The Unforgiven Read online

  He understood.

  He could be interred in this tomb himself one day if he chose. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In New Orleans, one became ash pretty darned quickly: the blazing heat was said to cremate a body fully within a year and a day. And when one did, their remains were swept to join other remains in a holding cell to allow more of the dead to join the family.

  He wasn’t sure what he wanted yet, and he hoped he had a while to decide.

  Even if the life he had wanted was one that invited danger. Not that spying on errant husbands seemed to offer much danger at the moment.

  “Buck up, cowboy,” he heard.

  The soft voice was feminine and teasing. He turned to see a woman leaning against his family’s tomb.

  New Orleans was known for the strange. For those who liked dress-up and masks.

  This woman was dressed for a 1920s dance hall, in a form-skimming sheath with sequins and fringe, stockings and heels, and a cute little cap that was slightly askew on her head. She was posed with a long cigarette holder complete with a cigarette.

  It didn’t appear the cigarette was actually lit, but she took a drag on the mouthpiece of the holder anyway.

  “May I help you?” he asked her.

  “I’m here to help you.”

  “Really? And what is it that you think you can help me with?”

  “You’re losing your mind over the recent murders, aren’t you?” She looked distressed, wincing in a way that drew her face into a truly pained expression. “I know. Trust me. I know.”

  Dan stood straighter, frowning as he looked at her. “Forgive me, lady. Yes, I have a lot on my mind, and yeah, I’m worried about the murders. I don’t know how you think you know that—or me—but I’m not in the mood for playtime or dress-up.”

  “Dress-up?” she demanded indignantly. “I rather think I chose amazing apparel. And luckily. Lord, I loved my sister, but Evie would have dressed me in a tunic or something if I hadn’t left a will. Not that I expected to die at thirty, but...one should always be prepared.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I came to the cemetery to be alone.”

  He decided to walk away. He felt her following behind him.

  “Okay! Again, I don’t mean to be rude, but leave me the hell alone!”

  He was startled when he realized he was near the gate and some other people coming in were staring at him in surprise.

  “I’m sorry, excuse me. She’s just driving me nuts,” he said.

  A woman with a teenage girl skirted far around him. Two college-age kids who looked like they were intrigued tourists shook their heads, looking at one another, laughing.

  “Buddy, what, are you off your meds?” one demanded, nudging the other.

  “Hey, hush,” the other murmured. “He’s way bigger than us and talks to himself! Let’s get out of here.”

  They rushed by him, too.

  Dan swung around. She was still there, the woman in the flapper dress.

  “Dan, give it a rest. They can’t see me. I’m dead.”

  He stood absolutely still, feeling as if the light breeze suddenly turned chilly.

  He reached out to touch her. She inched back, but not in time. His hand went straight through her arm.

  “I’ve taken this too personally,” he muttered. “They warn against that in law enforcement.”

  “Don’t you see?” she asked him, her tone heartsick. “I’m here to help you! I lost my best friend to an axe murderer once, and I’m not going to see someone get away with this again.”

  He stared back at her. His mind scrambled to explain what he was seeing. If she was an actress with her image being projected into the cemetery, she was damned good.

  Was such a thing even possible?

  And if so, why had no one else seen her?

  Second guess: he was truly losing his mind.

  Because she couldn’t be real. Ghosts didn’t exist.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Katie felt as if she was going to either explode or implode. What information there was about the murders was being blared on every radio and television station known to man. And in the city, there was no way around every tourist on her rides asking about the Axeman murders of 1918–1919.

  She went to work because, otherwise, she’d have been crawling up the walls.

  “I can tell you what was known, but to this day, no one can really say who the killer was, if it was just one killer... There are theories, and one woman claimed to have killed him,” she bantered as she directed her mule through the streets.

  Her carriage held two couples, both in their late forties or early fifties. They were from a small town in Ohio, and it seemed everything about New Orleans fascinated them.

  Both couples had become empty nesters, with kids recently off to college, and wanted to do everything wild that New Orleans was known to offer: Bourbon Street, packed clubs, over-the-top drinks... Fun things for adults who were suddenly free to let loose in the world.

  Katie had chatted with them when they had first approached her carriage. They’d liked her mule, and she’d given them a bit of info on Jackson Square just in conversation and pointed out that, yes, they were just across the street from Café du Monde.

  But now, though she’d gone into history regarding the French founding of the city, the pirate Jean Lafitte and General Jackson, they wanted more recent history.

  “It was early in the 1900s, right? They were killing Polish people...or Jewish bakery owners?” one of the men asked.

  Katie had known to expect this. She was ready. “Supposedly, there were axe murders that took place in 1911, but a few literary authors have done intense research and could find no record of the victims or anything to suggest that such murders did occur. Catherine and Joseph Maggio were killed on May 23 of 1918—I believe that most scholars see them as the first victims. They were immigrants to the city, and there was already a large Italian immigrant population here. Some people thought the murders were Mob-related, that it was a Mafia retaliation of some kind.”

