Between the evil and the deep blue sea…

A historic cruise ship, a haunted ship, the Celtic American Line’s Destiny, sets sail from the Port of New Orleans—with a killer on board. He’s known as the Archangel Killer because of the way he displays his victims in churches. And how he places a different saint’s medallion on each body. No one knows exactly who he is or why he’s doing this.

Jackson Crow—head of the FBI’s Krewe of Hunters, a special unit of paranormal investigators—is assigned to the case, along with local agent Jude McCoy. Then Alexi Cromwell, who works in the ship’s piano bar, is drawn into the situation when a victim’s ghost appears to her—and to Jude. She and Jude share an attraction, and not just because of their mutual talent.

There are many suspects, but one by one they’re ruled out… Or are they? In the end, Jude and Alexi have to rely on each other to catch the killer and escape his evil plans for Alexi.

Praise for New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“With an astonishing ease and facility, this talented and hard-working writer can cast her stories in any genre.”

—Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Sookie Stackhouse novels

“Once again, Heather Graham has outdone herself. The Betrayed took me on a fantastic trip to Sleepy Hollow and I’d travel with Graham anywhere… This chilling novel has everything: suspense, romance, intrigue and an ending that takes your breath away.”

—Suspense Magazine

“[Waking the Dead] is not to be missed.”

—BookTalk

“Dark, dangerous and deadly! Graham has the uncanny ability to bring her books to life, using exceptionally vivid details to add depth to all the people and places.”

—RT Book Reviews on Waking the Dead, Top Pick

“Murder, intrigue…a fast-paced read. You may never know in advance what harrowing situations Graham will place her characters in, but…rest assured that the end result will be satisfying.”

—Suspense Magazine on Let the Dead Sleep

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“Suspenseful and dark.… The transitions between past and present flow seamlessly, and the main characters are interesting and their connection to one another is believable.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Unseen

Haunted Destiny
Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For David Curtis Mutter, the best piano man out there. (Sorry, David! Yes, I turned you into a young woman—quite beautiful, though—for the purposes of this story!)

And for FRW, surely one of the best writing groups out there!

CAST OF CHARACTERS

FBI Agents:

Jackson Crow (Head of the Krewe of Hunters)

Angela Hawkins (Special Agent and Jackson’s wife)

Jude McCoy (Special Agent in the New Orleans field office)

Celtic American Cruise Line (on the Destiny)

In the Entertainment Division:

Alexi Cromwell, piano bar hostess

Bradley Wilcox, head of entertainment

Clara Avery, soprano, in the ship’s presentation of Les Miz

Ralph Martini, mature actor

Simon Green, chorus

Larry Hepburn, young heartthrob actor

Key Personnel on the Ship:

Xavier Thorne, Captain of the Destiny

Larry Beach, Head of Security

Johnny Morgan, Security Guard

Jensen Hardy, Cruise Director

Nolan Perkins, Crew Steward

Among the Passengers:

Hank Osprey, brilliant young computer magnate

Roger Antrim, retired executive, and Lorna, his wife

Flora Winters, widow

Ginny Monk, dating Hank Osprey

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

1

They’d started out on foot that morning—not long after the murder was reported.

The murder that would soon bring the Big Easy to its knees; the eleventh attributed to the man the media had dubbed the “Archangel.”

And who had now, apparently, moved into New Orleans.

The perpetrator had already left his mark on other cities. The first two killings had taken place in Charleston, South Carolina, where two women were murdered, their bodies found in churches; the actual crime scenes had never been discovered. That was eight months ago.

After that there’d been a lull. At that time the Archangel hadn’t been given his moniker yet and he hadn’t been on the nation’s radar as a serial killer.

Some people wanted to believe that the killer himself was dead, or that he’d been incarcerated on other charges, the true extent of his crimes never known.

But those first two murders had held a strange signature—both victims displayed in churches with a saint’s medallion around their necks. And most investigators expected the killer to strike again.

Which he did, four months later.

The killer had come farther south, taking two lives in Miami, Florida, and quickly followed by two more, just up the coast in Fort Lauderdale.

Then, for another four months, nothing.

Law enforcement worked day and night, certain that he’d strike again—but not knowing where.

He did.

He’d traveled on to Mobile, Alabama. There, he’d killed three young women and a young man—the boyfriend of one of them, by all accounts. He’d arrived too late to save the last female Mobile victim, and was not at all prepared for the homicidal knife-wielder he’d come to meet. An actor returning home after his show, he’d obviously put up a fight. The young woman had been left on church steps, the boyfriend dumped in an alley. They knew this time, however—from various cell phone calls and messages—that the couple had been attacked at the young woman’s home, a small bungalow in a wooded area of the city.

But despite the disarray and the traces of blood in the bathtub, the killer had left behind no fingerprints, no fibers—no hint of his identity.

The last four had died in a period of three days, all while local law and the FBI scrambled after the Archangel like ants, certain they were getting close. They’d called out the National Guard in Mobile—only for the killer to refuse to strike again.

The one male victim had been dumped in an alley with no ceremony, while the young women’s bodies had been discovered at a church, sometimes on the outside steps, sometimes by the altar. The Archangel had left each female victim laid out as if prepared for burial—arms folded over her chest, a silver saint’s medal around her neck, almost covering the ribbon of red where he’d slit her throat.

Jude McCoy had seen the pictures; practically every agent in every city in the country had seen the crime scene photos of the victims.

And they’d all looked just like this young woman he gazed down at now. She lay before the altar of a church on the outskirts of the French Quarter, arms folded over her chest, a medallion of St. Luke around her throat.

Her name was Jean Wilson. She lay there, in front of the altar, a choir robe draped over her naked body, the telltale blood line around her neck—as if it was a chain for the medallion on her chest. She’d been young and beautiful with long, luxurious dark hair and coffee-colored skin.

Seeing her, Jude McCoy felt a mixture of horror, pity, rage—and helplessness.

He knew that no one in law enforcement was to blame. Not the bureau, Homeland Security or any branch of the local police. There were, according to the FBI specialists and scholars at various universities, anywhere between twenty and several hundred serial killers operating in the United States at any given time. This one, however, had been making headlines and had the entire nation on edge.

No one had known where he’d strike next.

Before this morning, Jude and the other members of his division had already been alerted. They’d sat through lectures by the bureau’s behavioral sciences professionals. What they learned was that this killer was organized, and he was smart. He was either independently wealthy or had a job that allowed travel. He was aware of the need to wear gloves and leave nothing behind. He also had the ability, in a short span of time, to choose and stalk his victims and silence them quickly, although he never sexually assaulted them. They’d all been found in or near churches; murdered elsewhere, their bodies weren’t dumped there, but displayed. They hadn’t been killed in the churches; two, at least, were murdered in the victim’s own home. Under most circumstances, Jude McCoy would have remained with the police and other FBI officers on the scene, since it was apparent that the victim had been moved from the crime scene and that the killer was long gone. He would have walked the church over and over again, making note of any little detail. He would have studied the street and determined just how the killer had traveled there with the body, how he’d brought it into a locked church and displayed it—without being seen.

But not that day.

After the medical examiner had arrived and Jude and Jackson Crow listened to his on-site findings, Jude moved back to the steps of the two-hundred-plus-year-old church to survey the sidewalk and the street.

Not surprisingly, nothing was usual that day. Everything felt different. The murder, of course. And maybe it was because he’d been abruptly paired with a stranger. And maybe because he’d heard things about Jackson Crow and his elite Krewe of Hunters unit. The Krewe had been formed right here in NOLA several years ago. Jude had received directions that morning. He would be on special assignment with an agent who knew the area well and had followed the trail of victims from Miami to New Orleans—Assistant Director Jackson Crow. When the body of Jean Wilson had been discovered, Crow had already been on his way in from Mobile, Alabama; he’d made an educated guess that the killer’s next strike might well be the city of New Orleans. He’d been on the case for some time, or so Jude understood, and in this situation FBI involvement was expected. Jackson Crow headed up a paranormal sector of the FBI—that was the rumor, anyway. They were unofficially known as the Krewe of Hunters—ghostbusters, some people said. Whether that was true or not, Jude didn’t know. He’d looked up their records out of curiosity; they did have an uncanny success rate hovering at almost 100 percent.

For Jude, the change of partners was not only an abrupt change, it was also one he wasn’t sure he felt comfortable with. His usual partner, Gary Firestone, was at the scene, as well. In fact, with all the law enforcement agencies involved, the greatest danger was that evidence might get lost because of the number of people messing around.

But Crow seemed aware of the danger and quickly organized staff into work units. Somehow, he seemed to manage it all without incurring resentment. He was spare with words, determined, efficient in movement.

Working with him, so far, anyway, was all right; they had an easy rapport, probably since they were both focused on one thing—finding the demon responsible for such heinous deaths.

However...Jackson Crow was Krewe of Hunters. And thinking about his own past, particularly a strange event that had haunted him since he’d been in the military, he was a little wary of Jackson Crow. He was intrigued that Crow had sought him out, yet slightly troubled because of it.

He quashed the feeling. He didn’t have time for that kind of emotion; they were in pursuit of a killer.

While the medical examiner worked inside the church, he and Crow had stepped outside. Uniformed police were cordoning off the area with yellow tape. A crowd of onlookers had gathered.

“Look,” Jude said quietly to Crow.

There was a man lurking on the outskirts of the crowd.

Summer in New Orleans. Hotter than the devil’s own seat in hell. And the guy was dressed in a sweatshirt, holding his head down, shuffling his feet, watching. There was something odd about his manner—and his appearance. His face was almost gruesome, and his nose was huge.

“I see him,” Crow muttered.

The man might have been a voyeur, the kind who slowed down at the scene of a car accident.

And yet his behavior made him typical of killers who returned to see the aftermath of their work, getting their kicks all over again by seeing the police run around, the crowd gawk—and the relatives break down in tears and denial. Jude carefully started moving toward him.

Just then the man looked up. Jude froze behind one of the columns. It was important, he thought, that the man not see him.

His face was...unnatural. Not as if he was wearing a mask, but makeup. Prosthetic makeup, perhaps, giving him a larger nose, a bulbous chin, harder cheek bones. The man turned to run, as if he’d sniffed out the fact that he’d been noticed. Jude shouted to Crow and began to run in pursuit.

Jackson Crow was already beside him.

Running.

They tore across Rampart Street and into the Quarter...down, all the way down to Bourbon. And there they lost him. By then, of course, there were dozens of officers around.

“Every bar, every damn bar!” Jackson ordered. “The guy in the gray sweatshirt. Black hair.”

It was still daytime, around three o’clock, but a summer festival was in full swing. Music of all kinds was blaring, tourists were crowding around and beads were being flung from balconies. There were hawkers on the street, and the sheer flow of people, from the slightly inebriated to the out-and-out drunk did not make for easy movement. Jude thought he saw the man head into a place called Piccolo’s. He followed.

A four-piece band was playing a Journey number, and the crowd was gathered by the stage, singing along. Waiters and waitresses worked their way through the revelers.

Police and other agents were bearing down on the bar, as well.

Jude quickly scanned the bar and the people inside it.

Crow was still right behind him.

“There!” Crow called out.

Their prey had leaped on top of the bar; a girl giggled and started toward him, ready to stuff some dollar bills in his pocket, or so it appeared. But the man jumped down from the bar, a stool crashed over and she went flying back, sending others onto the floor as she did. Chaos erupted to the refrain of “Don’t Stop Believing.”

“Lost him!” Crow said, swearing under his breath.

Jude was already climbing over the bar himself, past the stunned bartender—standing with his mixer in hand—and through the dingy kitchen to the side street. They were on St. Ann.

From there he saw the man step into the passenger seat of an old Chevy around the corner from the club—and even as Jude raced after him, the car pulled out into the street.

“Hey!” he roared to Crow. His new partner as of the morning was already outside.

“This way!” Crow shouted.

They moved down St. Ann at a run until they reached a bureau sedan. The driver stepped out.

“Assistant Director Crow,” the man began, ready to leap into action as driver.

“We’ll take it, Hicks,” Crow said, accepting the keys and tossing them to Jude. “Drive. You know the streets better than I do.”

Jude was surprised but pleased that Crow had the sense to realize that. And it was true. He knew the one-ways and he knew the cutoffs that happened so often when New Orleans was in festival mode.

The man driving the Chevy should have been stopped by the sheer volume of pedestrian traffic. So far, he’d banged on his horn and plowed through. Jude hopped into the driver’s seat while Crow got into the passenger side.

Streets were closed; there was no way to traverse them.

Jude shot across to a side street, but the suspect was nowhere to be seen. Moving on instinct, he sped toward Canal, hoping to cut him off.

“Where are you going?” Crow asked.

“We’ll catch him on the border of the Vieux Carre,” Jude said.

And they did.

There they saw the Chevy surging ahead, and Jude did his best to follow without running over a pedestrian. Even on Canal, people were wandering on and off the road.

“Where’s he going? What the hell?” Crow asked, shaking his head. “And who’s driving? Are we dealing with a pair of killers?”

