1800s. San Antonio, Texas: In room 207 at the Longhorn Saloon, in the long shadow of the Alamo itself, a woman renowned for her beauty was brutally murdered. Her killer was never found.

One year ago: In that same historic room, another woman vanished without a trace. Her blood was everywhere...but her body was never recovered.

Now: In the last month, San Antonio has become a dumping ground for battered bodies. All young women, many of them long missing, almost all forgotten. Until now.

Texas Ranger Logan Raintree cannot sit by and let his city’s most vulnerable citizens be slain. So when he is approached to lead a brand-new group of elite paranormal investigators working the case, he has no choice but to accept the challenge. And with it, his powerful ability to commune with the dead.

Among Logan’s new team is Kelsey O’Brien, a U.S. marshal known for her razor-sharp intuition and a toughness that belies her delicate exterior. Kelsey has been waiting all her life to work with someone who can understand her ability to “see” the past unfolding in the present. Now she has her chance.

Together, Kelsey and Logan follow their instincts to the Alamo and to the newly reopened Longhorn, which once tempted heroes with drink, cards and women. If the spirits of those long-dead Texans are really appearing to the victims before their deaths, only Kelsey and Logan have the skills to find out why.

And if something more earthly is menacing the city’s oldest, darkest corners, only they can stop it—before more innocent women join the company of San Antonio’s restless ghosts....

The Unseen

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Kathryn Falk, Ken Rubin, Jo Carol Jones, Sharon Murphy,

Lisa and Chris, Barney, and the Cumbess family in memory of “Maw.”

And to all the great friends I’ve made

who live in and love the Great State of Texas!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Texas Recipes

Prologue

Galveston Island, Texas

Spring, 1835

The moon that night was enchanting. Rose Langley walked barefoot on the beach, looking up at the splendor in the sky. She had no idea what had caused this beautiful spectacle; she just knew she’d never seen anything like it. It was a large and shimmering half crescent, and behind it, like a silent and glowing echo, was a second half crescent. Once upon a time, she might have gone to her tutor, Mr. Moreno—so old, soft-spoken and wise—and asked him where such an intriguing sky had come from. He would have studied it and perhaps told her that one of the other planets was aligned with the moon. Or, perhaps, he might have said it was an illusion created by cloud cover or by tiny dewdrops in the air that didn’t quite become rain.

But, of course, she couldn’t ask Mr. Moreno anything. She’d given him up, along with anything that resembled decency and a respectable life when she’d become convinced that her father was cruel and unreasonable, incapable of seeing what a wonderful, illustrious man Taylor Grant would prove to be.

She’d run away from the gentility of her home in New Orleans, certain that Taylor loved her and that her world with him would be wonderful.

She tried to think only of the moon and feel its enchantment. But she could hear the men back at the saloon. Pirate’s Cove—an apt name for a saloon, since Galveston Island had first been settled by the pirate Lafitte. Lafitte was long gone. Older men, remnants of the pirate’s day, still sat in the bar, where they drank and cursed and spoke of the days of Spanish rule and French rule, Spanish rule again and the coming independence of Texas. It was all talk. Galveston was a rising port city, and there were plenty of ill-gotten gains to be found here. Maybe a few of the men would be leaving to take up arms for Texas, but for the most part, they were lecherous miscreants who seemed to sit around all day drinking, smelling worse and worse by the hour. And they’d get Taylor drinking, and he’d have no money, and he’d convince them to pay for her services—and convince her that they’d pass out as soon as they were alone with her. They generally did, though not always quickly enough… . She winced, staring up at the moon. She would feel sweaty and horrid, and the stench of them would stay with her long after they’d passed out, and even walking into the waters of the bay would not erase that stench.

She could hear the laughter and the curses and the bawdy remarks. And sometimes, she could hear the feigned laughter of one of the saloon whores—women who were mostly old and used up, who poured on the perfume and accepted small amounts of money and whiskey or rum for their quick services.

Taylor had turned her into one of them.

Tears stung her eyes. She tried to pretend she’d never left home and she was just a young woman walking on a beach beneath a whimsical moon. But it didn’t change a thing. And it couldn’t ease the pain that suddenly filled her.

She still loved Taylor. After everything he had done to her. She was such a fool!

“Rose!”

The sound of his excited cry made her turn. Taylor had come out of the saloon, and he was running toward her. She saw, as he breathlessly reached her, that his eyes were glittering.

His excitement, however, was no longer contagious to her.

“What is it, Taylor?” she asked him.

“Finally! Finally, I’ve made the play that will get us out of here. Rose, my darling Rose, look at this!”

He produced a ring.

She remembered jewelry. She remembered good jewelry, like the cross her father had bought on a business trip to Italy, and the beautiful little pearl-drop earrings her mother had given her on her fourteenth birthday. She’d never owned magnificent pieces, just the gold and semiprecious gems that were the cherished items of a young girl on a working plantation.

Still, she knew good jewelry.

And this piece was far more than simply good. It was probably worth her father’s entire plantation. The glowing illumination of the strange moon picked up on the brilliance of the diamond in the delicate gold setting. The diamond was multifaceted, shimmering with an assortment of colors; it had to be five carats, if not more.

And it seemed to have a life of its own. It was almost as if the fiery brilliance of the gem burned in her hand.

Rose stared at Taylor. He’d been drinking, but he was sober. His beautiful blue eyes were on her with tenderness, and his lips—weak lips, in a beautiful but weak jaw—were curved into a loving and tremulous smile.

Yes, despite all that he had done to her, he loved her, really loved her.

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“I started playing poker, and the other fellows had taken their winnings and moved on, and I was still playing with old Marley—you remember, the decrepit old man who says he sailed with Lafitte. He put this on the table, and he said Lafitte himself had called it the Galveston diamond. Once upon a time, it belonged to the Habsburg kings! It came off a Spanish ship Lafitte took in the days before the War of 1812. Rose! Marley swears Lafitte gave him the diamond, although he likely stole it. But that doesn’t matter. He had it—and we have it now. It’s the key to our salvation. We can go anywhere. You never have to be with those old bastards again, and we don’t have to sleep on a beach. We can get married, buy horses, join the Texans, make a land claim—”

“Taylor, Texas is going to war! We have to get out of here. And we’ve got to do it tonight—before someone realizes you have this.” Rose felt his excitement, but despite its beauty, there was something about the gem she didn’t like. She wanted to go—right then. And she wanted them to sell the stone—at whatever price. They’d have to be paid enough to get by, but after that… The most important thing was that they escape now. Quickly. She was willing to leave what paltry items they had in the tiny room that was all they could afford and just run down the beach. Along with her own growing excitement, she felt a growing sense of danger.

Was it the diamond? Was it warning her—or was it causing her fear?

“Oh, the others don’t know about it, and even if they did, the thing is supposed to be cursed,” Taylor said. “It seems the princesses or whoever had it died young. I’ve got a bit more in winnings. We’re going to buy horses and get out of here. We’ll leave at first light. And if we can’t buy land, we’ll go back east. We’ll go to Virginia or maybe all the way to New York!”

For a moment, the curious moon appeared to be luminescent, shining down on them with the sweetest of blessings.

And then she heard a commotion, coming from the saloon.

“Taylor, what’s happening?” she whispered.

There were men running toward them. She started to back away, but there was nowhere to run. This was an island. The beach stretched on for miles here and headed into bracken.

Nowhere to run.

“There he is. Get the bastard!” one of the men shouted.

She felt pressure on her hand. Taylor was thrusting the ring into her grasp. She took it. And she knew that if these men were after the diamond, they would strip her down and search her on the beach. She pretended to push back a stray lock of hair and stuck the diamond in her chignon.

Her heart thundered. Five men had come out; one was Matt Meyer, known for scalping Indians in Tennessee. He was surrounded by his henchmen—rough frontiersmen who’d seen better days, but who had never lost their talent for brutality.

She stepped forward. “Gentlemen, what is the problem?” she demanded. She moved past Taylor, praying they’d hesitate before actually offering physical violence.

She was forgetting herself. And them.

Meyer grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her on the sand. “Cheater!” he said to Taylor. “Where the hell is my watch and fob?”

“What?” Taylor shrieked. “I didn’t cheat, and I don’t have your watch and fob! I swear, I swear on all that’s holy, I—”

“Men,” Meyer said quietly.

They descended on Taylor. They beat him as they stripped him naked and left him half-dead in the sand. Rose cried out in horror, but her one attempt to stop them was quickly diverted as one of the men backhanded her in the face and sent her down again, her mind reeling.

“He ain’t got it,” another of the men finally said to Meyer.

And then, of course, they looked at Rose.

“He was telling the truth!” Rose screamed in fury and despair. She staggered to her feet and stood as proudly as she could, with all the old disdain she could summon. “He doesn’t have your watch or fob, never had it, and neither do I.” She knew, however, that her protest would be in vain. And she was worried sick about Taylor. He lay bleeding and naked in the sand. She’d heard him groan once; now he was silent.

“You’ve murdered him,” she accused Meyer.

There was more commotion coming from the tavern. Others, hearing the fracas on the beach, were spilling out of the saloon.

“Take the whore,” Meyer said to his men. “Let’s move out of here.”

“Wait! You can’t just leave him!” Rose sobbed. “He could be alive!”

Meyer, who was a big man, perhaps forty, and strongly muscled, walked over to her and jerked her toward him. “How did you wind up with such a pathetic excuse for a man?” Suddenly he smiled. “All those airs, my dear Miss Southern Belle! Well, well. I’ll find out later if you’ve got my property. Come on, boys, time to leave this island and move inward. If there’s going to be a war, I think we’ll be part of it. Hmm. And, Miss Southern Belle Rose, I guess you’re going to be my whore now!”

“Let go of me, you bastard!” She had to play for time. People were streaming out of the saloon and she had to tell them Taylor was innocent and that these men had halfway killed him. It was one thing to have a fight, or even shoot at a man, but to do this, to gang up on someone and beat him so badly…

Meyer hauled back and hit her again with such force that she would’ve fallen if he hadn’t grabbed her. The world around her was whirling as Meyer tossed her over his shoulder. She tried to free herself, tried to protest, but his voice grated in her ears. “You want your boy to have a chance to live? Then shut up! You’re with me now, Rose. Ah, yes, Miss Rose, you’re with me. Think of the glory! We’re on to fight for Texas!”

He started to laugh.

For Texas…

She fought against his hold. She raised herself, clutching his shoulders, and for one moment, she saw the moon again. Or moons. Now there seemed to be ten of them swimming in the sky, still absurdly beautiful crescents.

Then the moons all disappeared. Yet as her world faded to black, Rose could feel the gem somehow burning against her skin through the tight knot of hair.

Meyer, these men, didn’t even know she had the diamond, but it had already destroyed her life.

Chapter One

San Antonio, Texas

April

Logan Raintree had just left his house and was walking toward his car when the massive black thing swept before him with a fury and might that seemed to fill the air. He stopped short, not knowing what the hell he was seeing at first.

Then he saw it. The thing was a bird, and he quickly noted that it was a massive bird, a peregrine falcon. Its wingspan must have been a good three feet.

It had taken down a pigeon.

The pigeon was far beyond help. The falcon had already ripped the left wing from the creature and, mercifully, had broken the smaller bird’s neck, as well.

As Logan stood there, the falcon stared at him. He stared back at the falcon.

He’d seen attacks by such birds before; they had the tenacity of jays and the power of a bobcat.

They also had the beaks and talons of their distant ancestors—the raptors, who’d once ravaged land and sea. This kind of bird could blind a man or, at the least, rip his face to shreds.