  “All the victims were Italian? I thought the killer wrote the press about being Satan or a demon or something like that,” one of the women said.

  “No, not all the victims were Italian, and a few survived. There’s a theory the killer was a man named Momfre and he was shot and killed by the widow of the last victim, a man named Pepitone, in California. The problem with all of it is that records were sketchy in the early 1900s. People were arrested but later released. Previously, there had been an uncaught killer known as the Cleaver in New Orleans, but he took money. The Axeman never took anything. He broke into residences by chiseling out portions of doors. He used a knife and an axe—”

  “The news this morning said this killer is using a knife and an axe,” the husband said knowingly. “They’re suggesting he—like the Axeman—might be some kind of a demon.”

  Katie arched a brow, glancing back quickly. “A legitimate news station suggested the killer is a demon?”

  “Well, no, they mentioned the old Axeman had claimed to be a demon.”

  “He sent a letter to the Times-Picayune on March 13 in 1919,” Katie told them. “He claimed, yes, to be some kind of a demon.”

  “And he made people play jazz!” the other woman said.

  “Yes, he said he wouldn’t kill anyone playing jazz on a certain night,” Katie said wearily. “Four days later, the night of the nineteenth.”

  “And?”

  “People played loud jazz. No one died that night,” Katie told them. “We’re going to be passing Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar. It’s one of the oldest structures remaining. There were horrible fires that ripped through the French Quarter, destroying much of what was original to the city. The bar might have been where the Lafitte brothers sold their booty. They were popular among the people!”
/>   No matter how she tried to change the subject, her group was obsessed with the Axeman of New Orleans.

  She hadn’t memorized all the facts and figures regarding the Axeman, but in her training to be a guide, she’d learned about the attacks. There were different ideas, of course. And at the time, there had been arrests—wrongly, in one case. A surviving victim had accused her neighbors—an old man and his seventeen-year-old son. They’d gone to jail, looking at the death penalty, and the woman had later recanted. Many of the journalists who had explored records believed the police had pushed her into identifying her neighbors. Others believed she had done so out of jealousy or spite.

  Katie’s tour ended. As the group crawled down from the carriage—tipping nicely and giving her their thanks—she saw an older man was waiting. He was watching her. He had to be waiting for her, she thought, because he was at the curb by her carriage, and she couldn’t imagine any stranger choosing one of them over the other.

  The man might have been around seventy or perhaps even a few years older, but she’d seldom seen anyone so straight, lean and dignified. His soft, silvery-white hair was cut short, and the customary wrinkles of age couldn’t change the fine contours of his face.

  He was wearing a gray suit, white shirt and a vest that matched his suit. He looked like a man about to walk into an important business meeting, not a tourist eager to hear the history, lore or ghost stories of New Orleans.

  For a moment, she wondered if he was real. Living.

  Yes, he was real. He was speaking with Lorna.

  Lorna didn’t see the dead. Nor had Katie ever shared with her friend, or anyone for that matter, the fact she was able to see and speak with many of the ghosts that filled the city streets.

  Her uncanny talent helped a great deal in her relaying the stories that abounded in the city.

  It had started that horrible day her parents had been murdered. The ghost of Billy Battle—privateer, not pirate, as he assured her—had come to her in the water. He had probably saved her life, since she’d been floundering, heedless of whether she lived or died. She had seen him only once again, one night on the beach, since she had left the Keys so quickly after her parents’ deaths. But he had been kind and had given her so much comfort. In her new world, the dead were not to be feared; they were to be embraced.

  “Katie!” Lorna called to her. “This gentleman has been waiting for you.”

  “Oh?” Katie offered the man a polite but questioning smile.

  He smiled back. “Yes, I’ve been very much looking forward to meeting you,” the man said.

  “Oh?” she repeated.

  The day was going from tragic to strange to stranger.

  “May I?” he asked, indicating the step to the carriage.

  “Uh...yes, of course. Do you want more of a historic tour or a ghost tour?”

  “Ah, well, a good ghost tour is all about history, isn’t it?” he suggested.

  “Well, yes, I’ve always felt that way.”

  “A little of both, please,” he told her.

  He seated himself in the wagon, in the passenger seat to the right side, making it easier for her to glance back and look at him.

  Lorna waved from the sidewalk, curious. Then her attention was diverted as a couple approached her for a tour.

  Katie glanced back at the man. He was studying her curiously, intently, but with a smile.

  “Katie,” he said quietly, “I was waiting for you specifically because I suspect you’re someone who can help in the current situation.”

  She groaned. “You mean the murders. I drive a carriage. I’m not a cop of any kind. I’m not an investigator. Do I think they’re all associated? Yes. But I can’t personally do a damned thing about it.”

  “No, but—”

  “But?” she asked, wanting to like him, but exasperated.

  “I knew your father, Katie.”

  “Okay...”

  “Your dad was gifted.”

  “Yes, he was extremely gifted, wonderful, brave, gracious and kind. I adored my father. I’m grateful to hear you found him the same.”