The man in the Chevy didn’t seem to have a destination. He was driving erratically, avoiding the dozens of cop cars now on the road.

“Airport...train station...” Crow mused. “Hey! That was him, down Tchoupitoulas!”

“Might be going to the port,” Jude said, still trying to follow the Chevy. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that the driver was now maneuvering around a one-way street toward the Riverwalk area—and the massive cruise port.

Yes.

The car was going to the port!

As Jude drove hard, the siren blasting, Jackson Crow got on the radio, advising all law enforcement in the area to watch out for the car and the two men, giving a description of their suspect’s clothing and appearance.

So many ships, so many cruise lines.

“There! Up ahead. The Celtic American line,” Crow said. “I see the car.”

The Chevy was in front of the entry to the Celtic American line. More chaos was breaking out as last-minute cruisers competed for positions to park or drop off passengers.

Jude jerked the sedan off to the side of the road. Crow was out of the sedan before it was in Park. Seconds later he had the driver standing on the sidewalk beside the old Chevy.

He looked like a man in a trance. He was fifty-five or sixty, a slightly pudgy and balding businessman who seemed completely bewildered—as if he didn’t know who he was or why he was there.

“Who were you driving? Why didn’t you stop?” Crow demanded.

“I’m Walter Bean. I was supposed to pick up my daughter after her shift at the Red Garter... She’s a hostess there.”

“We need you to tell us about your passenger.”

“I’m not even sure he was real, he showed up so fast! I don’t know... I don’t understand... Suddenly he was in the car, making me drive, telling me there was a killer after me.”

“Where did he go just now?” Jackson asked. “Think. Where did he go?”

Walter Bean was very red and sweating profusely. He shook his head. “I don’t know. He said to stop here. I stopped. He got out of the car. I don’t know if he...if he was a killer. I believed he would kill me. He was frantic. He said a killer was after me, and then he said he’d kill me if I didn’t drive, didn’t get him to the port. Oh, God, oh, God...”

The man clutched his chest.

“Heart attack!” Jude warned.

They patted his shirt for aspirin; Jude found the bottle, and Jackson got a pill in the man’s mouth. Other agents ran up.

“Get him an ambulance!” Crow yelled, gesturing to a cop in uniform who rushed forward to help.

“Let’s move,” Jude said. He could hear sirens already. Walter Bean would now receive the medical care he needed.

Once again, he and Crow were running.

Jackson flashed his badge as they moved through the passenger terminal. They were asking questions at a checkpoint when Jude found himself studying a man who had boarded the ship. He’d just crossed the air bridge, and Jude could see him through the window.

No one there had seen a man who fit the description of the man they were chasing.

But Jude did.

He couldn’t see him clearly; there were too many people boarding at the same time.

He turned to Jackson Crow. “He’s on the ship. It makes perfect sense. Every city where the Archangel has killed has been a port city—a port where cruise ships depart and return. Some crew members are on for nine months or more at a stint. Some hire on for two, four or six months, especially if they’re entertainers or celebrity hosts, that sort of thing. Crow, it’s what we’ve been trying to figure out! How and why the murders happen and then stop. He’s either an employee or a passenger on a ship, and I have strong feelings it’s that ship.”

“Why do you think it’s that ship?” Jackson asked.

“I think I just saw him. Or at least, I saw the man we were chasing.”

“You’re not certain?”

“No. Not 100 percent certain.”

“McCoy, we don’t even know if he’s the killer! He could be some gawker jerk who’s guilty of some minor crime—and afraid of all the law enforcement. He could also be late for a sailing.”

“If he was just late for a sailing, he would’ve had to go through the line. But he’s here on the ship. And no one runs like that because of a parking ticket. He’s guilty of something major—probably these murders—and I believe he’s on that ship.”

Jackson Crow stared at him a moment longer; Jude didn’t blame him. They’d met less than three hours ago. Crow had Native American in his heritage, and although Jude wasn’t in any way enamored of stereotyping, Crow had the “stoic” attributed to Native Americans down pat. Jude couldn’t begin to tell what he was thinking.

“Gut feeling,” Jude told him, determined to be honest and equally determined to be convincing. “I have one hell of a gut feeling.”

Jackson Crow brought out his credentials and started a rapid-fire discussion with a Celtic American security guard. Within seconds another man came down; some senior person with the cruise line.

When they’d finished speaking, Jude and Jackson were each handed a boarding pass.

“Ever been to Cozumel?” Jackson asked drily.

“Spring break, a thousand years ago.”

Jackson shrugged. “Then you should remember it well enough. Anyway, let’s hope to hell we’re off by then—with him in cuffs. Because if we’re not...”

“He’ll kill again,” Jude said quietly. He looked up at the behemoth they were about to board.

The Destiny.

She wasn’t one of the largest ships sailing the seas by far. She was, Jude knew—thanks to the publicity at her most recent relaunch—the pride of the Celtic American line, owned by an Irish American who had come to the States as a college student and gone on to become a billionaire. The ship was old, commissioned in the late 1930s by an English lord who was hoping to give the Queen Mary a run for her money. The timing, for obvious reasons, had been bad. She wound up serving as a hospital ship during World War II, her cruising days curtailed by the devastation facing the world. Following the war, she’d gone through numerous hands until she’d been purchased and completely refurbished by Celtic American. The company specialized in historic ships, making that history part of their charm.

No, she wasn’t one of the largest. She still carried about seven hundred crew members.

And over 2,400 passengers.

She was, in essence, a small city.

Jude looked at Crow, then studied the ship again.

“What?” Crow asked.

“He might be feeling the heat’s on him now. And that means he just might kill again before we reach our next port.”

* * *

“I really think you should be playing more ballads.” Minnie Lawrence said, her painted red lips forming a pretty pout. “This is, after all, a piano bar.”

Minnie had draped herself on one of the velvet lounge chairs near the piano. She was beautifully clad in a slinky blue gown with a matching headband around her short blond hair. She managed to smile while maintaining her pout, behaving as the 1930s idol she’d once been. But she was truly sweet and very charming. Alexi could understand why she’d been so beloved in her day.

“I believe she means old ballads,” Blake Dalton said, coming behind Minnie to lean rakishly against the chair as they both stared at Alexi Cromwell with their most beguiling smiles. “Well, what you’d call old ballads, at any rate!”

Blake definitely had some Valentino mystery-charisma, as well.

“I do my best,” Alexi assured the two, sorting through the book she kept for the passengers who wanted to sing. She looked up at them and sighed. “Honestly. I do. But this is the twenty-first century. And I play our passengers’ requests. That’s my job.”

“I’m a passenger, and I’m requesting!” Minnie said.

But you’re a dead passenger! Alexi wanted to say.

She refrained.

“I do a smashing version of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’” Minnie said. “And it was in The Wizard of Oz. Surely, everyone knows that.”

“Or ‘In the Mood’!” Blake said. “Minnie sings that very well indeed.”

“You do way too much of that new fellow, that Billy Joel man,” Minnie said. “I just can’t fix on a key with him.”

“Most people these days don’t consider Billy Joel to be a new fellow and I’m sorry, but I never go a night without someone wanting ‘Piano Man.’ But a number of people really enjoy older numbers and ask for them, too. How about this? I promise I’ll do ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ tonight. How’s that?” Alexi asked.

Before Blake or Minnie could reply, a man came tearing into the Algiers Saloon, racing through the bar area—for employees only—to leap over a neighboring sofa and continue running down the hallway of the St. Charles Deck.

He moved so swiftly that Alexi never saw his face. She had a fleeting impression of his height and appearance—and something a little ghastly. He looked as if he was wearing makeup for a Shakespearean play or a classic Greek drama.

Gray sweatshirt, blue jeans, about six feet, maybe around two hundred pounds.

“Well, I never!” Minnie sniffed.

“How incredibly rude,” Blake said, trembling with the indignity of it all.

“We’ve seen plenty of rude. At least he didn’t jump over the sofa where you two are sitting!” Alexi told them, lowering her head so they couldn’t see her smile.

Sometimes, guests sensed the pair of ghosts. She would see them shiver and look around, remind themselves that they were on a floating island with thousands of people around them. She knew it disturbed both Blake and Minnie when people walked through them. It didn’t hurt them—they simply didn’t like it. Blake once explained to her that it felt as if someone had shoved you carelessly in a crowd. It was rude, just rude. “Some staff member who’s late reporting in, maybe,” Alexi murmured. “Anyway, my friends, I’m going to my cabin while the stampede of boarding takes place. I’ll see you soon.”

Alexi rose, scooping up her book, laptop and extra music pages. She smiled at Blake and Minnie. “I promise, we’ll start off with Judy Garland,” she assured them.

“Lovely!” Minnie called after her.

“Shall we stroll, darling?” she heard Blake ask Minnie.

“We’ll find a place high atop and watch as we sail away, watch the city disappear and the beauty of the moon upon the water,” Minnie agreed.

Alexi smiled as she hurried on, anxious to get to the elevators and down below where the crew members had their cabins.

She loved having Minnie and Blake on the ship. The Destiny had lost many employees to the ghosts they encountered on board. People had reported seeing images disappear and things being moved about. Sheet music seemed to do that a lot, according to people who’d worked on the ship. Actually, Alexi owed her position to the fact that the pianist who’d been preferred by the entertainment director had lasted only one cruise. As a result, Alexi had been hired. She was sure that the musician who’d left—disturbed by the way his sheet music constantly moved and keys played when he hadn’t touched them—would find a job that made him happy. He was a far better pianist than she was. But he hadn’t felt the same need to escape, to live this strange life of fantasy the way she had.

Escape.

She couldn’t escape. Her sister, her brother, her parents, her friends—everyone had told her that. Zach was dead. He’d come back from the Middle East in a box. She knew that. She’d never escape the fact that he was dead. But she could escape New Orleans, their little Irish Channel duplex and the places they’d frequented for years.

She realized, as she walked, that she’d been on the ship for almost a year. Well, four months on and one off, and then back on, accepting contract after contract with the cruise line. And although she might not have the astounding talent of some piano bar hosts, she did have a way with a crowd. Perhaps equally important, she never complained about ghosts or poltergeists.

She’d been aware of the dead as long as she could remember. Early on, her mom, not in so many words, but by careful suggestion, had let her know the sense ran in the family.

And it was best not to share that with others. She was pretty sure her mom didn’t actually see or hear ghosts; with her, it really was a sense. She felt when they were close, felt the happiness that had existed—and the trauma and tears.

As Alexi walked down the hall to her cabin, she passed Clara Avery, one of the entertainers in the ship’s main show, Les Misérables.

Clara was supremely talented; she was a soprano with a genuinely impressive voice.

“Hey!” Clara said. “You were back-to-back cruises, too, huh? Did you take some time to get off the ship? Did you see your family?”

“Yes, they came and met me for lunch near the port,” Alexi told her.

“Good.” Clara hesitated. “It’s been a long time, Alexi. I can’t imagine having your wedding all planned—and him not coming home. But you can’t let your family lose you, too.”

“I know. I know that, really. I see them as often as I can. Honestly. I love my folks. I didn’t see my brother because he’s on tour and Sienna’s in Europe. On vacation. Well deserved, I imagine.” She grinned. “My poor parents. They’re so...mathematical and scientific! And they wound up with two entertainers and only one doctor, Sienna!”

“I’m sure they’re proud of all of you,” Clara said. She grinned. “I think my dad cried when he found out I wanted to go into theater. But he’s happy now!”

“And he’s a super guy. They came to the piano bar almost every night they were on the cruise—even when you couldn’t. Your mom is lovely, too.”

“Your folks haven’t taken the cruise yet,” Clara noted.

Alexi shrugged. No, her mother would never be on this ship. She didn’t see the dead the same way Alexi did, but she knew they were there. She worried not just because Alexi was a piano-playing hostess on a cruise ship; she worried because Alexi was on the Destiny.

“The things that happened on that ship!” her mother had warned her. “Terrible! And not just the poor soldiers who died. There were other incidents, too!” The Destiny, like most old ships with interesting histories, had the reputation of being haunted.

There’d been incidents aboard, yes. Such as the night in 1939 when Blake and Minnie had died, murdered in cold blood.

But Alexi wished she could explain that none of the ghosts on the ship were malevolent in any way. She’d come across a couple of soldiers who’d died in the infirmary: Privates Jimmy Estes and Frank Marlowe, handsome young men who’d been taken far too soon; Barbara Leon, a nurse who’d died of a fever she’d caught while tending to others; and Captain McPherson, who’d dropped dead of a heart attack at his retirement party, which had been held on the ship in 1967.

He still loved to tell her what the current captain was doing wrong.

All the Destiny’s ghosts were pleasant. The soldiers still believed they were convalescing, the captain was still watching over the bridge, and the nurse was still standing duty at the infirmary. They were polite and cheerful, thrilled that Alexi—and more often than not, her friends—could see them.

Her family really didn’t need to worry about her. She accepted the fact that Zach was gone. Time didn’t heal all wounds, but it allowed memories to offer consolation, to bring smiles instead of tears. She had simply become rather dependent on living on the ship. And she did love the Destiny, including all her history and her ghosts. Alexi didn’t lie awake at night anymore, the way she had at first.

