Heart Of Evil

Matty came over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Why, Mrs. Emma Donegal, you do create a mighty fine party, a mighty fine party! What a day!”

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Martin,” Ashley said, inclining her head regally as a plantation mistress of the day might have done.

Matty dropped the act for a minute. “Oh, Ashley, we sold so much! And I can’t tell you how many people ordered custom uniforms. I’ll be sewing my fingers to the bone for the next months, but what a great day we had.”

“I’m so glad,” Ashley told her. She walked for the buffet with its crocheted doily and poured herself a Scotch whiskey—it wasn’t a hundred years old, but it would do. Others came up to her and she responded—so many friends, and everyone involved in the reenactment. The men bowed and kissed her hand, still playing elite gentlemen of the era.

Ramsay grinned when he was near her. “I’d say ninety percent of the fighting men never tasted a good brandy, so I’m sure glad we get to be the rich of the past.”

She smiled, and agreed. “Wouldn’t it be something if we could have Lee and Grant, and Davis and Lincoln, and show them all that the war created the country we have now?”

Griffin walked over to them, lifting his glass. “Grant was an alcoholic. A functional one, but an alcoholic. No relation, of course. My Grant family was Southern to the core. Cheers!”

“You’re a cynic, Mr. Grant,” Ashley said, inclining her head.

Griffin laughed. “Not at all. We strive for an understanding of history around here, right?”

“We do,” Ashley agreed. “And, historically, many of them were truly honorable people. Can you imagine being Mrs. Robert E. Lee—and losing a historic family home, built by George Washington’s stepgrandson and filled with objects that had belonged to George and Martha? Remember, Arlington was a home long before it became a national cemetery!”

“Cheers to that, I suppose,” Griffin said. “Whiskey, Mrs. Donegal? Why, my dear woman, you should be sipping sherry with the other wives!”

“I need a whiskey tonight!”

Ramsay and Griffin laughed, and she joined them while she listened to her guests chatting. Some of the other men argued history, too—and she saw that everyone involved in the actual reenactment had shown up. Cliff, Ramsay, Hank, Griffin, Toby and John—and the Yankees, Michael Bonaventure, Hadley Mason, Justin Binder, Tom Dixon and Victor Quibbly, along with John Martin, of course, and Dr. Ben Austin.

Everyone but Charles Osgood. She couldn’t imagine that he wasn’t there. He must have been thrilled to death with the day.

“Hey, where’s Charles?” Ashley asked, interrupting a rousing discussion of Farragut’s naval prowess.

A few of those close to her quit talking to look around.

“I haven’t seen him since he very dramatically died of his wounds,” Ramsay said. “I ‘skedaddled’ right after and rode out with Justin, before we rode back to take our fair share of the applause.”

“Cliff?” Ashley asked.

Cliff shook his head. “No, I was with the soldiers who came rushing in too late when Charles was being besieged by the enemy. I thought he just stood up and bowed when everyone was clapping. I don’t remember seeing him when you and Frazier started talking … or when the band played.”

“He’s probably outside somewhere. I’ll call his cell,” Ramsay said. He pulled out his phone and hit a number of buttons.

Ashley watched him. She realized the others had already turned away and were becoming involved in their conversations again.

Ramsay shook his head at her. “No answer.”

Cliff cleared his throat. “Not to be disrespectful in any way, but maybe he met a girl and—got lucky.”

“Yeah for Charles!” Justin Binder said, lifting his glass. He was somewhat tipsy—if not drunk—Ashley thought. Good thing he was staying on the property. The others were all still playacting; they were entrenched in the past.

They didn’t want to look for someone they obviously believed was just off enjoying his own star turn. But …

“He would have wanted to be here tonight,” Ashley said stubbornly. “He was so thrilled to be taking the part of Marshall Donegal. I’m going out to see if his car is still here.”

