Ghost Walk
Page 33

Haggerty hurried by him. The cops were right, Brent thought with disgust, the man was a jerk.
Shaking his head and feeling irritation sweep over him, he hurried on. Haggerty was apparently trying to follow in Tom Garfield's footsteps. A loner.
And yet, maybe he was right. Staying alive wasn't always an easy thing to do. Especially for an FBI man. Still…
Grimly, he decided he wanted to know more about the guy. Adam would be able to help him. And they would be forewarned in the future, should Harrison Investigations come across the man working any future projects.
Shaking off the unpleasant encounter with Haggerty, Brent jogged to catch a trolley and make it over to Lafayette Number 1. Glancing at his watch, he was amazed to see that it was only eleven-thirty.
He hesitated, winced and decided it was time to make a painful visit of his own.
"Who are you voting for, Mitch? Can you vote? Did we give the vote to Yankees yet?" Patricia said teasingly.
Mitch made a face. "Of course I can vote! I'm a resident."
"So who are you voting for?" Nathan pressed.
"Hell, I don't know. On the one hand, we've got an old liar. On the other hand, we've got a young liar," Mitch said.
"That's pretty cynical," Nikki said as they walked idly down the street. The area was, beyond a doubt, even busier than usual. And there were cops on every corner as crowds headed toward Jackson Square.
"How many times have you seen a politician carry through with a promise after he's been elected?" Mitch asked.
"Maybe it's harder to carry out a promise than it is to make one," Nikki suggested.
"But that's the thing—someone out there should be an honest politician. Tell the truth. No, I can't change the world, but I can take a few little steps," Mitch said.
Nikki laughed. "Well, if you acted as if you couldn't change much, no one would vote for you at all, probably."
She stopped to look at a flyer that had been pasted to a light pole. It was for Billy Banks. Nice looking, good smile, lots of charisma.
Mitch slipped an arm around her shoulders. "He's a cutie, huh? That'll make you vote for him, right?"
"Mitch, that's insulting. I'm voting for the best man."
"So which one is the best man?"
She shrugged. "I don't know yet."
"I don't, either. And I'm not here to listen to the debate. There's Contessa Moodoo's Hoodoo Voodoo. I'm going in," Patricia said, having had it with politics for the moment.
Nikki hesitated on the street, frowning.
Something in the crowd had distracted her. Something that she'd seen with her peripheral vision that had caused a little jump somewhere in the back of her mind.
But she didn't know what it was. She watched as people streamed down the street. She saw tourists in shorts, young women in halter tops, others in T-shirts. Men in business attire.
What could have bothered her about the group that had just passed?
Something had been oddly familiar.
But what?
She gave her head a shake, grateful that at least it hadn't been Andy, and followed the others into the shop.
While her friends chatted, looking over Contessa's wares, Nikki realized that she was uneasy.
And that Contessa was watching her.
While the others were checking out the potions, Nikki wandered into the part of the shop dedicated to the history of voodoo and those who currently practiced the art. She felt someone near her and tensed, always afraid now that she was going to see someone who couldn't possibly be there, and that sooner or later she would simply scream, fall down and be committed to an asylum.
But it was Contessa, her marbled eyes deeply concerned. "She died, yes? Your friend, she is no longer with us."
"Yes, she died. And you knew she was going to die," Nikki said. It was an accusation.
Contessa shook her head. "There was a color around her, and it was dark. It boded great danger. I didn't know she was going to die. She did not die by her own hand."
"Most believe that she did."
"That was not a question. I was telling you what is so."
Nikki nodded. "Well, I agree with you on that. I think she was murdered." She grimaced. "You don't happen to know by who or why, do you?" she queried.
Contessa shook her head. "But—"
"Nikki," Patricia called. "We've got to get going."
Nikki nodded. "But what?"
Contessa hesitated, just briefly. The others were heading for the door, calling out their thanks and waving for Nikki to follow.
"But what?" Nikki persisted.
The marbled eyes, deep and grave, touched hers. "You are in danger, too. The same danger. The same color, a deep, angry purple… it is around you, as well."
* * *
Chapter 14
Walking into the cemetery, Brent hesitated. He opened his eyes.
There were so many.
So many ghosts.