She’d lain awake and wondered why, when the dead from so many different eras and generations found her, she’d never seen Zachary Wainwright, never had a chance to hold him and be held one last time. Never had a chance to say goodbye...

Alexi smiled. “My mom won’t be getting on this ship and without my mom—no dad. Mom’s convinced the ship is haunted, which of course it is, and she wants nothing to do with that. She’s... I don’t know...very Catholic, slightly Wiccan, possibly? She believes that spirits can find her. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my mother. But my dad always smiles and tells me that when they were married and moved into our home in the Irish Channel, she called in a priest to bless the house and cleanse it of ghosts.”

“She sounds like fun. And, hey, I agree with you that this ship is haunted! I try to say nice things to whatever gives me the chills as I walk by,” Clara said, shrugging. “In any event, they leave me alone.”

“I’ll see you in a little while,” Alexi told her. “I’m going to grab some downtime with a pillow.”

“And I’m going to pop into the lounge,” Clara said. “Come with me and say hi. We have some new people in the entertainment crew.”

Alexi didn’t particularly want to say hi to anyone at the moment; she wanted to lie down. She’d had lunch with her parents on shore, and much as she loved them, an hour or two in their company could be exhausting.

“Just for a sec!” Clara encouraged.

Alexi followed her into the crew lounge.

They didn’t separate crew down here. It was a hallmark for most people who accepted employment with the Celtic American line. Entertainers and officers mingled with room stewards, even though the lounge space was small. But there was a television, a computer, lots of comfortable chairs, plenty of snacks, a refrigerator, coffeepot and a microwave.

And right now the lounge was crowded, mostly with entertainers, those who didn’t play or perform as the passengers boarded. “Hey, new guys! This is Alexi Cromwell, for those who haven’t met her yet. She runs the piano bar and she loves it when we stop by.”

“Hi, Alexi!” Ralph Martini was the first to hail her. She knew Ralph. He’d been on her first contract schedule.

Ralph continued with, “I’m not new. I’m just saying hi first!” Ralph was a friendly, easygoing guy. She thought he was about fifty. He had a great tenor and often did a one-man show. Balding, a little stout—and totally charming. Women on board loved him.

“Alexi. I’m Simon Green,” a man said, rising and offering her his hand. He was tall and lean, with a pleasant boy-next-door face. “In the cast, my first go at it. Just a chorus guy.”

“No such thing as just a chorus guy,” Alexi said. “I’m sure you’re very talented. Good to meet you, and please, come by anytime.”

Simon Green shrugged, giving her a smile. “I’m a happy guy. I’ve been on a few cruises with Celtic American as a passenger. So I’m thrilled to be on the Destiny and seeing how it all works from the other side!”

She went on to meet Larry Hepburn, early twenties, blond, beach-boy type, out of LA, and Leanne Wilburn, from Des Moines. As they were all greeting one another, Bradley Wilcox, head of entertainment, who’d recently transferred over from the Dublin, stuck his head in.

Alexi had met Bradley Wilcox before. He, too, had been on her first run with the ship.

She stayed away from him as much as she could. He organized excellent shows, hired great bands for the various dining spots and bars—and was a complete jerk. He didn’t seem capable of compliments.

“Guitar Hero Boys, you’re due on the promenade in fifteen minutes. You should be getting in place.”

The foursome who made up the group rose and marched out. Alexi heard one mutter as he passed her. “Are you set up? Yes. Ready to go? Yes. Are you an asshole, Brad? Yes!”

She tried not to smile. And when the band had gone by, she left, too, wishing them all well—those who were new and those who’d returned to the Destiny or had switched from other ships.

In her cabin, Alexi sank down on the bed and closed her eyes, wishing she could sleep. She found herself thinking about Blake and Minnie.

Their deaths had been tragic. Minnie, a star of stage and screen, had fallen in love with Blake when he’d played Romeo to her Juliet in a touring company in the thirties. The fact that she was taking the Destiny for a transatlantic voyage had been huge news at the time; reporters and fans alike had booked onto the voyage.

The fans had included a deranged former lover, convinced that if he removed Blake from the picture, he would have his Minnie back.

Minnie had been singing an impromptu number in the piano bar. Also known as the Algiers Saloon, it was located exactly where it was now. Her previous lover, Allan Snow, had leaped to his feet after one of her numbers and declared his devotion. Minnie had claimed her eternal devotion, as well—to Blake.

So Allan Snow had pulled out a gun and shot Blake, who’d jumped in front of Minnie to be her protector. Then he’d shot Minnie and himself.

The ghost of Allan Snow didn’t seem to be aboard. Minnie told Alexi that she’d never seen him and she’d figured that God had been good, allowing her and Blake a different way to be together. She’d smiled and said their love was eternal.

Alexi figured it was natural that they’d haunt the piano bar.

She turned and hugged her pillow. Since Zach had been in the service and deployed overseas, they’d talked about the possibility of his death. She’d promised that if it happened, she’d always remember him—and she’d go on with her life, be happy.

She wasn’t suicidal, never had been. She was willing to find a new purpose, a new role, a new way of being. Just as she’d promised. Happy was more difficult.

What worried her now was the fact that he was slipping away. She thought about him often, with love. Sometimes she was happy now. She laughed at the antics of passengers and enjoyed meeting them. She’d even roamed various ports with friends she made aboard. She knew she shouldn’t feel guilty, and yet she did.

She reached into the gloomy air of her cabin, as if she could touch him.

“I just wish I could’ve said goodbye,” she murmured aloud.

Then she was startled out of her reflections when it seemed that something slammed against her door.

She jumped up and hurried to open it.

A man stood there, tall, dark-haired and...bizarre.

He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans and strange prosthetic makeup. The man who’d raced through the piano bar!

He looked at her with beseeching eyes.

“I must speak with you. I must!” he said.

She frowned. Was he new in the entertainment department?

There was a commotion at the aft end of the hallway, and Alexi peered in that direction.

More men were coming along the hallway, men she’d never seen down in the entertainment area before, but they were accompanied by Nolan Perkins, one of the stewards.

“Sir,” she began, turning back to the man who had knocked at her door.

He was gone. She thought she saw him disappear around a corner that led to midship. She looked in the other direction.

“Hey, Alexi,” Nolan said.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“I’m just showing these gentlemen the ship,” Nolan said. He lowered his voice. “They’re bigwigs with Celtic American,” he told her, then cleared his throat. “Alexi Cromwell, meet Jackson Crow and Jude McCoy.”

“How do you do?” the first man said, smiling as he reached for her hand. He was tall, good-looking and obviously had Native American ancestry. His dark hair and light eyes made for a striking contrast.

“Ms. Cromwell,” said the other. He was equally tall, broad-shouldered, sandy-haired. His eyes were unusual—blue and green with flecks of brown. His features were clean-cut, his jaw hard and square. Very attractive, in a rugged, austere manner.

He looked at her oddly.

As if he knew her? Or thought he did?

Or worse—thought she was guilty of something!

Both men wore tailored shirts and pants, not the usual tourist apparel. But then, they weren’t tourists. They were bigwigs with Celtic American.

“Nice to meet you,” Alexi said.

“Have you seen a man?” Nolan asked her.

That made her laugh. “A man? Nolan, I’ve seen hundreds of men. It’s a cruise ship.”

She understood exactly what he meant. And yet, for some reason, she was loath to tell him that yes, a man—a strange-looking man—had just gone by. She wondered why company VIPs were so interested in him.

“He’s tall, bizarre makeup of some kind, sweat shirt and jeans,” Jude McCoy said.

She lifted her shoulders. “I believe I did see him earlier,” she admitted, “running through the piano bar when the passengers were boarding.”

She had seen that same man again, just minutes ago. And she wasn’t telling these men. Why? Instinct? Pity?

But there’d been something even more peculiar about him than the prosthetic makeup or whatever it was he had on his face. A sense of anguish, perhaps.

She hesitated. She shouldn’t lie to these people. But the young man had seemed so desperate. In her heart, she felt that he’d come to her for help.

Still...

“Actually,” she said, “I think he was in this hallway. He ran in that direction. But where he is right now, I couldn’t say.”

That was mostly the truth. She didn’t know where he was. He’d run.

“Well, thank you, Ms. Cromwell. If you should see him again, can you report him to us, please? We’re in staterooms 312 and 314,” Jackson Crow said. “It’s imperative that we find him,” he added quietly. “But I’m not at liberty to discuss the details.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

As they walked down the hall, she was more suspicious than ever.

Why were company bigwigs staying down in the bowels of the ship with the crew? The larger rooms—staterooms with balconies, the suites—were on the upper decks.

She was about to return to her cabin when Clara came running down the hallway, leaning against the wall, gasping for breath. “Alexi! Did you have the news on?”

“The news? No, why?”

“Thank God we’re leaving! That guy, that horrible killer!” She gasped for more breath. “The Archangel—he murdered a woman in New Orleans!”

2

It wasn’t until the Destiny was far out into the Gulf of Mexico that Jackson Crow and Jude had a chance to meet with Captain Xavier Thorne and his head of security, David Beach. Their first business on board after walking every deck, including the holds and areas passengers never saw, was to go through the ship’s passenger and crew screening. There was a page for every passenger and crew member on board, including a photograph and information regarding citizenship and means of identification. A ship-issued ID was required anytime anyone, passenger or employee, boarded or left the Destiny.

In other words, no one, including crew, could get on or off the ship without that ID.

Jude and Jackson hadn’t seen their man in the thousands of passenger screening documents—but then, even if they’d seen him, they might not have known him.

This suspect could have ditched his makeup anytime after he’d boarded. Or certainly, after he’d been seen by Alexi Cromwell.

It was time to explain to Thorne and Beach just what they were doing there.

Xavier Thorne was fifty-five, according to the information they had, a veteran of many sailings. He’d served in the United States Navy before becoming a civilian employee in the pleasure business; he’d worked as a captain for smaller yachts doing private charters and for a number of the major lines before he’d settled in at Celtic American fifteen years ago. He was a serious man, but still capable of smiling.

Jude had wanted to stop the ship from going out, which had proved to be impossible. Not even the powers that existed behind Jackson Crow had been able to make that happen. Neither he nor Crow knew for sure if the man they’d chased was a killer. And, despite Ms. Cromwell’s sighting, they couldn’t verify that he was on the ship. At least his new partner/supervisor seemed to believe him. He’d not only put Jude on the ship, he’d also accompanied him. So now, at five that afternoon, they met with the captain and Beach.

David Beach was an ox of a man, almost six and a half feet tall. Jude, at six-three, felt dwarfed by him. Beach also had stellar credentials, having served with the NYPD and Homeland Security before retiring at fifty to enter the civilian sector and take the job with the Celtic American line.

They knew all this because they’d accessed Jackson Crow’s home office to receive dossiers on every member of the crew.

Now they sat in the captain’s office to speak and while the space was large enough, it felt small. David Beach, Jude thought, could make just about anyone—short of Shaquille O’Neal, no pun intended—seem small and any space seem close and crowded.

Beach remained quiet after Jackson had spoken, and Captain Thorne frowned as he weighed his response.

“You believe you’ve chased a serial killer onto my ship?” he finally asked.

“Yes, Captain,” Jude replied. “We believe that the killer’s been using cruise ports and ships to track and murder his victims—and that we followed him onto the Destiny.”

The captain shook his head. “I don’t see how you could know this. I heard about that terrible business at the church in the Treme district and I don’t think anyone, anywhere in the world, has missed the news about the fear this man is creating, but...this was the killer’s first strike in New Orleans.”

“You don’t really even know if the man you followed onto the ship was responsible for the heinous act at the church,” David Beach added.

“Captain, we followed a man who behaved suspiciously at the crime scene. I’m aware of both your backgrounds,” Crow told them. “Mr. Beach, you’ve certainly been through seminars on the psychology of killers like this. The man’s behavior was the kind we consider exceptionally suspicious.”

“So they sent the troops out on a ship because of a man behaving suspiciously at a crime scene?” Captain Thorne asked. “Seems to me it would’ve made more sense to prowl the streets of New Orleans, tracing hard evidence.”

“Trust me, Captain, there are many law enforcement officers doing just that,” Jude said.

“Of course. I assume every law enforcement officer in the States is on the lookout, but—”

“We don’t intend to be intrusive,” Crow assured him.

“Frankly, whether you are or not, I have no real power over this.” Thorne glanced over at Beach. “Word’s come down from on high at Celtic American. We are to give you every assistance you require. However, I’d hate to put an entire ship full of people into a state of panic because you chased a man for behaving in a manner you describe as suspicious and you think he’s on this ship.”

“We don’t want a panic, either,” Jude said. “What we do want is to advise you that this man may be on board and may be dangerous. I would imagine,” he went on, and he could hear his voice harden as he spoke, “that you’d be concerned. You have several thousand passengers, not to mention a large crew, any of whom could be in danger. Granted, most of the so-called Archangel’s victims have been women but he’s killed at least one man. We’d like you to make a speech warning everyone to take extreme care, to lock their cabins and watch out for their personal safety.”