Ramsay lifted a hand. “Sorry, don’t bother, Ashley. He didn’t drive. He came with me. I told him that I couldn’t give him a ride back since I was going to stay at the house out here for a while, but he told me he’d hitch a ride back in with someone. Said he didn’t have to be back to work until Tuesday morning and for me not to worry.”

“Gentlemen, perhaps a search is in order,” Frazier said. “A Civil War parlor game of sorts.”

They all stared at him blankly.

“Exactly,” Ashley said, relief coloring her tone. “Find the lost rebel. Beth will create a five-star private meal for a party of four, payable to the man—or woman—who finds Charles!”

“I will?” Beth said. She looked at Ashley. “Um, it will be—sumptuous!”

“It’s a lot of property to cover,” Ramsay murmured.

“We need to organize, then,” Griffin said. “It will be fun. Yankees take the cemetery side, and rebels search out the bayou side.”

“Is that fair?” Griffin asked. “If he’s still around, old Charlie would be by the cemetery, don’t you think?”

“I pick scouting detail!” Justin said.

“Yes! Let’s find Charles!” Toby said.

“I’ll check out the area around the oaks out front,” Matty Martin offered. She was watching Ashley and seemed to realize that Ashley was seriously worried. “John, you can come with me. It’s mighty dark out there, even with all the lights from the house and the property floodlights.”

“Of course, my dear,” John told her. “They should have let women fight the war,” he muttered, following her out.

Hank laughed. “Yeah, imagine, mud wrestling at its best.”

“Hank!” Cliff admonished. “War is always a serious affair.”

“Well, of course it is,” Griffin said. “War is very serious—but we’re not at war. We’re playing a game. We’re looking for old Charles. Hey, Ashley, if no one wins …”

“Well, at some point, we’ll just all have dinner,” she told them.

“Great!” Beth muttered to her. “Now I get to cook for all of them!”

“It’s good that I’ve got the bayou side!” Toby Keaton said. “Borders my property.”

“I’ll take the cemetery,” Frazier said.

“You will not. It’s dark and dangerous in there,” Ashley told him.

“Not for me, dear. It’s memories for me,” he said softly, and quickly turned away. Neither of them wanted to think about Ashley’s parents, entombed in the majestic family vault.

“Grampa, please—you need to be here as everyone returns,” Ashley said.

“I’ll take the cemetery,” Ben offered. “I’m really familiar with the living and the dead,” he added and winked. “Just give me one of the big old flashlights at the back door. I’ll be fine.”

Ben would be fine. He was a big, strapping man in his mid-forties. Besides, he’d attended funerals for both her parents and knew the cemetery well.

Ashley wanted to take the cemetery herself; that dream had to have been a sign.

No, that would be insane. Ben knew what he was doing. She wasn’t going to let a dream dictate what she did in her life.

“Okay, so where are we going?” Beth asked Ashley.

“The stables?” Ashley suggested.

“I’ll come with you and stand there, but I’m not going near the horses!”

An hour later, they had finished the actual search as best they could in the night.

Ramsay went to speak with the guests who were staying in the rooms that had been the old stables, and the Yankee contingent spoke with those in the other outbuildings. Cliff went to his office, wondering if Charles might have slipped in there to rest.

They all searched, from the river to the road, from the sugar fields to the bayou, but there was no sign of Charles Osgood. By midnight, all the searchers were back at the house.

“Ashley, really, he must be out somewhere else,” Cliff told her.

She looked at Ben. “You searched everywhere in the cemetery? There are so many paths, little roads between all the vaults.”

Ben sighed. “Ashley, I searched. But we can all take another look.”

She nodded.

“That was actually not a suggestion,” Ben said.

“It’s all right. I’ll go myself,” Ashley said.

“We’ll help,” Ramsay said, tugging at Cliff’s sleeve.

“I’ve still got the key, so I’ll come, too,” Ben said.

Ashley led the way, wondering why she thought that she’d really find Charles in the cemetery, just because she’d had a dream.

But she was determined.

Ben opened the lock on the gate, though, of course, they could have all crawled over the stone wall.

