The Séance

“Maybe he didn’t take a break,” Dan theorized aloud. “Maybe he was gone…traveling from state to state.”

“Possibly. They say that killers often keep on the move. Thank God for computers. They’ve made a big difference,” Mike said.

“Jed will know more about it,” Ana said confidently.

“That’s right. He wrote a book about the killings,” Dan said.

“Jed wrote a novel,” Ana said. “Based loosely on real events.”

Michael was quiet, frowning at Christina.

“What?” she demanded.

He shook his head, then pointed a finger at her. “Sherri Mason, the woman who was killed, was five feet eight inches tall, about one hundred and thirty pounds. She had blue eyes—and long red hair.”

They all stood in silence for a long moment.

“Wow. Thanks a lot for that,” Christina said at last.

Ana slipped a supportive arm around her friend’s waist. “We can handle ourselves. It’s the unwary who usually wind up in trouble.”

“That’s not the point,” Michael said, and took a deep breath. “Christie, you have to be careful. The last victims, twelve years ago…they were all tall. And all had light eyes and—”

“And long red hair,” Dan breathed softly.

“Just like Sherri Mason,” Mike said. “Who was killed just the same way. As if she’d been killed by…a ghost.”

2

Jed should have headed straight over to Christina’s house, and in fact he had meant to.

But he didn’t.

For some reason he found himself traveling down the road that led to one of the largest local cemeteries.

Beau Kidd had been laid to rest there. His parents and his sister, furious that Beau had been labeled a killer without a trial, grieving his death, had ordered a fine tombstone for him. A glorious angel in marble rested atop it, kneeling down in prayer.

It was dusk when he arrived, and the gates were closed, but the cemetery was one of the oldest in the area. Broken tombstones belonging to those who had served in the United States military as far back as the Seminole Wars could be found there. No one had ever spent the money for a high fence, so he was easily able to hop the low wall and enter. He knew this cemetery well. Too well, he thought.

Margaritte was buried here.

But he hadn’t come to mourn at her grave or feel sorry for himself. Not tonight.

He was losing it, he thought. Visiting a cemetery, as if Beau Kidd could talk to him from the grave and offer him help.

No, he told himself. He had simply decided to check on the monument, that was all. In the years after the killings and Kidd’s own death, the tombstone had been vandalized several times. Then Beau Kidd’s mother had appeared on television and made such a tearful plea to be let alone that the vandalism had stopped. No requests by law enforcement or even arrests could have put an end to the graffiti and damage the way her softly sobbed plea had done.

He could see the angel as he headed down the path. What surprised him was that he wasn’t the only one who had come to check on Beau Kidd’s grave tonight.

There was a young woman standing there. He frowned, for a moment thinking it might be Christina Hardy. This woman, too, had long red hair, and she was tall, slim and shapely, with elegantly straight posture.

But when she turned as Jed approached, he saw that though she was attractive, her features were quite different from Christina’s. For one thing, her eyes were a pale yellow-green color, not a brilliant blue.

He didn’t recognize her, but she obviously recognized him.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped.

“Do I know you?” he asked bluntly.

“Katherine Kidd, Beau’s sister,” she said.

“We’ve never met.”

“No? Sorry, but I know who you are. You’re an opportunist. You wrote a book about my brother. As if the events weren’t painful enough.”

“I wrote a work of fiction,” he said. Why defend himself? He should just let her lambaste him. That might work out better for both of them.

“Why are you here? Do you want to hammer a stake into my brother’s heart? Do you think he’s alive and killing again?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

He turned to go.

“If you’re lost, your wife’s grave is nowhere near here,” she called after him.

He squared his shoulders and kept walking.

“Wait!”

He was startled when she ran after him. Her eyes were troubled when she awkwardly touched his arm to get him to turn around. “Why are you here?” she demanded.

He hesitated. “I don’t know, exactly. I guess…I wanted to think. Honestly, I don’t know.”

“Beau was never the killer,” she said.

“How can you be so certain?” he asked.

“He was my brother.”

He let out a soft sigh. “You do know that every homicidal maniac is some mother’s son?”

“I know you investigated when you wrote your book. I know you were a cop. And I know you have a license now as a private investigator. You came here because you’re feeling guilty for what you did to my brother’s reputation. You want absolution? Fine. Prove that’s not just a copycat out there. Prove Beau was innocent.”

He stared at her, unable to think of anything to say.

“I’ll pay you,” she offered suddenly.

He shook his head. “No. No, you won’t pay me.”