Clowns, not witches.
But a trio.
And Ashley had seen clearly they were heading for the man dressed elegantly as Henry VIII.
They had been coming her way. And they stopped—as if stunned—when they’d seen her. Why? Because she’d resembled the woman in the painting?
It might be a stretch of the imagination, but with Jake out on the street—hopefully catching a clown—she moved through the still-laughing crowd toward the stage, listening.
“That was great,” someone said. “An FBI guy in a cape chasing clowns.”
“Isn’t that life?” someone else replied.
“This party gets better every year. You just never know what you’ll see. Performances all around,” another woman said.
Ashley was by them. King Henry VIII was up near the stage, clapping. The performance had just ended and the band was picking back up where it had left off—now playing a Journey song.
Henry VIII turned from the stage and the thudding music to Ashley. She couldn’t tell much about him—he was wearing a wig, cap, and fake facial hair—but he seemed to quickly size her up.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Richard Showalter. Nice to meet you. And you are…?”
“Ashley,” she said. He didn’t really want her last name. He was thinking about the direction in which the night might take them.
She hesitated, not sure how to ask a man why three evil clowns might want to kill him.
“Did you—see the clowns?” she asked.
“Yeah. Cool costumes.”
“They seemed focused on you.”
“Maybe they’re fans.”
“Oh? What do you do?” Ashley asked him.
“Well, I blog. Mainly. I have a few books out, too. Nonfiction. The state of man and all that. You’re sure you’ve never heard of me? I’m on local TV often enough.”
“I’m sorry. The state of man. What exactly do you see the state of man being?”
“Well, it’s rather sad, to be honest. I was just on TV—local network affiliate—talking against some of the laws being bandied about. Florida—and that ‘stand your ground’ thing. People are taking the law into their own hands. And, because of it, other people are being murdered. It’s not a self-defense thing. Okay, so yes, we get crime waves. But then you get idiots out there who want to shoot up the crooks. And end up shooting others. Or baiting crooks to come on over and get shot. I did a great piece on supporting our local police, bolstering them up instead of tearing them down.”
She stared at him, wondering where to go from there. Was someone in the city wanting to murder crooks—and then, maybe, murder Richard Showalter for not wanting crooks to be murdered in the street?
But that brought them back to Shelley Broussard. She was no crook.
She didn’t have to say anything more. Jake was back, panting a little. Obviously concerned as he caught up to her.
“This is Richard Showalter. He writes a blog,” Ashley told him and studied his reaction. He shook his head slightly.
He hadn’t caught up with any clowns.
“And I have several books out,” Showalter said, shouting to be heard over the music. He was being polite, not necessarily interested in the conversation any more—now that another man was involved. He knew he wasn’t going to be taking Ashley home with him.
“About?” Jake asked.
At least Showalter’s ego was such that he had to stay and tell Jake what he did.
Jake didn’t hesitate.
“I think those clowns were about to kill you,” he said flatly.
“Hey, I’m not your size but I’m not a shrinking violet either. I could have held my own—until security reached me, at least. Until the law stepped in.”
“No,” Jake said. “They didn’t mean to beat you up. They wanted to slit your throat.”
“Ah, come on, it’s Halloween,” Showalter said, clearly not taking the threat seriously. “But really, enough is enough. You two are obviously together. If you don’t mind, I’d kind of like to meet a new friend tonight.”
Jake pulled out his credentials.
“Where’d you buy that? Looks real,” Showalter said.
“It is real,” Jake snapped, his patience evidently on edge. “You heard about the witches who killed the man the other day.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I believe that was them.”
“Those were clowns.”
“Oh, good God!” Jake exploded. “They were dressed up as witches. Now they’re dressed up as clowns. And they seem to have a vendetta against you. They were heading straight for you.”
“Witches, clowns, whatever. I’m not a criminal,” Showalter said indignantly. His confidence, however, seemed to be fraying. “The guy who was killed… He was a criminal. Sure, that’s my platform—people just can’t take the law into their own hands. It’s against everything we stand for as Americans. And it causes more and more damage. Oh, my God.” He stopped, his face draining of color as the situation became clear to him. “Do you really think that they were the killers and… You think they wanted to kill me? Right here? Now? In this crowd?”
“It’s damned possible,” Jake said.