Ashley headed straight for her family tomb. The real Marshall Donegal had died there.

The last interment had been her father’s. The usual little pain in her heart sparked—it always came when

she thought about him, and her mother. And tonight, especially, she missed Jake.

There was no sign of Charles there, and no sign that he had been there.

She almost fell, she was so relieved.

The tomb glowed white beneath the gentle touch of the moon, dignified in its decaying majesty. She heard the three men calling to one another from different sections of the graveyard, and she followed a voice to reach Cliff. He looked at her. “Ashley, Charles left. Whether he was spirited away by aliens or not, I don’t know. But he isn’t here. This isn’t any parlor game, is it? You’re really worried.”

“I am. Did you go in the chapel?” she asked.

“You think that Charles is hiding in the chapel? Or kneeling down, still thanking the good Lord for the chance to be Marshall Donegal?” Cliff asked dryly.

“Please, Cliff?”

He groaned. He walked around the ell that would lead them to the chapel, in the far corner near the embankment of the river. The chapel had carved oak double doors, which creaked when he opened them. He fumbled for the light switch, and light flared in the lovely little place with its stained-glass windows, marble altar and old mahogany podium.

The place was empty.

“Happy?” Cliff asked her.

“No. I can’t help it—I’m worried,” she told him.

He just shook his head. “Come on. Let’s just go.”

They walked back to the house, where the others were still milling on the back porch—many of them having retrieved their drinks.

“So, the bastard did get lucky!” Ramsay said, laughing. “Hell, if I had foreseen that, I’d have had him play Marshall Donegal a couple of years ago!”

“I’m going to call the police,” Ashley said, looking at her grandfather.

“He’s been missing just a few hours,” Beth pointed out. “He might have thought that he said good-night to everyone. There’s so much confusion going on when the fighting ends. I mean, I thought it was amazing—it really was living history. But it’s mass confusion. I can only imagine a Gettysburg reenactment.”

Ashley realized that everyone was staring at her—skeptically. They had searched and searched, and grown bored and tired. But she couldn’t help her feelings of unease, even while they all stood silent, just staring at her.

The river breeze brought the chirp of the chickadees—her senses were so attuned to her home area that somewhere, distantly, down the bayou, she thought she could hear an alligator slip into the water. This was her home; she knew these sounds.

They were normal; they were natural. But the sounds of the darkness weren’t reassuring to her now.

“Grampa, I think we need to report this to the police,” she repeated.

“Great. He’s probably at some bar in the big city, bragging about the fact that he got to play Marshall Donegal today,” Ramsay said. “And they’ll drag him out and he’ll act like a two-year-old again.”

Frazier stared at Ashley and nodded. If she wanted to call the police, they would do so.

The parish police were called, and Officer Drew Montague, a nice-enough man whom Ashley had met a few times over the years, took all the information.

“You say you all saw him just a few hours ago?” he asked. Montague had a thick head of dark hair and eyebrows that met in the middle.

“Yes,” she said.

“What makes you think that he’s actually missing? Perhaps there’s a woman involved. Is he married? Look, Miss Donegal, you know that we appreciate everything that you do for the area, but … we’re talking about a grown man who has been gone just a few hours,” the officer said.

“He was proud of the role he was playing. He would have stayed,” Ashley insisted.

Officer Montague shifted his weight. “Look, I’ve taken the report, and I’ll put out a local bulletin to be on the lookout for him, but he’s an adult. An adult really needs to be gone for forty-eight hours before he is officially missing.”

Frazier spoke before Ashley could. “Anything you can do will be greatly appreciated. We’re always proud that the parish is about people, and not just red tape and rules.”

Montague nodded. “Right. Well, I’ll get this moving, then. We’ll all be on the lookout for Mr. Osgood.”

Ashley thanked him. The others had remained behind, politely and patiently waiting. Now it was really late, and once again there were a number of weary men and women—all still in Civil War–era attire—staring at her.

Officer Montague left, mollified by Frazier Donegal over the fact that he had been called out on a ridiculous mission.