“Every cruise company in the world has guidelines warning passengers that while all precautions are taken, crime can still happen,” Beach told them.

“I don’t usually make announcements like that,” Thorne murmured.

“You can make it friendly,” Crow said. “As well as serious.”

“And of course, you need to alert your crew, and, most important, Mr. Beach, every one of your security officers,” Jude put in. “I doubt this man is still dressed the same. He’d have his own clothing or he’d have stolen a change of clothing by now.”

“Can you give me a description of his face?” Beach asked.

“Tragedy,” Jude said, recalling the strange prosthetic makeup he’d seen on the man.

“What?”

“He was wearing theatrical makeup when we saw him,” Jude explained. “He’s probably gotten rid of it, cleaned up, by now.”

Thorne raised his salt-and-pepper brows beneath his captain’s hat and looked over at Beach. Then he stared hard from Jackson Crow to Jude.

“Gentlemen—”

“Assistant Director Jackson Crow and Special Agent Jude McCoy,” Crow interrupted. He smiled, appearing polite, ready to be friendly and helpful, while ensuring that their purpose was noted.

Captain Thorne nodded. “But you need to realize that you’re asking me to put a security crew and every one of almost a thousand crew members on guard and warn over two thousand passengers—many on the vacation of a lifetime—that there may be a killer on board. ‘Enjoy the crystal beauty of the Caribbean! Ah, but be aware. The FBI believes there might be a homicidal maniac on board. Apparently, he was wearing makeup and God knows what he’s wearing now. Watch out for him, though!’” He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Agents. But on this ship I’m like the president, the grand high master, the great pooh-bah, what have you. I can’t scare them all half to death.”

“We haven’t asked you to do that,” Jude said flatly. “Captain, don’t you want this man caught? Don’t you want your passengers safe?”

“Of course!” Thorne replied indignantly.

“Just remind them of safety-precaution tips—and even mention the horror in NOLA without suggesting the killer could be on board,” Crow said. “Make sure your officers are advised. Make sure they patrol the bars and clubs and watch out for men who seem to be stalking women.”

Beach muttered something under his breath. They all looked at him.

He sighed. “I’d say at least some of the people on this ship are out for more than fun and sun—a chance to get lucky outside their real world. How can I watch everyone in the middle of that kind of behavior?”

“You’ve been a cop. You know how to observe people, how to judge their moods, how to tell when something’s out of whack,” Jude said.

Beach nodded grimly. Jude was glad that he’d brought up the man’s past; it seemed to remind him of his own sense of self-respect and ability.

“We also have almost limitless resources working on this. Within a few hours, we’ll have cleared the majority of people on this vessel. Investigators in our main office will soon learn who has and who hasn’t been in the areas of the country where the murders were committed. That will eliminate the majority of people on the ship,” Jude said.

Captain Thorne was obviously relieved. “The killer had to have traveled, right? Miami? Fort Lauderdale?”

“And Mobile,” Crow said.

“Assuming it’s one killer, which we believe it to be,” Jude added.

The captain rose. “I must be getting back to my duties,” he said. “You’ll keep me apprised of what you discover? When do you expect your reports?”

“Soon,” Crow assured him. “And thanks for the use of your computers.” They’d been given a cabin near the security offices, complete with high-end equipment and systems.

“I’d like the reports as soon as possible. Naturally, I expect you to be discreet. I don’t want people in an uproar because they’re afraid a killer could be on board—unless we find it to be true.” He paused. “You believe this man might be a frequent traveler or a ship employee? No murder has taken place on the Destiny. Well, except for the strictly historical ones,” he acknowledged with a grimace. “You might keep my passengers the safest by never indicating that you suspect this killer might be on board. You could cause an out-and-out panic. Some sort of mistaken vigilante justice, that kind of thing.”

“We’ve taken that into consideration, Captain,” Jude said.

“Which is why we want you to make your announcement very carefully,” Crow told him. “Just mention that, since the ship disembarked from New Orleans, we’re all aware of the recent murder. Say that our hearts are with the family and friends of the young woman killed in New Orleans. Emphasize that they should take care at all times, even amidst the warmth and hospitality of the Destiny.”

“I’ll give this some serious thought,” the captain said. “Now...” He smiled drily. “Enjoy your time aboard the Destiny. She’s a splendid lady, created when sailing meant grandeur.”

They left the captain’s office. “That didn’t go badly.” Jackson Crow gave Jude an awkward half smile. “Not as badly as I expected.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Jude agreed. “How soon will we get those reports?”

“In an hour or two. Meanwhile, I’m going to suggest that since the shops on the Promenade Deck are open, we buy more appropriate attire. Once we’ve done that, I suspect we’ll have our reports. Not just names and numbers, but in-depth intel on anyone who might’ve been in any of those ports at the relevant times.”

“You have someone really good on this?” Jude asked.

Crow nodded, his smile growing. “The very best. Angela Hawkins. My wife.”

* * *

At seven Alexi joined Clara and some of the other performers and crew members in what they affectionately called “the bowels,” or the employee cafeteria area, far toward the stern on the second deck. They didn’t dine in any of the three main restaurants on the ship, but in a private space that didn’t sport linen napkins or elegant wineglasses. It was still fine; Alexi thought the food served belowdecks was just as good as that in the dining rooms and buffets above. She also liked the fact that the Celtic American line considered all “staff”—from prestigious guest performers to the catering and cleaning crews—to be equal. There were no elite employees. Bradley Wilcox was hard to take at times, but aside from that, they were all treated courteously and with respect.

Alexi scooped up tuna and chips and got a salad from the buffet. She saw that Clara was seated with Ralph Martini and Simon Green. Ralph was shaking his head as she sat down with them. “Can’t figure it. Can’t figure how the police haven’t got this guy yet.” He shuddered. “Sorry. I’m obsessing. It’s just...he’s in New Orleans!”

“He struck in New Orleans,” Simon said. “Doesn’t mean he’s still in New Orleans. He may be moving north now. Or to Texas.”

“How can the cops not catch this bastard?” Ralph asked.

“I’m sure they’re doing everything they can,” Clara said.

“Hey, there are fibers, fingerprints, blood... Forensic science has given the cops all kinds of tools for catching killers,” Ralph protested. “I watch all those crime-scene TV shows. This guy has to have left something behind.”

“The police use experts and technology and everything,” Alexi said, “but crimes aren’t always that easily solved. I mean, even if you do have a hair sample, you have to have a suspect to compare it with. And from what I’ve read, it sounds like the killer must watch all the shows, too—since he hasn’t left anything behind.”

“Not that they’re telling us about, anyway!” Ralph said.

Young, blond and sun-drenched handsome in shorts and a tank top, Larry Hepburn made an appearance with his tray, smiling and indicating that he’d like the seat next to Alexi. “You people are being morbid and depressing, and you need to stop,” he said as he took his chair. “It’s hot and humid, but we’re at sea and a breeze is coming in. We have to have faith and let the cops and agents and whoever else worry about it. Who knows? They may have him by the time we’re back to port.”

“Or he’ll have moved on. To Texas, probably,” Simon said, obviously still worried. He looked around the table. “I have a sister. And I’m from Galveston. If he does head for Texas, terrible as it may seem, I hope he goes to Houston.”

“They’ll get him,” Larry said. He turned to Alexi. “We have a rehearsal tonight. After that we’ll come by the piano bar. Or at least, I’ll come by the piano bar. They say you’re always packed. You must be good.”

“I’m good at getting people to sing,” Alexi said. “And that’s what they want to do at a piano bar.” She smiled at him, but suddenly wanted to escape. She was horrified by what had happened in New Orleans and disturbed by the men Nolan had introduced her to, the Celtic American line “bigwigs,” and the strange man she’d seen running by. Something was going on.

“And that’s why they love you!” someone announced. Jensen Hardy, the cruise director, was beaming down at them from the end of the table.

She’d sailed with Jensen before. He was a nice guy—but so perpetually cheerful that he actually got on her nerves. He was a great cruise director, precisely because he never seemed to tire. He had a crew of underlings who managed everything from kids’ activities to “naughty” trivia, poolside events and more. Jensen was determined that everyone on board have a good time.

She forced a smile. “Thanks, Jensen.”

“Squeeze in, can you?” he asked.

“I have to leave, anyway,” she said. “You can have my seat.”

“Aw, we have to switch you out for Jensen?” Larry teased.

“Yes, for now,” Jensen said, sounding stern. “But don’t leave right away. I want to remind you all that many of our passengers have saved for years to get on this ship. We’re on the pricier side, as you know. We’re here to see that they’re entertained. I overheard you talking—murders are happening in the States, not on this ship. Don’t go about discussing your fears or ideas, okay? We’re not going to ruin lifetime dreams for hundreds of people, are we?”

“Nope, we’re not!” Alexi agreed. She stood, a little too wedged in between Clara and Larry, and she smiled apologetically. “Jensen,” she told the cruise director, “I will be the embodiment of good cheer. You all have a great rehearsal. The show is the highlight of the cruise for many people. And yes,” she added, smiling at the performers, “I’m delighted when you come to the piano bar—especially since, every once in a while, no one wants to sing, so it’s great to have your voices.”

Larry moved aside but offered her a come-hither smile as he did. He was used to people liking him. He was definitely hot and studly; it was just that his kind of hot and studly was lost on her. She managed a polite smile. “See you later,” she said as she tried not to brush against him. She made her way around him, ready to take her tray to deposit at the receptacle.

“You’re the best, Alexi!” Jensen called out.

She widened her smile—and escaped them.

Set for the evening in a feminine tuxedo, she went up to the piano bar, passing through the casino, waving or saying hello to some of the hosts and hostesses she’d sailed with before. She crossed the Picture Gallery and one of the night clubs on her way to the piano bar and paused to browse through some of the pictures.

The gallery was always fun to see. Couples smiled and embraced as they were photographed boarding the ship. Large family groups, sometimes all wearing the same T-shirts, grinned and posed for the camera.

Frowning, Alexi went through the first round, the boarding photographs. It wasn’t that she really studied every one. But she was pretty sure that at least three travelers had not been captured by the camera.

She didn’t see either of the “bigwigs.”

Nor did she see the man who’d leaped through the piano bar and shown up at her door.

It was a mystery, but one she didn’t intend to pursue at the moment. She went to her piano; seated at the bench, she arranged her music, smiling and telling those who paused to ask that she started at nine.

Her first number would be “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” as she’d promised. That would make Minnie happy.

She actually began a few minutes before nine, welcoming the people already seated at the bar and at the cocktail tables scattered around the room. There were children among them. She idly played melodies while she talked to the guests, asked where they were from and made a point of involving them. Parents usually took their kids up by ten or eleven.

Minnie draped herself over the piano and Blake leaned against it.

“Minnie is ready,” Blake told her.

Alexi smiled as she looked down at the keys. “Hey, kids! How many of you have seen The Wizard of Oz?”

Some had; some hadn’t. A few had seen newer versions of the old classic.

She talked about the original movie and the book, and was glad to see one preteen gazing at her with wide eyes.

She hoped they had the book in the ship’s library, because she knew the young girl would be asking for it the next day.

“So this, my young friends,” she told them, “is the song that Judy Garland sang in the original movie—which is even older than I am!” She sang the song. Minnie, of course, was singing, too, in her high, clear soprano. Blake was watching Minnie, enthralled.

It had taken Alexi a while not to be thrown off by Minnie, but now she kept her ghost performer’s voice in a compartment in her mind.

She paused to encourage everyone to join in on the chorus.

A cheerful group did so. Even a grouchy-looking old man urged the kids to sing along. When the song ended, she found the piano surrounded by young fans. She asked them what they liked, and pretty soon she’d begun a round of tunes that encompassed most of the animated films produced in the past fifty years. Little girls were fond of princess movies, while little boys seemed to like superheroes of all kinds, pirates and robots. At least, that was the case with her young crowd tonight.

She was glad to see she had two seasoned travelers in the piano bar that evening—Roger Antrim and Hank Osprey. They weren’t close friends who took trips together, but retired men who often took Celtic American cruises. Roger had been a TV network CEO and he and his wife, Lorna, just hopped on a cruise whenever the whim struck them. They preferred the Caribbean, since they were both fond of heat. Hank was some kind of computer programming whiz who’d sold his first multimillion-dollar company before his thirtieth birthday. He wasn’t yet forty, although he was retired and rolling in money. Alexi was surprised that he wasn’t married and that he usually sailed alone. He was slender but wiry and while not classically handsome, he had warm brown eyes and a pleasant face. He’d told her once that he tended to attract beautiful women—who were usually after his beautiful money. He was looking for a nerdy girl, he’d said. Or a musician, he’d added with a wink, at which point she’d explained that she had a while to go before she was ready to see anyone again.

