Darkest Journey

She fell silent, thinking back to everything that had happened after she’d discovered the body. The police had arrived quickly, and she’d told a uniformed officer what had happened. Later a Detective Laurent had shown up, and she’d told him what had happened, too. But she had talked, and the police had listened. She hadn’t thought to ask questions. She’d screamed once when she found the body, but after that she’d become almost numb, unnaturally calm, when she spoke to the police, her usual curiosity tamped down by her shock.

Every member of the crew had been questioned, as well. They’d all been asked if they’d seen any strange people hanging around the set.

In their ghostly makeup, half the actors had looked very strange indeed, but nobody had noticed anyone who might have been the murderer. Brad had told the police he had lots of film of the field, and they were welcome to see the footage. Naturally they’d accepted his offer.

Charlie had heard the medical examiner talking to Detective Laurent, telling him that Mr. Hickory had been dead at least twenty-four hours. But she hadn’t heard anything about how he’d been killed, and it had never occurred to her to ask.

“I wish I had thought to ask the police more questions,” she murmured.

“You should go back to New Orleans,” her father told her gruffly.

“I can’t! I can’t walk out on Brad’s movie.”

“You’re with me today.”

“I’m not scheduled to work today.”

Jonathan sighed deeply. “Well, I am. I’ve got to get back.” He stood, reached down a hand and pulled her to her feet. “Stay and film your movie, Charlie. But go home—”

“Dad, I told you—I can’t walk out on Brad.”

“I mean our home, the one you grew up in. And stay there unless you’re surrounded by friends. Stop fixating on this, sweetheart. You don’t need to be asking any questions. Leave it alone and watch out for yourself. Promise?”

“I promise. I’ll go home right now,” she told him, then kissed him on the cheek. “Our home—the one I grew up in. And I won’t fixate. Okay?” She smiled, feeling like a horrible liar even though she hadn’t actually lied. She had simply neglected to tell him that she’d asked to have Ethan Delaney assigned to the case because she knew he had joined the FBI and was part of an elite team tasked with dealing with the unusual.

Was it unusual that two men involved in Civil War reenactments had been murdered?

Maybe not. Maybe it should be a matter for the local police. Except...

Except she was certain a corpse had called her name.

“You can always come and stay on the Journey with me. I’ve been with them so long that my original cabin has been upgraded to a pretty nice suite. It’s not huge, but you could have the bedroom, and I’d take the sofa.”

“Dad. I’m fine. I promise. I love the Journey, but I’m doing a movie, remember?” she told him. “I promise I’ll go right home from here, okay?”

This was a beautiful spot, she thought. They’d been coming here to sit and talk since she’d been a little girl. He had to get back to the port now, though. The Journey was heading on to Baton Rouge, Houmas House and then New Orleans, where her passengers would debark, new ones would board, and the cycle would begin again, NOLA to Oak Alley in Vacherie to Houmas House in Darrow to Baton Rouge to St. Francisville, Natchez, then Vicksburg. The itinerary stayed basically the same, but specific tours with different emphases were planned for aficionados of country music, history, art, theater and fine dining. As her father said goodbye and bent to kiss her on the cheek, Charlie really did intend to go home. But as he walked away toward his car, parked behind hers on the road just below the bluff, she noticed that someone was walking up the slope from that road. Her heart began to beat too quickly.

It wasn’t because Ethan was back, she was certain. The years had stretched into an eternity between them. She hadn’t asked for him to come for any reason other than that she knew he would take her seriously when she said she’d heard the dead talking to her again.

It was just that his timing was so damned bad.

Her father turned and saw Ethan. And then he turned and looked at her, and she felt as if she’d run over a puppy or slapped an infant. Why couldn’t he let go of the past, of the way he’d felt about Ethan ten years ago...

“You called Ethan?” he asked.

