Darkest Journey (Krewe of Hunters #20)(25)

“I don’t,” Ethan said.

“Of course not,” she said. But something in his eyes, an evasiveness she had never seen from him before, told her that he wasn’t telling her the whole truth.

“But there are those who do.”

She froze, staring at him in shock.

He took a deep breath and said, “There’s no one person who’s a prime suspect at the moment. What we know is that Farrell Hickory and Albion Corley had some kind of a disagreement when they were working that reenactment and your father stepped in. From what I understand, it was heated, and he wasn’t pleased with either of them, but in the end he got them calmed down. He was also seen at the restaurant, having a meal with them.”

“You don’t kill someone because you’ve had an argument!” Charlie insisted vehemently. “And certainly not if you ate with them after!”

“No, and as I said, I don’t believe your father had anything to do with this.”

“But you—you don’t even like my father,” Charlie said.

“Charlie, I don’t dislike him. He’s the one who doesn’t like me. But whatever our feelings, they have nothing to do with the situation. Right now, I’m floundering in the dark. I’m looking for motive, a reason why the killer targeted these two men. I’d hoped if we came out here together, we might find some clue, that if a dead man did call your name...”

“You know I didn’t make it up.”

“I know. I’d hoped he might come back again,” he said quietly.

Who was he hoping might come back? she wondered. A Confederate cavalryman? Or had it been Farrell Hickory himself who’d called to her?

Charlie stood there silently for a minute, then shrugged. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No one came back.”

“We have two groups of people to consider,” Ethan told her. “Reenactors, including the people on your film, and everyone who was aboard the Journey the day of the fight.”

She stared at him, but night was falling in earnest, making it hard for her to read his expression.

“Let me get you back to your car,” he told her.

“Yes, thank you,” she said tightly.

He turned away, and she followed right behind him, then paused to look back.

Right where she had been standing, something seemed to be taking form in the air, a deeper shadow forming against the darkness.

And then she saw him. The Confederate cavalry officer she had seen before, Anson McKee.

He looked at her gravely, then pointed toward the river.

Seconds later he was gone, leaving Charlie to wonder if she had really seen him at all, or if he had been only a shift in the light or a haunting figment of her imagination.

“Charlie?” Ethan turned back to her.

“Sorry,” she said tersely. “Coming.”

She had seen a ghost. She knew she had seen him. And she knew she should have told Ethan—after all, he was here because she believed in his ability to find the truth.

But the ghost had pointed to the river.

And she knew exactly where he had been directing her to look....

To the Journey.

*

Ethan’s family home was outside the historic downtown section of St. Francisville. It was, however, equally as old. Someone back in his family’s history had raised horses. They’d largely been sold or conscripted by the Civil War, and in the 1880s the stables, paddocks and the bulk of the property had been sold off. Now, to the one side of his house, there was a housing community called Golden Acres, and to the other was a sprawling manor built in the 1890s. The Delaney family residence was two full stories, with a half-story attic above. His mother had been in love with the idea that the family had once kept horses on the property, and there were paintings of the animals all over the house.

It was furnished as a hunting lodge might have been, with heavy wood pieces, and leather sofas and chairs. There was a large-screen television set up to work with a gaming system. His parents didn’t keep cable hooked up, but they had Netflix and could stream TV and movies anywhere in the house.

He wasn’t sure he was going to spend enough time here to worry about entertainment, but he was glad he could connect his laptop wirelessly and see his photos on the giant screen.

He’d taken a shot of Randy’s board, which was as impressive as promised. There were pictures of Farrell Hickory and Albion Corley as they had been in life. There were also the crime-scene and the autopsy shots, along with a fact sheet on each man estimating time of death, last meal and everything the police had put together regarding his last movements.

The only place where the men’s timelines had crossed, at least as far as they knew, was for the special reenactment on the Journey. There was a note that a local photographer, a man named Chance Morgan, had spoken with both men about taking some shots the Celtic American Line could use for PR, but he claimed he hadn’t been able to arrange a time with either man.

Ethan had called Morgan himself as he’d left the station earlier. Along with everyone else he was looking at, he had to consider the photographer, who was known for his photos replicating those taken during the Civil War. He’d told Randy Laurent that he’d been in Baton Rouge on the days when the murders had been committed, and he had hotel bills to prove it. But in Ethan’s mind, Baton Rouge just wasn’t far enough away to clear him. Randy had, however, verified Morgan’s claim to have been shooting stills for a local catering company.