Whispers at dusk, p.1
Whispers at Dusk, page 1
Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
Heather Graham
“Heather Graham delivers a harrowing journey as she always does: perfectly.... Intelligent, fast-paced and frightening at all times, and the team of characters still keep the reader’s attention to the very end.”
—Suspense Magazine on The Final Deception
“Immediately entertaining and engrossing... Graham provides plenty of face time and intimate connection, all lightened with humor, to reassure and satisfy romance readers. Though part of a series, this installment stands well alone.”
—Publishers Weekly on A Dangerous Game
“Taut, complex, and leavened with humor, this riveting thriller has...a shade more suspense than romance, [and] it will appeal to fans of both genres.”
—Library Journal on A Dangerous Game
“Intense... A wild, mindboggling thriller from start to finish.”
—The Reading Cafe on The Forbidden
“An enthralling read with a totally unexpected twist at the end.”
—Fresh Fiction on Deadly Touch
“Graham strikes a fine balance between romantic suspense and a gothic ghost story in her latest Krewe of Hunters tale.”
—Booklist on The Summoning
HEATHER GRAHAM
Whispers at Dusk
For the Lee family, Kaylyn, Travis, Annabel, Elijah, Ezra
and, of course, Della, with lots of love!
CAST OF CHARACTERS
The Krewe of Hunters—
a specialized FBI unit that uses its members’ “unique abilities”
to bring justice to strange or unorthodox cases
Adam Harrison—
philanthropist founder of the Krewe of Hunters
Jackson Crow—
supervisory field agent, Adam’s chosen leader for the team
Angela Hawkins Crow—
original Krewe member, exceptional in the field
and with research
The Euro Special Assistance Team or “Blackbird”—
a newly formed group created to extend the Krewe’s reach
into Europe to assist with crimes abroad
Della Hamilton—
late twenties, five-eight, light brown hair, green eyes,
with the Krewe almost a year
Mason Carter—
six-five, dark hair, blue eyes, FBI for six years, has been
working solo since the death of his partner in the line of duty
Jon Wilhelm—
early fifties, experienced law enforcement with
Norway’s National Police Directorate, speaks English
with an American accent because he studied at Yale
Edmund Taylor—
early forties, London’s Metropolitan Police detective
chief inspector
Jeanne Lapierre—
fifties, tall and solid, longtime Parisian detective,
excellent at his work
François Bisset—
forty-five, light blue eyes, friendly and professional manner,
the Krewe’s Interpol liaison
Midnight Slasher—
a serial killer who has murdered across state lines
The Vampire/the Master—
organized serial killer, globe-trotting to bring his “kingship”
from country to country
Dr. Dag Andersen—
a specialist medical examiner, Norway
Ian Robertson—
Scottish detective
Dr. Calleigh Harper—
medical examiner, Scotland
Commander Anton Alexandru—
Romanian law enforcement
Alan Fremont—
Department of Criminal Investigation, the state of Louisiana
Gideon Grimsby—
a helpful Englishman who once sailed with Lafitte, died 1820
Orm Olafson—
a now-peaceful Viking, died 894
Sir Gordon Stewart—
former Scottish law enforcement, died 1490
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from Secrets in the Dark by Heather Graham
Prologue
For Della Hamilton, it began with the old cemetery.
And with Jose Garcia, her friend all through grade school, middle school and high school.
They lived on the same block. It was never romantic, just a true friendship that had been strengthened by years of shared local experiences and talks about everything: family, heartthrobs, and more. They shared everything that went into growing up.
And Jose was just a good guy. She didn’t know anyone who didn’t like Jose.
What killed him was a bizarre accident. Truly bizarre and tragic for all concerned. Another kid in high school would have the guilt of Jose’s death on him for all the years of his life to come.
Della found out about it when she was at cheerleading practice during her senior year of high school. The blood bank called.
She gave blood with her parents’ blessing several times a year. Gave. They weren’t rich, but she wasn’t selling her blood. Her health and the coagulating wonder of her blood was a gift from a higher power, however one chose to see God. It was an amazing thing to give the gift of her blood to others. So she did.
Della was joking with the girls when the call came, and they were all laughing and calling her a vampire. She reminded them vampires drank blood; they didn’t give it to others.
It wasn’t until she arrived at the hospital and saw her parents and Jose’s parents that she heard what had happened. She wished she could open a vein and pour her blood straight into her friend’s heart.
It had been...ridiculous. A couple of the high schools in the area had friendly rivalries going. Usually friendly. Occasionally something might get a little physical, but it was broken up most of the time by an authority figure, or it simply petered out with the rivals laughing.
But this time...