Logan stood dead still, maintaining his position as he continued to return the bird’s cold, speculative stare. There seemed to be something in its eyes. Something that might exist in the eyes of the most brutal general, the most ruthless ruler. Touch my kill, and you die! the bird seemed to warn.

Logan didn’t back away; he didn’t move at all.

He knew birds, as he knew the temperament of most animals. If he ran away, the bird would think he should be attacked, just to make sure he did get away from the kill. Come forward and, of course, the bird would fight to protect it. He had to stay still, calm, assured, and not give ground. The falcon would respect that stance, take its prey and leave.

But the bird didn’t leave. It watched Logan for another minute, then cast its head back and let out a shrieking cry. It took a step toward him.

Even feeling intimidated, Logan decided his best move was not to move… .

“I have no fight with you, brother,” he said quietly.

The bird let out another cry. It hopped back to the pigeon, looked at Logan and willfully ripped the second wing off, then spat it out and stared at Logan again.

This was ridiculous, he thought. He’d never seen a peregrine falcon so much as land in his driveway, much less pick a fight with him.

He reached with slow, nonthreatening movements for his gun belt and the Colt .45 holstered there; he had no desire to harm any creature, but neither would he be blinded by a bird that seemed to be harboring an overabundance of testosterone.

As if the bird had known what the gun was, it leaped back.

Logan had the gun aimed. “I don’t want to hurt you, brother bird,” he said. “But if you force my hand, I will.”

The bird seemed to understand him—and to know he meant his words. It gave yet another raucous cry, jumped on the pigeon and soared into flight, taking its prey. Logan watched as the bird disappeared into the western sky.

Curious about the encounter and very surprised by it, he shook his head and turned toward his car again.

He took one step and paused, frowning.

It suddenly looked as if he’d stepped into an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

The Birds.

They were everywhere. They covered the eaves of his house, the trees and the ground, everything around him. They sat on the hood and the roof of his car. Every bird native to the state of Texas seemed to be there, all of them just staring at him. Jays, doves, grackles, blackbirds, crows and even seabirds—a pelican stood in the center of his lawn.

It was bizarre. He was being watched…stalked…by birds!

None made a move toward him.

As he started to walk, a sparrow flapped its wings, moving aside. He continued to his car, wings fluttering around him as the smaller birds made way. When he reached his car door, he opened it slowly, carefully, and then sat behind the wheel, closing the door. He revved the engine and heard scratching noises as the birds atop his car took flight.

Logan eased out of the driveway. As he did so, a whir of black rose with a furious flapping of wings. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, they were gone.

Every last bird was gone.

He looked back at his old mission-style house, wondering if he’d somehow blacked out, had a vision, and yet managed to get into his car. But that was not the case. He didn’t black out. For him, visions were dreams. They occurred only when he slept, and he usually laughed them away. His father’s people believed that all dreams were omens, while his mother’s father—psychiatrist and philosopher William Douglas—believed that dreams or “visions” were arguments within the human psyche. In William’s view, fears and anxiety created alternate worlds seen only in the mind; their role was to help resolve emotional conflicts.

Whichever approach was correct didn’t matter much. He’d seen what he had seen. This hadn’t been a vision or a dream.

But it was odd that it had happened when he was on his way to meet with Jackson Crow, FBI agent and head of the mysterious Krewe of Hunters—a unit both infamous and renowned.

* * *

San Antonio. It was different, that was all. Different.

Kelsey O’Brien looked out the Longhorn Inn’s kitchen window. From here, she could see the walls of the old chapel at the Alamo. The city was bustling, pleasantly warm now that it was spring, and the people she’d met so far were friendly and welcoming.

She still felt like a fish out of water.

That’s what she was missing—the water.

She’d been in San Antonio almost three days and they’d been nice days. San Antonio was a beautiful city. Kelsey actually had a cousin living here, Sean Cameron, but he worked for a special-effects company, and they were currently out in the desert somewhere, trying to reproduce the Alamo as it had once been for a documentary. She was grateful that her old camp friend, Sandy Holly, had bought the historic inn and one-time saloon where she was staying. Sandy made her feel a bit less like a fish out of water, but it was strange not to be within steps of both the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico. Her life—except for summer camp and college upstate—had been spent in the Florida Keys. Where there was water. Lots and lots of water. Of course, they had the river here, and she loved the Riverwalk area, with its interesting places to go and dine and shop. The history of the city appealed to her, too.

It was just…different. And it was going to take some getting used to. Of course, she still had no idea what she was doing here, or if she was going to stay. She might not be in San Antonio long; on the other hand, she could be transferring here. And she might be taking on a different job.

She was a United States Marshal, which meant she worked for a service that might require her to go anywhere. She’d certainly traveled in her life, but the concept that she could be moving here, making a life here, seemed unlikely—not something she would have chosen. Now that it might be happening, she had to remind herself that she’d always known she could be transferred. But her training had been in Miami, and because of her familiarity with Key West, where she had grown up, she’d been assigned, as one of only two Marshals, to the office there. She’d been doing the job for two years now, enjoying an easy camaraderie with Trent Fisher, her coworker. They reported in to the Miami office when required, and occasionally their Miami supervisor came down. Key West was small, and despite the friction that could exist between law enforcement agencies, she’d quickly established excellent working relations with the police and the Coast Guard and the other state and federal agencies with which the two Marshals worked. And then…

Then she’d suddenly ended up here. She was still wondering why, because Archie Lawrence, her supervisor, had been so vague.

“You’re going to love the situation,” Archie had assured her. “You go to this meeting, and then you’ll have a two-week hiatus to decide what you feel about an offer you’re going to receive. So, nothing is definite yet.”

“I’m being given a vacation so I can get an offer and think about it?” That hardly seemed typical of the government. “What’s the offer?” she’d demanded.

“That’s what your meeting is about,” he’d said.

And no amount of indignant questioning or wheedling would convince him to share the details. If he even knew them… “Look, your meeting is with an FBI agent and you may be transferring services,” Archie had told her. “That’s all I’m at liberty to say.”

“Why?” she’d asked him. “I don’t want to change agencies!”

“Hey, it’s come down from the brass, kiddo, and it sounds unusual—two federal agencies getting together on a friendly basis. Hallelujah!” Archie rolled his eyes. “No one’s going to force you to change. You’re being presented with an opportunity. You can say no. I mean it. If you don’t like this offer, you have the option to pack up and come home, with no harm done to your status here. So quit asking me questions. Go away. Don’t darken my door—for the time being, anyway. You have things to do, arrangements to make.” He’d sent her one of his lopsided grins. She liked Archie and considered him a great boss. He was always easygoing until he went into “situation” mode and then he could spew out orders faster and with more precision than the toughest drill sergeant.

Sometimes, of course, she wondered what Archie really thought of her. She was good at her job, although some of her methods were a bit unexpected. Luckily, a lot of criminals were still sexist. They didn’t realize that a woman could and would hold them to task, shoot with uncanny aim and manage handcuffs with ease. But she’d felt Archie’s eyes on her a few times when she hadn’t really been able to explain the intuition that had led to her discovery of a cache of drugs, a hiding place—or a dead body. She even wondered if he was hoping she’d take another position.

Today, soon, she’d attend a meeting with a man from the FBI: He had an offer for her that presumably had to do with the unique abilities she’d shown during her two years with the government, and due to the status of this particular branch of service, various government offices were cooperating. On the one hand, she felt like telling someone that if she’d wanted to work for the FBI, she would have applied to the FBI. But she was curious, and she wasn’t prone to be difficult; it was just the mystery of the situation.

Law enforcement agencies were not known for their cooperation—rather sad, really, since they were all working toward the same goal. That was one of the reasons she’d loved working in Key West; they had plenty to deal with, but they were smaller, and thus got along fairly well. Drugs were constantly out on the waterways. The Coast Guard was overworked, ditto the state police and the county police. The cops in Key West loved the Marshals. It had all been pretty good. State police, Monroe County police, the Coast Guard and the U.S. Marshal’s Office, all getting along, most of them meeting for a beer here and there on Duval Street or some off-the-tourist track location. In her case, it had probably helped that she’d gone to the University of Miami and done an internship with the U.S. Marshal’s Office. She’d zeroed in on her chosen profession early. And she’d expected to stay in south Florida.

To contemplate a life here, in Texas, was just…strange.

Nothing wrong with Texas, of course.

But she had it all figured out. It was the water. In San Antonio, there was no coast. There was the river, though.

She glanced at her watch. Two hours until her meeting.

When she looked out the window again, she nearly jumped. In those few seconds, a massive crow had landed on the outer sill. The damned thing seemed to be staring at her. She waved a hand at it.

The bird didn’t fly away. It continued to stare.

Then it pecked the window.

She almost stepped back, then didn’t. She scowled at the bird. “I’m a United States Marshal, and I will not be intimated by a bird!” she said aloud.

“What’s that?”

Kelsey swung around. Sandy Holly had come breezing into the kitchen.

“You have really big, aggressive birds around here,” Kelsey said.

“We do?”

“Yeah, look!”

When she turned to the window again, the crow was gone. It bothered Kelsey to realize that the bird disturbed her. Ah, well, she had discovered earlier that one of the men she’d be meeting was Agent Crow. Maybe that knowledge had made the bird’s appearance seem like something more—like some kind of omen, for good or…

Sandy smiled, raising her eyebrows. “Anyone would think you were trying not to like Texas,” she said.

“No, no, I love Texas. Texas is great,” Kelsey told her.

“Maybe you’re just a little nervous. This is the big day, right?”

“This is it,” Kelsey agreed. Sandy Holly was proving to be a true friend. Kelsey had gotten to know her almost twenty years ago, when they’d been a pair of awkward eight-year-olds at the West Texas dude ranch Kelsey’s parents had been sure she’d want to attend. But she’d been terrified of horses, while Sandy was terrified of being alone. Sandy had ridden before, even at five, because…because she was a Texan from San Antonio. Texans rode horses and wore big hats. So, at eight, Kelsey had toughened up enough to tell Sandy she didn’t need to be homesick, and Sandy had promised Kelsey she’d learn to love horses. She did, Kelsey mused. Thanks to Sandy, she’d become an excellent rider. And, thanks to Sandy, she’d known where she wanted to stay when she came to San Antonio. The Longhorn Inn and Saloon.

It wasn’t as if they’d seen each other frequently. After a few years, they had skipped camps of any kind. But they’d met with other friends in Vegas to celebrate their respective twenty-first birthdays and kept up with each other through Facebook and email. When she’d first talked about applying to be a U.S. Marshal, Sandy had encouraged her.

Kelsey was particularly glad to be here because Sandy wasn’t in great shape at the moment—taking over the old inn had proven to be a monumental task, and there were problems Sandy had hinted about that Kelsey didn’t entirely understand. They hadn’t really had a chance to sit down and talk, since Sandy was running a business, which meant her time was limited. It was even more limited because she’d lost a manager the week before—the young man simply hadn’t shown up for work—and while Sandy had a great housekeeping staff of three, the organizational and hostessing duties had all fallen to her. Of course, as Kelsey well knew, Sandy could be high-strung, and she wondered if working for her friend wasn’t a little stressful. On the plus side, Sandy did like to hire college guys who needed a break on a résumé. None of them seemed to last too long, however.

Sandy walked over to some controls on the kitchen wall and squinted as she looked at them. “Hmm. I’m going to hope this turns on the music and doesn’t open the storm windows,” she said, twisting the dial.

Country rock filled the air.

“I think you got it,” Kelsey told her.

“How about some coffee?”

“You can actually sit for a few minutes?” Kelsey asked. “And tell me what’s up?”

Sandy poured coffee into cups and set them on the table, shrugging. “There’s nothing really wrong. The past few days around here have been tense, that’s all. People are so ridiculous!”

