Sacred Evil

Page 30

He called his father, because he knew that Andrew wouldn’t call him, assuming that he was busy, but that he’d naturally want to be kept up on the case.
“How’s Whitney doing with that book?” Andrew asked him. “Weird, I know, but I think that the site itself may have something to do with the case.”
“The site made me do it,” Jude said, his tone weary. He’d heard every excuse known to man in court, and it wouldn’t surprise him if someone opted to use the ghosts of the past as a defense.
“Here’s the thing, son, and you know it—a sick mind can grasp on to a lot, and even when someone knows right from wrong, they can certainly use some kind of knowledge as a spur to commit crimes. Take the religions of the world—the good ones,” he said. “People can twist and turn tenets of peace into terrible mandates that somehow miss the entire message of love and goodness to one’s fellow human being. So, take someone into the occult—which can just be a love of the earth, the use of herbs and so on—who is fascinated by death, cruelty and the dark side of human nature. They could twist their beliefs into some kind of house of worship for sure. We venerate the saints—they venerate blood and brutality.”
He hesitated, and then told his father, “We found an outline of an old pentagram in the floor—forensics will go in tomorrow and take a look around.”
“Why? Isn’t the pentagram over a century old?”
“It makes me wonder what else might be there. Or, if someone is using it again. I can’t help but wonder if one of the early victims might have been attacked there. I want to know if there’s any blood that can be detected.”
“I’ll see what else I can find in my collection about old New York. Who knows, I may find something,” his father told him.
“And you can always head back over to the NYU library, or connect with your friends at the Pierpont,” Jude said.
He didn’t realize until that moment that he was going to question his own father.
He was relieved by the answer.
“Actually, you’re right. Maybe I should. But there’s still so many books that I have here…I don’t think I’m going to find a book anywhere that says ‘read me for the answers’! It’s going to be a hunt. But I’m on it!”
“Thanks, Dad.”
When he hung up, though it was late, he called Hannah. Her workday was a typical nine-to-five, but she stayed up late at night, watching television—and now, of course, flirting with the new fellow in her life.
Hannah loved television and loved to compare her work and what she learned from the detectives with what was shown on the screen. One day, she told him, she was going to be a consultant on a crime show.
“Hey, Jude! How’s it going—the lists are endless…”
“It’s going, Hannah. I’m going to have a crime scene team out at the old construction site tomorrow. I was thinking you should be with them,” he said.
“Sure!” she said excitedly. “Except…I am a computer tech, you know.”
“Yeah, I know, but you’ve been compiling lists, checking facts…you might be helpful on site.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks!” she said. Then she added, “Jude, I’ve found out a lot of stuff about Harrison’s team.”
“And you haven’t called me?”
“Well, I did tell you what I knew when they were first called in—it’s all just speculative media reporting really. But Adam Harrison got into finding people to help with special investigations years ago.”
Whitney had told him that Adam Harrison had approached her after she had left her job. She’d been going to do her own documentaries. She hadn’t lied to him about anything.
But it seemed the whole world saw the group as ghost busters.
“His son was supposed to have been some kind of psychic, and he became fascinated with the occult. You know, kind of like the magician Harry Houdini. When his mother died, he was determined to speak to her through the ‘veil,’ or whatever. Well, here’s the thing—in all the instances his teams worked on, the case was solved and the stranger occurrences proven.”
“The ghosts did it?” Jude demanded skeptically.
“No, no…but to have been asked onto that team, well, each member had to have some kind of psychic ability, and it looks like it’s real. I mean, neither any of the people he worked with previously or the members of this team have gone on record that there are ghosts involved—in fact, the leader, Jackson Crow, has always been one of those people out to find the real cause, but…”
Great. He really was working with ghost busters.
That should help him keep his distance.
But it wouldn’t. He felt something like a body burn when Whitney was near. Natural, he tried to tell himself. She was young, she was beautiful, she was as sensual as…spun gold. He was human.
“Guess what they’re called—off the books?” Hannah asked him.
“What?”
