man well,” Mike Thornton said, pushing back a lock of dark hair. He was a lot like his brother, in both looks and mannerisms. He and Brad had been making movies together since they’d been kids.
“And,” Jimmy said to Charlie, “you didn’t know either one of them, unless it’s from when you were a kid, because you weren’t there for the special reenactment they did on the Journey a week ago—like so many of us were.” He was wearing a brave face, but she could see he was deeply upset by the murders.
He had never really forgiven himself for being involved the night a serial killer had almost killed her.
“Right, I was doing that webisode series. Banshees on the Bayou.”
Brad smiled. “I hope this film is as successful as Banshees on the Bayou.”
“A bunch of us were involved because there was a corporate sponsor, so we were paid pretty decently,” Jennie said, then went quiet for a long moment. “That’s when we met the men who’ve been killed.”
“Who—who else was working that day?” Charlie asked, more worried than she wanted to let on.
“Well, your dad, for one,” Luke pointed out.
“Yeah, my dad. I know. Who else?” she asked.
“Let’s see,” Brad said, looking around. “Me and Mike, Barry and Luke... Jennie did makeup.”
“Todd and I were there, too.”
Charlie spun around to see that Nancy Camp—née Deauville—was standing right behind her. “We earn extra money any time we can. We didn’t hang around, just did the bit they were paying us for, then left. You have to try to make more money than day-care costs or it’s not worth it to work. Tons of locals were there, not just us.”
“Jimmy Smith and Grant Ferguson,” Brad added, then shook his head. “We were just extras. There was a scene between Hickory and Corley, though. I’m sure you already know this, but there was supposedly a meeting between a black Union orderly and a Confederate cavalry captain when the Journey was turned over to the Union. We were extras in that scene. We brought our own uniforms, so they cast us a lot.”
“I have my Confederate infantry uniform and a Union artillery uniform,” Barry said. “I can make money on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line.”
Charlie grinned at that. But her smile quickly faded. “Did you notice anything wrong, anything that was even a little bit off, that day? Was anyone fighting?”
“I think there was a bit of a tiff between Corley and Hickory,” Luke said. “They were both convinced they were historians, not just reenactors, and they disagreed about some detail of the scene. It got a little heated, but then your dad stepped in and calmed them down. But...well, they’re both dead, so it’s unlikely they killed each other.”
“It’s pretty damned stupid for anyone to kill someone over a reenactment,” Jennie said.
Brad shrugged. “People can be crazy sometimes.”
There wasn’t much of an argument to be made against that, so they all fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. Then Jennie made a comment about how good the food was, and the conversation turned to everyone’s favorite restaurants in their favorite cities.
Charlie found herself smiling and laughing along with the others. But all the while she was making mental notes of things she needed to tell Ethan.
Farrell Hickory and Albion Corley had both taken part in the special reenactment aboard the Journey.
They had argued, and her father had intervened.
A number of her friends had also been involved in the reenactment: Brad and Mike Thornton, Jennie McPherson, Barry Seymour, Luke Mayfield, Grant Ferguson, George Gonzales and Jimmy Smith.
She didn’t want to think that any one of them could be the killer.
Of course they were all innocent, she thought, giving herself a mental shake.
Because if one of them was the killer, surely he—or she—would have acted strangely while they were filming the rise of a ghostly army so close to the place where one of the victims lay dead.
* * *
“Wow. Ethan Delaney! As I live and breathe. Back and slumming it all in small-town America.”
“Nice to see you, too, Randy,” Ethan said, greeting his old friend outside the parish morgue on Oak Street.
The two of them were only about a month apart in age. They’d been friends throughout high school, making a lot of the same mistakes, going through the same wild stages, cleaning up their act when the world demanded they had to be adults. They’d lost contact when they went their separate ways after college. Since Ethan’s parents had moved to New Orleans, he hadn’t had much occasion to get back out to St. Francisville.
“Never thought of us as coming from the slums,” Ethan said.
Randy grinned. “Yeah, we were all right, growing up, huh? I love this part of the world. I guess you can tell, seeing as I came back here. Look at you, though—a real live Fed.”
“And look at you, a big-shot cop,” Ethan said. “Not bad for a kid who got hauled in on more Saturday nights than anyone else I knew.”
“Detective, West Feliciana Parish Sheriff’s Office, I’ll have you know. The deaths actually occurred in two different towns in the parish, so we were called in on lead,” Randy said, and grinned. “Special Agent Delaney. I have to say, I’m kind of surprised to see you down here for something like this. Wait, no, I’m not surprised you’re here at all. This has to do with Charlie Moreau being back in the area, too, right? Bad business back then. Though I never did understand Jonathan being so pissed at you. You threw yourself on the guy.”
“That was ten years ago,” Ethan said.
“Bet you Jonathan is still pissed,” Randy said.
“Thing is, I really have been sent down here on the case,” Ethan said. “So what have you got?”
He studied his friend, noting the man the boy had grown into. Randy was lean, but deceptively so. He had excelled on the school’s wrestling team, as well as being the football team’s top field-goal kicker. He’d told Ethan once that he knew he was never going to have the bulk and broad shoulders of some other men, so he had to make up for it with lean muscle.
“Nothing new. You probably know everything I do, since I’m sure they brought you up to speed before they sent you down here. You have the case folders, crime-scene photos, all that, right?”
“Yeah.”
Randy met his eyes and nodded. “Okay, so West Feliciana Parish has just under fifteen thousand people. Our annual crime rate is about two murders a year, and that includes negligent homicide, so it’s not like you’re looking at a major city where the cops are accustomed to investigating murders. We’re not total newbies, though, so don’t think we’re all a bunch of toothless rednecks doing alligator wrestling for reality TV.”
“Randy, I grew up here. All my friends had their teeth, although the
