to be doing all right.”
“Like I said, you two kind of bonded. You and Andy, well, you were both orphans. You had that in common.”
“I had my grandparents, at least,” Nikki said. “Cousins, aunts and uncles…though they’ve mostly moved pretty far away these days. But I had family. Andy didn’t have even that.”
“She had us. We were family,” Julian assured her. “Well, we would have been,” he said.
They reached the iron gate in the brick wall that surrounded Nikki’s place. “What is the trick to this damn thing?” he muttered.
“The latch is under and over. It’s not a lock, it just keeps the curious out,” Nikki said. She bit her lip, wanting to reach over and open it herself, but Julian seemed determined. She folded her arms across her chest, looking around.
It was always amazing how life went on.
A couple, arm in arm, strolled leisurely down the street, leaning toward one another. He was ebony. She was ivory. Nikki smiled, loving the ease with which people lived their lives in New Orleans now. There had been a time when old “Beast” Butler had ruled the city, but that was long ago. They were on the move here now.
A rowdy group of young men walked along the street, then paused nearby, drinks in hand, talking about a sax player who was working down on the square.
More couples strolled along.
A larger group of young men joined the first.
“Damn this thing, but I will get it,” Julian said, determined.
Nikki barely heard him. She straightened against the brick wall.
There was someone in the midst of the group in the street, but he wasn’t one of them. He was shaggy-haired. Clothes wrinkled, worn. He turned toward her.
Handsome face…
Beneath the scraggly growth of beard.
He stared at her as if he recognized her.
And she stared back, certainly recognizing him.
She swung around, tapping hard on Julian’s shoulder. “Julian…Julian. Turn around quick. I just saw him.”
“Him, who?”
Julian turned to her, confused.
“The bum who was at Madame’s that day.”
“Where?”
“He’s there—in that group of college guys,” she declared.
Julian stared out to the street and searched the clean-shaven faces. So did she.
“Where?” Julian said.
“There, in the middle of them,” Nikki announced. She ran into the street, into the midst of the ten or so young men.
“Hey!” said one, almost falling into her.
“Hi, there, babe,” another slurred. He cast an arm sloppily around her shoulder.
“Hey, get your hands off her,” Julian demanded forcefully.
Nikki was barely aware of their exchange.
“He…he was here,” she said, puzzled.
“Who was here, honey? I’m available,” a blond kid with a New York accent said, smiling stupidly and coming up on her other side.
“Leave her alone,” Julian said angrily.
“Yeah? And who are you? Her daddy…pimp daddy, something like that?”
Julian hauled off, catching the young man beneath the jaw. He sucked in his breath, staggered back and fell.
“Julian…shit!” Nikki breathed, her attention wrenched back to their current situation.
“Hey, asshole, there was no call for that,” the blonde from New York said. He dropped his plastic drink cup and strode menacingly toward Julian.
Others began to follow suit, circling him as their friend staggered to his feet.
“Everyone!” Nikki announced loudly. “Stop it right now. I’m going to scream, I’ll get the police. Just calm down.”
No one seemed to hear her. The first kid reached Julian. He dodged that blow, but another one of the youths was to his right, and he took a swing.
“Stop!” Nikki jumped onto the back of one of them. He didn’t even seem to notice her weight. She banged a fist on the top of his head. “Stop it right now!”
He still didn’t seem to notice her. She slid off his back, landing on her rump.
In a fair fight, Julian could handle himself. Against ten or so…
He didn’t stand a chance.
Nikki opened her mouth to start screaming. The police had to come, and come quickly.
“Hey!”
The voice that suddenly thundered through the crowd was deep and resonant, and had a note of such pure authority that everyone, including Nikki, suddenly went dead still.
A man came striding into the frozen tableau. From her position on her butt in the street, he seemed extraordinarily tall, dark, broad shouldered and well muscled beneath a casual knit polo shirt and jeans. He caught hold of the kid who was about to deck Julian.
“What the hell is going on here?”
“He started it.” The college boy sounded like a grade-school kid in trouble.
“They were coming on to Nikki,” Julian said.
“Just break it up, all of you,” the man said irritably.
“Or what?” ventured one of the drunker college boys.
The man stared at him. That was it; he just stared.
“Just asking,” the boy muttered. He turned and started down the street. “Come on, guys, let’s get out of here.”
