Heather Graham - The Unseen

“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.”