Krewe of Hunters The Unseen (35 page)

“I’ll do my best,” Alice said. “There’s a little office back there that Shelby will let us use.”

Kelsey called Jane, who came over from the station im-IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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mediately and sat down with Alice in Shelby’s private office, Kelsey marveled at the dexterity in Jane’s fingers as she quickly sketched and an image appeared.

“It looks like Blackbeard meets frontierman,” Jane said.

“The cheekbones should be a little higher, and the eyes a little farther apart,” Alice told her.

Jane erased and changed, and showed Alice the picture again.

“Yes, yes, that’s very close,” Alice said.

When they’d finished the sketch, Kelsey could see that Alice White was growing restless, glancing at her watch; she needed to pick up her children. Kelsey thanked her, and let her go. Jane went back to the station with the sketch so the others could see it. When she’d gone, Sean came over to where Kelsey was standing, saying goodbye to Jane.

“I’ve got something I want to show you,” he said. “We might have found one of our other girls. Log-in name is
psychicchic.
She had a similar line of correspondence going with our suspect,
Mr.Alamo,
on a social network.” Kelsey followed him to the computer and read the messages between the two.
Psychicchic
had posted about a séance she’d attended and how the medium had turned to her for help. She bragged about the ghosts she’d contacted.

Mr.Alamo
started out by doubting her, then pressing her about proving she had real ability. She could stretch her talents, he said, by coming to the Alamo. “There’s her picture,” Sean pointed out. “I’ll run it off and see what kind of matchup we can get. And I’ll try to trace her—find out if she’s missing. The only picture of
Mr.Alamo
is right there.” He pointed at a small image on the screen.

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“That’s Davy Crockett,” Kelsey said.

“That’s what it is,” Sean agreed. “Okay, I’m going to the station now. Do you want to drive in with me?” Kelsey shook her head. “I’m going to the Longhorn. I’ll wait for Logan there. Call me if you come up with anything else.”

“Kelsey…” Sean started to speak, but his voice drifted off. There wasn’t much to say.

“She’s been gone overnight now, Sean. And Jeff Chasson’s dead. I’m really afraid it’s not looking good.”

“Yeah, but keep the faith,” he said. “I can drop you at the inn.”

“No, that’s okay. I like the walk.”

When Sean left, she thanked the manager for all his assistance—and his coffee. He assured her he’d be there if she needed anything else.

She walked to the Longhorn and looked over at the Alamo and the plaza, struck by how beautiful the city could be.

When she entered the saloon, some of the cowboys were there, and Bernie Firestone and Earl Candy might as well have been fixtures on their stools.

Ricky, meanwhile, was looking lost and forlorn, wiping a glass as he stood behind the bar.

Kelsey went over to greet them. All three were glum.

“Anything new, Kelsey?
Anything?
” Ricky asked.

“As you’ve probably heard, they found Jeff Chasson’s body, but no trace of Sandy, so there’s still hope,” Kelsey said.

“Jeez.” Earl stared into his beer. “I hated that bastard. He was a royal pain to work with, but…”

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“Looks like we’re all done filming,” Bernie said. He raised his glass. “To Jeff. May there be a big audience to greet him in the sky!”

“I guess the documentary is…” Kelsey began.

“Dead?” Bernie asked her dryly. “No, we have enough to put together a film. And, trust me, it’ll sell.”

“Well, that’s good,” Kelsey said. “For everyone who’s invested time and money in it. And it’ll be a way of honoring Jeff.”

Bernie nodded. “Who would’ve thought he’d die like that?” He shivered. “You know,” he said quietly. “It seemed to be just women in danger. But now, no one’s safe. I hope you catch the bastard.”

“Me, too,” Kelsey murmured, glancing around the bar. A number of men from the rodeo were at various tables, including Corey Simmons, who sat alone. He saw her watching him, and lifted his glass, his eyes grave.

She made her way over to him. “Corey, you okay?”

“I was. But I just heard about Chasson. And that Sandy’s disappeared into thin air.” He grimaced. “This place isn’t just haunted. It’s cursed. I’ve got two more days to make some money bull riding, and then I’m out of here.” She patted his shoulder. “I don’t believe a place can be cursed, Corey. People bring their own grief and guilt, but a
place
isn’t cursed.”

As she talked to him, the doors swung open and she saw that Ted Murphy had returned. He headed straight for the bar to take the seat next to Bernie Firestone and ordered a beer. He met Kelsey’s eyes. “I’ve been doing anything you all have asked me to get those pictures out there. I’m doing IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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whatever I can to get the public involved,” he said defen-sively.

“I wasn’t going to attack you, Ted.”

“I’m ready to do whatever will help. The whole community is in a state of shock,” he said. “Everyone’s scared.”

“That includes me. I’ll be closing up early,” Ricky told her. He leaned on the bar and whispered, “I gave Jackson Crow the names of our overnight guests. He ran them through some computer—goes all over the country—and at least we don’t have anyone with anything worse than a parking ticket!”

“I’m sure we’re safe here. I noticed there’s a police car outside.”

“I wish they’d left Tyler, but this is a new guy. I felt safer with Ranger Montague. The one out there, well, he seems to be dozing with his hat on. Wish he’d come in and stare people down the way Montague did.”

“Well, I’m here, Ricky, if you need me.”

“Thanks,” he murmured. “What the hell made Sandy go off with that guy?” he demanded loudly.

