Then…
Another push.
And then she screamed, because she was falling….
The Flynn Plantation
1863
Brendan Flynn had returned from the delivery of a prisoner of war to Beast Butler’s headquarters in New Orleans, though he had never actually seen the infamous general.
Bill Harvey, a no-account drifter who had fit well into the army—if being mean, vicious and even sadistic added up to being a good soldier—had been lounging outside when he arrived.
“Hey, Flynn.”
“Bill,” Brendan had muttered, reaching to open the door to the plantation house where Butler had made his headquarters.
“You know the rule, right?”
Bill Harvey was grinning ear to ear with licentious pleasure, which was always a bad sign.
“What are you talking about, Bill?”
Bill’s grin deepened, if that were possible. “Why, you know what General Butler said about these women, spitting at us soldiers and all. If they spit, if they’re nasty, well, then, they’re just whores, and we can treat ’em like the whores they are. And that gal living up in the Flynn place…she’s the nastiest bitch of all.”
“Fiona?” He was honestly puzzled at first. Fiona’s upbringing had ensured that she would never be anything but polite on any occasion. And he’d warned her never to go near the Union soldiers. The property hadn’t been confiscated, because he would inherit it, should Sloan be killed in the war. He had made it clear—precisely to avoid anyone trying to confiscate the house, at least—that he had staked his claim.
“Uh-huh. A few of us fellows were out along the river last week, looking for food. And she was nasty as hell,” Bill said.
Brendan took a step closer, then struck, his fingers closing like a vise around Bill’s throat, pinning him against the column where he’d been lounging just seconds before. Bill squawked and wriggled, but he was no match for Brendan, and he knew it. “What the hell? You’ll face a court-martial for this!” he gasped.
“What did you do to her?” Brendan demanded.
“Nothing! Nothing, I swear!” Bill’s face was turning red. Other soldiers had gathered around, but they just stared. Bill was an ass, not well liked. And most of the men were sickened by the cruelty that had been shown to their conquered brothers—and sisters.
“It’s Victor Grebbe…. He took off this afternoon with…Art Binion.”
Brendan released the other man. “How long ago?” he demanded.
Bill started rubbing his throat. His face was still red. “Fuck you, Flynn—” he began.
Brendan had him pressed against the column again in seconds.
“Thirty minutes,” Bill gasped.
Brendan swore. He could do something about the situation through the proper channels. But proper channels wouldn’t save Fiona.
Or his cousin’s infant son.
Brendan forgot all about the prisoner waiting to be handed over, turned on his heel and headed straight back for his horse. Mercury had been bred on the family plantation, just like Sloan’s faithful Pegasus. Poor damned horse. He had to be exhausted. But Brendan kneed him hard, racing down the street and out to where the roads turned bad and rutted, where they’d been worn down by too many horses and too many men.
Worn down by too much war.
Damn the war, damn the death. Damn the circumstance that allowed men to forget right and wrong, mercy and humanity.
The skin at his nape prickled. He’d heard things about Victor Grebbe. Heard that he had a sick thing for women, and that some who’d gone with him hadn’t been seen since.
It was a long, hard ride out to the plantation. He urged his horse on, hoping he could overtake the men bent on abusing their power, men bent on rape and maybe even murder, but they had too much of a head start, and no doubt fresh horses, besides.
And then, finally, it was there, ahead of him. From a distance the house looked as quiet and gentle as his family had once been. Until the war.
War was about causes, about territory.
But this? This was personal.
As he raced along the oak-lined drive, there was but one thought in his mind.
Fiona.
He arrived just in time to see her plummeting from the balcony. He heard her scream, and he saw the enemy, a Confederate soldier, in the yard. The Reb fired at the balcony, screaming in raw fury, a Rebel yell like nothing Brendan had ever heard. The shot exploded in the beautiful stillness of the spring day, and Brendan did what any man would do.
He drew his weapon.
And he fired on the enemy.