“Okay, explain, will you?”

Sandy let out a long sigh. “It’s just this haunted thing about the inn. I sometimes wonder if I was crazy or what to get involved with it, even though I like a ghost story as much as anyone. Well, you know I’ve wanted this place for years. I’ve always been fascinated by the history—especially what happened to Rose Langley.”

“The poor girl who was killed right before the fall of the Alamo?” Kelsey asked.

Sandy nodded. “Rose was killed by her lover—or pimp, depending on how you want to look at it—in Room 207. It’s a sad story about a good girl gone wrong. She took off from her parents’ home because she was madly in love with Taylor Grant, and when they were in Galveston, she ended up being more or less kidnapped by a notorious bad guy named Matt Meyer, who wounded Grant. She might have fought Meyer and gained time for help, but she seems to have been afraid he’d finish Grant off if she didn’t go with him. So, the revolution was about to begin, and Meyer wanted to fight for Texas. They came here, and apparently, Rose and Matt Meyer got into a terrible fight, and he murdered her. He’d been known to kill, so it wasn’t a surprise. We wouldn’t just consider him a criminal today, we’d consider him to be as sick and perverted as the most heinous killer out there. Oh—and, of course, he took off before the battle of the Alamo, or before anything resembling the law could catch up with him. But…”

“But?”

“I don’t know how much of this you remember from my emails,” Sandy said. “I had just bought the place—money down, no way out—when all of a sudden there were problems. I was already in here, deciding what to do about renovating a week or so before the closing, when a girl named Sierra Monte disappeared.”

“Of course I remember. But remind me what she was doing here, when the inn was in the middle of changing owners,” Kelsey said.

“Peter Ghent, the last owner, still had the place until closing. That’s how it works. I’d gotten a deal because there was no return on the down payment if anything went wrong. Anything. Ghent had some of the rooms rented, but he was like an absentee landlord. Sierra came here, apparently, because she wanted Room 207. Go figure. The rooms were super-cheap, even though it was a historic property, because Ghent wasn’t running it well. The bar sucked! It was all falling apart and I’d just started to renovate. But Sierra Monte insisted on staying. Anyway, she disappeared. A maid found blood everywhere and then the cops came in—but there was no body. And, of course, she disappeared from Room 207, so the legend continued to grow. I closed down for a bit when I took over to get the renovations finished. And then I didn’t rent out the room at all afterward but the mystery of the place encourages people to come in. You know how that goes. Now people are clamoring for 207. I’m careful who I give it to, though, because I’m afraid of some idiot freaking out in the middle of the night and jumping out the window or something! It’s hard to read people over the phone or through the internet, but, like I said, I’m careful. It’s rented out now—only because I have a big ol’ rodeo cowboy staying in it.”

Kelsey winced. “I know what you’re saying. At the Hard Rock in Hollywood, Florida, people vie for the room where Anna Nicole Smith died. And people book way ahead for the ‘murder room’ at the Lizzie Borden house in Fall River, Massachusetts.”

“Exactly!” Sandy said. “But now, the stories about Room 207 are scaring people away from the inn, not bringing them in!”

As if to confirm Sandy’s words, a high-pitched scream pierced the hum of easy-listening music. Kelsey had just picked up her mug, but the earsplitting cry of terror startled her so badly that coffee sloshed over the brim. She leaped to her feet, staring at Sandy.

Sandy stared back at her, stricken, shaking her head. Kelsey set her mug on the table and went flying out to the inn’s grand salon—now its lobby—looking around for the source of the scream.

It came again, stretching long and loud, and Kelsey raced toward it.

* * *

When he reached the riverfront area and parked, Logan was still mulling over the strange behavior of the birds. He knew that the Native American half of the family—no matter how “modern” or forward-thinking they might be—would see omens in the situation. He couldn’t help wondering about it himself.

But he had to put it out of his mind.

Logan had been told by his captain that this meeting was important. In that case, he wasn’t quite sure why he was meeting an FBI agent beneath a brightly colored umbrella on the Riverwalk. It wasn’t that he had anything against the Riverwalk; it just didn’t seem like the place for an important meeting. Tourists thronged the area, along with locals. The shopping included both high-end boutiques and Texas souvenir shops, and the restaurants were varied as well as plentiful. He loved the river; watching water always seemed to improve anything. Still, this was unusual.

He wasn’t surprised that he was noticed—and hailed—by many people. He’d spent his life in San Antonio, and he’d been called on during many a “situation” at the riverfront, so he knew a number of bartenders, shopkeepers and restaurant owners. Of course, the tourists and visitors were something else entirely. One teenage boy called out, “Look! It’s Chuck Norris! Hey, Walker, Texas Ranger!”

He tipped his hat to the kid. No need to make their visitors think Texans weren’t hospitable and friendly.

He was dressed in standard departmental wear—boots, white hat and gun belt. He was carrying a Colt .45, his weapon of choice, and a popular gun among Rangers. He guessed that, in a way, he did look like Chuck Norris—or the character he’d played on a long-running TV show. Except, of course, that Norris was blond and light-skinned and he had dead-black hair and hazel eyes. People did stare. There weren’t even two hundred Rangers in the whole state, so he supposed that made his appearance especially interesting for tourists.

Another reason not to carry out an important meeting in a public place.

He did, however, recognize the man he was supposed to see, despite never having previously met him. Agent Jackson Crow was seated at one of the tables lining an iron fence that arced right out over the water, a cup of coffee in front of him. He was dressed in a black suit that seemed to scream FBI, to Logan’s mind at least. He wore dark glasses and seemed perfectly comfortable, sitting at ease while he waited for the meeting. Whatever people thought of him, he obviously didn’t give a damn.

Logan walked straight to the table. Crow was aware of him; he stood.

“Raintree, I presume,” he said, smiling as he offered his hand.

Logan shook hands, studying Crow. Yep, Indian blood. He assumed Crow was staring back at him, thinking the same thing. “Yes. I’m Logan Raintree.”

“Comanche?” Crow asked.

“All-American mutt in every way,” Logan told him. “One ancestor was Comanche, one was Apache—and two were European. Norwegian and English. You?”

“Cheyenne and all-American mutt, as well,” Crow said. “I like the concept of that. Sit, please. Thank you for meeting with me.”

“You’re welcome, but I wasn’t really given a choice—I was given an order.”

Crow didn’t respond to that. “Coffee?”

“Coffee sounds good,” Logan said, pulling out a chair. He noted that the table had been set for three. “Someone’s joining us?” he asked.

“Yes—a U.S. Marshal,” Crow said. “We’ll eat when she gets here.”

Logan slowly arched his brows. “All right, what kind of felon, madman or serial killer do we have running around San Antonio?”

“We don’t know much about him as yet. That’s where you come in,” Crow explained. “And I’m meeting with you first. Marshal O’Brien isn’t due for another half hour or so.”

“Doesn’t that mean you have to go through all of this twice?”

Crow gave him a grim half smile and shrugged. Logan had the feeling that there was always method to his madness, though at the moment, he sure couldn’t tell what it was.

A leather briefcase lay on the table. Crow reached into it and produced a sheaf of papers—photos, Logan saw.

He didn’t immediately recognize what he was looking at. At first glance it appeared to be a trash pile, but then, peering closer, he saw human bones beneath the branches, boxes and other refuse.

He looked back at Jackson Crow. “I wish I could say that a dead body was something unusual,” he said.

“It’s the circumstances that are unusual,” Jackson murmured. “Here’s another.”

The next picture was of a half-decayed body on a gurney in an autopsy room. This was a far more gruesome sight, resembling a creature imagined by a special-effects wizard; the flesh was ripped from most of the jaw and the cadaver seemed to be grinning in a macabre manner.

“Where was this body discovered? He? She?” Logan asked.

“She. Both sets of remains belong to women. Both disappeared from the San Antonio area, one a year and a half ago, one about a year ago. Both had made it to San Antonio and were never seen again. Or not alive, anyway,” he added.

“I’m assuming traces were done on their credit cards, and the usual procedures carried out.”

Jackson nodded. “Neither actually checked into a hotel. The bones in the first picture belonged to a young woman named Chelsea Martin—schoolteacher, part-time gemologist. The cadaver on the gurney was once a dancer named Tara Grissom. She worked out of New Orleans.”

“Dancer? As in stripper?” Logan asked.

Jackson shook his head. “She was with a modern dance company. The show she was in closed down and they weren’t due to cast the next show for a few months. She headed out to Texas. According to friends, she was fascinated with the Alamo. She flew from New Orleans to Houston and on to San Antonio, and she was never heard from again after she waved goodbye to the fellow who’d been sitting next to her on the plane.”

“What about the other girl?”

“Similar story. She was a new teacher, and when budget cuts came down, she lost her job. Chelsea Martin left New York City for San Antonio, took a cab straight to the Alamo and wasn’t seen again.”

Logan frowned. “I should’ve heard about this by now.”

“You probably did. Think about all the missing-persons reports,” Crow said with a shrug. “There are hundreds of them—thousands. Some people go missing on purpose. You have to remember that. Thing is, until you really start digging, you don’t always know if someone’s disappeared on purpose or not.” He pulled out more sets of pictures. They were all of bodies in various stages of decay. Female bodies.

Logan frowned at Jackson Crow. “All these corpses—they’re from here?”

Crow nodded. “Most of these women have yet to be identified. A number of them might have been prostitutes or women living on the edge. When someone doesn’t have family or close friends, there’s no one to hold law enforcement to task once the case has gone cold. We wouldn’t have known about this if an enterprising young officer hadn’t stumbled on the first body in a trash pile—just a block from the Alamo. Don’t look so appalled. No unit of Texas law enforcement has been neglectful in this case. First off, we still don’t know if the cases are related, although studying the way the killer disposed of the bodies, it seems likely.” He grimaced. “There may be a few who were killed by someone else—someone who happened upon a body-disposal system that has eluded the law—but I believe most of these women met the same killer. They all just disappeared. And of all the corpses and skeletal remains we’ve discovered so far, we’ve only been able to match two of the women to missing-persons reports.”

“Are you putting together a task force?” Logan asked him.

“More or less. I’m putting together a team.”

Logan began to feel uneasy. He’d looked up Jackson Crow. He had a reputation for being a crack behavioral profiler; he also had a reputation for running a crew of—for lack of a better term—ghost hunters. Hired by a somewhat reclusive government bigwig, Adam Harrison, he investigated the unusual. To the man’s credit, it seemed that his team generally found real human beings who’d perpetrated the crimes and brought them to justice.

Still…

Somehow, he felt Crow knew something about him. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

“And you want me to be on this team?” Logan asked.

“We have one special unit working now—a team of six, and six seems to be the optimal number. I’m starting a second team. I don’t just want you to be on the team—I want you to head the team.”

“Why?”

“You’ve had incredible success finding missing people,” Jackson said smoothly.

Logan didn’t blink. “Logic,” he told Crow. And a little luck…

“Logic is the most important tool we have,” Crow agreed. “I’m a man of logic myself.”

Logan winced, then said flatly, “You look for ghosts.”

“I look for killers,” Crow said, correcting him. He indicated the briefcase. “I have a lot of info on you, too, of course. I know you’re exceptionally talented.” Crow hesitated, thoughtful for a minute. When he spoke again, it was with both respect and empathy. “And I know that your wife was kidnapped by the brother of a drug runner you put in jail. I know you found her—buried in a pine box. The killer had been playing a game with you, but he screwed up. He didn’t provide enough oxygen. You were able to find her, although no one ever really knew how. You just found her too late.”