“I’m sorry,” Ashley said to the others. The evening had started out as a party and turned into a search committee.

“Hey,” Cliff said, grinning, “I don’t have far to go home.”

“We’re staying in the stables anyway, kid,” Justin Binder told her. He had played a Yankee, and happily. His family hailed from Pennsylvania.

Griffin laughed and gave her an affectionate hug. “You made me sober up, which is good. I am driving.”

“Me, too,” John Ashton said. He held her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Charles is just fine. I’m sure of it.”

She thanked them all and said good-night, and they drifted away, some to the old outbuildings where they were staying, and some to their cars, parked in the lot out front and down the road.

She stood on the porch with Beth and her grandfather.

She couldn’t tell whether they thought she was being ridiculous or not, they were both so patient.

Beth gave her a kiss on the cheek and said, “We still have about sixteen guests, and the household. I’ve got to get up early to whip up our spectacular plantation breakfast.”

Ashley bid her good-night. It was down to her grandfather and herself, and Frazier was going to wait for her to be ready to head off to bed.

“Something is wrong. I can feel it, Grampa,” she said.

He set an arm around her shoulder. “You know … I have an old friend. I’ve been meaning to call him for a long time—tonight seems a good time to have a chat with him. If Charles really is gone, he may be able to help us. His name is Adam Harrison. I don’t know if you remember meeting him—I see him up in Virginia and D.C. sometimes. He worked for private concerns for many years, finding the right investigators for strange situations. Then the government started calling him, and his projects were all kind of combined for a while, civilian and federal. But he’s got a special unit now, and he’s got federal power behind him on it. His people are a select group from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. I’ll give him a call. We’ll get someone out here to help by tomorrow. And if Charles turns up, no harm done.”

She lowered her head. Adam Harrison. She knew the name. His unit had been involved in solving the death of Regina Holloway—it had been all over the media because she was a senator’s wife. And she knew, too, that Jake Mallory was part of that unit. She might not be a part of his world, but she hadn’t been able to miss it when she’d seen his name in the papers. She had broken off something that had been real with Jake, because he had terrified her … because he was certain that he had spoken with her father, after he had died. And now….

Now Frazier was going to call Adam. Of course, it could come to nothing. She was panicking over a missing man because of an equally irrational dream.

She looked out on the beautiful expanse of their property. The river rolling by. The moon high over the clouds. The vaults in the cemetery silent and ghostly and opalescent in the pale glow of night.

Jake, I’m so … scared.

Something was wrong. It was the oddest thing; she felt that she really understood the expression I feel it in my bones. Something wasn’t right about Charles’s disappearance, and she knew it.

It was almost as if the past had truly merged into this eerie and haunting reality, and the collision of time here was not going to go away.

Interlude

He’d known for a long time what he’d had to do. The voice had been telling him for years.

At first, of course, he had ignored it. The vision he’d seen of the past hadn’t been real. But then he’d known. He’d known who he was, and he’d come to know that the voice wouldn’t go away until he’d done what needed to be done. And he’d carefully planned it all out, though things had gone a bit strangely today. Didn’t matter, though, who was playing Marshall Donegal. It didn’t matter at all. Because, of course, an actor was just an actor.

It was Donegal Plantation itself that needed to repay the old debt. That old debt could only be repaid one way.

With blood.

God bless a crowd. There was nothing in the world like mayhem, nothing like hundreds of witnesses to pull off an escapade such as he had planned, and to do it perfectly.

There had been a horde surrounding them. One particular brunette was the right age, exceptionally pretty and with a Massachusetts accent. When she spoke, there was an r on the name Linda, and there was no r on the car she had “pahked” down the river road.

She had giggled when she spoke to Charles, so it was easy to whisper in the man’s ear in his moment of greatest achievement and convince him that the girl was waiting to meet him.

And in the madness surrounding everyone engaged in the action then, it was easy enough to meld into the crowd himself, and to swiftly disappear, and hurry to the river road.

