Heart of Evil

Everything seemed to be in perfect order; Ashley’s dreams had been for nothing.



Except, of course, that the reenactment always made her think about Jake.



They were due to leave soon, within the next few days, but since Adam Harrison’s group was still in New Orleans, they finished with the training they were doing there, and waiting for the move, Jake had agreed to go wandering around the French Quarter with his fellow newly minted agent, Whitney Tremont.



“I must admit, I’m going to be sorry to leave New Orleans,” Whitney said. She stared out toward Jackson Square. “There was so much paperwork after the Holloway case, it felt like we were picking up the pieces for days at first. But it’s been nice to have this bit of time to get ready for our move, since we’re all taking up residence in the D.C. area. Though, I’m excited—I mean, we’re going to have offices, Jake. Like really cool offices, in a building in Alexandria—with help! A forensics lab! State-of-the-art equipment.”



Jake grinned. “Yes, it’s going to be interesting to get settled in.”



Whitney grinned back. Her skin was like the café au lait that sat before them. He knew that the others had thought the two of them might wind up together, but what they had formed instead was a friendship, deep and binding.



“But it was good, I think—just being thrown together as freelancers of a sort for our first case. Don’t you think?” she asked. “But federal positions…though I don’t think we really get to stay in those fancy buildings that often, do you?”



“We’re like any other team or unit for the FBI, I believe. The cases come in, and I’m assuming that Adam Harrison and Jackson Crow decide what looks like something we should take on. We’ll get to discuss the situation then. And make the plans.”



“Do you think that any of us could put a case forward?” she asked.



“Sure.” He smiled. “Let’s face it, Whitney, we are an experiment in paranormal investigations. We’re unique, and I’m sure there are those who will make fun of the ‘Krewe of Hunters’ unit.”



“Not anymore. Not after the Holloway case,” she said proudly.



“We have to keep proving that we’re good at what we do,” Jake said. The name “Krewe” they’d given themselves had begun as a joke, but they’d become a real crew through their passion for the work.



“Hmm,” Whitney said, twirling her straw in her iced café au lait. “It’s here somewhere.”



“Here? What’s here? Sometimes you make no sense.”



That made her laugh. “Only sometimes? I think that our new case is going to be here. Somewhere in Louisiana.”



“We’re about to move to Alexandria,” he pointed out.



“I don’t know…I just have a feeling. I don’t think we’ll be going yet. You wait and see.”



“What makes you think that?” Jake asked. Whitney’s prowess was with film, sound and video. But she also seemed to have amazing intuition. Of course, they had all been gathered into the group because of their intuition, their ability to solve problems where others could not, but where Angela Hawkins was quiet, finding what she found without much ado, and Jackson would always be the skeptic, Whitney went in wide-eyed, eager for whatever might not be considered normal.



“Feelings and logic, that’s kind of the Krewe of Hunters motto, right?” she asked.



He laughed, but something was knotting in the pit of his stomach. “I think it’s supposed to be logic—and then feelings,” he told her. He gazed idly across the street. The mule-drawn carriages were starting to arrive in front of Jackson Square. An early-morning tour group was forming on Decatur Street. One of the history tours, he thought.



“Well, of course, good old Jackson, he’s still swearing solving cases is all logic, and we all know that he knows best,” Whitney said.



Jake wasn’t really paying attention. He had seen the tour-group leader come out—he wasn’t sure where she had come from. Of course, there were a number of restaurants and bars in the area, and some had been open forever. It was New Orleans. No one frowned if you discovered you were dying for that 8:00 a.m. drink.



The tour guide was a blonde woman dressed in Civil War attire. Her bonnet hid her face, but she was tall and statuesque, and he had a feeling that she was going to be an attractive woman before he saw her face. Assured, probably in her mid to late thirties, she moved among the chattering crowd as they waited.



She was coming toward the sidewalk, politely excusing herself as she did so, but people didn’t seem to notice as she made her way through them, which said a lot for the good nature of the group, since she was wearing a respectable day dress with large hoops.



She paused when she reached the sidewalk.



Jake started. She was staring straight at him, and she smiled, but her smile seemed to be very sad. Her mouth moved. He squinted. He wasn’t all that much at reading lips, but it was almost as if he could hear her.



