The Unseen

“Do any of you ever dress up at the Alamo?” Logan asked.



“Sometimes, when they have reenactments,” Henry said. “Like in March, when the anniversary rolls around. But it’s a shrine, you know—a national shrine. They’re careful about filming there, and they don’t like bums getting dressed up to con tourists out of money.”



“I haven’t done one of those reenactments, but I’d like to,” Victor Lyle said regretfully.



None of these men seemed to be a mass murderer. Least of all, the guy playing Bowie…



When the break was over, and everyone was recalled to the set, Logan whispered to Kelsey, “I’m going to keep the director busy. Grab up the paper cups. Oh, and mark them with each man’s name.”



She frowned at him. Collect them without being noticed? Maybe. Mark them?



But Logan was good. He and Sean managed to get the cameramen and Firestone paying attention to them, with their backs toward Kelsey. The actors were milling around the stage; the makeup and prop people were in the dressing rooms. She quickly dug a marker from her purse and wrote initials on the cups, praying she wasn’t making any mistakes.



Firestone turned around once. She smiled and took a big bite of pastry, then had to swallow down the mouthful of guava and cheese.



She joined them a few minutes later, the paper coffee cups in plastic bags inside her large purse.



They stayed to watch as the scene was filmed one more time. Afterward, they heard Firestone complain about the position Jeff Chasson had put him in, with regard to the Longhorn Saloon.



“We were just going to film it here—in fact, the sets were ready to go. But Chasson is convinced he’s not only the expert, he’s the star. When I told him we were sticking to the schedule, he went over my head. To the important people,” Firestone said. He grinned ruefully at Kelsey. “That would be the money people.”



“Jeff Chasson,” Kelsey murmured. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of him before.”



Firestone irritably waved a hand in the air. “He’s written a few books on the history of Texas, the South, the Civil War. And he’s been interviewed in some of the big documentaries.” He paused. “This is a labor of love for a lot of us. We’re trying to tell the story that keeps our heroes heroes without romanticizing them. The producer wanted Jeff Chasson, and he wanted to be part of it. Don’t kid yourself—a director can be fired by the producer. My power is limited.”



“Sandy, who owns the Longhorn, is a good friend of mine,” Kelsey told him. “We’re going to be there and watch for a bit, if we may.”



“Your friend did us a tremendous favor, despite Mr. Chasson’s interference.” Firestone smiled. “You’re more than welcome.”



“Sandy was happy about the income,” Kelsey said. “Her upkeep is high.”



They spoke a while longer, then Sean walked them out. “There are other people who can do what I do here,” he muttered. “But when I suggested to Jackson that I quit, he asked if I’d stay on and work with you all at night. But he also said to talk to you, Logan.”



Logan stepped back for a moment. Kelsey sensed that he was startled by Sean’s words. “I think it’ll be good if we can keep our connection to the film, and that’s you, Sean. Stay with it, okay? I hope the hours don’t wear on you too badly.”



She loved Sean, and she knew he worked hard. He’d worked at a special-effects studio in L.A., a job he’d loved, for many years. He’d come home because his high school flame had been dying. Although they hadn’t made it as a couple, they’d never stopped being close. He’d always called Billie Jo Riley the true love of his life. He’d stuck with her until the end, and then, maybe a little broken, he’d stayed on in Texas. He wasn’t married and he didn’t have kids—and he still worked ridiculous hours.



Sean shook his head. “No, I’m in.”



He gave Kelsey a hug. “Hey, remember, if you want out of the Longhorn, kid, just holler.”



“Sean, you cannot call a U.S. Marshal kid, even if she’s your cousin,” Kelsey chastised, smiling. “But I need to stay at the saloon. It’s another connection we have.”



She and Logan left the studio and returned to the station and their dedicated room. Jackson was there alone. “Poorly collected evidence, but we have these if we need them,” Logan said as Kelsey took the coffee cups from her handbag. “They were intended for the garbage, and would have been in the garbage.”



“Technically, would have been is not the same as actually being there,” Jackson pointed out.



“We can’t use it in court, but if they help us find a killer, then we’ll look for a way to make our case,” Logan said.



Jackson nodded.



Logan checked his watch. “We’re going over to the Longhorn,” he said. “You never know what we might learn. So far, we don’t have a shred of evidence—or, I should say, we have a mountain of it that means nothing.”



They went back to the Longhorn, coming in through the kitchen. Ricky was there, along with a few of the guests who seemed happy enough to be sitting around, enjoying the free alcohol.