She’d mused on his comments, thinking that many young women might like the idea of being with someone who had everything—everything material, at least. She liked him just fine; the problem was that she felt absolutely no sense of attraction to him. Hank got on well with kids; he was far easier, more relaxed, with them than he was with adults. So she wasn’t surprised that he popped up, asking if he could sing a number from Song of the South.

The ice was broken. Roger came up next, wondering if she knew an old cartoon song, which she fudged. The kids sang some more, and then Roger and Hank sang a few tunes. After that she started getting passengers to join her on the choruses, but not performing themselves.

Luckily, Larry Hepburn showed up, just as he’d promised, around ten thirty. She made the kids very happy by doing a few prince/princess duets with him. Then the families began to leave and the more adult crowd moved in. She did some Carole King songs; a regular who was often on the ship sang a couple of Billy Joel numbers and Larry piped in with some Broadway. Someone requested a number by Lady Antebellum, and Larry took a seat at the piano with her to share the song.

Luckily, it was during Larry’s part that Alexi noticed the man standing across the hallway from the open bar; he leaned against the clear glass walls to the Banshee Disco.

It was the man she’d seen earlier. But as she watched him, he began to pull the prosthetic makeup from his face. It fell away in clumps; he seemed oblivious.

He just stared at her—and she stared at him.

Larry nudged her. She realized her fingers had moved over the keys by rote, but she was forgetting to sing.

She corrected her mistake quickly, breaking the song to make a joke and tease a woman who was coming in to take a seat. Then she picked up the song again.

When she looked back, the man was gone.

Why hadn’t she told the men she’d met that afternoon, the men from Celtic American’s headquarters, more about him? What if he was a weird social predator of some kind?

He wasn’t, she thought. He was young, in his early twenties. Not particularly tall or well built, but attractive in a wholesome way. She’d seen that once the makeup was gone.

She was grateful that Clara came in then; she asked her friend to do some Kelly Clarkson songs. Clara smiled and agreed.

Alexi searched the area to see if the young guy had headed toward the gallery or even the casino; she didn’t see him, but she did note that one of the “bigwigs” was in the lounge.

She froze, quickly looking from him to her piano keys. It was the man who’d been introduced to her as Jude McCoy.

He looked more as if he belonged on the cruise now, wearing denim jeans and a blue polo shirt. Maybe it was because of the shirt, but it seemed as if his eyes were more blue this time than green. A piercing blue. He seemed to be studying her, but for some reason, she didn’t believe he was grading her performance or planning to fire her.

He seemed to be looking for something else.

Perhaps he knew she’d been lying to him earlier.

“Let’s do the duet from Wicked!” Clara said.

Clara was leaning on the piano, dangerously close to Minnie. Minnie could have moved; she didn’t. Instead, she glared at Clara—as if she saw her as a rival for Blake’s affections.

“Come around here,” Alexi suggested, and Clara joined her. Once again, Alexi felt strangely hemmed in, seated between Larry Hepburn and Clara. But she smiled, talked about the fact that they’d started the night with “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” which made it fitting that they should move into the popular Broadway play.

She loved the duet and had done it with Clara many times. They were a hit with the crowd, who applauded loudly. When Alexi looked around again, Jude McCoy was gone.

She didn’t understand why she felt so miserable. The night was endless. Other members of different entertainment groups on the ship came by and sang. The crowd grew a little more giddy—the many ship’s cocktails no doubt had something to do with that—and was ready to laugh about anything.

Finally, Clara said good-night and left.

Soon after, Larry, tired of being brilliant and handsome, said good-night, too.

Even Minnie and Blake left the piano bar, holding hands, smiling, waving as they headed out for a “constitutional.”

By one o’clock, the crowd had dwindled down to about five. Alexi announced the last song, but even after that people stayed. She made a point of picking up her music books; the cocktail waitress made a point of clearing the tables and announcing which lounges were open until two.

At last she was alone. She sat at the piano bench and sighed, closing her eyes, enjoying the moment of peace.

When she opened her eyes, she nearly screamed.

He was back. The man who’d raced through the lounge today, who’d reappeared in the hallway and then again tonight—standing there, watching her, ripping off his makeup.

There was no one else near her now.

The gallery was closed.

She could hear bells and whistles from the casino, but it seemed far away.

She glanced over to where he’d been standing earlier and began searching the floor. There was nothing there, no refuse from the prosthetic he’d peeled off his face. His makeup was now as ghostly as he was himself.

She turned back to him.

“Please!” he whispered, adding quickly, “Yes, yes, I’m dead. But I need your help. And please believe me—you need mine!”

* * *

Jude was tired but he wasn’t giving in to his exhaustion until the last of the guests on the Destiny had cleared the lounges and gone to bed.

Stupid, maybe. He couldn’t be on every deck, and he and Crow had decided they were going to split the time while they waited for the next reports. Crow had gone to his cabin; he’d get up in an hour or so and cruise the decks. They had no idea what time the Archangel struck. No one really knew, since his victims were discovered by day. In every case, the time of death could only be approximated. It was presumed that he killed at night, making use of the darkness and the shadows. If someone meant to attack a guest, this would be the time. Easy to follow an inebriated or tipsy young woman down a quiet hallway...and slip up behind her.

The ship, although certainly not mammoth like some sailing the oceans these days, was still big enough. He’d walked from one end to the other, from one deck down to the next, pausing to watch in the various lounges, bars and clubs. He’d enjoyed the piano bar—casual, friendly and engaging. Ms. Alexi Cromwell had deft fingers on the piano keys and she was quick to come up with little routines to entertain the crowd. He’d watched her with professional detachment at first; she was slim and shapely, her hair richly beautiful with its deep mahogany color, and her eyes were the color of amber. Not brown, not green, not hazel, but truly amber. She was both tart and charming and seemed to have no ego. She smiled with delight when her friends joined her and applauded their talent.

And yet, every once in a while when he looked at her, he thought he saw something infinitely sad. She was a bit of an enigma.

Of course, any real mystery about her would be easily solved. They were in the process of receiving more detailed information on every member of the crew and guest list. They needed to know who to eliminate so they’d know who to focus on. Of course, he didn’t really need to study her history, since they didn’t suspect the murders had been committed by a woman, although they’d never discounted the possibility that a man and a woman might be working in tandem. God knew it had happened before.

But he was intrigued. He was more than intrigued. He was attracted to her. He’d barely spent any time with her, and yet he wanted to know everything about her. Where she’d come from, where she saw herself going. More than that, he wanted to touch the deep fire of her hair and...

Well, more. And he needed to cut his thoughts off right there.

As he’d traveled the decks, he’d found country-western singers, a DJ spinning away in a disco room, a Latin Lovers lounge with salsa, an upper-crust Sky High club where a lone tenor entertained with old big band songs. He’d found the kids’ “Rock N Roll Ship Shop,” where there’d been games and a dance floor. Then there were the elegant dining rooms, the library, the computer room and more.

He hadn’t seen the man they’d followed onto the ship. Or had he? If the man had cleaned his face, they’d never know.

The guy’s movements pegged him as young, Jude thought. Between eighteen and thirty.

That left them down with about a fifth of the ship.

As the hour grew later and later, he prowled the hallways. A couple passed him, giddy and laughing as they hurried to their cabin, acknowledging him as they passed.

He decided he’d check out the ship’s chapel, which was aft on the Promenade Deck.

It was locked. He was tempted to break it down or call the captain or the chaplain, regardless of the hour. But there was a mullioned glass window to the chapel and he could see through it; there was no one inside.

No young woman lay there, arms crossed over her chest, a circlet of blood around her throat, and a medallion bearing the image of a long-gone saint.

When he moved through the central area again, even the casino was quiet. The Picture Gallery was closed for the night.

The disco was silent, as was the piano bar.

Except that the piano bar wasn’t empty; Alexi Cromwell was there.

And she wasn’t alone.

Jude went completely still, staring at the young woman—and the young man who sat beside her. He wasn’t in any kind of makeup. His face was boyish, his hair medium length, rakishly tousled. He was talking to Alexi, being very earnest.

He had the same body shape and size as the man he and Crow had witnessed earlier, the man they’d chased, and he was wearing the same hooded sweatshirt and jeans.

Jude made his move, striding down the length of hallway between them, half running by the time he neared the piano.

But he wasn’t quick enough. The man at the piano saw him and leaped up—and in a flash he was gone, racing up the steps to the deck above.

Jude glanced at Alexi Cromwell. She watched him with a confused frown. He shook his head as he looked at her, then took off after the man on the stairs. She followed him, calling out, “Mr. McCoy, wait! Please wait!” She was obviously trying not to shout or attract any attention—except, of course, his.

He ignored her, intent on his quarry. But the man was gone by the time he reached the next deck. He hurried halfway down the row of shops there and then ran over to the cabin hallways on either side, first one and then the other.

She kept following him. He came back through the center of the deck with such speed that he plowed right into her.

“Ms. Cromwell!” he snapped, catching her by the shoulders. “Get out of my way!”

“But...”

“I have to find that man!”

She grasped his shirt as he held her shoulders, trying to move her aside.

“Wait! You mean you saw him?”

“Of course I saw him. Will you please move!”

“I can move, but you won’t find him if he doesn’t want to be found.”

He stopped, brows knitting furiously as he stared down at her.

“Are you his accomplice?”

“His accomplice in what?”

“You’re hiding him,” he accused her.

“No!”

“Then what is it?”

She drew in a deep breath, staring up at him, searching his eyes.

“He’s...he’s not—alive,” she said.

He knew his jaw must have fallen open.

“What? Look, it’s imperative that I find him. You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

“No! You don’t,” she said softly. “I realize it sounds crazy, but—”

“Very crazy. You know him? Get him for me. Now,” Jude insisted, determined to be stern. He was astounded that this young and charming woman was apparently involved or under the spell of the man who’d been gaping at the church where the last victim was found—and led them to the ship.

“I can’t!”

Her voice had risen with exasperation.

A security guard came hurrying down the stairs from whatever rounds he’d been on. He was wearing just a shirt and tie, but Jude knew security when he saw it.

“Is there a problem? Alexi, you okay?” the man asked, eyeing Jude as if he was the worst pervert in the world.

“I’m fine, Johnny, absolutely fine!” she said, running her hands down Jude’s chest with a gesture of affection. “Johnny, this man is my friend,” she told the guard, and added softly, “Upper echelon, Celtic American!”

“Oh?” The man seemed skeptical. Jude had been ready to whip out his manufactured credentials, but Alexi was continuing as if she’d bought his story about being a Celtic American official. Even if she didn’t really believe it...

“I’m so sorry we disturbed you. We haven’t seen each other in a while and I got carried away talking about a movie I saw while I was off!” she said.

Jude decided he’d wait to see what this woman had to say. In any case, she had nowhere to go. But his quarry was definitely gone.

“Well, Alexi, keep it down, huh? Most of the ship’s asleep.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“And just between us, we’re on the lookout for men who’re acting badly. Bothering women and such.”

“Oh?” That really seemed to surprise Alexi. “Was someone...bothered?”

He shrugged. “We’re supposed to be extra-vigilant. So, you’re absolutely sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, thank you, Johnny.” Johnny the security guard nodded at both of them and went back in the direction from which he’d come.

Alexi Cromwell looked at him, her eyes grave and troubled. “We can’t talk here. You can...you can come to my cabin.”

When his day had begun—or when the previous day, actually had begun—the last thing he’d expected was that he’d wind up standing in a deserted hallway on a slumbering ship, a stunning woman in front of him, inviting him to her cabin.

And yet, he knew instantly that it wasn’t a sexual overture.

“Ms. Cromwell,” he warned her. “You’d better have an explanation.”

She stepped away, assessing him. “Right. You’re no Celtic American bigwig. I’m assuming you’re some kind of law enforcement.”

“FBI,” he told her.

She nodded. “FBI. Well, you’re also what we call a magic man.”

“Magic man?”

“You see the dead. Magic man—it’s an old term in my family. I think it originated with a grandmother who lived on the bayou. Please, just come with me. I’ll do my best to explain.”

3

Jude McCoy, FBI man, entered Alexi’s cabin, not saying a word until they were seated in her tiny quarters. Alexi perched on the bed, McCoy sat in the one chair, which faced the dressing table built into the wall.

“Dead?” McCoy said, turning the chair toward her. “You mean our suspect? And yet he was running around the city of New Orleans and now the ship.”

His skepticism was blatant. “Ms. Cromwell, I saw that man at a murder scene in New Orleans. We chased him to this ship. He snagged a ride with some poor bastard on the street who thought he was about to get killed. Oh, by the way, I believe that poor guy’s in the hospital with a heart attack. Now the suspect’s on the ship. I saw him.”

“Yes,” she said. “Whether you accept it or not, you see the dead. Trust me.”

“You’re telling me you’re aiding and abetting a dead man we chased from the scene of a horrific crime?”

“Yes. I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to him. He led you here on purpose.”

“A dead man led me here?”

He didn’t raise his voice. But the sharp look he gave her suggested he’d be good in an interrogation room. If she’d done something, she thought, she’d admit it quickly. He was still, calm, and while his voice had a strange power, he kept it low and intense.