The demeanor of the man had changed completely. “So—so what do I do now? I don’t own a gun. I’m not a violent man. I can’t even leave here. They could be waiting for me. And I won’t even know them. I don’t know if they’ll be witches or clowns or just people walking down the street. I don’t even know if they were men or women.”
Good call, Ashley thought. It was true. From what she understood, the witches’ makeup had concealed any concept of a real face, and the clowns had been wearing masks. They could have been male or female or a mix.
“You have to protect me. You have to.” Richard Showalter was working himself into a panic.
But it was true. He was now their responsibility. Ashley looked over at Jake.
They both knew it was true.
“Where do you live?” Jake asked.
“Garden District.”
“Okay. You have a car here?”
“Took an Uber. I knew I’d drink.”
“All right. We’ll get you there, and then I’ll have the cops watching your place. Please tell me you don’t put your real address out anywhere,” Jake said.
“No, I use a P.O. box,” Showalter said.
“Thank God for small favors,” Jake muttered.
They all turned to leave. The music stopped and Ashley turned again, looking back at the stage. Sammy Riley was up there now, and he called out to her loudly. “Hey, Ashley—where are you guys going? Thought you were going to come on up and do a number.”
“Next time, Sammy,” Ashley called.
“That’s next year,” Sammy said.
“Next year then,” Ashley said cheerfully and waved.
She wished he hadn’t called out to her, drawing attention to her and Jake and Richard Showalter.
“Hey,” Showalter said, balking.
“What?” Jake asked.
“Are you guys just fooling with me? You’re musicians? Is this all a crock—is that I.D. of yours a costume piece?”
“I’m an agent who loves his guitar. The badge is real.”
“It’s real,” Ashley swore. “I don’t know what to say to convince you. We need to see you’re—safe.”
Showalter sighed. “So help me, if this isn’t the truth… If you hurt me, kill me, I’ll… I’ll haunt the hell out of you.”
Ashley smiled. “Join the party,” she murmured.
“Let’s go,” Jake said firmly.
“All right, all right.” Showalter moved.
And Ashley still hesitated, just a second.
They had been watching people. They’d come to watch people.
But she was afraid that people might have been watching them too. It was just a feeling, but…
She shook her head and stopped that line of thought, hurrying out behind the men.
“I’m not a violent man. I don’t even carry a gun,” Showalter muttered as they went.
“Not to worry. I do,” Jake assured him.
The streets were busy. Jake urged Ashley and Showalter ahead of him until they reached the car. Once in, Jake got Showalter’s address and they drove the distance.
Showalter’s street in the Garden District was quiet at night. Stately old residences—most of them fenced, and most with alarm systems—sat quietly in the night like the Old Guard.
“There’s an alarm system?” Jake asked.
“Of course,” Showalter said.
“Excellent.”
“You have a dog?” Ashley asked.
“Sorry, I have a cat. A guard cat—honestly. I have a huge old mutt cat I think has some wild cat mixed in. He’ll go after you.”
Showalter opened the gate with his key and they followed him up to a handsome Georgian residence. He hesitated just a second, then opened the front door and stepped inside, hitting numbers on the alarm pad just inside the door.
“I’m confused. Are you staying? I mean, you’re not leaving me, right? Killer clowns, or witches. Or… Damn.”
“Jake will call the NOPD,” Ashley assured Showalter. “They’ll see that someone comes to watch out for you.”
“I don’t want just anyone in my house. Wait a minute. A good cop—a really good cop. Sure—he can be in my house. I mean, you’re not just going to get a cop to drive by every hour, or anything like that, right?”
Jake ignored him and stepped away to organize things on the phone.
Ashley watched him and tried to chat with Showalter too, aware he was actually making two calls.
“I love this place,” she said. And she did. The architectural style was one of her favorites.
“Me too. It’s real vintage New Orleans. My grandparents owned it. I used to come for summers, but I grew up in Chicago. Dad’s job.”
“Chicago is a great city, world class jazz and blues and museums and more,” Ashley said.
“Yes, that’s true. But I always loved this place. And I’m an only grandchild so it was mine if I wanted it. I work from home and I can handle the upkeep. My folks aren’t retired yet. They come when they can. As you can see, it’s plenty big.”
“You have no live-in help?”
He shook his head. “No. I have two housekeepers, but they come every couple of days. It’s just me. Not that big a mess.” He seemed to want answers then. “A guitar-playing G-man, huh? And you?”
“Jake and I have known each other since we were kids. We were in a band together at one time.”