Logan felt tension seep into his bones. Alana had been gone nearly three years, yet he still couldn’t think about her without a sense of loss and rage burning in his gut. She’d died because he was who he was. She’d been a shimmering spirit of laughter and giving, and she had died because of him. His exceptional talents had been useless.

Her death had sent him into the hills on a long leave; only a return to the land far from the city had somehow kept him halfway sane.

Maybe that was why he hadn’t been aware of what had gone on with these missing women. And maybe everyone had overlooked the real and horrendous danger for the reason Jackson Crow had just given him. Sad, but true. Those on the fringes of life were often simply not missed.

“You have what we need,” Crow told him.

No, I don’t, Logan thought. I failed the woman I loved.

“I’m a Texas Ranger,” Logan said, startled by the sound of his own voice, which was almost a growl.

“Yes. You returned to being a Ranger,” Crow said. “Because you can’t help yourself. You have to work in law enforcement. But, even as a Ranger, you have limitations. I can provide unlimited resources for you.”

“Thanks. I like being a Ranger. I’m not so sure about being a fed.”

“It’s a matter of choice. Texas pride aside, there are a few things you might want to keep in mind, such as the fact that federal services have jurisdiction everywhere. In our case, of course, we work where we’re invited in, except when we’re talking about criminals and situations that cross state lines. That’s always our jurisdiction. Crossing state lines is something killers do often enough. It’s as if they know they can throw law enforcement into confusion and break chains of evidence when they do, and that’s one reason the FBI is so important. Of course, your superiors know about this offer, and although they’d be sorry to lose you, they understand the unique possibilities of the position I’m offering you.”

Logan shook his head. “Thank you. No. You’ve got a serial killer on your hands. Or—since one way or another, I’ll get involved—we’ve got a serial killer on our hands. We’ll dig in, too, work with the FBI. But I think I’ll stay right where I am. I don’t see any reason to change.”

Crow nodded. “As I’ve been saying, it is your choice. But there’s something different about this case that does require an extra ability to see.”

“See what?”

“Beneath the obvious.”

“And what’s that?”

“Chelsea Martin called a friend just before she disappeared,” Jackson Crow said.

“From the Alamo?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She said she saw a ghost. She thought it had to be the ghost of a Texas hero. He was trying to urge her to get away.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“She phoned Nancy McCall, a friend in New York, when she reached the Alamo. At first, according to Nancy, she was laughing, telling her that a reenactor was playing a game with her. Then she was concerned, saying that the ‘performer’ was getting very dramatic, insisting she leave the Alamo, go and hide somewhere. At the end of the conversation, Chelsea seemed to believe she’d seen a ghost. She sounded frightened, and said this ghost or whatever he was had just disappeared.”

“And then?”

“Nothing. The line went dead. Her phone was never used again, and it was never found—and I’ve shown you what was left of Chelsea Martin.”

Chapter Two

The Longhorn had been built at a time when men were men and…men were men. The saloon had a long curving bar, a piano and a large space for gaming tables. Near the front entry, which came complete with swinging doors, a staircase led to the balcony above and to the rooms on the second floor. When Kelsey sped into the main saloon area from the kitchen, she was stunned to see a man running down the stairs as if he were being chased by every demon in hell.

A big, tough-looking man. Leanly muscled, he stood a good six foot two—and he was wearing an expression of sheer horror.

He had to be the “big ol’ rodeo cowboy” Sandy had told her about.

As Kelsey ran to the foot of the stairs to discover the cause of his terror, he nearly knocked her over in his haste to reach the door.

“Sir! What is it? What’s happened?”

Luckily, it seemed that the few other guests currently checked in to the Longhorn were already out or still asleep, and that the staff was either busy or not at work yet. No one else had appeared at the sound of the screams.

“Let me out of here! Let me out of here now!” he yelled. He seemed like a decent man. Even in his near hysteria, he wasn’t going to mow her down or pick her up bodily to toss her out of the way.

She hadn’t realized that Sandy had come behind her until she heard her speak. “Mr. Simmons, what’s wrong?” she asked.

Simmons was perhaps thirty; he had the ruggedly handsome look of a modern-day cowboy, and Kelsey assumed he was in town for the upcoming rodeo trials. The man might have been ready to brave the meanest bronco, but he pointed up the stairs with a trembling hand. “Blood…blood…blood. Oh, God, blood everywhere, all over the room!” he said. “Let me out. For the love of God, let me out of here!”

Kelsey arched a brow at Sandy and placed a hand on Simmons’s shoulder. “Sir, it’s all right. Sandy will help you,” she said.

Sandy looked back at Kelsey, her eyes filled with a silent plea. See? I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s happening again, and it’s getting worse and worse. Do something!

Kelsey stepped past Mr. Simmons and hurried up the stairs to the gallery. She paused, gazing down over the rail of the landing. Sandy held her guest by the arm and was urging him to calm down. But Simmons seemed adamant about leaving.

“If you’ll just show us, Mr. Simmons,” Sandy said.

“What, are you insane?” he shouted. He stared up at Kelsey. “Don’t…oh, God, don’t go in there! Get the police!” he cried.

“Mr. Simmons,” Kelsey called down. “I am a law enforcement agent. I’m a United States Marshal.”

“Room 207,” Sandy said gravely.

Kelsey nodded, turned and hurried down the hallway. It was a straightforward numbering system; the second floor had ten rooms, 201 through 210. Room 207 was to her left along the gallery. Her own room was 201, but she didn’t really have to check at the numbers; the door to 207 was wide open, just as Simmons had left it.

She stepped inside and paused, biting her lip. There was nothing there. Certainly no blood.

The room was handsomely appointed. In fact, Sandy had done a beautiful job restoring the whole place. She’d renovated it with authenticity, studying historic documents and outfitting it with period pieces. Kelsey knew something about all of this, because Sandy had been in love with the inn—longing to buy it—for years. The Longhorn was one of the oldest original wooden structures of a bygone era. It had opened in 1833 as the Longhorn Saloon and Gentleman’s Palace, and through its history, it had been the place where travelers to San Antonio, especially “gentlemen,” had come to enjoy the liquor, poker, ambiance and female entertainment provided here. Every now and then, Sandy arranged a night with old-time entertainment; it was no longer a house of prostitution, of course, but she held poker games for charity, and hired period singers, actors and dancers to evoke the feel of the old west.

Needless to say, any building as old as this one held its share of ghost stories. Room 207 had come with the Rose Langley legend, and much more recently, Sierra Monte had disappeared from it.

Kelsey considered what Sandy had told her about the Sierra Monte case.

Blood spray and spatter had covered the room. There had never been any sign of her body, and there had never been an arrest. DNA testing proved that the blood was hers, and the medical examiner had claimed it was highly unlikely that anyone could have lost that much blood and survived. How her remains had been removed from the room was a mystery, just like the identity of her killer.

It had been a horrible story. But in law enforcement, officers and agents heard a lot of horrible stories. And if every hotel in the world closed when something bad happened, they’d be tearing down buildings right and left.

Afterward, Sandy had hired special crews to come in and clean up.

There wasn’t a drop of blood to be seen anywhere.

Kelsey walked into the bathroom, once a dressing room for the “girls” who had entertained at the Longhorn. She hadn’t been in on the investigation, although she’d researched it, primarily because of her friendship with Sandy. She knew that blood had been found in the bathroom, as well, a great deal of it. Detectives and forensic crews had determined that Sierra was most likely killed in the bedroom and possibly dismembered in the bathroom.

When the police had finished and Sandy had taken over the place, she’d had the bathroom in 207 completely remodeled. The old tub was still taking up a lot of space in the evidence room at the police station.

The bathroom looked completely ordinary. Shaving equipment and toiletries were on the counter by the sink, and the old claw-foot tub Sandy had bought to replace the original one was damp. Sandy’s guest had obviously had a bath or a shower before finding himself mesmerized by the blood his imagination had conjured up.

When Kelsey left the room and walked down the stairs, she saw that neither Sandy nor Mr. Simmons was in the main saloon area. She wasn’t sure if they’d run outside—or if Sandy had managed to calm him down. She pushed open the swinging doors and looked out at the street. No one there. Kelsey quickly returned to the kitchen and the table where she’d been about to drink her now-cold coffee.

Simmons and Sandy were sitting there, but Simmons wasn’t drinking coffee. A shot glass and a bottle of whiskey stood in front of him. He’d apparently downed several shots already.

Sandy and Simmons both turned to Kelsey. She shook her head. “There’s nothing there, Mr. Simmons. Nothing at all.”

He gaped at her, disbelief in his eyes.

“I swear to you,” she added quietly, “there’s nothing.”

He groaned, lowering his head, pressing his temples between his palms. “Well, that’s just great. I’m going crazy.”

Kelsey drew up a chair next to him, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Simmons—”

“Corey. Call me Corey, please,” he interrupted gruffly.

“Corey,” she said. “You’re not going crazy. You’re merely human, which makes you susceptible to the history of places like this. Everyone knows the stories about the Longhorn. You know the room was covered in blood at one time, and not that long ago, either. So, in your mind, you saw it covered in blood. You’re not crazy. What happened wasn’t a fun ghost story. It was reality.”

“I should just not rent out that room,” Sandy murmured.

Corey waved a hand in the air. “Not your fault,” he said. He gave them both a rueful grimace. “I asked for that room. I told the boys going to the rodeo that I’d be sleeping with the ghosts. I was a real hotshot. I didn’t know I had a crazy susceptible mind. At least…that’s what I’m going to believe, Miss…?”

“O’Brien. Actually, Marshal O’Brien,” Kelsey said.

“Kelsey’s been working with the U.S. Marshal’s Office in Key West,” Sandy explained.

“A U.S. Marshal,” he repeated, looking at her as if she were some kind of alien life form.

She smiled at him.

“You don’t look like a cop,” he said.

“Technically, I’m not a cop.”

“But you…you do cop things.” He still seemed confused.

“More or less.”

“Can a U.S. Marshal get my stuff out of that room?” he asked.

“I can do that for you, Mr. Simmons. And I’ll help you find another location to stay, too,” Sandy told him.

“Um, can you just put me in another room?” he asked.

Sandy was clearly surprised by his request. “Of course I can. But you were pretty desperate to get out the door, Mr. Simmons.”

“Corey,” he said again, smiling. He flushed. “Ladies, I’m going to ask you to do me a massive favor. Never repeat the fact that a six-foot-three two-hundred-and-thirty-pound bronco buster ran out of his room screaming like a baby.”

Sandy laughed softly. Kelsey shrugged.

“Please,” he murmured, looking at Kelsey.

“Don’t worry. I don’t really have anyone to tell,” Kelsey said. She checked her watch. “You two will have to excuse me. I have a meeting this morning. That is, if you’re sure you’re all right now, um, Corey?”

“I’m feeling like the biggest fool in Texas, and that’s some mean space,” Corey said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Kelsey glanced at Sandy. “You call me if you need anything. And, Corey, as soon as I’m back, we’ll see to it that all your things are moved to your new room.”

“Thanks, Kelsey,” Sandy said. “But I’m sure I can manage.” She hesitated. “Uh, Kelsey? Are you interested in switching rooms with Corey? That would save me a lot of bother.”

Kelsey thought about it for a moment, then said, “Sure. Why not?” She wondered whether she’d been too rash, but Sandy’s gratitude confirmed that she’d made the right decision.

Kelsey took another look at the half-empty bottle of whiskey. Corey Simmons was either going to lie down and pass out soon, or he’d be seeing more ghosts. But Sandy smiled at her with confidence, and Kelsey figured she’d manage, just as she’d said. Sandy had supported both her parents through protracted deaths due to cancer, and Kelsey believed that was one reason she’d been so caught up in the restoration of the Longhorn. She’d pulled herself out of mourning and she’d done it by throwing herself into this massive project. She could be tough as nails when she chose. Not only that, her livelihood now depended on the inn.

