Hallow Be the Haunt (Krewe of Hunters #22.5)(24)

She knew now she was searching for the young woman. And suddenly there she was, the pretty blonde with the huge brown eyes.

“Please,” the girl whispered again.

“Are you Shelley?” Ashley asked.

The question startled her. “I… Shelley. Yes, I’m Shelley. And I’m so frightened and so lost. Please…”

“Oh, Shelley, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m dead. I know I’m dead. I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Who did this to you?”

“I’m… I’m lost. I felt it. I was so afraid. I painted it, in the picture. I could feel it, and it was wrong and there was something… I wanted to find out. Oh…” She was looking down the street. Ashley turned.

The mist, the black mist like a massive wave of ravens’ wings, was coming again.

And soon, the girl would disappear.

“Wait!” Ashley cried.

But the apparition was gone. And the ebony darkness seemed to be coming closer and closer.

She woke with a start. Jake must have come to bed at last because he woke instantly at her gasp.

“Ashley?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“A dream? A nightmare?”

He was already worried about the costume she had chosen. About the way the clowns had stopped and looked at her.

“No, I just rolled wrong and woke myself up,” she lied.

He pulled her into his arms. “I love you so much,” he whispered.

“I love you.”

He held her. In time, they made love.

She didn’t sleep again.

When his phone rang the next morning, Ashley knew that it was going to be a very long day.





Chapter 7



It had taken some time, but sitting in Parks’ office at the station, Jake finally got through to Mrs. Alice Hunt—Shelley Broussard’s mother.

The woman answered the phone impatiently. She didn’t sound like someone who had just lost a beloved family member.

“Mrs. Hunt, this is Special Agent Mallory with the FBI.”

“FBI? I thought the police were investigating. She was murdered in New Orleans. Who are you? Is this a prank?”

He stared at the phone. “This is no prank. Are you really Miss Broussard’s mother?”

There was a surprising silence on the other end.

“No.”

“No?”

“Shelley was the child of my ex-husband’s no-good sister. We were getting married, so… Well, you know. We adopted her legally. But was I really her mother? No.”

Did that explain it? Could anything explain someone being so cold about the murder of a child they had raised?

“All right.” He changed his approach. “Did Shelley Broussard grow up with you?”

“Yes. Until she was seventeen and she ran away. Then my no-good husband ran away. I remarried soon after. I have three children under the age of five, Special Agent whomever. If that’s who you really are. I can’t just drop everything for a girl who basically kicked up her heels eight years ago and left.”

“Why did she leave?”

“Her father was crazy.”

Her father—not you? Jake found himself feeling very sorry for the three children under five.

“All right. Are you coming to New Orleans?”

“I’ve spoken to a woman who will have her interred in a family tomb in New Orleans. There’s no reason for me to come. I mean, she’s dead already. Not like I can help.”

“Well, maybe you can help. Without coming to New Orleans. Can you give me the names of any of Shelley’s friends when you still saw her?”

The woman was quiet. For a moment, Jake thought that she was going to refuse to help.

Then she mumbled, “A bunch of wackos.”

“Why do you say that?” Jake asked.

“Who the hell else pays for a stranger’s funeral and interment?” the woman asked.

Jake heard a dog barking and a child crying—then another child jabbering.

“I’ve got to go,” Mrs. Hunt said.

“I understand. But please, just one name.” He hated to beg, but it would be worth it if she could provide a lead.

“Katey,” she sighed. “Katey DuLac. They were friends for years. Pen pals and such. She lived in New Orleans but visited her grandparents here in Houston every summer. And when she did, the girls were inseparable.” She paused. “That’s all I know. Please don’t call again.”

And she hung up.

Jake shook his head and stared at the phone. He still couldn’t grasp the uncaring attitude, but focused on the small bit of information she’d provided.

He tried directory assistance first, looking for a Katey or Katherine DuLac. No luck. Then he called Angela Hawkins—Jackson Crow’s right hand, second in command, and master of research. Not to mention his wife. She, like Jake, had been part of the original Krewe team.

On the first case.

Where it all began. Right here in New Orleans.

“Jackson is on his way,” Angela assured him.

“I know. I need your help.”

“Okay.”

“Katey or Katherine DuLac. She was from Orleans Parish. She’d be about twenty-five now.”