Phantom Evil

“Dangerous? Do you think that some manifestation in the room might be responsible for Regina’s death?” Jenna asked.



“No. I really don’t. What I—what I see is a pair of children, victims of Madden C. Newton,” Angela said. She frowned suddenly. “And—and Newton himself. Newton attacking the children. Annabelle and Percy. The nightmare had Newton in it. It was horrible. The terror those poor children felt was just beyond imagination.”



“And beyond the grave,” Jenna said, still watching her, troubled.



Will was thoughtful. “Those murders happened. We know that they were real. And you have the ability to see them, but…from what I understand, the Holloways claimed they didn’t believe in ghosts.”



“There was an article in the paper—way back, when they first bought the place. Senator Holloway said it was a beautiful place and should be brought to life again,” Whitney said.



“I’m guessing he didn’t mean like this,” Jenna said.



Will shrugged, drawing his knees to his chest. “Actually, Angela, you’re seeing things because you have an extraordinary sixth sense. I’m not sure that it’s not something that maybe everyone can tap into—we just don’t know yet. I wonder what Regina saw. I mean, was there someone in there? Was she tricked into believing that someone was in there? Other than the fact that her neck was broken and her skull was crushed, Regina wasn’t torn up. I mean, she didn’t struggle with anyone. How did she wind up out on the balcony?”



“It might have been that someone was there that she trusted,” Jenna suggested.



“And she might have had that illusion,” Will said. He reached behind Whitney’s ear and produced a dollar bill. “Illusion can be everything.”



“That was just a silly parlor trick,” Whitney said.



“All illusions carried out by magicians are parlor tricks. That’s the point—illusions can be very real,” Will said.



“But an illusion didn’t push Regina Holloway over the balcony,” Angela said. “Still, I do believe that what we have in the mind can be just as powerful as something hard and tangible. Maybe we’re looking for…I don’t know. Illusion, ghosts—and a live person somehow pulling strings somewhere.” The film had continued running as they talked. She gasped suddenly, and pointed at the bottom middle screen to images from the basement.



“What the hell is that?” she demanded.



“Oh, that’s what we wanted you to see!” Will said, pleased.



They all stared at the screen. Will stopped and started the film, bringing the image back to the beginning of movement.



There was nothing. It might have been still footage. It was just a picture of the basement at the bottom of the stairs.



Then, subtly, it seemed that a shadow grew. Small, barely discernible, and then growing darker and larger.



It appeared as if some great, hulking beast in a cape might be there.



And then, the shadow dissipated. And they were just staring at the basement once again.



Angela’s call came while they drove from the Church of Christ Arisen to the CBD.



“I’ve got a new spin for you,” she told him.



“And what’s that?” he asked her.



“I’m glad I went out. Mama Matisse was willing to spend the time talking to us. She is the first person I’ve met who isn’t so fond of the senator. She believed that he was having an affair,” Angela told him.



“Really? That is a new spin,” he said, glancing over at Jake. “We have our first suggestion that Senator Holloway was involved with another woman,” he said. “What made her think so? And is that why she doesn’t like him?”



“I don’t think so. She didn’t think that he put enough hands-on work into it all when the city was in trouble. You know how some politicians hand-wash oil-laden birds when the cameras are rolling, and disappear right after? Well, that’s what she thinks of him. I don’t know—it seems to me that his grief for his wife is real.”



“So, why does she expect an affair?” Jackson asked.



“Well, Regina had been to see her, and the senator had picked her up. And he was dismissive of the shop, of voodoo, of Mama Matisse, and he was on the phone with someone while waiting for her, and got off quickly when he saw her. Not much evidence, I agree. But an interesting angle. We have all believed that the senator was as pure as snow, a man to be pitied. He might just be an extremely fine actor, which does go hand in hand with politics,” Angela said.



“Well, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” Jackson assured her. “We’re on our way to his offices now. I’m hoping to have some conversations with his crew—while they’re split up.”



“Hey, by the way. There’s something else you’ve got to see,” Angela told him.



“And what’s that?”



“A shadow.”



“A shadow?”



“It’s really strange. It’s a shadow we caught on film in the basement.”



“Does it—do anything?” Jackson asked.