“I didn’t get to hear the whole story,” she said. “I gather you came after him.”

“If he’s dead, why is he afraid of me?”

“I don’t really know the answer to that,” Alexi replied. “I didn’t get enough time to talk to him. All I know is that he believes the killer’s on this ship. Yes, you saw him at the crime scene. He saw you there—and he saw that you were aware of him. He planned on coming on the ship. Look, I see the dead. It doesn’t mean I understand them any more than I understand the living.”

He leaned toward her. “I saw a man at a crime scene. The older guy driving the car saw him. I’m pretty sure a girl in a bar saw him, and I know my partner on this ship did, too. So, what—we all see the dead? Everybody does?”

“No, but more people do than you probably realize.” Alexi lowered her head. There was a reason she didn’t admit to seeing ghosts on the ship. Sometimes, others saw them, too, but, like this man, they had no idea they were seeing the dead. She assumed that, in the world at large, there were many people with this ability. Some sensed the dead, like her mom. Perhaps their fear kept them from really seeing. Some just didn’t understand what they saw.

But judging by the way this man was looking at her...

It reinforced her decision to keep silent most of the time. “I can try to find him or I can hope he comes back to find me, and then maybe you can get your answers,” Alexi said.

The fact that Agent Jude McCoy was such an attractive man didn’t make the situation any easier. His presence seemed to fill the tiny space of her cabin. She felt she could almost hear the steady beat of his heart—and feel the waves of ridicule coming from him.

He rose abruptly. “Ms. Cromwell,” he said, “Please know that I’ll be watching you, and that I’ll report our conversation to my partner. And when I find this so-called dead man, if you’ve helped hide him in any way, I will see that criminal charges are pressed against you.”

She stood, as well, suddenly angry. His height was imposing—but then again, she’d stared down David Beach a few times and he was a huge man.

“Knock yourself out, Mr. Agent McCoy, or whatever your title may be. You’re chasing a dead man. Period. And therefore, I’m not afraid of your ridiculous threats in the least!”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” he asked softly.

He barely had to move to open the door to her cabin, but when he did, he turned back. “I hope you’re right, actually. I hope this man isn’t the killer—and that he isn’t baiting you. I’ve seen one of the Archangel’s victims. I’d hate to see you in that condition.”

Sincerity at last. Something in his words, something about his voice, caused a cold flash of dread to sweep through her.

She didn’t have to reply, because he was already gone.

She made sure that her cabin door was locked behind him.

She hugged her arms around herself, shivering uncontrollably.

She’d been glad the dead man had finally sat down beside her, and that he’d tried to talk to her. She still didn’t know his name or exactly who he was or why he was there, but she understood.

He’d wanted to lead the FBI men to the ship.

Because he believed there was a killer on board.

The Archangel.

* * *

It was ridiculously late, but Jude headed down the hallway straight to Jackson Crow’s cabin.

But he hesitated before knocking on the door. He wondered if what he’d read about the paranormal angle to Crow’s “elite” unit was true—that agents were hand-selected to work in the “special” department known as the “Krewe.”

He was on board with nothing except the few toiletries and articles of clothing he’d purchased at one of the ship’s stores. His phone, however, was the next best thing to his computer, and that was in his pocket.

Rumors abounded. But research into the Krewe didn’t give him much other than the knowledge that whatever they did, they were damned good at it. Looking up newspaper reports of the cases they’d solved gave him a little more. Jackson Crow was indeed familiar with New Orleans; he’d solved a case in the city that involved the death of a politician’s wife in one of the city’s “haunted” houses.

As he went on, he even found more information on the Krewe’s cases, many speculating that the Krewe of Hunters had an uncanny ability to deal with situations of unusual scope.

He buried his face in his hands for a moment as he stood outside Jackson’s door.

Great.

He was on a ship chasing a killer, and he was working with a man who believed they could question a ghost.

Did Crow think they were chasing a dead man? It was all too crazy.

Jude had to assume Crow saw the dead, and he based that on the Krewe’s reputation as much as anything.

It was time to confront Jackson Crow with what he’d learned.

Jude tapped at his door. In the silent hallway, the sound reverberated loudly. Or it seemed to.

The door opened immediately. “You’ve got something?” Jackson asked.

“A ghost,” Jude told him.

“Come in.” Once again, Jude found himself sitting on a chair in front of a tiny dressing table built into the cabin wall. Crow settled on the narrow bunk.

“You talked to a ghost?” His voice was calm, reserved, and Jude couldn’t tell if he was being mocked.

“I didn’t,” he said. “But the piano bar hostess claims that the man she was talking to—the man we followed on the ship—is dead. And yes, that she was talking to him.”

Crow took that in. Once more, his expression revealed nothing.

“The man escaped you again?” Crow asked.

Jude leaned forward. “I saw him, clear as day, sitting at the piano bench with her. I saw him—clear as day—jump up and run. I couldn’t stop him. Ms. Cromwell stopped me instead and then insisted I come to her cabin so she could tell me that he’s a dead man.”

“What information did she say she got from him?”

“Not much. Apparently, my arrival interrupted him. She said he wanted us to follow him onto this ship—because he believes the killer’s on board.”

“What do you think of this young woman?” Jackson asked him.

“What do I think of her? I don’t know. She’s either delusional—or this guy’s as real as you and me, and she’s helping him in some way. And if she is, well, then, God help her,” Jude said.

“But she seems sane to you?”

“I have to admit, I’ve been through plenty of behavioral classes, and yet I can’t come up with a reliable definition of sane. She seems to be sincere. So yeah, maybe she’s just delusional. Maybe this guy has her fooled, but she might also come from some crazy family that believes in all kinds of weirdness.” He watched Jackson for a moment. “But what the hell. I’ve read a few strange things about your unit, too.”

He thought Jackson gave him the hint of a smile.

“I haven’t apprehended a murdering ghost yet,” he assured Jude. “But then again, we don’t discount anything on heaven or earth or anything in between.”

“But...ghosts?” Jude asked.

Jackson shrugged. “Let’s see if we can find this man. Tomorrow is a day at sea. We have the ship’s security forces and we have ourselves. By tomorrow morning I’ll have a full manifest of anyone on board who could possibly have committed the murders. We believe—every profiler out there believes—that this is the work of one killer and we assume that he’s male. That said, I’ll have reports by tomorrow that should tell us who could and couldn’t have been in the cities where the other murders took place. Of course,” he added with a dry smile, “it would be nice if Ms. Cromwell’s ghost happens to know who the killer might be.”

“Her damn ghost just might be our killer,” Jude muttered.

“Since the killer struck in several cities and we’re going to learn who, on the Destiny, was in those cities at the relevant times, we’ll be able to concentrate on those particular people.” He looked at Jude, studying him. “Good call on the ship. Makes perfect sense. Ships contract crew and entertainment for specified periods of time. Crew and entertainers might work on other ships, too. A great way to get around port cities—and kill.” Jude rose; Jackson hadn’t given him any kind of satisfactory answer regarding Alexi Cromwell.

“Stay close to Ms. Cromwell,” Jackson told him. “She might be our key.”

Key to insanity! Jude thought. But there was no point in saying anything else.

He’d been dismissed.

“Good night, Jackson,” he said as he stepped into the deserted hallway.

The ship was quiet for the night, although somewhere, members of the crew were still working.

He prayed that a killer wasn’t doing so, as well.

* * *

“At least we’ve narrowed down the possible number of needles in a haystack,” Jackson said. He sipped from a steaming mug of coffee. Jude had met him at the café on the Promenade Deck. There were a number of tables, spread out a fair distance apart. It was a great area for people-watching, while carrying on a conversation without being overheard.

That morning they were attired in outfits acquired on board. Jude was in navy blue board shorts and a short-sleeved flower-patterned cotton shirt; Jackson wore khakis and a T-shirt with an image of Janice Joplin on the front. Jude figured they looked like the tourists they were pretending to be—or perhaps “bigwigs” disguised as tourists...

Jude nodded as they both studied their phones.

Their task had been made easier than it might have been. Computer programs had allowed tech support workers at the home office to narrow down who, of the several thousand crew and passengers, had been where when. With the majority of the passengers, it must have been pretty straightforward. They’d been in their home states working—until it was time for their vacations. With those who traveled for work, the task was somewhat harder. Their movements had to be traced through hotel and restaurant bills. Same with those who were independently wealthy.

Big Brother might not always be watching—mainly because Big Brother wasn’t interested most of the time, Jude thought wryly—but Big Brother was capable of a great deal of research.

“Angela went through every report personally,” Jackson explained, perusing the list. “She’s meticulous.”

“Your wife, right? Unusual that you’re in the same unit,” Jude said. There was no problem with agents being partners or married, but they were generally required to be in separate units.

Jackson glanced up. “It’s different with the Krewe. Angela and I met when the Krewe of Hunters was first formed. The unofficial name is the Krewe because, as I’m sure you’ve assumed, our first case was in New Orleans.”

“Yes, of course. I know about that,” Jude said.

Jackson returned to studying the list on his phone.

Jude studied his own list. Jackson Crow didn’t act as if he wished he’d managed to have one of his own people on this case.

But neither did he see him as a particularly valuable asset. Or at least that was what Jude sensed.

“So the possible suspects,” Jackson began.

“Passengers Roger Antrim and Hank Osprey,” Jude said.

“And we have an interesting list of entertainers.” Jackson took another sip of his coffee. “Larry Hepburn, Ralph Martini, Simon Green—and head of entertainment, Bradley Wilcox.” He nodded at Jude. “Your friend from the piano bar should be able to help us as far as the entertainers go.”

For a moment Jude wished he had real printouts—paper he could actually write on, the old-fashioned way—and wasn’t working on his cell phone. He refrained from saying so to Jackson.

“Everyone on this list could have been in each city where the murders took place,” Jackson went on. “These are the entertainers who were between contracts. As far as the two passengers go, both are businessmen with deep pockets. And judging by the number of times they’ve sailed on Celtic American ships, there’s every chance they were in the port cities where the previous victims were killed.”

“Wow,” Jude murmured, reading. “The list also includes the ship’s head of security, our friend, David Beach.”

“I’d put him toward the bottom of the list,” Jackson said. “The man has an impeccable background.”

“Which may or may not mean anything.”

“No, but because of his size—”

“He’d be noticed wherever he went,” Jackson agreed. “And the last one we have here is the cruise director, Jensen Hardy.”

“Two passengers, Roger Antrim and Hank Osprey. One security man, David Beach. No regular crew members—dishwashers, stewards, mechanics. Three entertainers. Ralph Martini, Simon Green and Larry Hepburn. Plus the head of entertainment, Bradley Wilcox. And last, but for the moment we won’t say least, one cruise director, Jensen Hardy.”

“Eight suspects,” Jackson said. “I’ll talk to Beach. We’ll give him the list—minus his own name, of course. And we’ll keep a sharp eye on him, but he and his staff need to be on the lookout. You should go and see Alexi Cromwell again. Actually, I’d like to speak with her, too.”

Jude stared down at Angela Hawkins’s report, which included pictures of the suspects. “I don’t believe any of these men are the one we followed on board,” he said.

“No?” Jackson shrugged. “Ghost or not, I haven’t really seen his face yet. I don’t get it. I don’t get what he was wearing. It wasn’t a mask. But he was disguised.”

“A killer would want to disguise himself,” Jude said.

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we? How’s your cell working out here?”

“I’m set for international. Should be fine.”

“Let’s head out. Don’t forget, I want to talk to Ms. Cromwell later.”

“We can arrange that,” Jude said.

“All right. I’ll go chase down David Beach. You see what you can do with the entertainer group and we’ll send for more info on our two passengers.” Jackson rose. Like many law enforcement officers in the field, he’d taken his coffee black and finished two cups.

Jude picked up his own mug of black coffee and finished the last couple of swallows. He rose, too. “I’ll find Ms. Cromwell. But all in all, you might do better in dealing with her. I’m not sure she was...comfortable with my response to her last night.”

He was surprised Jackson smiled at that. “I think you’ll do fine.”

They parted ways.

Jude used the stairs to reach the crew and entertainment level of the ship. He paused at her door. The entertainers slept late, he assumed, since they worked late.

He raised a hand to knock on the door.

It opened.

Alexi Cromwell seemed very bright and attractive for someone who’d been up until at least 3 a.m. the night before.

She glanced up at him warily—and yet as if she’d expected him.

“Ms. Cromwell, I’d like your help,” he began.

“To meet the ghost?”

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he asked, “How well do you know your fellow entertainers—and do you ever get to know the passengers?”

“Some of the entertainers I know quite well, but some are here on their first contract with the Destiny. Maybe you’d like to meet a few of them yourself?” she suggested.

“I would, thank you,” he said.

“Come to the employee cafeteria and lounge with me. I can introduce you to some of the people I know.” She looked at him anxiously. “Do you really believe the killer is on the Destiny?”

He decided not to lie to her. “Yes,” he said.

“Because your man—my ghost—came on the ship?”

“Yes.”