“Dad, I called on a special group of FBI agents who are used to dealing with...insight. My friend Clara—you know Clara, she used to work for Celtic American, too—is seeing a guy who works with Ethan, so I asked her to contact him for me,” she said quickly. “Ethan’s law enforcement now, federal law enforcement.”

It was actually impressive that she was making something resembling a living by acting, she thought, hearing the pleading tone in her own voice when she’d hoped to project confidence instead.

“I see,” her father said, staring at Ethan as he approached them.

He’d changed. The Ethan she’d known had been a tall boy, still slender with youth, not muscular like the man walking her way now. His hair had been on the shaggy side, and he hadn’t yet shed the small-town football-hero swagger half the young men she’d known at school had affected. He’d been nineteen.

He’d filled out since the last time she’d seen him. Character seemed to have been etched into his face. He’d been a striking teenager, but this Ethan, with those green-gold eyes, dark hair and features that could have been painted by an Old Master, was something else altogether. His hair was cropped short now, his eyes had a sharper edge to them, and his chin had squared. He’d been a boy, she realized. Now he was a man.

As he walked up to them, he slipped on a pair of sunglasses against the brutal rays of the sun, and suddenly he became a total stranger.

“Ethan Delaney,” her father said in an unreadable tone.

“Mr. Moreau,” Ethan said, his voice now deep and rich. “Hope you’re doing well, sir.”

“We were doing well enough,” Jonathan said gruffly. He turned and looked at Charlie again, then nodded toward the two of them and started to head down the slope.

He stopped after a moment and turned back. He stood very tall and straight, and said, “Don’t let her get involved in this, Ethan. You watch out for her. Don’t you let anything happen to Charlie.”

“I didn’t before, sir,” Ethan said quietly. “And I won’t now.”

Charlie watched her father go, feeling a little ill. She loved him so much.

Then he was gone, and she was left alone with Ethan Delaney.

3 (#u0994b767-8e00-551e-b919-76733dbfa56f)

They stood some distance apart still, neither one rushing forward to initiate a warm old-friends’ hug.

It had been a long time.

But, looking at her now, Ethan wished he could just walk over and take her in his arms.

Charlie had changed.

He would never forget the way she had looked when he’d found her that night—truthfully, he would never forget anything about that night. Charlie had always been beautiful.

She had become more so over the last ten years. The bone structure of her face was sharper. Her eyes, the deepest blue he’d ever seen, seemed even larger. She had delicately shaped brows, a nearly perfectly straight nose and a generous, well-defined mouth. She was tall—five-ten, at a guess—and carried her height well. She was thin, but had all the right curves. Everything about Charlie was...

Pretty damned perfect. Her hair was a rich chestnut. She wore it long, and it seemed to move with her at all times, even when she was standing still. In fact, when she’d had a crush on him, it had seemed like manna from above.

But, of course, he’d been nineteen. In college. She’d been sixteen, still just a sophomore in high school. Any thought of a relationship was simply doomed. And so, despite every objection posed by his heart—and his libido—he had turned her away. He wondered if, with age, she’d understood. He hadn’t seen her since Frank Harnett’s trial. She’d never tried to contact him.

Until now.

He wondered if she had any clue to the way she had haunted his dreams. The way he remembered her face when she’d looked up at him, her beauty, her hope—her faith.

“So how are you doing?” he asked her quietly. “Other than stumbling across a dead man.”

She smiled. “Good. Thanks. In a nutshell, college, performing-arts major, some theater, some webisodes, a few nicely paying commercials. I’ve really been enjoying filming here. I love the project, love that we’re all a part of the production as a whole—and glad to be home again. I don’t get here often—not on purpose or anything. It’s just I’ve been living in New Orleans, because that’s where most of the work is. But it’s great being here, because I get to see more of Dad, though the Journey’s home port is NOLA, so I get to see him when he’s in town. I’m talking too much. Sorry. How about you?”

He shrugged and smiled. Talking too much? She’d managed to cover ten years in a pretty compact nutshell.