Jose and some friends had been at a popular South Miami restaurant. “Rivals” had been at another table. They’d been playing around, throwing napkins, then someone had picked up something heavier, a mug. It had struck Jose in the head and cracked open his skull and...
Now, they were praying for his life. If not for the mug, the day probably would have ended with laughter and with the groups picking up all the napkins together. The rivalries weren’t between the junkies and the thieves and the crew of kids headed for criminal behavior. These teens were on the sports teams, the debate team, into music, movies, and theater.
But the mug had flown.
They took Della’s blood.
But neither her blood nor blood from any other donor nor any help from the medical community could save Jose.
He died that night.
Her parents had taken her home. Jose’s mom and dad had stayed with him to the last minute.
She heard later his mother wouldn’t let the funeral home take his body.
And at the funeral, the poor woman had tried to drag him from his coffin. If she could not do so, she wanted to be buried in it with him. Her husband kept her from doing either one.
Della wished there was something she could do to help. But there wasn’t. The woman had lost her only son.
It was about ten days later, and Della had just left the pool where she worked part-time as a lifeguard after school until dusk. She was heading toward the cemetery where Jose was buried. She knew the area well. Her friend’s father was the caretaker, and their home was on the cemetery property. They’d often had sleepovers and spent the nights trying to scare each other and outdo each other with ghost stories. The cemetery had never scared Della. She had felt something strange; oddly, it had been a sense of warmth and comfort. It was considered historic for their area, being over a hundred years old. There were only a few little family mausoleums in the cemetery, but there were stunning memorial statues, standing stones, and flat memorials surrounded by beautiful and lush trees. She loved the cemetery. But then, she loved old churches and cemeteries—truly old ones Winchester Cathedral in London, Westminster Abbey, Notre Dame, and so many in Rome and London. They’d visited so many. Her dad had said leaving donations was much cheaper than many things they might do on a European vacation.
Della had her radio playing as she drove home from work. Yet that day as she reached the southern end of the cemetery, she suddenly had nothing but dead air.
In the silence, she frowned and changed the station, but nothing happened.
She pulled off the road by the little coral wall that surrounded the place and looked in the cemetery. Jose wasn’t buried far from the wall. She found herself tempted to jump over the two and a half feet of coral that comprised the barrier. But she didn’t. She should bring flowers to Jose’s grave, and do it by daylight when people were supposed to vi sit. Della had discovered the music stopped playing on her radio every time she passed by the little coral wall, a reminder that led to her stopping sometimes at night. The city lights from the street afforded her all the illumination she needed to reach Jose’s grave.
Della decided to bring flowers that weekend. And it felt good to go and tell her friend she missed him, and to almost feel as if he were there with her.
She was back home for the summer after her first year of college when the killer they called the Canal Carnivore arrived in South Florida. The man had eluded police in the west, the northeast, and had struck in Biloxi, Mississippi, before heading farther to the southeast. Right before Della had returned home to take up her job as a lifeguard for the summer, he had attacked and killed a young woman in the Brickell area, a divorcee living alone in a condominium and working for a local bank. His signature was the removal of a patch of skin from his victims, usually a two-by-two square that contained the belly button. The one witness who discovered the victim near the old church cemetery in New York by Wall Street had seen a disappearing hooded figure chewing on something bloody as he’d hurried toward the Hudson River.
Thus, he’d been labeled the carnivore. He didn’t bite the flesh out—that would leave marks for a dental impression. He didn’t leave fingerprints or footprints anywhere. He didn’t sexually assault his victims or torture them. He slit their throats and cut out his inches of flesh. He left no clues and had only been seen once calmly walking away from what would prove to be his victim. The “Canal” part of his moniker came from the fact that several victims had been found near water, though Biscayne Bay was hardly a canal and the Hudson River was, well, a river.
Naturally, Della’s parents had been concerned. But she had assured them she went to work and came straight home. They were always there when she returned, along with her mother’s giant sheepdog that looked like a mop but could be as fierce as any pit bull or rottweiler if he saw a member of the family threatened. They also lived in a friendly neighborhood and had automatic lights if she came home in the dark, along with a surprisingly modern alarm system. She was almost nineteen—an adult—and studying criminology! She knew how to be safe and smart. They had been studying serial killers just before the break. If anyone knew how to be careful, it was her.
She’d been home a week when her car suddenly started acting up. She kept a good eye on it. While it wasn’t a new car, it wasn’t old; the computer usually warned her if she needed maintenance or if anything was wrong.
It had given no warning. But the red light was suddenly blinking, screaming for maintenance.
She was about to drive by the cemetery. And the radio had already gone silent. The car was bucking strangely, and she quickly drove onto the grass at the side of the road only feet from the little coral wall.