And there was Charles.

He’d approached Charles with a smile.

And, of course, Charles was smiling as well. At least he would go in a state of sheer happiness. It might even be a kindness. How many people got to die that happy?

Poor, dumb Charles—he never suspected a thing. After the initial whack, he never even felt the prick of the needle.

He’d thought it all out, exactly where he’d send Charles, because it all had to be done in plain sight. In plain sight, people never really knew what they saw.

There were tourists heading to their cars. But they’d never notice two fellows in uniform chatting by a car. Not at an event like this. People liked to dress up.

Maybe everyone wanted to be someone else, someone they weren’t.

But to them, it would just appear that they were two cronies, faces covered by their broad-brimmed hats, leaning against one another as they chatted and laughed over a joke.

Then … hide the body. Or if he had been seen, “help” an inebriated friend into a car.

He would need more time for the pièce de résistance. Initially, it had taken him less than twenty minutes to stash Charles and rejoin all those rejoicing over the day.

He had never felt more victorious. The difficult part, of course, would be to hide his anticipation for all that was destined to follow.

It didn’t seem that anything could go so impossibly well.

Ashley, damn her, though. Leave it to Ashley to be worried about Charles! Still and all, it did make the entire plan more exciting. Now, with the evening at a close, he was feeling elated.

The place had settled down; though everyone had been willing to look for Charles, only Ashley had been really concerned. He had played with the idea of actually disposing of poor old Charles immediately, but now he was satisfied that he had decided he should make it something more dramatic—and allow time between the reenactment and the beginning of the end.

Oh, he had worked with the others. He had searched so hard. There might have been just a few minutes when he feared someone would actually search the cars, but Charles hadn’t driven.

It had almost been as if he’d been part of the plan.

Now he sat next to good old Charles.

This was necessary. The voice had said that it had to be done, and his ancestor made him know that nothing could be right until then.

He’d never realized that he’d enjoy it all so much.

He patted him on the back. Charles didn’t move. The drug was holding, but he’d administer more. He didn’t want the big lug waking up.

He needed him alive until the time was right.

Every time he’d been at Donegal recently, he’d felt as if he were being pushed harder and harder. The past was the past—so they all said. But it wasn’t. The past created the present, and he knew now that he had to use the present to set the past right. It wasn’t crazy; he’d heard the voices in his head. A collective consciousness that seemed to scream through history.

Now, maybe, the voices would stop.

3

Car bombs didn’t exactly do it for him, but Jake indulged in a few anyway.

“Cheers!” Jenna said, dropping her shot glass into her Guinness, and swallowing down the mixture.

“Cheat!” Will said to Whitney. “You poured your shot in—you just drink the whole thing.”

“Hey, you drink it your way, and I’ll drink it mine!” Whitney protested.

“You’re not doing it the Irish way,” Will said, looking to Jenna for help.

“Drink it however you like!” Jenna said, smiling sweetly at Will.

There was a small room in the back of the bar, and Jake, Will Chan, Jenna Duffy and Whitney Tremont had it to themselves that night, so it was nice. Jackson Crow was back at the hotel with Angela Hawkins. They’d all just met for the first time on the Holloway case, and Jackson, the skeptic, had quickly fallen in love with Angela—despite their different approaches to their work. Go figure. The entire team respected and admired them both, and they were glad that the two were indulging in some quality time together.

And for Jake, it felt good to be in the bar with his coworkers.

During the Holloway case, they had gotten to know one another. Will and Whitney were excellent with cameras and sound systems; Jenna was a registered nurse, something that could always come in handy when traipsing through strange landscapes and old buildings. His own expertise was computers—and computer hacking. He could usually find any piece of information on any site, public, private or even heavily coded. Yet they’d all had certain unusual experiences in life that had led them to being excellent investigators—and, together, able to discern deeper, darker undercurrents to the event they researched. Now, they also had badges. After the Holloway case, it had been deemed that they would continue to work together, and they would do so with all proper credentials as FBI agents.