The heather graham bundl.., p.57
The Heather Graham Bundle, page 57
veau. Brent chose the back wall, by the oven vaults.
He waited a second, watched the last of a group
walk around a tomb, and said in a low but heated voice,
“Huey, you get your sorry ass out here right now.”
A moment later, pale and gray, barely substantial at
all, Huey appeared. “My sorry ass? Who the hell are
you to talk about my sorry ass?”
“Huey, you hurt that girl.”
“You’re puffed full of cotton, son, and that’s putting
it nicely. What the hell do you want, Injun boy?” he de-
manded. There was a guilty tone in his voice. Guilty
and defiant.
“Huey, you’ve gotten real powerful in here. You can
pretty much do things I’ve never seen another ghost
manage.”
“Spirit or essence, that’s what we liked to be called
these days,” Huey cackled. “Well, that’s what one o’
dem wise-talking rangers said.”
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“Great. Now you’re going to start being politically
correct? The ‘essence’ who calls me Injun boy all the
time?”
“It offend you?” Huey asked.
“No. What offends me is violence. There was no
reason for you to hurt that girl.”
Huey hung his head, then looked up, his eyes flash-
ing. “Actually, I didn’t mean to go hurting her. Honest
Injun,” he said, and laughed at his own pun. “And I
wasn’t the one who did hurt her, not unless it was by
accident or she got hurt running out of here.”
“You threw something at her by accident?”
“Nah…these fellas were in here again last night.
Bad seeds, real bad seeds, I just know it.”
“What fellas?”
Huey waved a hand in the air. “Junkies. And not
junkies. Folks giving stuff to other folks to make some
money. They don’t care about the cemetery. They got
no respect for the dead. Hell, they ain’t got no respect
for the living, either. Them girls…” He shook his head
with sad but tolerant impatience. “They’re just silly.
Don’t know what folks think…don’t know what gets
into ’em. They shouldn’t be in this place after dark, and
that’s a known fact. They just got in the way. Bad folks
are in the cemetery after dark. Them girls were lucky
they weren’t kilt, and that’s a plain fact.”
“I need to know who those bad seeds are, Huey. If
I can get them, catch them in the act, the cops can put
them away, and you won’t have to worry about them
anymore.”
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Huey shrugged. “Don’t know if I could rightly point
them out to you—not if they walked in on a tour this
minute. Don’t it just beat all? Eighteen million degrees
in the shade, and them guys wear knit masks.”
“Do they come every night?”
Huey looked around, shaking his head. “Not every
night. I never know exactly when they’ll come. But…
they’ve been coming.”
“A while now?”
“Hell, yeah. Weeks…maybe even a month or more.
Every few nights…I never know.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back around. You still haven’t seen
the FBI guy, huh? Tom Garfield.”
Huey shook his head. “Now how the hell would I
know? We dead folk don’t just go around introducing
ourselves to one another, you know. We’ve got our
own things to do. I mean, you don’t go saying who you
are to everyone on the street now, do you?”
“Try to help me, Huey, please. And by the way, that
McManus girl was trying to say prayers for you.”
“All right, all right…if’n I can help, I will. And hey,
I’m telling you God’s truth. I didn’t hurt that girl.” He
hesitated. “I think I helped her. I did do some rock
throwing, but I was aiming at the bad guys.”
“Good man, Huey.”
“She’s still a McManus.” Huey sniffed.
“Not her fault, Huey. I’m going to get the cops
watching the cemetery, looking out for your junkies,
Huey.”
Huey cocked his head, looking at Brent. “I’d be
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careful on that. I mean, if you really want to catch
these fellows. They see cops…they’ll just move on
over somewhere else. There’s plenty of dark corners in
N’Awlins for them folks to find. You want to catch ’em,
better not spook ’em out of here.”
“Good point, Huey, thanks.”
A tour director was coming around the corner of one
of the majestic society vaults. Huey faded away.
Brent slipped past the group and exited the ceme-
tery. As he came out onto the sidewalk, he was startled
when a man almost collided with him.
He looked up.
It was the FBI man, Haggerty. Today he was in a
baseball cap, sunglasses, jeans and a tailored shirt.
Seeing Brent in his way, he swore. “What the hell are
you doing here?” he growled.
“Visiting the cemetery.”
Haggerty swore again. Brent assessed his appear-
ance. The man was good. He no longer looked like a
stereotypical agent.