“And now?”
“We live in Virginia.”
“But you’re locals.”
“Yes.” She shrugged and decided to say at last, “My name is Ashley Donegal.”
“Wow. Wow. Nice! I mean this house, I love it, but Donegal Plantation, that’s cool. Really cool.” He frowned. “They have G-men working on plantations now?”
“Trust me—NOLA has an office. With great agents. But Jake is part of a special unit. They’re in Virginia.”
“I see. I think.”
Jake came back to them, finished with his calls. “We’ll be splitting things up for the next twenty-four hours. NOPD and FBI,” he explained. “Officer Jacobs will be here soon.”
“How do we know we can trust him?” Showalter asked.
Jake frowned. “I thought you were all for the police.”
“I am.”
“So?”
“Can we trust him?” Showalter asked anxiously.
“I think so. He’s the nephew of the lead detective on the case—Detective Parks. Parks is great and intuitive—I’m glad to be helping him out. If he’s sending his nephew, he trusts his nephew.”
“And then?”
“Tomorrow, you’ll have a Krewe escort until…well, until we get where we need to be and you’re safe.”
“Krewe? Hey, it’s not Mardi Gras. I don’t need—”
“Krewe of Hunters. It’s a moniker for my special unit. You’ll be in good hands,” Jake promised him.
Showalter walked to the bar cart and offered them a drink. They refused.
“Fine. I’ll drink alone. No problem.”
He sat down, then nearly leapt up three feet when he heard the buzzer from his gate.
“That’s Jacobs,” Ashley said softly.
“Oh, okay. The key is there.” He pointed to the coffee table.
Ashley started to get it but Jake was ahead of her, sweeping it up and going back out to open the gate.
“I’m Larry Jacobs,” the young man in uniform was saying as Jake led him into the room. “Detective Parks sent me. Guard duty.”
He was young, lithe, and looked to be sharp as a tack. His hair was reddish and his eyes were a deep, intense brown. He looked around briefly and then asked, “Alarm system?”
“Yes,” Jake said, then he hesitated. “I don’t think anyone will come for him here—alarms cause a ruckus, though even the most sophisticated can be thwarted. This is precautionary. Just in case.”
“Understood. Nice to meet you,” Jacobs said to Ashley.
“A pleasure. And thank you,” Ashley said.
He nodded and held a hand out to Richard Showalter, who immediately offered him a drink.
“Not while I’m looking after you, sir,” Jacobs said.
Showalter seemed to appraise him, then nodded to Jake. “I like this kid.”
“Good. He’ll be with you until tomorrow, mid-morning. And don’t worry, someone else will be with you then,” Jake assured him.
“Until you all get tired of watching out for me, right?” Showalter took a swig of his drink.
“We don’t get tired of watching out for people,” Jake said.
Richard Showalter lifted his drink in a mock toast to Ashley. “And to think, for a moment I thought I was going to have a magical night.”
“It was a magical night,” Jake said curtly. “You’re alive.”
Showalter’s hand shook as he hastily put his drink down, slopping whiskey. “Yes, you’re right. Thank you both. I think.” He grimaced. “Maybe they were just clowns.”
“Good night,” Ashley told him softly.
“Goodnight, y’all,” Larry Jacobs called, and they bid him good night as well.
When they left, Ashley asked Jake, “You really do think the clowns were the witches, right?”
“Yeah, I do,” he told her. “They ran like hell when they saw me—instinct, I guess. I haven’t figured it out yet, but…”
“Vigilantes,” Ashley said. Jake seemed distant and—she thought—still upset with her. “But where does Shelley fit in? Or does she?”
Jake didn’t answer. “Tomorrow. I’ll get back on it tomorrow.”
He had said “I’ll.”
She wasn’t being invited into the city tomorrow.
She understood his worry. The clowns had stopped when they saw her. And the outfit she had chosen did resemble the one worn by the woman in the painting by Shelley she had purchased. The painting now in the backseat of the car.
When they reached Donegal, she was exhausted. “I’m going on up,” she said softly.
He stood in the foyer—between the two winding staircases where she had planned for them to marry—lost in thought.
“Jake?”
“I’ll be up in a bit,” he said.
But he wasn’t.
She showered and lay awake. He didn’t come.
But the dream did come. Again.
She was back on Bourbon Street, once more headed from Canal toward Esplanade. Hawkers were about, people laughing and talking. Music blared.
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.