“But since you don’t believe me and you think this guy is alive... Maybe if that’s true, he was watching what was going on, and then realized he was late for the sailing.”

“No.”

“Why do you say that?”

“His behavior.”

“It’s still just a hunch.”

He didn’t admit that she was nearly right.

She smiled. “So you believe in gut feelings and not much else.”

He shook his head, almost smiling, but he wasn’t willing to discuss it. “My partner on this case wants to meet you, by the way. We’ll get to that later. Meanwhile, I’d appreciate going to the employee cafeteria with you.”

“Follow me,” she said. As they left her cabin and walked down the narrow hallway, she added, “You’re aware that there are quite a few entertainers on the ship, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Anyone in particular you want to meet?”

Jude had memorized the names. “Simon Green, Ralph Martini and Larry Hepburn. And your head of entertainment, Bradley Wilcox.”

“Oh!” she said.

“You know them?” he asked her. “Well?”

“Bradley Wilcox was the head on my first contract with Celtic American, too,” she said. “He’s talented at his job.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “To my mind? A jerk. Rude. He seems to think we’re all lesser individuals. His servants. But as I said, I have to admit he’s good at his job.”

“What about the others?”

“This is the first time I’ve been on the same ship—same contract—with Simon Green and Larry Hepburn. Ralph Martini, I do know. I’ve worked with him before. He’s a nice guy and, again, very talented.” She glanced at Jude sideways and he was surprised to realize once more how attractive she was, with her head of sunset-tinged hair and amber eyes.

Just the type the Archangel might choose...

“Be careful around these people,” he said, his voice gruff.

“They’re really suspects? Is there a reason for that?” she asked.

“Proximity,” he replied. “They might’ve been in all the locations where murders took place. And you really shouldn’t know what we’re thinking, and I shouldn’t be speaking to you about this at all. At the moment, though, you’re about all I’ve got.”

“So, I’m all you’ve got. Great,” she murmured.

But he could tell that she did intend to be helpful.

“Grab a tray,” she told him, leading him to the buffet. “I see Simon and Ralph—they’re over there.”

He selected a bagel and a plate of eggs from the buffet and followed her to the table.

Ralph and Simon greeted her with friendly smiles and she introduced them to Jude. “Company bigwig,” she said lightly. “Watching us on board.”

Ralph stood up to shake Jude’s hand. He was a stocky middle-aged man of about six feet. “He’s a great tenor!” Alexi said in a cheerful voice.

“And I’m chorus.” Simon got up to shake Jude’s hand, as well.

“We all start somewhere,” Ralph said.

Simon Green was a handsome man, young, classically good-looking. He was lean, and Jude figured he must be a decent dancer if he was in the chorus of a play like Les Miz.

Ralph grinned. “Should we be afraid of you?” he asked. He obviously wasn’t.

“No.” Jude grinned back. “We’re just observing, trying to see what works and where improvements might be made,” he lied. “I understand that the entertainment on this ship is excellent.”

“That’s a relief,” Ralph said. “Hey, there’s Clara.” He waved and Jude turned. A very pretty blonde had come into the room. She looked over at them and waved, frowning curiously as she saw Jude.

“Just getting some food!” she called.

“Clara Avery,” Alexi told Jude. “She has a gorgeous soprano voice.”

“Part of our Les Miz cast,” Simon added. “I’ll find a chair for her.”

Clara joined them a moment later. “You look peaked, girl!” Ralph said to her. “You up all night?”

“Nightmares,” Clara said shortly. “Hi,” she greeted Jude.

Alexi quickly introduced them.

“Nightmares?” Simon asked her. “On the ship?”

“I shouldn’t have, but I stayed up watching the news,” Clara replied. “That Archangel killer out there—he was in New Orleans!”

“And he’s probably already moved on,” Simon said gently. “He goes from city to city. You’re safe on this ship. And we’re all here with you,” he added.

“They don’t seem to have anything on this guy, nothing at all! They can’t even find some of the actual crime scenes,” Clara said, shivering.

Jude considered himself a good judge of character. He believed that the men at the table were as concerned for their friend as they appeared to be. Their empathy and determination to assure her seemed completely genuine. He was as confident of that as he could possibly be.

A good thing, since this young woman, like Alexi, would certainly appeal to the killer.

He lowered his head.

The ship has many beautiful young women aboard. A veritable feast for the so-called Archangel.

Clara shivered again, then managed a smile. “I’m going to stick close to all of you.”

“The cops aren’t sharing much information,” Simon said. “I read somewhere that the women weren’t just found in churches, but that they were all posed, with saints’ medallions around their necks. What do you suppose it means?”

“I didn’t hear about that,” Ralph said. “I’ll bet the cops weren’t supposed to give out that information. I guess some of ’em talk when they’re off duty. And once the media gets hold of something...well, you know! Of course, I don’t think anyone could miss the news that he leaves his victims in churches. Or sometimes on the steps.”

Jude was intent on watching their faces and was startled when Alexi Cromwell suddenly rose. Her meal was only half-eaten.

She seemed to notice that everyone was staring at her.

She was thinking fast, Jude thought, looking for a plausible lie. Why, he wasn’t sure yet.

“I just saw someone you need to meet,” Alexi said, turning to Jude. “Ralph, would you mind returning our trays? Um, Mr. McCoy, would you come with me?”

“No problem,” Ralph said, but he watched curiously as Jude excused himself and followed Alexi out of the cafeteria.

Then Jude saw why she’d left so abruptly, why she’d summoned him.

The man in the hooded sweatshirt was moving along the hallway.

* * *

“Wait, please!” Alexi called out. The young man who’d tried so hard to speak to her—who’d disappeared at Jude McCoy’s arrival last night—had popped his head into the cafeteria.

Now he was hurrying down the hallway.

If nothing else, she somehow had to convince the FBI man that she was telling the truth.

His quarry was a dead man.

“Please!” she called again.

He stopped and glanced back at her and then nervously scanned the hallway.

Alexi realized that Jude McCoy—once again—saw him, too.

“I need to speak with you,” the agent said. His voice was calm and even.

The young man remained where he was.

Alexi kept walking toward him, with Jude a few steps behind. There was no one in the hallway just then, but at any minute there could be workers coming through, either to get to their gigs or to eat or return to their cabins if their shifts were during the off-hours.

“My cabin,” she whispered.

She reached her door and used her key card to open it. The young man paused, looked at her—and then at Jude McCoy.

Then he stepped into her cabin; McCoy followed.

“Who are you and what’s going on?” McCoy asked.

Alexi stared at him. He still didn’t know. He still didn’t get it. But the ghost, whose name she didn’t know yet, answered him.

“Byron Grant,” he said.

The name was vaguely familiar to her; she wasn’t sure why.

The FBI agent knew it instantly, though, and his tension and anger were unmistakable.

“Byron Grant is dead, killed in his attempt to save Elizabeth Williams.”

“Yes.”

Jude McCoy stood completely still, green eyes with their flecks of gold focused on the ghost.

Alexi clutched the edge of the built-in wardrobe as she sank to the foot of her bed. Now she knew. Now she understood.

Jude McCoy continued to watch the man in disbelief and anger. She thought, not for the first time, that he knew the truth—he knew it—but didn’t want to accept it.

Suddenly, his face changed. He reached out as if to place a hand on the ghost’s shoulders.

And, of course, he touched nothing.

Ghosts could surprise you. They could learn to make noise, to displace air about, to move objects...but they weren’t there in substance, as flesh and blood. They were energy, capable of so much—and yet never again would they have bodies that could be touched.

“My God,” Jude breathed.

He didn’t sag onto the floor. He just stared at the man, almost as though he wished Byron would disappear.

He seemed to hope that the ghost’s presence was impossible, a figment of his imagination.

Alexi thought she saw him wince. Saw a slight trembling seize his body.

And then he looked at the ghost again, at Byron Grant, and said, “I don’t suppose you’re going to be able to tell me who killed you?”

“No,” the ghost said. “There’s only one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty.”

“What’s that?” Jude McCoy asked.

“The killer is on this ship.”

4

Jude managed to sit, to put aside his own past, his emotions, his disbelief and worse...

The fact that he could see the dead—

And speak with a ghost.

The essence, soul or whatever remained of Byron Grant perched next to Alexi on the bed, while Jude took the chair at the dressing table. And he listened as Byron Grant told his story.

“I loved Elizabeth. I’d loved her...since high school. We’d been together ever since then,” he said. “We were a good couple, a great couple. We would’ve been married this Christmas.” He paused, obviously pained. “She had her wedding dress picked out.”

“I’m so sorry you lost her,” Alexi said in a whisper. “And I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

“I will be with her again. I know I will. I...” He paused and gazed at Alexi in obvious distress. “I don’t know why I’m here, and she’s not. But I have to believe...”

“You will be with her,” Alexi assured him. “Soon.”

“You’re here right now to help us,” Jude said.

Oh, God, that had to be the truth. Otherwise he’d completely lost his mind and entered into some grand delusion with this young woman. “You brought Jackson Crow and me onto this ship,” Jude continued.

Damn it! He should have recognized the man immediately. He’d seen pictures of all the victims. And he finally put the facts together.

Byron Grant had been an actor. He’d had stage makeup on when he was killed. Jude berated himself— why hadn’t he figured it out, put the facts together more quickly?

“Yes, I knew he’d be on this ship.” Byron hesitated once more. “I didn’t know he’d kill again before the ship sailed.”

“You were playing Cyrano!” Jude said. “My God, I’m an idiot. That was in the police reports. I just didn’t connect it with the makeup...or realize that the man I was chasing was really one of the victims.”

Byron Grant studied him, head at a slight angle. “Yes, I was playing Cyrano de Bergerac.” He paused. “I had a hard time getting that makeup off. As a ghost, I mean,” he added glumly.

Alexi Cromwell was silent as she watched the exchange.

But Jude could tell she wasn’t afraid. She was, if anything, glad that she’d finally managed to get Jude to admit there was a ghost—and the ghost to realize he needed to speak with Jude.

“I suppose,” Jude said. I wouldn’t know. I don’t really know anything about ghosts.

“Okay,” he went on, “you’ve got the two of us here—and you have Jackson Crow and me aboard the ship. Now we need your help. You must remember something, or you couldn’t have known that the Archangel would be on the Destiny. You’re certain of this?”

Byron Grant nodded. He was, minus the stage makeup, a handsome, fit young man who—other than being dead!—seemed somber and sincere. Blue eyes, sandy-blond hair. The boy next door. The kind of guy who’d marry his high school sweetheart.

“I never really saw the killer,” Byron admitted. “He took me pretty quickly.”

“What made you so sure he’d be on the ship?” Jude demanded. “Tell me what happened, step by step.”

Alexi gave Byron an encouraging smile and he smiled back at her. Then he turned to Jude.

“I was doing the play. Anyway, it ended at around 10 p.m. I usually stayed to take off my makeup at the theater, but I got a call from Elizabeth at around ten twenty. She said the lights were off at the house and thought she’d left them on. I told her to wait for me, said I’d leave right away. I got out of my costume, but didn’t bother with the makeup, just grabbed my hoodie and I was out the door.” He frowned as he described what had happened that night. “I phoned her back after I left the theater. She didn’t answer. I probably should’ve called the police right away but I drove home as fast as I could. Her car was in the driveway, and the lights were on in the house. I was a little pissed at her, figuring she’d decided to go in but hadn’t bothered to call me. I walked up to the door, which was unlocked, and threw it open. I got as far as the entry.”

He bit down on his lip and shook his head.

“I saw her. I saw her on the floor,” he said. “I ran over to her, but I was just thinking she’d fallen. Then I saw the blood.”

Alexi lifted a hand as if she’d reach out to comfort him.

She lowered her hand to her lap, her eyes filled with sympathy.

“I hurried to her, bent down...and then he was behind me,” Byron said. “He had a knife at my throat, ripping, even as I tried to turn to see his face. I flailed out at him—got him in the jaw. The knife sliced through my arm when I did that. Defensive wound, I guess they call it. But...I was bleeding out. And I only saw one thing.”

“What?” Jude asked, determined not to let his question sound impatient.

“A ticket. It stuck out from his pocket. He was wearing some kind of suit jacket, pocket on the right. The ticket was for the Destiny—out of NOLA. And this sailing date was on it, so I knew. I knew he’d be on this ship.”

“I see,” Jude murmured. “And then?”

“And then I was dead. I didn’t realize it—or have any awareness of it or anything else—until I seemed to rise over my body where the bastard had stuffed it inside a Dumpster in an alley.”

They were all quiet for a minute.

Jude suddenly blurted, “But you—you were hovering around the crime scene in NOLA. You jumped on a bar. A drunk girl tried to give you money.”

Byron shrugged. “Some people see me. I don’t always know who sees me, though. I tried hitchhiking and eventually found someone who saw me and drove me to NOLA. It’s only a couple of hours, and I don’t think he ever knew I wasn’t...alive. And then...hey, if I hurt that dude who got me to the ship, man, I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just... I just want to stop more people from being killed.”