It was only when the enemy turned, mortally wounded, to shoot in return, that he saw who was wearing the butternut and gray.
Sloan.
As the bullet hit his chest, he knew he had killed his own cousin. But not on purpose, God forgive him. Not with intent, and never with malice. Oh, dear God, what an end for all of them, damned in the eyes of those who would come after…
How ironic that Sloan had managed to kill him, as well. For he was dying, he knew.
It was then that he saw Victor Grebbe, swearing where he stood on the balcony, holding his injured shoulder, blood seeping out between his fingers from where Sloan’s bullet had taken him.
His own arm was cold, and he knew he was nearly dead. He had no strength. Still, with one final effort, he lifted his weapon and strained to pull the trigger.
He fired. Fired at Grebbe, a man who shamed any uniform, who shamed humanity.
Grebbe, who had damned them all.
As he died, he heard the terrified wails of the infant inside the house. Sloan’s son. Sloan had never even known he had a son, because that was news Brendan had never shared, thinking it Fiona’s place. He prayed to God that the child would live, would somehow make up for the cursed fate of his family.
For they were damned to memory, damned in the eyes of men.
What about the eyes of God?
All too soon he would know.
He could only hope that God—and time—would forgive them all.
The Flynn Plantation
Present Day
Sheila came to. She felt a keen sense of confusion. She could hear…water. And she could smell an awful dampness and decay that seemed entrenched in the walls…wherever it was that she lay. She blinked several times, but it wasn’t foggy now; it was pitch-dark.
She sat up, trying to fathom where she might be.
Suddenly there was a light. Just a pinprick, but it didn’t help. It was too bright, boring painfully into her eyes. She raised a hand to try to protect herself against the blinding brilliance of it.
Hand raised to her eyes, she looked to the side and sucked in a huge gulp of air in stunned horror.
There was a face in the darkness. Hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, rotting flesh. It was floating in the water that was rising around her, and it looked as if it were staring at her.
Halloween, she reminded herself. Halloween was coming. This was undoubtedly just someone’s macabre idea of a prank.
But deep inside, she knew it wasn’t. This was real. This was a human head, no longer attached to a body.
She opened her mouth to scream, her heart and soul filled with terror, but before she was able to make a sound, the voice stopped her.
“Sheila…” it whispered gently, even affectionately.
And then…she knew she would never scream again.
1
New Orleans
Present Day
“It’s a bone,” Dr. Jon Abel announced.
“Obviously,” Aidan Flynn noted dryly.
The doctor shot him a glance. “A thighbone.”
“And it’s human,” Aidan said.
“Yes, it’s a human thighbone,” Dr. Abel agreed. He stood on the muddy bank at the side of the Mississippi and shrugged, looking at the faces around him. It was heading toward evening, but it had been a hot, sultry day, and only the breeze coming off the river hinted that a cooling-down
was coming. Beyond the muddy shore where Aidan had found the bone, the churning water was an ugly shade of brown. A mosquito buzzed nearby, and the doctor slapped at his arm and shook his head in disgust. He’d never been much for working out in the field.
Aidan was the one who had asked that he be called out, but since Aidan was just a P.I. out of Florida who, along with his two brothers, had just inherited the old family plantation, it was Hal Vincent, parish homicide, who had actually placed the call. Jonas Burningham, local FBI, had attached himself to the “case,” such as it was, too, in case they were looking at a serial murderer taking advantage of the disorder—and all too often violence—left in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.
“You know,” Abel said, “we’re still finding all kinds of…remnants stirred up by the storm. That’s going to go on for years. We didn’t always bury aboveground here, and there are plenty of old family plots along the river. Down in Slidell, there was a woman who had three coffins in her yard for months after the storm. No one knew where they belonged, and she couldn’t get any agency to come get them, so she just called them Tom, Dick and Harry, and said hello to them every time she came and went.” Jon Abel was a tall, thin man of about forty-five who looked more like a mad scientist than what he really was: one of the most respected medical examiners in the state. He looked out at the brown water. And sighed. “Hell, that river has seen more bodies than you and I could ever begin to guess, and it would take a dozen lifetimes to sort them all out.”