Haggerty came closer to him. “Look, you idiot,
don’t screw me up. I work alone, I keep away from oth-
ers, you got it? I don’t like talking to other cops—even
other feds—when I’m working. A man can get killed
that way. So I sure as hell don’t want to see you. Now
get the hell out of my way, and never, ever act like you
know me.”
Haggerty hurried by him. The cops were right, Brent
thought with disgust, the man was a jerk.
Shaking his head and feeling irritation sweep over
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him, he hurried on. Haggerty was apparently trying to
follow in Tom Garfield’s footsteps. A loner.
And yet, maybe he was right. Staying alive wasn’t
always an easy thing to do. Especially for an FBI
man. Still…
Grimly, he decided he wanted to know more about
the guy. Adam would be able to help him. And they
would be forewarned in the future, should Harrison In-
vestigations come across the man working any future
projects.
Shaking off the unpleasant encounter with Hag-
gerty, Brent jogged to catch a trolley and make it over
to Lafayette Number 1. Glancing at his watch, he was
amazed to see that it was only eleven-thirty.
He hesitated, winced and decided it was time to
make a painful visit of his own.
“Who are you voting for, Mitch? Can you vote? Did
we give the vote to Yankees yet?” Patricia said teas-
ingly.
Mitch made a face. “Of course I can vote! I’m a
resident.”
“So who are you voting for?” Nathan pressed.
“Hell, I don’t know. On the one hand, we’ve got an
old liar. On the other hand, we’ve got a young liar,”
Mitch said.
“That’s pretty cynical,” Nikki said as they walked
idly down the street. The area was, beyond a doubt,
even busier than usual. And there were cops on every
corner as crowds headed toward Jackson Square.
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“How many times have you seen a politician carry
through with a promise after he’s been elected?”
Mitch asked.
“Maybe it’s harder to carry out a promise than it is
to make one,” Nikki suggested.
“But that’s the thing—someone out there should be
an honest politician. Tell the truth. No, I can’t change
the world, but I can take a few little steps,” Mitch said.
Nikki laughed. “Well, if you acted as if you couldn’t
change much, no one would vote for you at all, proba-
bly.”
She stopped to look at a flyer that had been pasted
to a light pole. It was for Billy Banks. Nice looking,
good smile, lots of charisma.
Mitch slipped an arm around her shoulders. “He’s
a cutie, huh? That’ll make you vote for him, right?”
“Mitch, that’s insulting. I’m voting for the best
man.”
“So which one is the best man?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
“I don’t, either. And I’m not here to listen to the de-
bate. There’s Contessa Moodoo’s Hoodoo Voodoo. I’m
going in,” Patricia said, having had it with politics for
the moment.
Nikki hesitated on the street, frowning.
Something in the crowd had distracted her. Some-
thing that she’d seen with her peripheral vision that had
caused a little jump somewhere in the back of her mind.
But she didn’t know what it was. She watched as
people streamed down the street. She saw tourists in
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shorts, young women in halter tops, others in T-shirts.
Men in business attire.
What could have bothered her about the group that
had just passed?
Something had been oddly familiar.
But what?
She gave her head a shake, grateful that at least it
hadn’t been Andy, and followed the others into the
shop.
While her friends chatted, looking over Contessa’s
wares, Nikki realized that she was uneasy.
And that Contessa was watching her.
While the others were checking out the potions,
Nikki wandered into the part of the shop dedicated to
the history of voodoo and those who currently prac-
ticed the art. She felt someone near her and tensed, al-
ways afraid now that she was going to see someone
who couldn’t possibly be there, and that sooner or later
she would simply scream, fall down and be commit-
ted to an asylum.
But it was Contessa, her marbled eyes deeply con-
cerned. “She died, yes? Your friend, she is no longer
with us.”
“Yes, she died. And you knew she was going to
die,” Nikki said. It was an accusation.
Contessa shook her head. “There was a color around
her, and it was dark. It boded great danger. I didn’t
know she was going to die. She did not die by her own
hand.”
“Most believe that she did.”
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“That was not a question. I was telling you what
is so.”
Nikki nodded. “Well, I agree with you on that. I
think she was murdered.” She grimaced. “You don’t
happen to know by who or why, do you?” she queried.
Contessa shook her head. “But—”
“Nikki,” Patricia called. “We’ve got to get going.”
Nikki nodded. “But what?”
Contessa hesitated, just briefly. The others were
heading for the door, calling out their thanks and wav-
ing for Nikki to follow.