“I don’t even know what this meeting is,” she said. “So don’t worry about phoning if you need me.”

Sandy nodded. As she started out, Corey Simmons called her back. “Miss—I’m sorry, Marshal! Miss O’Brien, thank you.”

She gave him a tiny salute of acknowledgment. Leaving the kitchen, Kelsey hurried back up to her room to grab her handbag. She paused to study herself in the freestanding Victorian swivel mirror. She felt she looked professional—something she hadn’t worried about in ages. She was five-nine, decked out in a black suit and simple white cotton tailored blouse. Her hair was a deep auburn, secured in a band at her nape. She had what she hoped were steady green eyes, and a lean sculpted face that lent her a look of maturity—at least in her own opinion. Despite Corey Simmons’s surprise that she was a woman who did “cop things,” she made the proper appearance for a U.S. Marshal. That seemed important in light of today’s meeting.

She hurried out of her room, then walked down the hall to 207 again. Stepping inside, she held very still and closed her eyes. She’d come up here before because of Corey’s hysteria; now, she decided to take a moment to see what her intuition would show.

She opened her eyes, but didn’t focus on the room as it was now. What she saw looked similar, but…different. Out of kilter. There was a wardrobe in the corner, but it was a slightly different wardrobe. Where the bathroom should have been, she saw a slatted Oriental divider: The bed was smaller, and a white chemise lay at the foot of it.

There were two people in the room, a man and a woman. The woman was beautiful, dark curly hair piled atop her head, long legs clad in old-fashioned stockings and garters. She wore a white shirt and corset. Her dress had been thrown on a nearby chair. The man was wearing a dark suit, a tall hat and appeared to have stepped out of an 1850s fashion ad for gentlemen. He was tall and, despite his apparel, had the rugged look of a cowhand. He strode angrily across the room and grasped the woman by the shoulders. “You won’t hold out on me!” he shouted at her. “I want it, and I want it now.”

“I don’t have it,” she said.

“You’re a liar! I know what happened in Galveston that night, and I know your pretty-boy lover won it. I want it!”

“No, it’s mine!” she responded.

“You think you’ll get back to that no-good weakling? Well, give up that dream. He moved on the moment you were gone.”

“I hate you,” she told him, shaking herself free. “I hate you, Matt. I loathe you. You forced me here, and you’ve used me enough. Even if I had it, I’d never let you have it!”

“You’re an old whore already, Rose,” he said. “I want it, and I’ll get it.”

“I will never give it to you!”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he wrenched her to him again; his fingers curled around her neck. He squeezed his hands together; he shook her hard. She grabbed desperately at his arms, trying to break his hold on her.

“Please, Matt!”

“I’ll kill you, and I’ll rip this place to shreds—and find it.”

“Please!”

That one word escaped her lips, more breath than word, as her face became red and mottled and she began to flail at him helplessly. Kelsey was so horrified by the vision that she ran to the man and woman, but of course they weren’t there, not in this time and space. As she reached them, the woman went limp, and the man picked her up and tossed her onto the bed as if she were refuse.

Then they both disappeared.

Kelsey blinked. She wanted to cry for the woman who seemed to have fallen in love so foolishly, been abused and then murdered. There’d been no future for her; she had died still a beauty.

What was the it they’d been talking about?

However, that wasn’t a concern right now.

She hurried out of the room, curious about the meeting her superior had insisted she attend.

She found herself remembering the bird on the window ledge that morning and, once again, couldn’t shake the strange feeling it had given her.

She was about to meet men named Crow and Raintree. She wondered if this meeting had something to do with the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

And yet, somehow, she had the feeling it didn’t.

She suspected it would have to do with her so-called “special” abilities. Abilities she usually kept to herself, but in the recent situation…

In all honesty, she knew why she’d been called.

This had to be connected to the body she’d found three weeks ago in Key West. That was when Archie had really begun to look at her strangely.

Body? No…she hadn’t actually discovered a body.

Just bones. Broken and disarticulated bones. They might’ve all wound up in the garbage heap or a landfill if the trucks had come through a few more times. But Kelsey had seen the woman standing there, sobbing over the heap. And when she’d looked again, there had been no woman, but…

But there’d been the bones.

* * *

Logan shook his head, staring at Jackson Crow. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what? The gravity of the situation?” Crow inquired.

“No. I don’t understand what setting up a team with the FBI will accomplish that various law enforcement agencies working together won’t,” Logan said. “I don’t believe a ghost killed her.”

“I don’t, either,” Jackson said. “There are two possibilities, and since you’re a Texan, I should think either one would bother you. One, a killer is dressing up as a Texas hero to attack innocent women.”

“Or?”

“Dead Texas heroes remain…heroes. They’re still trying to save the lives of others, and warn them away. Because they recognize a killer when they see one.”

Logan wanted to argue with him; he even raised a hand to do so, but didn’t find the right words. He was suddenly reminded of the very strange experience with the birds that morning.

Strange, but certainly natural. A physical phenomenon.

And, of course, he knew that things could happen, things that didn’t always fall into the realm of natural physical phenomena.

“You don’t have to answer me now. My people are working on it. But,” Crow added wryly, “we’re being stretched far too thin.”

“I’m glad you’re not expecting an answer yet,” Logan said. “Because if you were, I’d have to say no.”

Crow shrugged. “We don’t expect anyone to just say, ‘Hey, I’ll jump on it.’ But I’ve studied law enforcement profiles, and I’d like to begin with you and Marshal O’Brien.” He sent Logan a quick smile. “I wasn’t keen on this when it first came up, either. I assumed I was receiving a major demotion. But you’d be astonished by what can be accomplished when you put the right network of people together.”

“When you have a good team, yes, it can work exceptionally well. But you don’t really know someone until you’ve met him. Or her. So, you study profiles. What happens if you meet someone you don’t like?” Logan asked.

“Then I don’t make the offer. Just so you know, I don’t work alone. A man named Adam Harrison started this…experiment, shall we say. He had friends, and he identified people around the country who had abilities. Instincts, if you prefer. He put my team together. Adam’s an interesting man, not particularly talented in this area, but he’s developed a sense for people with these uncanny skills. So far, he’s zeroed in perfectly every time.”

“Adam Harrison. The name’s familiar.”

“He’s done a great deal of good. He and his team have uncovered many charlatans, and found the truth behind their mist and mirrors. He watches people carefully. He knows who to approach for the Krewe.”

“I’m not trying to be argumentative,” Logan muttered, “but a lot of what you hear about Texans is true. We were our own country for a short while, and we’re still dedicated to being Texans.”

“Dedication is a good thing. But, like I said, you can think about it. And regardless of what you decide, you’re now apprised of this situation.” Crow indicated the pictures, then got to his feet. “I believe Marshal O’Brien has arrived.” He smiled, glancing at his watch. “Precisely on time.”

Logan stood, too. He saw a woman coming toward them. He noted first that she had a thick head of auburn hair that fell to her shoulders, and then he went on with his assessment. She moved with fluid confidence, and she was tall, about five-ten. Slim and well-built. She wasn’t wearing a badge, but there was a quality about her that spoke of law enforcement. He was pretty certain the bulge on her hip was a Glock.

As she came nearer, he realized that she had exceptionally fine features and might have graced a model’s runway rather than a crime scene. But before she reached them and offered each man a firm handshake as introductions were exchanged, he could tell that she wasn’t some kind of delicate hothouse flower. Her walk, her movements, the way she’d looked for them and found them instantly—they all registered authority and determination. Maybe she’d perfected her manner to offset her beauty, which was vivid and startling. When she removed her sunglasses, he saw that she had green eyes, their color almost as deep as a forest.

He also realized that she was as curious as he had been about the meeting. “Shall we order?” he suggested. “We’re all here now.”

He lifted his hand to summon their waitress. Crow was polite and friendly as he ordered his meal, and despite the fact that Kelsey O’Brien couldn’t have done more than glance at the menu, she ordered quickly. He did, as well, although he wasn’t hungry. Something about this meeting was causing his stomach to knot.

Jackson Crow began the new conversation casually. “How are you enjoying Texas, Marshal O’Brien?”

“It’s great,” she said. “San Antonio is beautiful.”

“Have you been able to see or do much yet?” Crow asked.

“I’m staying at the Longhorn, a historic saloon. I can see the Alamo from my window. Very poignant, really.”

“The Longhorn has quite a reputation,” Logan commented. Ridiculous! he told himself. For some reason, he’d just had to throw that out.

He was irritated at his own pleasure in thinking he might know something Agent Crow didn’t. This meeting was confusing him. He was usually willing to do whatever it took to stop crime, especially murder. But this…

It felt as if once he took a step, he’d fall into a pit, and he wasn’t sure he’d know how to maneuver his way out.

Maybe because he hadn’t known that there seemed to be a pattern of disappearances. It was true that the FBI could recognize the similarities between these crimes.

Maybe he was still off his stride because of what had happened on his way here—the scene with the birds.

Logan began to explain. “A murder took place there around the time of the Texas Revolution,” he said. “And about a year ago, a young woman disappeared from the ‘murder room.’ Local homicide detectives tore the room and half the hotel apart, and she was never discovered. The room looked like there’d been a bloodbath. I’m not sure if that fits with the cases you’ve been showing me.”

“Sounds like it does,” Jackson said. “What do you think, Marshal O’Brien?”

Logan studied the young woman he had so recently met.

She smiled awkwardly and looked around before answering. “We seem to be pretty casual here. Please call me Kelsey. And I’m sorry but I’m not up to speed. What cases?” she asked.

“One moment,” Crow murmured. “Our food is coming.”

Kelsey O’Brien had ordered salmon. Logan wondered if she avoided red meat and realized he’d ordered fish that afternoon, too. When their waitress left the table, Jackson launched into the story he’d already told Logan.

Logan sat back, listening, while Jackson Crow explained the FBI involvement. He waited until they had finished eating and then spread out the pictures to show her.

“Horrible,” she whispered.

“I do believe we’re looking for one killer. Although, as I told Raintree, it is possible that these murders and the unknown remains we’ve discovered aren’t all connected. We’re talking about a huge population here and, obviously, the larger the population, the easier it is for people to get lost in the crowd,” Crow said.

Logan saw that Marshal Kelsey O’Brien wasn’t turning away from the pictures, but neither was her expression devoid of empathy and distress. She raised her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve seen the dead before, but…in my area, it’s often a drug runner shot and down. Nothing like…this.”

Jackson Crow scooped up the pictures as the waitress came to clear the table and bring them more coffee. When it had been poured and they were alone once again, Logan found that he was intrigued to discover what Kelsey knew about the Longhorn Inn.

“What have you learned about the murder?” he asked her.

She looked at him, and he gazed into her clear green eyes. “You mean Sierra Monte? Very little, I’m afraid. The owner, Sandy Holly, is an old friend of mine. That’s why I’m staying at the Longhorn. So I only know what Sandy’s told me and a few things I read online. I also know it was incredibly complicated when she purchased the place, because she had a nonrefundable deposit down, with access to begin the renovations, and then Sierra Monte disappeared. Sandy still had to pay on the closing date and everything was put on hold while the police finished their investigation and then the people hired to do the crime-scene cleanup were brought in. She was devastated about the young woman, of course, but she was also in a predicament herself.”

“It’s up and running now, and doing well, right?” Logan asked.