They all followed suit, heading down the street.
The man turned toward where Nikki was still sitting on the street. He strode toward her, offering her a hand up.
She saw his face.
His complexion was a deep tan, almost bronze, his eyes a startling, brilliant green. The hard chiseled angles and planes clearly denoted a Native American background somewhere. His hair was pitch dark and dead straight, just a little long. It wasn’t so much that he was typically handsome, but he was one of the most arresting individuals she had ever seen. He seemed to emit confidence and authority, and not just because of his imposing height or the breadth of his shoulders. There was a sleek agility about him for a man of his size, and his features were hard cut, seeming to exude an essentially masculine sensuality mixed with stark assurance.
His hand, outstretched to her, was large, the fingers long, nails neatly clipped, clean—and powerful, she quickly discovered.
But it wasn’t the strength of his grip, bringing her easily to her feet that so disturbed her.
It was his touch.
Energy, almost like a fire, or a current, streaking from him to her.
And then…
His eyes.
They looked into hers.
And they saw something.
What, she didn’t know. He released her instantly, stepping back, surveying her, not in a sexual way, and not with disdain or disinterest.
As if he recognized her.
“Are you all right?” he asked politely.
“Um…fine,” she murmured.
He nodded. “You?” he asked Julian.
“Yeah, thanks to you,” Julian told him, eyeing the stranger curiously. “Hey, we kind of owe you. Can we buy you a drink or something?”
The man shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything.” He cracked a slight smile, which transformed his face. He was suddenly striking. Still hard, but striking.
“I just wouldn’t mess with large crowds in the future, huh?” he suggested.
With a wave, he turned and left them.
6
Brent walked down the street, shaking his head.
New Orleans.
America’s most European city. A mixture of architecture and mood, sultry heat and shifting shadows. It was as if time had cast a mood over the city that had sunk into the very bones of its man-made structures. History piled upon the passions of those who had lived before.
It held the remnants of days gone by, mixed with the new, the lively, the present-day city, with its love of gardens, jazz, good times and voodoo.
There was unbelievable talent to be found with the turn of a corner, like the old black man two streets over who had played a banjo better than he’d ever heard before. The man had just been sitting there, playing and smiling and, Brent hoped, making a fair amount of money from the passersby who were dropping bills in his instrument case.
Brent passed a closed shop with a storefront announcing “Dolly’s Dolls,” and next to it was a neon light advertising “Girls, Girls, Naked Girls.”
People laughing, drinking, admiring artists, musicians, mimes…
People drinking themselves silly, picking fights.
The encounter he’d just had was disturbing, and he didn’t want to think about it.
He could still feel her hand in his.
And he’d walked away. Which had been smart. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder about the woman. She had the biggest, brightest eyes he’d ever seen. Green. Blue. Aqua. Something like the sea, somewhere in between. Fairly tall, nice figure, obvious even in the long black dress she’d been wearing.
A Goth? Hell, everybody in this city seemed to think they were a voodoo queen, a long-dead duchess, a vampire or a tarot reader.
No, maybe not. The guy with her had been wearing a somber black suit.
Funeral, he realized suddenly.
He shook his head, stopped in the street. From the corner to his right, a rock band hammered out a Stones tune. From the other corner, he could hear jazz. Somewhere down the street, a blues guitar was belting out an indiscernible tune.
He swore softly.
New Orleans.
Hell, welcome home.
Oh, yeah. It was just great to be here.
“You’re going off the deep end, Nikki,” Julian said. “That was just great. Throwing yourself into a group of drunks. What were you expecting? And don’t even think about giving me a lecture on how no one deserves to be attacked. You went flying into a sludge of inebriated testosterone in its sweet young prime, so what were you expecting?”
“I saw him!” she said, finding the catch on the gate and pushing it open herself. Julian’s words made her feel guilty—he was a good friend, and he would have defended her to the death, which, considering the drunken mood of the rowdy gang, just might have been the sad finale if it hadn’t been for their strange savior—but he couldn’t begin to understand how she was feeling. “Julian, I’m sorry, but…I saw him,” she repeated.
“Yeah, and I saw him, too, whoever the hell he was, and I have to admit, it was a damn good thing he showed up when he did. I’m not much brighter than you are, apparently, since I got it into my head to defend you from a pack of wolves.”
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Heather Graham
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: This is no dream…