“We’re waiting, we need you. Hurry,” he thought she said.



“Jake?”



“Huh?” He turned back to look at Whitney.



“Want to move on?” she asked.



“Yes, sure,” he agreed. He stood and left a tip on the table, having already paid the waiter.



When he glanced up again, the tour had moved on down toward the cathedral. He didn’t see the woman, but they would be walking in the same direction.



“Whitney,” he asked as they did so, “did you understand what that woman was trying to say?”



“What woman?”



“She was the guide for that group that’s ahead of us. She looked right over at us and said something,” Jake told her.



Whitney arched a delicately formed brow. “First, I didn’t see the woman, but I wasn’t looking. And second, if she’d spoken from across the street, unless she’d been yelling, how could I have heard anything she had to say?”



He shrugged. “Good point.”



They walked up St. Ann Street, took a pedestrian thruway as they passed by the square, then turned in right in front of the cathedral, where the tour group had now paused.



The woman wasn’t with them. There was a man in a top hat and frock coat leading the tour.



Jake stopped short.



“Hey! Hey there, remember me?” Whitney said, nudging him.



“Just a second,” Jake said. He knew that the man would finish his spiel about St. Louis Cathedral, and then allow the group to take pictures.



This guide, however, apparently liked to hear himself speak. He added in several personal anecdotes regarding the cathedral, before allowing his group to disperse for pictures.



When the group finally thinned, Jake approached him. The fellow, in his mid-twenties, saw them coming.



“The tour offices are actually on Decatur, sir, if you’re interested in any of our offerings. We do history tours, ghost tours, vampire tours, plantation tours—”



“Actually, we’re locals and could do the tours,” Jake said, interrupting him with a pleasant tone. “I’m just curious—why did you all change tour guides at the last minute?”



The man frowned. “We didn’t. I’ve been scheduled for over a week to do this tour.”



Jake frowned. “I saw a woman with your group. She was dressed in antebellum clothing, bonnet and all.”



“Oh, she was probably heading for Le Petit Theatre,” the tour guide said. “They’re doing several performances of Our American Cousin. She’s a bit early to be in costume for the matinee, but I imagine you saw one of the actresses.”



“Oh, well, thanks,” Jake said.



“Why?”



“Oh, I just thought she was trying to tell me something,” Jake said.



“If she was trying to tell you something, wouldn’t she have just done so?” the man asked.



Jake was irritated by the tone; frankly, he hadn’t liked the man since he’d heard him giving his own life’s history along with the tour.



He felt Whitney’s hand on his arm.



He forced a smile. “Thanks, thanks for the help,” he said.



Whitney pulled him along. “Jerk,” she said.



“Ass,” Jake agreed.



“I meant you,” Whitney teased. “No, sorry—he was a jerk. But come on now! We don’t have any reason to go to the theater.”



“But we’re going to pass it!” Jake protested.



“Let it go, Jake. You saw an actress, and you thought she had something to say. Without sounding just as jerky as that jerk, it’s true—if she’d really wanted to talk to you, she would have come on over. I don’t want to help you stalk a woman, Jake.”



“I don’t want to stalk her. I want to know who she is,” Jake said.



But they did pass right by Le Petit Theatre. He couldn’t help but stop to read the playbill and look at the pictures of the actors in the show.



“She’s not here,” he said.



“Well, God knows, this is New Orleans. Maybe she’s just a kook who likes to dress up in Southern belle attire, though God knows why, the heat can be a bitch. Forget it, Jake.”



Jake agreed. He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much that he’d seen the woman and hadn’t been able to talk to her.



That wasn’t true. He did know. There had been something vaguely familiar about her, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.



“Jake? Are you okay?” Whitney asked.



“Fine.”



“No, you’re not.”



“It’s nothing, really. Hey, nothing that car bombs tonight after dinner with the group won’t cure, right?” he said, setting an arm around her shoulders as he led her down the street.



Car bombs weren’t going to fix anything. He was truly disturbed by the woman.



Why was she so familiar? Was she real, or was she in his imagination? Had he brought his dream world to the surface, and did he want her to be from Donegal?