Kelsey nodded. “She did a stunning job with it. There are parts of the inn that make you feel as if you’ve been transported almost two hundred years back in time. And, of course, Room 207 was gutted, and yet there’ve been people clamoring to get into it—and people claiming they’ve seen ghosts and blood… .” She paused. “Some people are fascinated by this stuff. Sandy was worried about it, naturally. And now…”

She stopped speaking. There was a lot more to the “and now…” but she didn’t seem sure she should be talking about it.

Kelsey was aware that both men were watching her, waiting. She shrugged. “It’s odd—just before I left today, a big bruiser of a cowboy came running out of that room, screaming. He was convinced that the entire room was covered in blood. Of course it wasn’t.” She grinned. “Eventually, he calmed down and I went up to the room and looked around.”

“And?” Jackson asked her.

“It was just as the cowboy had left it,” Kelsey O’Brien said slowly.

Logan noticed that she’d hesitated before she spoke. Her words were smooth enough, but there was something she wasn’t saying. She didn’t fully trust them; however, that was okay. He wasn’t sure of his own feelings about Jackson Crow or Marshal O’Brien yet, either.

“Impressionable minds can create ghosts,” Crow said.

“Very true,” Kelsey O’Brien agreed.

But Crow homed in on her words. “What about you? What did your mind see in that room?”

She leaned back, startled, but composing herself as she returned Jackson Crow’s gaze.

“Anyone could get impressions in that room—once you know what happened there,” she replied. “And, of course, I know.”

“Does it ever distress your friend?” Crow asked her.

“Definitely. She’s sunk a lot of money into the Longhorn, especially since she bought it in bad condition—and under bad circumstances. Sandy’s wanted to own it for ages, though.”

“Anything unusual occur during your nights at the inn?” Crow asked next.

“In my room? Not a thing,” Kelsey said.

She didn’t share easily, Logan thought.

“But you do feel the saloon is haunted?” Crow persisted.

She hesitated again, frowning, and then answered with “What exactly do you consider haunted, Agent Crow? When I walk through places that are steeped in history, there’s always an air about them. The Alamo? I feel like I’m walking on hallowed ground. I get that same feeling at the Tower of London and the battlegrounds at Gettysburg. I think many people feel this way in certain places. The Longhorn Inn is no different. It witnessed history. I suppose many people imagine they see the past when they’re going through places like that.”

Crow listened, nodding, a small smile curving his lips. “Nice reply. And not an answer to my question.”

“Well, what do you want?” Kelsey asked him, clearly irritated. “Do I pass ghosts walking up and down the stairs or in the saloon? No.”

“Have you seen them at all?”

She looked as if she’d been trapped. Obviously, she had to be competent and able to stand on her own, but Logan suddenly felt that he wanted to step in; he hated being cornered himself, and he didn’t like to watch it being done to someone else.

“What kind of haunting are you talking about, Agent Crow?” he asked. “Residual haunting, where the same traumatic event occurs over and over again? Or are you referring to intelligent or active haunting, where the ghosts actually partake in life?”

“Either,” Crow said, shrugging. “I’m curious.” He leaned across the table, his casual manner gone. “Kelsey, I know damned well that you see what others don’t. What did you see in Room 207?”

She frowned. “What did I see? A murder.” She looked over at Logan, and he couldn’t tell whether she saw anger or appreciation in his eyes. “Absolutely nothing that could help us with the here and now. I saw a murder that took place over a hundred and fifty years ago, and the murderer himself is long gone. I guess what I saw was a residual haunting. No blood—the poor woman was strangled. So, perhaps we should get back to what we’re actually dealing with. Dead women. Corpses dumped here, there and everywhere in San Antonio. I’m assuming you have more to work with than just photos, Agent Crow?”

He nodded. “I’m set up at the police station, about a mile away. I’ll pay for our meal, then we’ll go there and you can see how far we’ve gotten. Tomorrow, I’ll be briefing local law enforcement, but for now, you can come over and get started.”

“Whoa, Agent Crow. I haven’t agreed to be part of this team,” Logan reminded him.

Crow raised one shoulder. “You don’t want to see what we have?” he asked.

Logan let out a deep breath.

Of course he did. This was happening in his city, and Jackson Crow had been right about one thing—he had to be in law enforcement.

He had to be involved.

And since he’d seen the pictures of the remains…

He turned to face Kelsey O’Brien. She was watching him with her intent green eyes, and he wondered if she felt the same sense of urgency he did. The same need to know, despite the risks.

“Ready when you are,” he said quietly.

Chapter Three

This is not going to work! Kelsey thought.

Jackson Crow seemed pleasant enough, like a man who could be a team player. But Logan Raintree seemed almost hostile. Except that he’d pitched in with information about the Longhorn and he’d also risen to her defense when Crow had been hammering away about what she’d seen at the inn. Still, it was pretty obvious that he didn’t want to be a member of any team, and if he wasn’t part of the team—was there a team? There would be a task force, she supposed. Now that the FBI had become aware of the number of corpses, there’d have to be. The fact that a serial killer was suspected of targeting the area was bound to become known, and the public would demand it.

But did she want to be part of it?

Something inside her wanted to recoil. And something else wanted to go with the two men, go and look at the available evidence.

So she went. She had certainly seen violence and death as a U.S. Marshal. Gun battles happened on the open sea when drug traffickers found themselves under siege. Bodies were dragged out of the Gulf and the Atlantic. She’d seen the ugly side of human nature. Despite that, the murders of the women seemed far more horrific than the cold and impersonal violence she most frequently witnessed. Cocaine dealers shot their rivals and their enemies—people who worked for the law.

True, she’d found those bones in Key West… . And because she had, the victim had been identified, and a family had learned the sad truth.

She forced herself to appear cool, professional, stoic as they reached the police station and passed through the outer areas, where petty offenders were being booked. San Antonio was not without its share of prostitutes and thieves, and a number of them were being interviewed, along with traffic offenders and others brought in by the police for their various misdeeds. But Jackson Crow barely noticed them. With a brief word to the desk sergeant, he led her and Logan through a hallway to a large room enclosed by smoked glass. Within that room were several desks, a free-standing, forty-inch computer screen, a small lab area, a board with marker notes and a private snack station with a large coffeepot and a small refrigerator and microwave oven. It was almost its own little fortress.

This could be her place. For now at least.

A man sat at one of the desks, but rose when they all entered. He was tall and striking in a lanky, easy way, and was quick to shake their hands when Jackson introduced him as Jake Mallory. On Jackson’s own team, he was adept with cameras, recorders and, he admitted dryly, a guitar.

“Only one member of your team’s here,” Logan pointed out.

“I told you,” Jackson Crow said. “We’re stretched too thin. There’s been a murder at an old hotel in D.C. Some of my people are there.”

Logan Raintree merely nodded.

“So what do you have?” Kelsey asked Jake Mallory.

“You’ve given them the information about Chelsea Martin and Tara Grissom?” Jake asked Crow.

Again, Crow nodded. Jake sat at his computer and hit a key. The large screen against the far wall came to life. “That’s Chelsea Martin on the left, Tara Grissom on the right,” he said. “Both photos were taken a few months before they disappeared.”

No matter how long a person worked in law enforcement, Kelsey thought, it was heartbreaking to see the image of a young woman in life—and to know how that life had ended. Chelsea Martin had huge blue eyes and dark brown hair. Tara Grissom was a blonde, with green eyes. Chelsea’s face had been round, while Tara’s was slim with high cheekbones. Chelsea peered out at them, smiling. The close-up had been cropped, and it looked as if her face had been taken from a picture with kids in it. She’d presumably had her arms around some of them. They must’ve been children she’d taught. Tara’s picture had probably been a publicity photo, because it had a neutral background and she smiled at them from a posed angle.

“These are the young women we know, and they’re at the morgue, along with six we have yet to identify,” Jake said. “The killer isn’t going for a particular look, or not that we can pin down from these two, at any rate. One’s a brunette, the other a blonde. One was plump, and one was lean. And although we haven’t identified the other remains, there’s hair on most of them, or remnants of hair, and the colors vary.” He cleared his throat. “I was listening to Chelsea’s last phone conversation when you arrived.”

“Her phone conversation? How was it recorded?” Logan asked. “If her friend answered the phone, there wouldn’t be a recording.”

“Apparently, she answered right when the recording began. We got lucky. Nancy McCall had an old-fashioned answering machine,” Jake said. “It’s strange—I’ve been isolating sounds on the tape, but…well, you want to listen to the original recording first?”

Crow nodded.

“This is the conversation,” Jake said, hitting another key.

Chelsea Martin, with her wide cheeks and big eyes, smiled at them from the screen as they listened. “Nancy! Hey!” said her voice, sweet and excited.

“You were supposed to call me when you landed,” came the reply.

“I’m sorry. I went straight to the Alamo, which is crazy, ’cause I’m dragging around a bag and all. But I had to come here! I’ve read so much about it, so many stories about the siege and the battle and the people who were here…oh! Too funny! There’s a man in costume. I’ve been flirting with him. He’s pretty cute, too!”

Before her friend could respond, another voice broke in. It was deep and husky, and had a rattling sound, almost as if someone were speaking through a mouthful of dust.

“Come away, come away, now. You’re in danger!”

They heard Chelsea giggle. “The battle’s over,” she said.

“You’re in danger,” the rattling voice said again, “Please, listen to me.”

That voice. Kelsey had been in dire situations several times, but she couldn’t remember when any sound had caused such a chill to suddenly sweep through her.

“Nancy, I think a ghost is playing with me,” Chelsea said, and she laughed again.

“Chelsea, what’s going on?” her friend asked.

“I—”

And that was it. Silence. For a moment, those in the room were silent, as well.

“And just how do you figure the third voice got on the phone?” Logan Raintree asked. His voice was hard and cold. “For it to be that clear, he had to have his mouth right next to the phone. What did the friend say when you questioned her about it?”

“I called Nancy McCall earlier this afternoon,” Jake said. “She didn’t hear the other voice when she spoke to Chelsea, and she has no idea how it can be so clear on the recording—or even how it managed to record at all. I told you, I’ve been isolating sounds, but I can’t separate this voice from Chelsea’s when I try to bring them onto different frequencies. I just played you the original. I can isolate Chelsea’s voice, and you’ll hear that it’s still in there.”

He played the recording again.

Afterward, Jackson walked over to Jake’s desk, which held a pile of folders. He picked up two of them. “Take these,” he said, handing one to Logan and one to Kelsey. “They have all the information we’ve got on Chelsea and Tara, and the times and dates the six unidentified bodies were discovered. Please take a look at the folders. If you decide to join the team, I’d like you to come to the morgue with me tomorrow.”

“Have those bodies been there all this time?” Logan asked.

“No. We’ve exhumed them,” Jackson told him. “They were buried by the city as unknowns.”

Logan shook his head, eyes narrowed. His expression was impassive, and yet Kelsey felt that some kind of emotion was seething inside him. “Why now?” he asked. If he exploded, he’d be frightening.

Yet she was equally certain that he never just exploded. He controlled himself at all times.

“It’s in the folder,” Jackson said.

Next, Jake passed out pages he’d obviously printed for them. “I was looking up information on another case when I found out that a young woman, Vanessa Johnston, has recently disappeared—on her way here,” he told them. “Right now, she’s a missing person. She was driving in. Neither she nor her Honda has been seen since she stopped at a gas station near the county line. I brought the problem to Jackson’s attention. Everything’s on those sheets I gave you.”

Kelsey slipped hers inside the folder.

“I spoke with your captain about this case, Raintree,” Jackson was saying. “And he invited us in.”

Kelsey watched as Logan Raintree nodded curtly and headed toward the door.

He paused and turned to face them. “What time are we going to the morgue?” he asked.

“9:00 a.m.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

He left the room.

“I’d like to hear the recording again, please,” Kelsey said.