  “I believe you might be gifted, too.”

  “I like to believe that I’m a decent human being, so, um, thanks.”

  His easy smile deepened. “Gifted. You talk to the dead, Katie. Your dad did, too.”

  * * *

  “I’ve already made a pile of the books I think you might find relevant. Another agent is down at the archives, seeing if there might be anything missed in the old public records.”

  Dan wasn’t an easily startled person, but the voice that spoke to him as he strolled down the nonfiction aisle at the Garden District Book Shop still seemed to come out of nowhere.

  Except he knew the voice.

  It was Axel Tiger, an old friend from Florida, who currently worked with an elite unit of the FBI. Because he was originally from South Florida, Axel had often been called down on strange cases in the state.

  Axel’s special unit was known for investigating the most bizarre cases. When he was with the FDLE, Dan had heard them jokingly called the ghostbusters, since they seemed to get any case that had any hint of the otherworldly about it.

  He glanced at his watch—it was almost five in the afternoon, and he shouldn’t have been surprised. Crime scene, police station, cemetery and bookstore. But had Axel just been in New Orleans? Or had they gotten a call at their Northern Virginia offices already?

  “You’re here on the murders discovered this morning?” Dan asked, staring at him. “Already?”

  “Already,” Axel said.

  His friend and occasional former coworker stood looking at him with a shrug. “I know you believe the murders in Florida and here had to be related. Naturally, Feds follow events like this that have crossed state lines.”

  “How the hell did you get here so damned quick?” Dan demanded.

  “Our fearless leader is down here, too. He can order the jet whenever he chooses.”

  “Jackson Crow is here?” Dan asked. He’d worked with Axel’s field director in the past, too.

  But Axel shook his head. “The big cheese is here. Seems a friend of his was killed years ago, in a similar brutal manner, out on a boat—”

  “Louis Delaney.”

  “Yes, the man’s name was Louis Delaney. They had met at a charity function sponsored by military vets and became friends. Anyway, Adam has been haunted by that case for years. He sent an agent down to Florida when the murders occurred in Orlando, and now... Well, we’re here.”

  Axel lifted his hands with a shrug. He was Dan’s own height, a solid six three, and the kind of man who was hard to miss in a crowd. His hair was almost jet back, and his eyes were a curious gold-green color. He had mixed Native American and European background, which seemed to add to his commanding presence.

  “So, I headed to the police station,” Axel continued. “You had just left. I figured this was going to be your next stop—I know you like to research—though it did take a while for you to get here. Did that have something to do with your friend?”

  “My friend?” Dan said, and turning in the direction Axel had indicated, he saw she was still with him.

  He swung back to Axel. “You see her?” he demanded.

  “I do.”

  “Then, she’s real?”

  “Define real.”

  Axel was his friend, but at that moment, Dan wanted to haul off and slug him. That was not the answer he was looking for.

  Axel wasn’t afraid of Dan, but he might have recognized his confusion. And disbelief.

  “She’s real, just dead. Maybe you could introduce us,” Axel said.

  Dan blinked. “You see dead people?”

  Axel nodded. “And I’m guessing you do, too?”

  “Never.” Dan shook his head. How was he having this co
nversation? Discussing ghosts as though it was neither impossible nor surprising.

  “But she’s standing right there.”

  “Please, tell me this is a prank. That there’s a ridiculous new reality show where they take bets on how long it takes a person to figure out the trick.”

  A woman—very solid and real—was coming around the corner of the aisle. Axel quickly stepped back—she was a large woman. She stared at the two of them and then walked on past, sniffing. “You’d think the cops would be finding out what the hell went on instead of chewing the fat in a store!” she muttered.

  Dan looked after her, annoyed. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, but I’m not a cop.”

  She turned, looked at him, sniffed, and kept right on going—and shivering as she passed by the woman Dan was coming to think of as his flapper.

  “Maybe we should buy these books and talk somewhere else,” Axel said. He picked up a stack of books and headed to the cashier. The flapper followed him. Dan stared after the two of them for a minute. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he saw the flapper was talking to Axel, and while Axel did nothing obvious in response, it was evident—to Dan, at least—that he was listening.

  She was probably complaining about him.

  He stood still for a moment, barely breathing. He could hear the thump, thump, thump of his heart as his mind raced.

  Axel wasn’t the kind of man who played tricks on others. And he’d heard Axel’s unit, the Krewe of Hunters, referred to as ghostbusters.

  It couldn’t be real.

  And yet...

  It seemed it was. Could he simply accept it?

  Axel, bag of books in hand, looked back at him.

  Dan strode to him, heading ahead to open the door. The flapper went quickly to the door as he held it open. He looked at her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Of course. Though, couldn’t you go right through it?”

  “Yes, but...it’s not always easy. Anyway, thank you.”

  Axel came through the door behind her. “Let’s go, then.”

  “Hell, yes, let’s go,” Dan said and then paused. “You got a car here?” he asked Axel.