“Sex,” Ted Murphy answered. “Chasson always told me he could pick up a woman and get laid any night he wanted.” He cleared his throat, realizing he was talking to close friends of the missing woman. “Ms. Holly is very attractive, and Jeff Chasson could be extremely…seductive.”

“Well, I’m going to my room for a while,” Kelsey said.

“Ricky, if something comes up or if anyone wants to see me, call me, okay?”

He nodded gravely.

Kelsey walked up the stairs, wondering why she was IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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so convinced that the answers had to be somewhere in Room 207. But now, when she went in, it seemed empty, as if all life—and death—had left it. She was in the midst of well-tended period furniture and plaster dust.

The bed was in bad shape. She dusted the quilt, kicked off her heels and lay back.

Kelsey closed her eyes and tried to reconstruct everything she’d seen, willing herself to view the image of the residual haunting again. In a few minutes, she opened her eyes slightly, and a silvery mist seemed to pervade the air.

Then it dissipated and the residual haunting began.

Rose and Matt.
She, with her stunning dark hair piled atop her head, in her usual half-dressed state, the rest of her gar-ments strewn about. Matt in his dark suit, a tall hat, dapper but still rough around the edges.

He strode furiously across the room and seized hold of Rose, saying, “You won’t hold out on me! I want it, and I want it now.”

“I don’t have it,” she said.

The rest of the scene played out as she knew it would.

Just like he had before, he reached out for Rose and his fingers curled around her neck. He strangled her, ignoring her pleas. Then Rose went limp, dead, and Matt picked her up and threw her on the bed and the scene faded. But this time, when it was gone, Kelsey kept seeing the death in her mind, and she tried to figure out what bothered her about it.

Don’t think too hard. Let it come.

She got up and walked to the broken wall. How had Sierra’s killer had managed to do it all—kill her so viciously IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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and disappear, right in the middle of the inn’s sale and renovation?

A moment later, she went to her window and looked at the small yard. She caught sight of the old toolshed. It was just used by the gardeners now, Kelsey assumed, but she was suddenly tempted to check it out. She hesitated. She didn’t want to go through the gauntlet of men in the bar again; she wasn’t up to dealing with their questions and fears. But she wondered, if in the search for Sierra, anyone had inspected the toolshed. She couldn’t imagine that Jackson Crow or Logan hadn’t looked there.

Kelsey leaned out the window. There was a sturdy branch reaching up from an old oak; its leaves actually touched the outside wall. Ref lecting that she hadn’t been a tomboy for nothing, Kelsey climbed onto the sill and stretched out, swinging herself over, testing her weight. It was absurdly easy to grab the branch, go hand over hand to the trunk, drop to a lower branch and then down to the ground.

She started across the manicured grounds and toward the toolshed.

The door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges. Inside, the small shed was dark, but she could see neat rows of gardening supplies and tools. She entered cautiously—and heard something, or thought she did. She paused, listening. She studied the space in which she stood. It was about twelve by twelve, and with the lawn mower, the shelves and more, she didn’t see anything that could make a noise.

But then she heard it again, and it seemed to come from beneath her.

The inn had a basement, of course, and she knew that IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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Sandy stored things down there, in the various rooms created by the foundations. But would a toolshed have a basement? She wished she’d asked her more about the building itself.

The noise came again. And this time, it sounded like a word. A single word.

“Help.”

“Sandy?” Kelsey cried anxiously. She fell to her knees, studying the f loor. There was nothing, no hint of cellar door or opening.

She moved the lawn mower and still saw nothing. She ran her hands over the f loor and felt a line, a slight ridge.

Following the line, she realized it was a f lat three-sided door. Probably the entrance to some kind of tornado shel-ter.

She opened the door and peered in. Pitch dark. She’d have to go back to the house and get a f lashlight.

But she heard her name, called out in a soft, barely discernible whisper. “Kelsey? Kelsey, please hurry!”

“Sandy, I can’t see you.”

“Just jump. It’s low…there’s sawdust, oh, please, please, before…”

Sandy’s voice trailed off. Desperate, Kelsey angled herself around, gripped the edge of the f looring, dangled for a minute and then let herself drop.

She didn’t fall far. She landed on a pile of old clothes or bedding and struggled to sit up.

A light began to glow and she felt something touch the back of her neck. She heard the sound of hoarse, throaty laughter. She felt a calm sweep through her body, a strange IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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sense not of paralysis, but of almost lazy pleasure, and as her Glock was slipped from her holster, she knew she’d been hit with the drug cocktail.

“Welcome,” came a voice. “Now we’ll find the diamond!”

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W hen Logan reached the station, he was advised of the strides the team had made in the past few hours.

He sat with Sean, who was reading emails and trying to match up Facebook pages with missing women. They were dejected when they realized that
psychicchic
was a missing eighteen-year-old from Nebraska who’d hitchhiked down to Oklahoma with friends and was then never heard from again.

Logan said grimly that he’d contact the family and they’d get a DNA sample.

“Where are we on looking up anyone who might have had a medical, chemical or pharmaceutical background?” he asked.

“Pretty much nowhere,” Sean told him. “Most of the potential suspects went to Texas schools, and no one studied medicine, but they all had to take a pretty tough course in chemistry in order to graduate from high school. Our Ted IN PROCESS EDITION - JAN. 10, 2012

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Murphy recently took a course called ‘Street Drugs and Slang for Journalists.’ Cowboy Corey did some classes in animal husbandry. Ricky took a number of cooking classes.

It doesn’t matter about Jeff Chasson anymore, does it?” He paused. “Ironically, our latest victim—or likely victim—