Those who acknowledged him and those who did not. Those who sat around, looking morose, lost, and those who seemed angry, purposeful.
She was not among them.
She had moved on long ago. Years ago now.
He made his way to the grave, aware that several tours were gathering and that there were a number of people about who had come specifically to join the Myths and Legends of New Orleans group.
He didn't know who exactly, and it didn't matter.
He had time.
Her tomb was a single sarcophagus, always maintained—he saw to it. She had loved her church, and there were still nuns who kept the grave up while Brent was away. A statue of a weeping angel rose above the head of the concrete and brick bed where she now lay for eternity. Her name was written across the tomb, along with the dates of her birth and death, and the simple words "Daughter, wife, forever beloved."
He lowered his head, and he tried for the sense of peace he should feel. There had been justice at least. Her killer had gone to jail for life. Brent's bitterness had been so great that he had longed for Louisiana to make use of its capital punishment law, but that had not been the case. She had been killed by a stray bullet, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Her killer had been murdered by a fellow inmate. Stabbed in the throat, his dying had been long and hard.
But Brent had discovered that vengeance, however decreed from above, didn't end the pain of loss. He should have possessed a greater ability to heal than most people, but the simple effect of death, no matter what a man's beliefs, was to leave human beings missing those they had loved. There were those without any extra abilities who dealt with the injustices of life better than he did because they were blessed with such deep and abiding faith. No matter. Nothing could change the fact that life here must be lived without the loved one.
And he had loved Tania. Her brilliant smile, her laughter, the sound of her voice, the very essence of her. She could laugh and tease, and then, when the moment called for it, say the most profound words. She could look at the world without judgment.
He placed his hand on the tomb and wished that her spirit was still present. Here he was; a man who could see and speak with ghosts, but his own wife had moved on. What remained of her was in his heart, his mind, his memories. He was grateful she had moved on, for if ever there had been a deserving soul, it had been hers, and yet…
So many lingered. So many stayed, some not even knowing why, what they needed, what they searched for, what could bring them peace.
Not Tania.
And for her sake, he was glad.
For his own…
For ten years he had been the one to wander the earth like a wraith, lost and alone, a pale shadow of himself. But there had also been moments when he could feel that he had a purpose. That his life counted. And it was true that time was the greatest healer of all.
I wish I could feel you, he thought.
But he couldn't. Nor had he reached either of his parents, ever again, after the night they had died.
What he felt, standing there, was the sadness that would always remain. But he had moved on now, and he knew it. And that made him feel a twinge of guilt, something he hadn't experienced before. He had known, laughed with and enjoyed other women since he had lost Tania.
But he'd never cared again, nor felt so alive, as he had when he'd been with Nikki. He'd never—even with Tania—felt such an instant bond, such an electricity.
He was deeply caught in his inner thoughts; it was as if he were surrounded by nothing but air and shadow. The world receded until there was darkness around him and the grave he stood before.
Then the world came back. And he knew that Nikki was there even before she cleared her throat.
He turned to her. She looked pale, distraught, sympathetic and a little uncomfortable.
"Your… wife?" she said softly.
He nodded.
"I'm so sorry."
"It's been a very long time."
"You… um… you might have told me that you'd been married and that your wife was buried here," she murmured.
"You never noticed this grave?" he asked.
She winced. "It's new. We usually tell tales about older grave sites."
He nodded and saw that Nikki gave a little involuntary shudder. She stared at him, eyes wide. "Is she… does she… do you… ?"
"Does she walk the cemetery? Like Andy?" he suggested.
Nikki nodded.
He shook his head. "She's not here. She never has been. I mean, she's buried here. But… she's gone on. Long ago."
"What happened?" she asked gently. She had moved a short distance from him, on the other side of the sarcophagus, as if she felt that respect for the dead demanded that she do so.
"Stray bullet," he told her briefly. "She happened to be on the wrong street at the wrong time."
Nikki winced, lowering her head. "I would think… I would think that… " She looked up at him. "I would think that would make her stay. It's so horrible. So traumatic."
"The man was caught, sent to prison. He died there," he said simply. He heard a bird chirping and felt the breeze. "You would have liked her. She would have liked you. But she's gone. She wasn't the type who could hold a grudge. She was full of life and faith and… serenity. Whatever lies beyond, she's chosen it."