She found a chair at one of the empty desks and sat, listening as Jake replayed it. Once more she felt the strange chill, but along with the sense of fear and dread, she felt…

A sense of something being oddly right. Not about the recording. About her. She might miss the water, miss home, miss being a Marshal, but she knew she could help on this case. And she wanted to.

She held her folder with hands that seemed to freeze around it. When the recording finished, both men were watching her.

“Nine?” she asked. She’d heard Jackson the first time. She’d just needed to say something.

“Yes,” Jackson said. “I’ll pick you up at the Longhorn.”

“One more thing.” Jake touched a key. The picture on the large computer screen changed.

Another young woman of about twenty-five smiled out at her. She was wearing a tiara on sandy-colored hair.

“That’s our missing girl,” he said. “Vanessa Johnston. Last year’s Miss Maple Queen of Montpelier, Vermont.”

Kelsey rose. “I’ll have these read by tomorrow and be completely up to speed,” she told Crow. “I’m in, provided you still want this team to exist if Raintree opts out.”

She was surprised when Crow smiled grimly. “He’ll be at the morgue tomorrow, and he won’t opt out.”

Kelsey decided not to answer. Raintree hadn’t looked as if he planned to agree. Not in her opinion, anyway.

But then, maybe she was better at understanding the dead than the living.

“Good afternoon,” she said. And she left the two men, still feeling the same sense of dread.

And the same sense of purpose.

* * *

Logan drove straight to his own office. Others greeted him as he walked through the main room, both those sworn in as Texas Rangers and civilians busy at other tasks. The world hadn’t changed for any of them; they waved at him, smiled, chatted. He went to Captain Aaron Bentley’s office, tapped on the door, but walked in without waiting for an answer. Bentley was on the phone. He was a big man with snow-white hair, as rugged-looking as any man who’d ever run a Texas Ranger division.

Bentley seemed to be expecting him. He lifted a hand in greeting and ended his conversation.

“What the hell did you send me into, sir?” Logan demanded.

“Sit down,” Bentley told him. Logan stood there stiffly for a minute, then sighed and took the chair in front of Bentley’s desk. “Sir—”

“Oh, don’t ‘sir’ me,” Bentley said. “We’ve been together too long for that.”

“I’ve been good at my job,” Logan said.

“You have.”

“So…”

“So, I’m trying to get you onto a team where you can really be of service. Is that going to be on the Texas level or on the national level?” Bentley murmured. “I had to ask myself where you could do the most good, Logan. And if I’m honest, it’s with this new team. Your instincts have helped us in hundreds of cases. You have the sort of mind that reads others, and you’ve predicted the course of a perp’s actions a dozen times. I thought we’d lost you after Alana died, but you headed out to that rock you love so much and your grandfather’s place, and you came back stronger. I’d like to keep you, but when the request comes down from the top of the food chain, you do what you need to do.”

“I’m told I have a choice.”

“You do. You have time to think about this.”

“What time? Captain, do you know what’s been going on? And if I’m so damned good at this kind of thing, why the hell didn’t I know?”

“The FBI has just shared its information,” Bentley said. “We’re in process of analyzing it, and supplying them with whatever info we can find. Every law enforcement agency in the area will be on the hunt now. But, Logan, you…”

Bentley’s voice trailed off. Bentley’s voice never trailed off. Logan knew they were both thinking about the same thing—what had happened with Alana.

“The Rangers have changed over the years, Raintree,” Bentley said, recovering his voice. “We’re a true law enforcement agency under the Texas Department of Safety. You know as well as I do that we’re actually older than Texas as a republic, a state, a Confederate state and a U.S. state again. Hell, when Stephen Austin organized Rangers to protect the frontier while the Anglos were first moving in, we were frontier guards, and that was our business for a long time. Then we battled the Mexican government, and the Native American tribes, and the outlaws. We kept peace on the frontier until there was no more frontier. We had our valiant moments in the sun, and we were some of Zachary Taylor’s finest troops in the Mexican-American war. At times we also acted like a law unto ourselves. Those days are over—for all their brilliance. We’re a respected law enforcement agency. We serve a higher god, you might say. And that’s the thing, Logan. No matter how you look at it, we’re part of the greater good.”

He had neatly sidestepped the real conversation.

Alana.

Logan remained silent.

“Logan, the feds have way more power than I can ever have or give,” he said in a resigned voice. “And this team the government wants to set up—it has a direct connection to the most powerful law enforcement men in the country. Anything that can be done within constitutional limits will be done. Warrants achieved at all hours of the day or night. In any city, any state of the Union. The right to cross geographical boundaries to chase the truth. I’ve heard that the man responsible for creating these teams has the White House on speed dial. But more than that, Logan, they have what you need, and you have what they need.”

He had what they needed.

Sitting there, he suddenly felt defeated. Nothing seemed real. He’d been pretending that his life could return to normal. Playing at being a good Ranger, following the clues, investigating leads. If he didn’t think about Alana, he could look back on his life as if it were history, as distant as the events at the Alamo.

“It’s a unique opportunity,” Bentley said.

Logan didn’t have anything more to say to Bentley. Except this, “I still have time,” he said as he rose from his chair.

“Yes.”

He exited the office, pausing at the door to turn around. “Thanks, Captain.”

“Raintree, you’re a great officer. I’ll be sorry to lose you.”

Logan didn’t deny that Bentley had lost him. But he wasn’t sure yet. He’d know in the morning.

* * *

Kelsey couldn’t decide where to go.

Her mind was spinning. She should get back to the Longhorn, log on to her computer and look up everything she could find on Jackson Crow and Adam Harrison and the Krewe of Hunters. But she wasn’t ready to go back yet; she wasn’t ready for questions or even for Corey Simmons and the ghosts of a century gone.

She needed to mull over the meeting.

She parked her rental car by the Alamo. She’d taken the tour several days ago. But there was something special about the place, an aura of a certain time, the acts of men who’d changed history.

And she couldn’t forget the recording she’d just heard. Chelsea Martin at the Alamo, laughing at first, happy as she talked to a friend. Then…gone.

And now…

Dead.

She wandered aimlessly for a while, watching as a group worked with schoolchildren, reenacting what had occurred at the fort. She gathered that one man was playing the role of Davy Crockett, and another, that of twenty-six-year-old Lieutenant Colonel Travis, who’d run the battle—since his co-commander, Jim Bowie, was in bed, probably dying, and probably of tuberculosis. A few men were playing other defenders, those who hadn’t gone down in history with such giant names and reputations, but who had died there nonetheless.

She listened to them, impressed. The actors were doing a brilliant job, bringing the situation to life. The men they portrayed were tired. They spoke of day-to-day things—their meals, scouting expeditions, their exhaustion, their desire for more comfortable beds.

She was so busy watching them that she hardly noticed when a man sat next to her. Then she caught sight of him in her peripheral vision, and became instantly aware. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was.

There was no mistaking Logan Raintree. The best of many cultures had mixed in his face, a face as cleanly sculpted as a marble bust, with high broad cheekbones and a determined chin. He wasn’t beautiful, but he was one of the most imposing men she’d ever met. The ever-simmering energy within him added a vitality and heat that made him even more intriguing, more attractive.

Seductive. She immediately tried to wipe that thought from her mind.

She didn’t speak but gazed at him solemnly. He’d known she was there. He hadn’t walked away when he saw her. Quite the opposite—he’d joined her.

She was almost shocked when he smiled at her. “I’d like to apologize, Marshal O’Brien. I’ve been an ass.”

She smiled in response. “Um, apology accepted. Except…you weren’t that bad,” she said with a laugh.

“What made you come here?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “It’s not that far from the Longhorn, where I’m staying. I wasn’t ready to go back and answer a bunch of questions about the meeting. I needed time.”

He nodded, looking toward the chapel. “I wondered if you’d come here because this is where Chelsea Martin was last seen.”

“It might’ve had something to do with that.”

“You going to accept Jackson Crow’s offer?” he asked her.

“I…don’t know. Maybe. You?”

“This morning, I would’ve given him a definite no. Now…I’m not sure. Either way, I want to find out what there is to see at the morgue tomorrow.”

She felt a tightening inside. Yes. The morgue.

They were both silent for a minute. Then he began to speak, his tone relaxed.

“The Alamo’s a shrine,” he said softly. “Of course, it’s different than it was at the time of the battle. The chapel and this area—including the long barracks—was just a small part of the original Alamo,” Logan explained. “The walls extended for a quarter of a mile. In fact, that was one of the problems for the defenders once Santa Anna’s men breeched the walls—the place was too big to protect easily. The men who fought here fought hard, and they fought knowing they were likely to die.” He glanced at her. “Courage is being afraid—and going ahead, anyway.”

Kelsey nodded in agreement.

“Santa Anna had his men raise a red flag in a nearby church tower, and that bloodred flag indicated there’d be no quarter given. But, of course, the Alamo was part of a bigger story, and like most history, it depends on who is doing the telling. The Spanish had been in control. They’d signed a treaty ceding Florida to the U.S. and creating a boundary between the United States and Spanish America. But before that, men called impresarios, Stephen Austin among them, had been luring Americans into Texas with land grants that required no down payment. Then the Mexicans fought the Spanish for independence and won. Santa Anna become president, or more accurately, dictator. Texians or Anglo-Americans, and Tejanos, Mexican-Texans, had been living under the Constitution of 1824 until Santa Anna rescinded it and pretty much pissed them all off.”

“Which led to what happened here,” she said, absorbed in what he was telling her.

“Right. But a lot of movies about the Alamo forgot to depict the Tejanos who were part of the effort—and part of the effort to create an independent Texas. Some of the early books and movies about the Alamo were downright racist. The good old Anglo-Americans were the heroes, while the Tejanos who fought just as hard were ignored. I’m glad to say we’re moving past that.” He smiled slightly. “But it’s also true that regardless of background, these men weren’t on some idealistic mission for freedom and honor. They were like most of us—looking for a way to make a better life for themselves.”

“And there would’ve been no Texas without both groups,” Kelsey remarked.

His smile deepened. “Santa Anna miscalculated. He thought that his ‘no quarter given’ policy would scare off the revolutionaries. Instead, ‘Remember the Alamo!’ became a battle cry. Soon after, the massacre at Goliad occurred. Santa Anna had everyone there executed, and the war became one of revenge as well as Texan independence. Of course, if they’d lost, the whole thing would’ve been described as the Mexicans putting down an uprising by a group of rebels.”

“But Texas did gain its independence and then became part of the United States,” Kelsey said. “I appreciate what you’ve told me. I’m really interested in history.”

“Me, too. I just want it to be history and not fiction.”

“You’re a Ranger and obviously Native American,” she said. “What’s your history?”

“Very typical of Texas—a real mix. My father’s a quarter Apache and three-fourths Anglo. My mother’s half Norwegian and half Comanche. They’re both all-Texan. And all-American. And they’re alive and well and living happily in Montana now.”

“Didn’t the Texas Rangers spend a lot of years battling the Comanches?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “But they also learned from them.” He eased back a little as he spoke, leaning against the bench as he watched the young people around him seek to learn about the past. “A Comanche warrior could ride at breakneck speed—while clinging to the side of his horse with his shield, bow and quiver. He could fire off twelve arrows while a Ranger was trying to reload his rifle. To fight the Comanche, the Rangers had to learn how to do the same—or something equivalent and their fights led to some real renovations in weapons.” He turned to face her. “I like to think I’ve learned from all my ancestors, including the Vikings,” he added with a grin.

“Why not?” she said, shrugging comically.

“O’Brien. Are you Irish?” he asked.

“Like you, I’m mostly all-American mutt, but yes, my dad’s family immigrated from Ireland.”