Jude let out a long breath, still unable to grasp that he was sitting in Alexi Cromwell’s tiny cabin on the Destiny discussing the case with a ghost—a victim of the killer.

And feeling disturbed by the fact that he did believe he was talking to a ghost.

“We have a list of people who might’ve been in the areas where the women were killed,” he said. “May I show you the pictures, see if any of them seem familiar?”

Byron Grant nodded. “Of course.”

Alexi rose, leaving her perch for Jude. Drawing his phone from his pocket, he slipped by her to sit next to the ghost.

He brushed against her and was startled to feel sparks racing through his system. She was a very attractive woman, and he was feeling a strong physical pull toward her. And that made things more complicated... He held his thoughts in check and carefully displayed the photos Angela Hawkins had emailed him and Jackson; one by one he went through them all.

“I wish I knew,” Byron said. He hesitated. “This guy...”

“This one? David Beach? He’s head of security on the ship.”

“Right. No, you can eliminate him. I’ve seen him. He’s huge. The guy who got me was probably about six feet tall.”

“Good. That helps,” Jude said. He rose and paced the few steps to the cabin door. “Can you think of anything else? A scent—was he wearing aftershave or cologne? Did he smoke? Anything odd about his hands? Did you see his hands?”

He turned back to look at Byron Grant.

But the ghost was gone.

And for a moment he felt absolutely ridiculous, as if he was the butt of a massive joke. He was standing there, talking away, carrying on a conversation with...no one.

An illusion.

Alexi Cromwell was still there, leaning against the wardrobe, eyes enormous.

“He was really here,” she said softly. “Sometimes...well, I think it takes a tremendous amount of energy to appear so...completely and to talk and... He’ll be back.”

He didn’t say anything.

He should have thanked her. He didn’t.

Nodding curtly, he turned and left her room.

There were a few things, unusual things, in his past—like the dead appearing to him—and he was going to have to deal with it all, the then and the now.

* * *

Cruise ships tended to be happy places.

The cruise line did everything possible to ensure that guests were happy; music played constantly, most of it live. Frenetic tour directors carried on bingo parties, pool parties, disco parties and more.

And in the Caribbean, the sun shone down on sparkling water most of the time, shimmering as if the sea were scattered with diamonds. On the Destiny, people seemed to be complying with the cruise “regulation” that they have fun.

Jude needed to go talk to Jackson.

But for a few minutes, he had to be alone, hoping the sweet-salt breeze would wash away the heavy fog of darkness that had settled over his mind.

He left the crew’s quarters, mounting the richly carpeted steps from floor to floor until he reached the top deck and walked aft, leaned against the rail and let the sun soak into him while the breeze swept around him. Neither had any effect on the chill that seemed to have crept into his bones.

Once, in the military, he’d believed that he was experiencing PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Later in his life he’d used the very situation that sometimes made him think he was crazy to become a crack field officer with the bureau. Only he called it “intuition.” Or talked about “hunches” and “gut feelings” to explain his success at solving crimes.

The Caribbean still rippled with that diamond effect, but Jude stared into a haze of dusty darkness. Time seemed to collapse, and he saw himself seven years earlier, moving with his company in the small village where insurgents had taken hold. Felt the way his heart had thundered that day, the way he’d known he couldn’t see everything, couldn’t see into every home, around every corner.

Some of the soldiers with him had served too long; they shot when something moved—a child, a chicken, a dog, a goat or a pig.

Some still had illusions of morality; they took greater care.

And some, in their desperation to believe in the sanctity of life, died—not firing when they should have.

Corporal Al Bellingham had been one of those men. Hand-to-hand combat, a tiny village, insurgents who lived only to kill...and dozens of mothers, children, the aged.

Every corner could mean death, and Jude had turned one of those corners to see Al on the ground, writhing. He’d looked around, then hunkered down by his comrade and friend, the man with whom he’d played cards, baseball, music, enduring the hours in the hostile desert. He’d taken Al by the shoulders and dragged him back behind the small and desolate house that had been his own shield, lying low against the ricochet of stray bullets as he did.

He spoke into his radio, calling the medics, who would do their best. Automatic rifle fire beat a rat-tat-tat just beyond the little enclave where Jude had dragged the wounded man.

Al opened his eyes and gazed up at Jude. He didn’t address him as “Lieutenant” the way he usually did, even when the men were doing nothing but whiling away the hours, waiting for their call to action.

He addressed him as “fool.”

“Your head was out there, fool,” Al said. “Head down at all times!”

“The medics are coming. Don’t try to talk. Save your breath,” Jude said.

But Al had clutched his arm and looked desperately into his eyes. He rattled off a series of numbers. “Got that? Please, Jude, tell me you got that.”

“Al, medics are coming! You have to fight to live.”

Al’s grip tightened. “Please, Jude. I have a wife. Mellora. Remember? And a baby daughter. You give Mellora that number. Got it?”

He wouldn’t be able to keep him alive long enough for the medics to come.

Jude repeated the numbers.

Then suddenly, Al shouted, “Behind you, man, behind you!”

Jude whipped around fast enough to fire first at an insurgent bearing down on him.

He could still picture that moment as if it had been yesterday. The littered courtyard between desert-dusted homes. Al bleeding on the ground; his enemy dead by the corner of the house.

And him—alive—because of Al.

The rat-tat-tat of firepower growing more distant and then fading away, the medics rushing in...

Not until they were back at base had he learned from their company physician that he couldn’t have spoken with Al Bellingham. Bullets had severed his spinal column and pounded through his skull; the man had died almost instantly.

Somehow Jude had kept it together long enough to get through his tour of duty.

He’d imagined it, he’d told himself. He’d imagined the entire encounter.

And yet he’d felt compelled to speak with Al’s wife. He’d called and told her that he’d been with her husband at the end. He told her how much Al had loved her—and what a brave man he’d been, saving others, refusing to let war make him less of a man.

And he’d given her the set of numbers.

A year later, when he was back in the States, Mellora Bellingham had called to thank him. The numbers had been for an insurance policy Al had purchased only days before his death.

She might never have found it without the numbers he’d given her.

It wasn’t until he’d applied at the academy that he’d been advised to go into therapy. And he’d gone. He’d thought he understood. PTSD. Sure. Made sense. He’d lived in a world where it was often a case of kill or be killed. Back in North America, he was entering a world where danger often lurked below the surface and the monsters were hidden.

But he wanted that world. Nothing on earth was perfect; he’d seen the good, the bad and the hideous and learned about imperfection. He found he loved his country with an even greater passion, and out of the war zone, he wanted to fight the monsters who lived beneath the civilized veneer.

He had tried to consign Al to the far reaches of memory, although the man had continued to haunt his soul. Especially when they’d lost Lily, and he’d sat with her lifeless body for hours, praying that he would hear her whisper a single word.

The truth was that he’d spoken with a ghost before. He’d spoken with Al.

He was so lost in his thoughts that at first he didn’t hear the buzz of his cell phone. He snapped out of his trance and answered.

Good agents did not become lost in the fog of the past, he reminded himself.

It was Jackson Crow, of course.

“I’ve met with Beach and his men,” Jackson told him. “They’re on high alert, although it would be nice if they really believed me about a killer being on board. What about Alexi Cromwell?”

“I’ve talked to her,” Jude said. “And Byron Grant.”

“Byron Grant?” Jackson Crow’s voice was controlled and even. “Byron Grant was the second-last victim of the Archangel—that we know about, at any rate.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Jude said.

Krewe of Hunters, huh?

“Meet me back at her cabin. With any luck, she’s still in,” Jackson said, not skipping a beat.

* * *

When the ship was first built, tiny peepholes had been set in each cabin door, including those in the crew quarters. No unwary cabin girl or waitress would be taken by surprise on the Destiny.

Alexi had never been more grateful for that—even as she realized she’d seldom used it before.

She’d half expected Clara, since she knew how nervous her friend was feeling.

But it was Jude McCoy. He was back, this time with his partner.

She opened the door for them and waited. This man—Jackson Crow—might believe that she was more illusionist or charlatan than pianist and entertainer. She was afraid he’d come to confront her.

He hadn’t. He smiled and merely asked if she minded talking to them again. She agreed.

Her cabin seemed entirely too cramped. Jackson Crow sat at the dressing table; Jude McCoy was next to her on the bunk. For a few minutes she found it hard to breathe and wondered if she was having a panic attack. It was impossible not to be aware of the man sitting beside her, of his intensity, which seemed to burn around her—almost as if it held her in a strange grip. She tried to concentrate on Crow, but she was acutely conscious of Jude McCoy. He sat so close to her they were almost touching.

“You’ve met this man Byron Grant?” Crow asked her. He smiled; he had an intriguing face, his smile both gentle and enigmatic.

She looked at Jude, whose face was impassive. He studied her in return, but she saw no mockery in his eyes. Not anymore.

Because he’d stood there just an hour ago, talking to the ghost himself.

“His fiancée was killed. He came home, and he was killed, as well. He was attacked from behind, so he couldn’t tell me much.”

Agent Crow nodded. “He and his fiancée, Elizabeth Williams, were murdered in Mobile, a week ago.”

“The medallion around her neck was that of St. Bernardino—patron saint of advertising. Elizabeth was a graphic designer with an advertising company.”

Alexi hadn’t known that.

“The young woman found at the New Orleans church had a St. Luke’s medallion around her neck. Patron saint of physicians, among other similar vocations and careers,” Jackson said. “But Byron, the only male victim, was left in a Dumpster in an alley. No medal.”

Alexi nodded. “He...he hasn’t reappeared,” she said, and caught herself looking at Jude again. She could tell from his speech that he’d grown up near her, somewhere around New Orleans. Had Jude absorbed enough of the city’s mysticism to accept the realities that were beyond anything science had yet acknowledged?

Was Crow humoring her? Or had McCoy convinced him? “The thing is,” Jackson was saying, “Mr. Grant found you. He saw in you an ability to help him. Helping the dead is necessary and commendable, but it can be dangerous, too.”

Alexi almost felt as if something cold and sharp was at her throat.

“I intend to be very careful,” she said.

“I just want you to come to us whenever you see the ghost, with any information the ghost can give you.”

Alexi nodded toward Jude. “Mr. Grant has spoken with Agent McCoy. He knows you two are FBI and that you’re on board.”

Crow’s smile grew wider. “But he sought you out. It’s important that you be extremely careful, especially at night. We don’t have proof, but the coroners in the different cities where this man has struck believe he kills at night. That doesn’t mean you’re safe by day. It’s just that he’s never killed in front of witnesses before.”

“Don’t worry,” Jude McCoy said, and she saw the flicker of a smile on his lips. “I’ll be ‘haunting’ your piano bar. I’ll see that you’re safely back in your cabin every night.”

“We’re in Cozumel tomorrow,” she reminded them.

“Don’t get off the ship without one of us,” Crow warned.

“I don’t always get off the ship,” she told them. “But sometimes a group of us heads over to have lunch at Three Amigos or Señor Frogs.”

“Let us know what you’re doing,” Jackson said. “And let us know anytime Byron Grant is near.”

Jackson got to his feet; Jude did the same.

Naturally, she rose, as well.

“You...you both seem to believe me. This is strange. It’s almost as if I’m becoming friends with a stowaway, but one you happen to know about,” she said.

The two men glanced at each other and then back at her. And once again, she thought that Jude McCoy gave her a rueful smile, as if he’d discovered that there’d been a sad joke at his expense.

“He is sort of a stowaway,” Jude said. “His name won’t be on the passenger manifest.”

“But...you... Agent Crow, you believe me, too?”

“I do, Ms. Cromwell. Completely. And we’re going to do our best to enlist your help—and see that you don’t end up in any danger. We need your cooperation on that, too. Let us protect you and don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“I’m all for that,” she murmured.

Jackson left the cabin and Jude followed him, but turned back at the door. “Stay with friends, at all times. You and Ms. Avery—Clara?—stay close, please.”

She nodded.

“We’ll be watching over you,” he promised.

Then they were both gone.

Alexi sat back on her bed. It was lunchtime; she was hungry.

And she was too unnerved to eat.

* * *

Their working conditions were hardly ideal, Jude thought, although David Beach had given them a cabin near his office for meetings, as well as computers, videoconference capability and a printer.

Back in their makeshift office, they sat at the table and stared at each other for a minute. “You haven’t blinked an eye,” Jude said. “You believe we chased a dead man onto the ship, and that this dead man meant to bring us here. You have no problem accepting that other people might have seen him—without knowing he was dead.”

“Correct,” Crow told him.

“And it doesn’t surprise you that I seem to have accepted this, too?” he asked.

“McCoy,” Crow said, “did you think I randomly asked that you be assigned to me in the Quarter yesterday morning?”

Jude felt that sense of creeping frost again.

“You looked me up and, naturally, you have access to all my records. Even the ones with the therapist, which should have been sealed.”

“Yes—and those records were sealed. But your history of solving unusual cases was noticed by others. Including Adam Harrison, who established the Krewe.”

“I see,” Jude said. He wasn’t sure he did, not completely. But...yes, he did. He was still fighting all of this.

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