style="font-size:15px;"> “I shot the Pick–Man,” he said. “He’s dead.”
“That was the only chance Lawson and Donatello had, since, had he seen you before you warned him and fired to kill, he’d have put that pick through Donatello’s chest,” Adam said. “Trust me, I’ve watched you for years, Jackson. I actually knew your parents.”
That was surprising.
Adam might well have known about the event when Jackson had been riding near Stirling, Scotland, and been thrown. His friends had gone on, thinking that he had left them; that he’d won the race and the bet. He’d encountered a stranger after, one who had saved his life. And then….
It had been long ago.
And yet, hell. He’d spent his life debunking ghost stories and dreams like the one he’d had. Finding the truth behind them. Proving that the plantation in Virginia was “haunted” by a cousin of the owner who wanted him out of the estate. Proving that there were no ghosts prowling the Rocky Mountains, that a human being named Andy Sitwell was the Pick–Man, even if he supposedly believed that the ghost of an old gold–seeking mountaineer was causing him to commit murder.
Six months had passed since he had shot and killed the Pick–Man. Six months in which he had tried to mourn the loss of his coworkers. He’d been back to Scotland to visit his mother’s family, and he’d spent a month with his father’s family—helping them organize their new casinos and hotels.
But he was ready to get back into the kind of work for which he knew he had a talent. Digging. Following clues. Whether it meant studying history, people, beliefs or a trail of blood. He was good at it.
He had the mind for it, and the mind for the kind of unit Adam Harrison was putting together.
“I’m open to possibilities,” he said to Adam. “Possibilities—there are a lot of people out there manipulating spiritualism and making a lot of money off the concept of ghosts.”
Adam smiled. “That’s true, and I actually like your skepticism. As far as believing in ghosts, well, I do,” he said. “But that’s not important. I’ve got you scheduled for a flight into Louis Armstrong International Airport at nine tomorrow morning. Is that sufficient time to allow you to get your situation here in order?”
His situation here?
The apartment in Crystal City had little in it. All right, a damn decent entertainment indent because he loved music and old movies. A closet of adequate and workable clothing. Pictures of the family and friends he had lost.
He nodded. “Sure. What about these?” He lifted the file folders, the dossiers on his new unit. “When do I meet the crew?”
“They’ll arrive tomorrow and Wednesday,” Adam said. “You’ve got the dossiers; read up on them first. I figured you might want the house all to yourself for a few hours. Angela arrives first—she’ll get in tomorrow evening around six. You’ll know who they all are when they arrive if you’ve done the reading.” Adam stood, a clear sign that the interview had come to an end. “Thank you for taking this on,” he said.
“Did I actually have a choice?” he asked with a rueful grin.
Adam returned the grin. Jackson was never really going to know.
He started out of the office. Adam called him back.
“You know, you have a gift for this, Jackson. And you can really take on anything you want.”
Jackson wasn’t sure what that meant, either. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.
“I know you will. And I know that we’ll all know what really happened in that house on Dauphine.”
X–Files. The thought came to Jackson’s mind as he finished with Adam Harrison.
He went down to his car, still wondering exactly what it was he was getting into.
Yeah, it was sounding like the X–Files. Or Ghost–files.
And he was going to have Ghost–file helpers. Great.
In his car, he glanced through the dossiers, scanning the main, introductory page of each. Angela Hawkins, Whitney Tremont, Jake Mallory, Jenna Duffy and Will Chan. The first woman, at least, was coming from a Virginia police force. Whitney Tremont had started out life in the French Quarter; she had a Creole background and had recently done the camera work for a paranormal cable–television show. Jake Mallory—musician, but a man who had been heavily involved in searches after the summer of storms, and been called in as well during kidnapping cases and disappearances. Then there was Jenna Duffy. A registered nurse from Ireland. Well, they’d be covered in case of any poltergeist attacks. And Will Chan—the man had worked in theater, and as a magician.
It was one hell of a strange team.
Whatever, Jackson figured; it was time he went back to work. There was one thing he’d discovered to be correct—the truth was always out there, you just had to find it.
The house seemed to hold court on the corner. It sat on Dauphine, one block in back of Bourbon and three or four blocks in from Esplanade. The location was prime—just distant enough to keep the noise down in the wee hours of the morning when the music on Bourbon Street pulsed like an earthly drum, and still close enough to the wonders of the city.
The actual shape was like a horseshoe; a massive wooden gate gave entry to the courtyard, while the main entrance on Dauphine offered a sweeping curve of stairs to the front downstairs porch and a double–door entry that was historic and fantastic in its carvings.
Jackson turned the key in the lock. As he stepped in, the alarm began to chirp and he quickly keyed in the code he had been given.
“Straight out of Gone with the Wind,” Jackson murmured aloud as he surveyed the house. “Tara meets city streets.” The front room here served as an elegant reception area, perhaps even a ballroom at one point in time. He could almost see Southern belles in their elegant gowns swirling around, led by handsome men in frock coats. A piano sat to the far end near an enormous hearth with tiled backing and a marble mantel. A second, identical fireplace was at the other end of the wall. Midroom was the grand, curving staircase.
What furniture remained was covered in dust sheets.
The hallway on the second floor led to the right and left as he headed up.
He moved on around an ell and came to a long hallway of bedrooms. Here. At the end.
This was the room.
He turned on the light. It seemed to be completely benign, a pretty room, one that had already been prepared for occupancy—or that had been occupied. A beautiful four–poster canopy bed sat on a Persian rug, covered in white. Handsome deco dressing tables sat to either side of the room, and large French doors, draped in white chintz and lace, opened out to the balcony that wrapped around the house as it faced the courtyard. Would he feel anything? He did not.
He walked over to the French doors and threw them open, stepping out on the balcony.
The courtyard below explained why a house that came with such a tragic history could still win over buyer after buyer. It was paved with brick, and in the indent,