No problem—other than she wouldn’t have her car. She always had her phone and her AAA card.
She turned off the engine and reached to the passenger’s seat for her bag. But digging inside, she couldn’t find her phone. It had to be there. She had undressed and donned her swimsuit, left her bag in the women’s locker room, worked her hours, gone back, and changed again. She hadn’t taken her phone out. She had plans for the evening with friends and with her parents, and they were set. She hadn’t needed her phone for anything, and she had just wanted to get home when her day had ended.
It had to be there.
But it wasn’t.
She got out of the car. She was going to have to flag down someone driving along the street. She’d be careful. She wouldn’t get in anyone’s car. She’d just get someone to call for help for her.
Leaving the car’s lights on, she walked over to the road. It wasn’t rush hour anymore, but it wasn’t that late, either. There were only a few cars. Most of them tended to be in the left lane, and one woman stared at her as if she were a crazy person.
She was about to give up when a car drove onto the grass near hers. It was oddly forming an L-shape that blocked part of the road, but she needed help, so she certainly wasn’t going to comment on anyone’s driving or parking.
But a shiver slid down her spine and a warning bell seemed to go off in her head as she approached the driver.
He got out of the car.
He was wearing a hoodie. Not black, dark blue, but a hoodie, and it was a warm night.
The L-shape he had created when he parked had cut Della off from the road. She never said a word. She knew.
It might have been a woman. But they’d been studying serial killers at school and, statistically, women serial killers preferred poison; they didn’t seem to like the mess of knives or guns.
Small man...woman. Did it matter? Beneath the hoodie, they were wearing a bandanna-type mask, allowing Della to see nothing of them but the eyes.
Dusk was quickly heading to darkness, but the streetlights fell on them and their cars. Looking at the person’s eyes, Della knew they were smiling and loved watching the fear that filled her as she saw a streak of light catch on the blade of an enormous carving knife.
The cars would cut her off. There was no one on the road. If she ran across it, the only thing she could reach quickly would be an office complex without a single car in the parking lot.
She turned and headed for the little coral wall just a few steps from her. She leaped over it. This killer couldn’t know the cemetery.
She did. She knew it so well.
If she ran hard toward the avenue that bordered the western side of the cemetery she’d get to the caretaker’s house. Her friend’s family had moved to the Keys a year ago. But she’d once met the new caretaker, his wife, and his child when she’d been at the cemetery. If she could just reach the house...
The killer was after her in a flash, but she weaved through headstones and around oaks, banyans, and cypress trees.
The killer remained behind.
Close behind.
She was near the backyard of the home by one of the oldest sections of the cemetery. Both Union and Confederate soldiers who had survived the Civil War to move down to South Florida were there, perhaps friends now that the fighting was over, and the cemetery had claimed them. There was a beautiful huge statue of an eagle there because one of the Union soldiers had been with the regiment that had had a mascot, Old Abe, the battle eagle. It would be a good place to slide around to get into the yard, hopping the little fence and screaming all the while for help...
But she was suddenly struck in the head. Dazed and stunned, and with her impetus, she went down on the ground.
Instinct caused her to roll. To look up into the eyes of a killer.
“That was spectacular!” the killer said. It was a “him,” a small man, maybe five feet eight inches and possibly a hundred and sixty pounds. “And you! I’ve been watching you the last days and the piece of skin on your midriff... Wow, kid, you’re beautiful, you know.”
She stared at him. She was on the ground. He was about to level his weight down on hers. She had to kick. She had to fight.
The knife... There was nothing now but moonlight, but the knife gleamed in that bit of misty light!
“Della, the rock!”
She was startled to hear the urgent whisper.
There was no one anywhere near them!
But the person who was not there kept talking. And she knew she’d been hit in the head. She was terrified. She might be going completely crazy with fear, but the person was using...
Jose’s voice.
She stared at the killer and her eyes widened.
Because Jose was there. Something of him. She could see him, handsome in the casual suit in which he had been buried, coral shirt, gray jacket, and trousers. His dark hair was neatly combed, he looked wonderful, except...
He couldn’t really be there.
“Listen to me, Della!” Jose said firmly. “He’s coming down. Let him get close—despite the knife! Let him get close. Then kick him in the nuts as hard as you can and grab that rock and smash in his face. I’d do it for you, but... I can’t pick anything up, I’m afraid. I’ll try kicking...get it closer to you. But wait...wait...let him get down and then...”
She had to be imagining he was there, her dear friend, trying to help her, even from the grave.
She had never been so terrified in her life, watching the killer come down closer and closer to her, watching the knife gleam so strangely in the moonlight...