“That’s it?” Aidan asked him. “No investigation? You’re just going to dismiss it out of hand?” As he spoke, the sky darkened. Storm clouds, only hinted at earlier in the day, were boiling into great menacing shadows across the heavens. He pointed at the bone. “Looks to me like there’s still some tissue on it, which means it’s fresh and there might be more body parts somewhere nearby to go with it. If I thought I’d stumbled on something old, I’d have called in an anthropologist.”
Jon Abel sighed again. “Right. I don’t get enough people with bullet holes in them. Slashed to ribbons. Mangled in car accidents. Dead under a bridge somewhere. Sure. I’ll just take this thighbone that might have a bit of tissue on it and get right on it.”
“Jon,” Hal Vincent said quietly. “There might be something to this. I know your office is busy and you’ve got a lot of pressing cases, but do what you can, huh?”
“Male or female?” Aidan asked.
“It’s just a bone right now.”
“Male or female?—your best guess,” Aidan insisted.
The medical examiner shot him an aggravated look.
“Female,” he said. The man had been at it a long time. Unwilling participant in today’s proceedings or not, he was tops in his field. He adjusted his glasses and shook his head. “Offhand, I’d say she stood about five-six.” He looked closer. “Probably between twenty and thirty. I can’t tell you anything else. Not even guessing.”
“I’m guessing she’s dead,” Hal said dryly.
Jonas stepped in, trying to keep things civil. Jonas was a definite “suit.” At forty, he was tall and hard-bodied, with slick tawny hair and attractive features. Even in the muck, he looked impeccable and unflappable. “We’d deeply appreciate it, Dr. Abel, if you can tell us more as soon as your schedule will allow. Look, Jon, we know you’re busy. We also know you’re the best.”
Jon Abel grunted in acknowledgment of the compliment, but he cast Aidan a look of irritation. As far as he was concerned, Flynn was an outsider. He came to New Orleans often to see friends here, but he was still an outsider—at least to Jon Abel.
Aidan had been in the area this time because of a missing persons case. Runaway teens had taken to camping out in the swampy bayou area off the river here. He’d found the subject of his search, and she’d been dirty enough, wet enough, hungry enough and miserable enough to be grateful that her parents wanted her home.
And Aidan had been grateful that he’d found her alive. That wasn’t always the case with runaways. And maybe not for the woman whose bone he’d found nearby, either.
Jonas and Flynn went back a long way. They’d gone through the FBI Academy together. Jonas had stayed with the Bureau.
After a few years, Aidan hadn’t.
It was mainly Jon’s friendship with Jonas that had brought him out here today.
“I’ll do what I can,” Jon said. He lifted a hand to his assistant, Lee Wong, who had been listening attentively to everything going on. He meant to go places, and working with Jon Abel was the way to do it.
The thighbone was duly tagged and bagged; then, grumbling to himself, Jon headed for his car, Lee trailing behind. Jon waved goodbye and spoke without turning back to them. “I’ll get back to you when I know something.”
When he was gone, Hal Vincent spoke again. “I’ll get a few men out here to search the area.” He was a tall man, a good six-four or five, and thin, but every inch of him was muscled. His skin was copper and his eyes were green; his hair had gone white, and he wore it cropped close to his head. His age was indeterminate, and Aidan thought that when he was a hundred years old, he wouldn’t look much different. Born in Algiers, Louisiana—right across the river—he knew the area like the back of his hand. He was a good man, solid, no bullshit.
“Thanks, Hal,” Jonas told him. He looked at Aidan and shrugged. “You know…that might actually be…an old bone.”
“Yeah, it might be,” Aidan agreed. “But then again,” he pointed out, “it might not.” He tried to keep any hint of sarcasm out of his voice.