“Krewe of Hunters. K-R-E-W-E,” Hannah spelled out. “Their first case together was in the French Quarter, in New Orleans, and I guess that’s what they wound up calling themselves.”
Krewe of Hunters, of course, mysterious old New Orleans. Filled with ghosts of the past, aboveground cemeteries…cities of the dead. Where else would ghost busters want to get started? he asked himself, his mental tone a mocking one.
“Jude, you there?” Hannah asked.
“Yeah, yeah, Hannah. Sorry. Meeting at 8:00 a.m., remember, every day until we catch the bastard or the task force is disbanded. I’ll see you then.” He hesitated, trying to remember that they all had lives, too. “How’s it going with your fellow, Hannah?”
“He’s not exactly my fellow, Jude. But, it’s nice. He calls every once in a while, and sometimes I find him waiting for me at the coffee shop.”
“Sounds like a budding relationship to me!”
“Maybe. But work comes first.”
At his apartment, he threw off his jacket and sat in front of his own computer.
There was a tap at the connecting door.
“Come in, Dad,” he said.
Andrew entered, bearing a glass. “Thought you could use this.”
“Oh?”
“Bourbon and soda,” Andrew said.
Jude laughed. “Bring it on in.”
“You sound worn out. You okay?” Andrew asked him sympathetically.
“Yep. We’ll catch him,” Jude said grimly. They had to catch him.
“They never caught the real Ripper—and they never caught the fellow who really murdered Carrie Brown.”
“They didn’t have the investigation capabilities we have now,” Jude said. “And they didn’t have ghost busters.”
“What are you talking about?” his father asked.
Jude stared at his dad, smiled slowly and shook his head. “I’m willing to bet you’ve known all along that everyone on the special team must have psychic ability.”
Andrew shrugged. “Well? Surely you knew that.”
“I knew that they investigated using local stories and history. I knew that they looked into people who thought that ghosts existed, or that ghosts told them to murder people or… I didn’t really accept the fact they all believed completely in spirits themselves!”
“Son, you need to get off your high horse,” Andrew told him. “There’s a lot to the world we don’t know, and a lot we’ll never know. So, you think you’re all procedure and facts, just the facts and nothing more. But I’ve heard you say a dozen times that you have a gut feeling about something. It’s all the same. Don’t throw away all the good you may get because you’re so convinced you’re right that there’s nothing in the world that isn’t totally solid.”
He was startled; his father seemed almost angry.
“Dad—they’re ghost busters.”
“Good for them. And if ghosts can solve this horrible case, let them!”
Jude stared at him silently.
Andrew went on. “I’ve been reading up today. Stuff I guess you know, but still good to think about. Most serial killers today come from working-class backgrounds and kill because it gives them a sense of power. But, historically, many people who had power and wealth killed because they considered themselves above mortal men. They killed because in their minds they had a right to kill. I guess that’s part of the psychopathic personality, and still, obviously sick, these people can be organized and good-looking and brilliant—as in the case of Ted Bundy.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Jude said.
“Of course, you’re the one with the degree in criminology,” his father said with a smile. “Well, I’m going to go back over to my side.”
Jude lifted his glass. “Thanks for the drink.”
“You bet. Good night.”
His father went through the door and closed it. His cat leaped up onto his lap and purred. For the moment, he wished he was the damn cat.
That night, they studied the video that had been taken at the site next door.
There were definitely shadows to be seen; strange shadows, the kinds without the light sources to have been created on a natural level.
Whitney touched the screen. When she did so, she felt a strange surge of electricity sweep through her.
She had seen the dog there.
She was certain that the dog had protected the woman. She kept staring at the screen, and she saw something behind the dog.
“Could this be the shape of a woman?” she asked softly.
“Yes, of course it could be,” Angela told her.
Will pointed out, “It’s definitely something. And none of us was there to cast that shadow…we’re on the right track.”
They could see the shadows, but they really had no answers at the moment. They all needed sleep.
Whitney was wound tightly when she first tried to lie down and sleep. But as she lay staring at the ceiling, she heard a tap at the door. Angela walked in, bearing a teacup.