“But what?” Nikki persisted.
The marbled eyes, deep and grave, touched hers.
“You are in danger, too. The same danger. The same
color, a deep, angry purple...it is around you, as well.”
14
Walking into the cemetery, Brent hesitated. He
opened his eyes.
There were so many.
So many ghosts.
Those who acknowledged him and those who did
not. Those who sat around, looking morose, lost, and
those who seemed angry, purposeful.
She was not among them.
She had moved on long ago. Years ago now.
He made his way to the grave, aware that several
tours were gathering and that there were a number of
people about who had come specifically to join the
Myths and Legends of New Orleans group.
He didn’t know who exactly, and it didn’t matter.
He had time.
Her tomb was a single sarcophagus, always main-
tained—he saw to it. She had loved her church, and
there were still nuns who kept the grave up while Brent
was away. A statue of a weeping angel rose above the
head of the concrete and brick bed where she now lay
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for eternity. Her name was written across the tomb,
along with the dates of her birth and death, and the sim-
ple words “Daughter, wife, forever beloved.”
He lowered his head, and he tried for the sense of
peace he should feel. There had been justice at least.
Her killer had gone to jail for life. Brent’s bitterness
had been so great that he had longed for Louisiana to
make use of its capital punishment law, but that had not
been the case. She had been killed by a stray bullet, in
the wrong place at the wrong time.
Her killer had been murdered by a fellow inmate.
Stabbed in the throat, his dying had been long and
hard.
But Brent had discovered that vengeance, however
decreed from above, didn’t end the pain of loss. He
should have possessed a greater ability to heal than
most people, but the simple effect of death, no matter
what a man’s beliefs, was to leave human beings miss-
ing those they had loved. There were those without any
extra abilities who dealt with the injustices of life bet-
ter than he did because they were blessed with such
deep and abiding faith. No matter. Nothing could
change the fact that life here must be lived without the
loved one.
And he had loved Tania. Her brilliant smile, her
laughter, the sound of her voice, the very essence of
her. She could laugh and tease, and then, when the
moment called for it, say the most profound words. She
could look at the world without judgment.
He placed his hand on the tomb and wished that her
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spirit was still present. Here he was; a man who could
see and speak with ghosts, but his own wife had moved
on. What remained of her was in his heart, his mind,
his memories. He was grateful she had moved on, for
if ever there had been a deserving soul, it had been hers,
and yet…
So many lingered. So many stayed, some not even
knowing why, what they needed, what they searched
for, what could bring them peace.
Not Tania.
And for her sake, he was glad.
For his own…
For ten years he had been the one to wander the
earth like a wraith, lost and alone, a pale shadow of
himself. But there had also been moments when he
could feel that he had a purpose. That his life counted.
And it was true that time was the greatest healer of all.
I wish I could feel you, he thought.
But he couldn’t. Nor had he reached either of his
parents, ever again, after the night they had died.
What he felt, standing there, was the sadness that
would always remain. But he had moved on now, and
he knew it. And that made him feel a twinge of guilt,
something he hadn’t experienced before. He had
known, laughed with and enjoyed other women since
he had lost Tania.
But he’d never cared again, nor felt so alive, as he
had when he’d been with Nikki. He’d never—even with
Tania—felt such an instant bond, such an electricity.
He was deeply caught in his inner thoughts; it was
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as if he were surrounded by nothing but air and shadow.
The world receded until there was darkness around
him and the grave he stood before.
Then the world came back. And he knew that Nikki
was there even before she cleared her throat.
He turned to her. She looked pale, distraught, sym-
pathetic and a little uncomfortable.
“Your…wife?” she said softly.
He nodded.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s been a very long time.”
“You…um…you might have told me that you’d
been married and that your wife was buried here,” she
murmured.
“You never noticed this grave?” he asked.
She winced. “It’s new. We usually tell tales about
older grave sites.”
He nodded and saw that Nikki gave a little involun-
tary shudder. She stared at him, eyes wide. “Is she…
does she…do you…?”
“Does she walk the cemetery? Like Andy?” he
suggested.
Nikki nodded.
He shook his head. “She’s not here. She never has
been. I mean, she’s buried here. But…she’s gone on.
Long ago.”
“What happened?” she asked gently. She had moved
a short distance from him, on the other side of the sar-
cophagus, as if she felt that respect for the dead de-
manded that she do so.
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“Stray bullet,” he told her briefly. “She happened to