“We’ll search, and let you know.” Hal looked at his watch. “I’m off duty as of now, and I could use a beer. Anyone want to join me?”
“Sounds good to me,” Jonas said. He’d wanted to be assigned out west, but he’d drawn New Orleans instead, then surprised himself by falling in love with the place. He’d ended up marrying a local girl and moving to the French Quarter. “Aidan?”
Aidan shook his head. “Sorry. I’m late already. I have to meet my brothers downriver.”
“I heard you boys inherited the old place out on the Mississippi,” Hal asked.
Aidan grimaced. “Yeah, it’s quite an inheritance.”
“You never know,” Hal told him. “The place has one hell of a history. Comes with a legend, ghosts, the whole bit. It’s decaying, but does have the original stables, smokehouse—even the slave quarters. If you want to do something with it, do it fast. The local preservationists will be all over you any day now.”
“Yeah, well…I don’t know what we’re doing. That’s part of what we’re meeting up to decide,” Aidan said.
“I heard the three of you went into the private investigation business together,” Jonas said. “How’s that working out?”
“Well,” Aidan said briefly.
“Floridians. Taking on that old house,” Hal said. How he meant it, Aidan wasn’t sure. “Let’s get that beer, Jonas. Aidan, we’ll be in touch if we hear anything about that bone of yours.”
Aidan nodded, and they all trekked back through the muck. When they reached their cars, they waved. The other two men headed toward the city.
Aidan started down the river road.
Twenty minutes later, he was with his brothers.
And they stood, the three of them, staring at the house on the rise that wasn’t exactly a hill.
Then again, the building wasn’t exactly a house. Not anymore. Decades of neglect had left dangling shingles, broken columns, and paint that was flaking and peeling. The effect was of something from a horror movie set.
The promise of a storm wasn’t helping, either. In the distance, thunder was rumbling, and the sky had turned a strange color. But at least the coming weather had alleviated the heat. A cool breeze was blowing. It actually had a slight chill to it. And the darkness seemed to have taken on a life of its own, sweeping across the sky and down over the trees, crawling like a fog along the ground, a shadow-mist that smelled of violence and decay.
Aidan was the oldest
of the three and, at six-three, the tallest by half an inch. His features were weathered, and he was the most physically imposing of them. A stint in the military had left him fit and wary; his reflexes were quick, and he had retained a suspicious perception of the world around him and an invisible Keep Away sign. Once, he supposed, he had been decent-looking. He had blue eyes, referred to as “icy” these days, and pitch-dark hair. Serena had found him compelling enough. It was his manner rather than his appearance, he figured, that tended to keep people at a distance. Then again, he probably hadn’t been as remote and chilly when he had been with Serena. There had been promise in the world when she was alive. Now…well, it was a good thing he had work to do. Lots of it. Keeping himself from falling into the emptiness.
His brothers, his family…them, he trusted, but others…He’d gone through Quantico, but when life had convinced him he was no longer a team player, he’d left the FBI. Given his background, he had opted for private investigation.
Maybe he should have investigated the house.
“Hmm,” Jeremy, the second in age, said. Jeremy had been the first to suggest they form a business. When Aidan had left the Bureau, Jeremy had been ready to leave his position with the Jacksonville police divers. Unlike Aidan, his hell hadn’t been a personal one; he had simply been the first to come upon a van full of abused foster children, drowned when their vehicle leapt a median and drove straight into the St. Johns River. He’d been at it a long time; he’d seen horrific sights. But that one had haunted him. Jeremy loved playing his guitar, though, and music brought him through. He’d quietly begun a charity to find homes for abused, abandoned and orphaned children, and discovered a talent for broadcasting along the way. He had come to New Orleans to work with a popular DJ on a dinner-dance to be held at the aquarium to raise funds for Children’s House, his charity, which was involved in finding homes for area children who had been orphaned by Katrina.
Jeremy liked people, and had always loved New Orleans and the Gulf region, but even he was speechless now that they were seeing their unexpected inheritance for the first time.