“No, it appears, and it disappears. But it’s really quite amazing.”



“A ghost? Something’s got to be down there to cast a shadow.” Jackson knew that there was skepticism in his voice, and he never quite understood why he would mock anyone. He did believe in the possibilities; he’d also seen way too much done by shysters. It all came back to two basic concepts—energy didn’t die, and the human spirit’s need to believe there was something beyond the rigors and pains of life on earth. He’d seen too many organizations—such as the Church of Christ Arisen—that could take beautiful tenets and twist them into something that was mind controlling, greedy and cruel.



“I don’t know,” Angela answered slowly. “You’ll just have to see it yourself,” she said. “Good luck.”



“Thanks. And you all be careful,” he told her.



“Of course,” she said. He heard her click off the connection and he slipped his phone back into his front shirt pocket.



“That’s the building,” Jake said, and Jackson, driving, nodded, and started looking for a parking space on the street. The building had a garage, but he preferred being on the street. Somewhere, not far, the sedan that was driven by Grable Haines had to be parked, awaiting the senator’s whim.



He found parking and they both exited the car. “Well, boss?” Jake asked.



“Find the chauffeur,” Jackson told him.



“Aye, aye, sir,” Jake said. Hands in his pockets, whistling softly, he started off.



In the building, Jackson discovered that the senator’s offices occupied a suite on the fifth floor; he went up the elevator. He thought the building was probably built around 1900; it wasn’t ornate, nor was it ill-kept. It was an everyman’s building if he had ever seen one.



He entered the suite door, and found himself in a vestibule. At a chair in front of a bank of computer screens on a plain wooden desk was Blake Conroy. He smiled as Jackson entered.



“Hey, there. So you’ve come to see the senator’s New Orleans offices,” he said. He’d been well aware, apparently, that Jackson had been on his way up.



“Yes, I thought I’d have a word with him here, get an idea of his situation when he was in town. I can see that no one could sneak up on him here, not with you on guard.”



“No, sir,” Blake said, pleased. His bald head shone. He was dressed in his customary nondescript suit, but his tie was loosened.



“But you weren’t here the day that Mrs. Holloway died,” Jackson said.



Blake flushed. “The senator wasn’t taking any appointments that day. We all thought that he was perfectly safe. He came in, and locked up. And Lisa Drummond was here, of course, and she could press an alarm button at any time. The senator is no slouch himself—he has a Glock in his office desk, and he knows how to use it.”



“Interesting. But he still needs a bodyguard?”



“Yeah, out in public. He’d never want to be seen carrying a gun.”



“No, I don’t suppose that would be good for his public image,” Jackson agreed.



Blake shrugged. “It is Louisiana, but…no, he doesn’t want to be seen carrying a gun. And in public, with those crazies out there, you never really know what might happen.”



“This is your usual position, though, huh?” Jackson asked him.



He nodded. “The senator wants to be a man of the people—but not a stupid man. And Lisa is a real secretary, you know? She’s not a judo expert or anything of the like. So she wouldn’t be much help if someone did try to get in to hurt the senator. Unless they’re just going to lock up and work on paper—bills, committee work—I’m out here.”



“How often are you off?” Jackson asked him.



“Not often,” Blake told him. “Maybe a few days in a few months, that’s all.”



“But you happened to be off that day?”



“Yes, the senator had cleaned his slate so that he could work on a few speeches and read over some committee bills he and others were working on,” Blake told him.



“So, shouldn’t his aide have been with him?” Jackson asked.



“Naw, the senator needed time alone to think. Sometimes, having an entourage can get old, you know?”



“What about his secretary?” Jackson asked.



“You’re about to meet her, aren’t you?” Blake asked in return.



“Was she working with him then?” Jackson asked.



Blake frowned. He might have gotten punched one too many times as a fighter. He was truly puzzled.



“Hey, you’ll have to ask about that. I’m not even sure. I didn’t work at all that day—I didn’t see the senator until they called me. Just ask her—she keeps a regular schedule of everything. I mean, if she can’t remember, she can just look at her schedule. Although, to be honest, I can’t imagine anyone forgetting what they’d been doing that day. It was a horrible day,” Blake said sadly.