“From college,” she told him. “I grew up in Virginia, but I absolutely love New Orleans, so it does feel just a little bit like coming home. Despite the gruesome reason.”
“So, tell me, Miss Hawkins, what do you do?” he asked.
She hesitated. “I guess I’m a ‘finder,’ too. That’s what you do, right?”
He nodded, shrugging. “I guess I have a certain sense for…finding people.” He lowered his voice, looking toward the door.
“Do you?” she asked. “How do you mean?”
He hesitated a minute, then said, “Friends of mine almost went insane. Their five–year–old was kidnapped, and two boys had been kidnapped right before. One’s body had been found. I had a dream about a child holding my hand, taking me down into an area of bayou near Slidell. I found the body of the second. And it was amazing, because when I found it, I also found the old swamp house where they were keeping my friends’ little boy. He survived. I was so grateful, but the experience shook me up—that was for certain. But I didn’t dwell on it. Knowing things, seeing events and people—it isn’t always good. Some people turn away from you; they think that you’re out to hurt them, or they want to put some distance between you and them, because there might be something really odd about you.” He paused again. “I think I lost a best friend that way.” He laughed softly. “Actually, the love of my life. But…well, if you have experiences like mine, you stay sane yourself by learning to use whatever talent you have, gift or curse, to do what you can to help stop some of the depravity and evil in the world. New Orleans is my home, so my talents came in handy when the city was in trouble.”
“Do your ghosts come in dreams,” she said.
“Sometimes. Yours?”
She found herself looking to the door as well. “I get feelings that seem almost like a divining rod—and yes, I get the dreams. I—I saw something when my parents were killed in a plane crash. I saw them walking toward the light, along with a lot of other people. The therapist who worked with me afterward told me that I saw what I needed to see in order to be able to bear the grief.”
“But you never believed that.”
“No, but my time with the therapist made me extremely careful about what I say to other people!”
He laughed, his green eyes still bright. “Well, I do know people who see them—ghosts—and see them easily.”
“Really?” she asked.
“I’ll introduce you,” he said.
“They live here?”
He nodded.
“Does Adam know about them? Why wouldn’t he have brought them in on this team?”
“Well, frankly, Nikki and Brent have three small children now. I’m sure Adam would have liked to have them on a team, but they’re busy parents. I don’t believe they would work away from the city, not with their children growing up. They have their schools, their church, their sports teams…they’re good people, though. I met Adam through them, actually…” Jake paused in thought.
“I see. And I understand—I think. Adam wants a team that will stay cohesive for a while, a group that starts out together and learns to work together,” Angela said.
“You think Regina Holloway committed suicide?”
Angela simply looked at him for a moment and admitted, “No.”
“You think the house is haunted?” he asked her.
She laughed. Once again, she chose her words. “Say I believe that a house can be haunted. Perhaps things go bump in the night—or ghosts prowl the hallways. I don’t think that ghosts pushed Regina Holloway over the balcony.”
“Good conclusion.”
The voice came from the doorway and Angela turned quickly to see that Jackson Crow had finished whatever work he was doing and stood there, watching them. She felt color flood her cheeks. Just how long had he been there?
“I wanted you to let Jake know that he needs to go ahead and pick a room,” Jackson said, his blue eyes as enigmatic as ever. “The rest of the crew will be arriving soon. You might want to get settled. The two maids who worked in the house when Regina was alive won’t come back to work here, but they should be here in a few minutes to show us where the linen can be found, towels, cleaning articles, all that.”
“All right, I think I’ll go ahead and take that third room in the hallway where you two are,” Jake said. “And I’m pretty good at picking up after myself. I can cook, too,” he assured them.
“I’ll help you,” Angela said.
“I just have my guitar and my bag,” he said.
“I’ll get the guitar for you—and treat it like gold,” Angela assured him. “You wouldn’t want to drop it on the way up the stairs.”
“Sure,” he said, and they both walked past Jackson. Angela felt that he watched them, and she wondered why. She was equally curious as to why she was suddenly trying to avoid him.
Because the meeting over the pickax remained between them—and she didn’t really want him knowing that, despite her credentials, she definitely still had her vulnerabilities.
She wasn’t sure. She was confident, and she knew how to keep her own counsel. But there was something about the way that he looked at her…
She usually didn’t care, she realized. She wanted Jackson Crow to like her.
“Hi!”
The fourth member of his team, Whitney Tremont, had just rung the bell. She’d been born and bred in New Orleans just like Jake, but with the difference that Jake came from an “English” background and Whitney was pure Creole.
She was, he thought, a compelling little bundle of energy. She was little, no more than five–two or five–three, slim, with curly hair and hazel eyes, and skin the color of amber. She had a smile that was infectious, and a soft, sweet voice.
They had sent him another child.
No, there was a keen intelligence in her eyes. She had been a straight–A off–the–charts student; she had studied ethnicity, religion, philosophy, modern and ancient beliefs, while also receiving her degree in film from NYU. Her maternal great–grandmother was a noted contemporary voodoo priestess, and owned a shop called As You Believe up near Rampart Street. She had helped the local police crack down on a cult of would–be voodoo worshippers who had taken it upon themselves to bastardize the beliefs for the sake of human sacrifice—two young people had died during blood–drinking rituals. According to her file, she had a chameleon–like ability to slip into any group and be accepted as one of them—and somehow manage to film or video events and people who had never allowed such a thing before. Her expertise was cameras and film, and Jackson knew that she, like Will Chan, whom he had yet to meet, had been brought in for their work with cameras and sound.
“Hi,” he said, reaching for her large, tapestry travel bag. “Come on in. Whitney, right? Miss Whitney Tremont.”