“And you come from the Sunshine State. Do you miss it?”

“No,” she said. “Okay, a little. But I’m at the Longhorn, as you know, and Sandy’s an old friend. I have a cousin here, too. Sean Cameron. But he’s—”

He straightened. “Sean Cameron is your cousin?” he asked.

“Well, a Sean Cameron is my cousin.”

“He works for a company called Magic on Demand?”

“Yes. You know him?”

He nodded, staring at her.

“How?”

“He’s been a consultant for us a few times. I haven’t seen him in quite a while, but one Halloween we had a murder in a haunted house, and he was brought in. He helped the crime-scene people dig through the fake gore and get down to the real evidence.” Logan was quiet for a minute.

“Oh,” she murmured. “Did you always want to be a Texas Ranger?” she asked, changing the subject.

He nodded. “My dad was a Ranger,” he said. “What about you?”

“I always wanted to be a Marshal,” she told him. “I knew it from when I was in high school.”

He slouched down on the bench, thoughtful as he studied the tourists coming and going. “Most people would say you don’t look the part,” he said.

“What am I supposed to look like?”

“John Wayne, maybe.”

She laughed. “Didn’t he play a Texas Ranger once? He was definitely here at the Alamo in one of his movies.”

He turned to her, but as he did, he saw someone behind her and frowned.

She turned around, as well, and saw a man. He was the only person in their vicinity and he was dressed in costume, a big wide-brimmed hat, buckskins and boots. She assumed he had to be a member of the little group who’d just reenacted the scene between the men at the Alamo. He obviously knew Logan Raintree and wanted to speak to him, while Raintree looked as if he wanted the man to disappear.

What was his problem? Logan Raintree was being downright rude, and in her opinion, there was no excuse for that kind of behavior.

“Hello.” She smiled, hoping to compensate for her companion’s lack of courtesy.

She was startled when Raintree stood abruptly and even the costumed stranger took a step back.

“Who are you talking to?” Raintree asked suspiciously.

Kelsey stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. She stood, too, and said pointedly, “The gentleman you’re ignoring.” She turned back to look at the man in costume, but he was gone.

When she turned toward Logan Raintree again, his expression had hardened, and he seemed to have withdrawn from her.

“You saw a man?” he demanded.

“Of course I saw him,” she said. “He wanted to talk to you, and you acted like he was a martian or something.”

As she frowned at him, both of them standing near the chapel of the Alamo, she heard an intense whirring sound.

Birds.

Black birds…crows. Settling down, all around them.

“I’ll see you at the morgue tomorrow,” Logan Raintree said, and he began to walk away, his footsteps moving through the sudden sea of birds, scattering them in all directions.

Chapter Four

A murder could be easier to solve than the case of a missing person, Kelsey reflected. When a body was discovered, there was a chance to collect evidence and—usually—a trail to follow. When a person had simply disappeared, you had to assume someone must have seen something, but finding that someone was often next to impossible.

The files they’d been given contained all the known information about Vanessa Johnston, who was last seen purchasing gas at a station near the county line.

She’d spoken briefly with a young cashier when she had gone in to buy coffee, saying she was excited about going to San Antonio, and then she’d gotten back into her Honda and driven off. Neither she nor the car had been seen since.

Her cell phone records indicated that she’d made no calls. Nor had she used her charge card again.

“A car has to show up somewhere,” Kelsey murmured aloud to herself.

There was a tap on her door. She was in bed—having moved into Room 207—and she rose up, leaning against her pillow.

“Kelsey?” Sandy called.

“Come on in,” Kelsey said.

She hadn’t had a chance to speak with Sandy since she’d gotten back; the inn was now full, and there’d been a number of bartenders and waitresses in the busy downstairs area, along with the singer who was reprising old tunes with a piano player. The saloon had been bustling. She’d been glad, since she wasn’t ready to share anything about her day. Yet.

When she’d returned, however, Corey Simmons had been waiting for her, hoping to buy her a drink. She’d declined. Sandy had packed up his belongings, brought them to Kelsey’s room, then packed up Kelsey’s stuff. He wanted to thank her, he’d said rather sheepishly, for moving into Room 207.

“Hey, just wanted to make sure you’re okay in here,” Sandy told her, stepping inside. Sandy was wearing an apron, since she’d pitched in with the serving downstairs.

Kelsey smiled. “I’m fine, absolutely fine. Nothing’s going to happen to me in this room,” she assured Sandy.

Sandy let out a soft sigh. “Well, thank you. You were wonderful. I can hardly believe Corey decided to stay here.”

“Well, you know, if the inn’s filling up and someone else wants this room, I can always go to another hotel,” Kelsey told her.

“No! You’re staying right here. I’m not renting this room to macho men, cowboys or hunters. I’m keeping things calm. I have to make a living on this place!”

“Okay, then, not to worry. I’ll stay, and I’ll be just fine,” Kelsey said again.

“So, how did your day go? What’s up? What was the big meeting about?”

“Well…I’ve been asked to join the FBI,” Kelsey said.

“Really? Wow! I didn’t know the FBI went out and asked people to join it! Don’t they have an application process and training, and all that?”

“I imagine that’s the usual case.”

“Wow. You must be special!”

Kelsey shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know about that.”

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

“Why you? I mean, honestly, I think that’s amazing!” Sandy said.

“I am a United States Marshal,” Kelsey reminded her. “I have all the training that went along with that, and they’re both federal agencies.”

Even with Sandy, she didn’t want to talk about the reasons. And, in fact, those reasons hadn’t actually been discussed. Oddly enough, it hadn’t been necessary. They’d all understood.

“I don’t really know,” she lied.

Sandy came in and perched on the foot of her bed. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” she said evasively. “Sandy, forgive me, but I’m not at liberty to discuss any of this yet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! Of course not. I’d just love it, though, if you moved to Texas. I mean, I know you love your home and all, but Texas is a great state.”

Kelsey made a point of casually closing the folder she’d been reading, then sat up straighter in bed. “I’ll make a decision by tomorrow.”

“And you can live right here!” Sandy said excitedly.

Kelsey laughed. “Don’t worry, the scuttlebutt about the room will die out. Or you can bring in one of those ghost expedition groups. Either way, you’ll get lots of business. But I’ll probably stay for a while. So, thank you.”

“This is great,” Sandy said happily, as if it was all settled. “I know Sean is off working now, but you have a cousin here. And you have me. It’ll be like home.”

“I’m sure it will.” Despite herself, Kelsey yawned.

Sandy stood quickly. “Okay, well, I’ll let you get some sleep. But I’m so thrilled you’re going to be here! Yay!” She walked to the door. “Good night.”

“Good night. Thanks, Sandy.”

When Sandy had gone, Kelsey got out of bed and went to the door. She hadn’t thought to lock it earlier; now she did.

She looked at the files again, but she really was tired. Facts, figures and faces were beginning to swim before her eyes. She left the bathroom light on, but turned off the others, set the files on the bedside table and slipped back into bed.

She should’ve realized she wasn’t going to sleep well that night… .

At first she felt as if she’d been disturbed by the sound of someone whispering. It was annoying, but not enough to completely wake her. Then she began to see it all again. The room changing, ever so slightly. The Oriental divider by the bathroom door.

She noticed something different about the darkness with the glow of just the bathroom light.

No, there was a gas lamp burning.

Kelsey saw the two people in the room, the man and the woman. She, so beautiful with her dark curling hair piled atop her head and tumbling around her face with a few stray dark locks. The dress lay on the floor, and the woman wore old-fashioned stockings and garters. The man stood in his dark suit.

As he’d done in her earlier vision, he strode across the room and grabbed the woman. “You won’t hold out on me!” he shouted. “I want it, and I want it now.”

“I don’t have it,” she said.

“You’re a liar! I know what happened in Galveston that night, and I know that your pretty-boy lover won it. I want it, and I want it now!”

“No, it’s mine,” she responded.

The rest of the scene played itself out, just as it had earlier that day.

When the man squeezed the life out of the woman, she went limp. He picked her up and threw her down, the same way he had before.

Then they both disappeared into the darkness. Seconds later, light began to show from the bathroom and the room resumed its earlier appearance. She’d been unable to move; she’d really never wakened.

A tiny light seemed to hover directly in front of her. She realized she was seeing a woman’s face. In dream, in vision, in half sleep, in the tormented corners of her mind, she saw a face. She thought it would be Rose Langley, the pathetic creature murdered in this room.

But it wasn’t. It was a face she’d seen in a picture that day.

The face of the missing girl, Vanessa Johnston. She wasn’t smiling now. She was sad. She looked at Kelsey and whispered, “Too late.”

Too late, too late, too late…

There was a whir of flapping black wings in the room, and the sound they made seemed to mock the words that had been spoken.

Too late, too late, too late…

The flapping stopped, and the wings seemed to merge and create a shape.

A man.

She saw him only as a silhouette at first. Then he turned to her, his expression grave. It was Logan Raintree, so tall and lean and solid, his face like chiseled marble, his hazel eyes alive and burning.

“You saw a man?” he asked her.

She heard wings again, and now she seemed to be outside. The black birds, the crows, settling all around them, on the ground, the benches and the nearby power lines and poles.

And then he was gone, and the darkness swept around her.

When she woke in the morning, she remembered her dream about the murder of Rose Langley, her vision of Vanessa Johnston.

And the appearance of Logan Raintree in her room.

Surrounded by crows.

* * *

The Bexar County morgue was large, and a special room had been set aside for the victims who might have been associated with a single killer.

Jackson Crow did have all the right connections. Logan had been at the morgue often enough in years gone by, and he was familiar with various members of the staff. But he’d never seen anything like the way people scurried for Jackson Crow, nor had he been there when an entire facility was dedicated to one pursuit.

There were eight gurneys in the room. Each had a sheet draped over the length of a body.

One sheet was almost flat. He assumed it covered a victim who was little more than bones.

One of the bodies had already been in the morgue, along with those of Chelsea Martin and Tara Grissom. Five others had been exhumed. They walked from gurney to gurney with Dr. Frazier Gaylord, medical examiner. He carried a clipboard with his notes on the remains of Chelsea and Tara—and the unknowns. The unknowns, of course, had been buried by the county and exhumed by the county, but they had numbers rather than names. Gaylord was thorough in his discussion of each one. Logan kept silent as he followed Jackson and Kelsey. The first body was skeletal and the second had no discernible features. Medical reports indicated that all the women had been between twenty-two and thirty-five; none had borne children. Hair proved to be of every color. Five had been Caucasian and two were Hispanic. One, according to Gaylord, was Asian—Logan didn’t ask what had given him that impression. The girl still had a pretty face beneath the damage and decay. “Or possibly American Indian?” he suggested.

“No, I believe she was Chinese,” Gaylord told him. “Based on the set of the skull and the cast of the eyes. There’s enough left…as you can see.”

Kelsey O’Brien hadn’t said a word. He liked that about her. If she had a question, she asked it. If she didn’t, she listened. Absorbed.

“I’m puzzled as to why you’ve put these deaths together,” Gaylord mused, looking at Jackson Crow, “since the cause of death isn’t consistent.” He glanced at his notes. “There are nicks on this woman’s skeletal remains, suggesting that she was stabbed to death. Broken hyoid bone in the next one suggests strangulation. The young woman over there—” he pointed to the farthest gurney “—was drowned. So, we have, in our collection of Jane Does, two strangulations, three stabbings and a drowning. And, then, of course, we get to the bodies of the two young women who have been identified, Chelsea Martin and Tara Grissom. This is a big city, and that means big-city crime. These poor souls might have encountered any member of the criminal element. Or they might have been murdered by someone in a fit of anger.”

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