Corey Simmons was among them. He greeted them warmly. “Hey! This worked out just great for me. I met the director, and he said he liked my look. And he found out what I do for a living, that I’m the real rodeo deal. I’m going to be a performer! I mean, on film. They hired me to be one of the couriers when they do the scenes with the fellows slipping out across the Mexican lines.”



“That’s great,” Kelsey said. “I’m happy for you, Corey.”



He gave her an enthusiastic hug. “And to think! If it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t have stayed on here!”



Ricky interrupted them. “You can go into the saloon now. Quietly, I’ve been told. They’re running film. Jeff Chasson wants his practice filmed, in case it’s better than any of the takes.”



“We won’t make a sound,” Kelsey promised.



She led the way, Logan close behind her. They entered the saloon on tiptoe and walked around the seating area in a wide arc.



Bernie Firestone, standing near one of the cameramen, turned and waved to them, urging them in.



Sandy, who was seated at one of the saloon tables, waved as well, inviting them to join her.



They slid into seats at her table.



One of the other bartenders was dressed in the vest, cotton shirt and string tie that a bartender might have worn in the mid-1800s.



Jeff Chasson leaned against the bar like a rugged frontiersman on the day of the Alamo.



He was blond and clean-shaven, but he did look convincing as he stood there, a hat on the bar, beside a long rifle.



“It was here that the men came when they needed respite. Remember, the defense of Texas fell into the hands of a mixture of people—old settlers and new settlers, those who came hoping for land and glory. They were a ragtag band, not a regular army. So, while many a rancher, Ranger and drifter passed through, their station in life didn’t really matter. We’re in the old Longhorn Saloon. Famous for the best whiskey in the area and the prettiest girls. Among them was the legendary Rose Langley. She sang, and she served, and she flirted—the most coveted of all the girls. But she’d come to San Antonio with one of the roughest men to ever draw a bead on Texas. He died in the fight for independence, or so it’s assumed, but he was hardly one of our heroes. Before he disappeared, part of the massive death toll that brought Texas independence, Matt Meyer became enraged with the beautiful Rose, and strangled her right here at the inn, up in Room 207.”



The narrator turned dramatically to indicate the staircase. “Up those stairs. Room 207. And the history and the legends live on,” he added ominously.



Kelsey saw the horror on Sandy’s face.



“Rose was strangled, but in the aftermath, in the years that followed, like the legend of the Alamo itself, the legend of the Longhorn was destined to continue. So will we ever know? Is the Alamo really hallowed ground, drenched with the blood of heroes? Is it haunted by the men who died there? And is the historic Longhorn just as haunted, with spirits—old and new—drifting along that staircase?”



Chasson let the sentence fade away.



Sandy was tense, waiting for what he’d say next.



Then he settled back at the bar. “Jeff Chasson at the Alamo, now and then.”



The knowing smile left the man’s face as he pushed away from the bar and started toward Bernie Firestone. “That’s bullshit, pure bullshit. We need to add the part about the murder of Sierra Monte. The Alamo now and then—” he snorted. “We’ve talked about the massacre in Goliad and what happened in San Antonio. It’s bullshit not to mention the murder last year! We can sell this thing ten times over if we talk about blood dripping through the woodwork. Not then but now.”



Chapter Ten



Sandy was distressed. She got to her feet, wanting to protest, clearly not knowing how. Kelsey leaped up, too, and Logan, afraid that Kelsey would try to defend Sandy first and use diplomacy second, decided to take the matter into his own hands.



He winked at Sandy, then walked over to the director and Chasson.



“Excuse me,” Logan said. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he began.



Chasson turned and stared at him in irritation. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.



“I’m a friend of Sandy’s, and I’m also a Texas Ranger, Mr. Chasson,” Logan said politely. He went on before Chasson could ask what business he had interfering. “I should warn you that you’re in the Longhorn due to the largesse of the owner. The events that occurred here in the 1830s are well-known, but for you to sensationalize the presumed death of an innocent girl is in extremely bad taste. If you simply present known facts, that’s one thing. But you’re doing a documentary on the Alamo, not on unsolved murders in Texas. You could be setting up this production for a major lawsuit—by the owner, by the victim’s family—and you’d be named right along with the production company. Or Ms. Holly might determine that the production should be thrown out and you could be banned from ever stepping foot in the Longhorn Saloon again.”