Here they were. They weren’t alone in the cemetery as darkness fell. Colleen Law, with fellow special agent and spouse, Mark Gallagher, had also arrived, along with Special Agents Kat and Will Chan.

  The cemetery was laid out in a triangular shape that cut into the Virginia woods, and they had agreed to start separately at the three angles and meet in the middle.

  The place was something of a stone jungle from the get-go. Family and society crypts or mausoleums were mixed with single, aboveground tombs, stone headstones, and flat markers. The growth of trees and brush between all provided ample opportunity for shadows and mysteries—along with the many Halloween decorations now haunting the place.

  Angela glanced over at Jackson. He hunched, studying the dirt of a family plot. While there was still light in the sky, Angela looked across the distance. An especially fine family mausoleum stood before them, probably right where they would meet up.

  She started walking toward it, noting the name Robertson carved deeply into the stone over the archway that rose above the metal double doors.

  Things hung on either side of the massive entrance. She walked forward to get a better view of the place, shaking her head.

  The decorations were ghouls: skeletons with folded hands clad in long, brown robes with hoods and attached to hooks on the mausoleum walls—probably intended to hold flowers.

  “My God!”

  Angela jumped. She hadn’t realized that Jackson had come to stand behind her.

  “Okay, we both talk to ghosts,” he reminded her, smiling.

  “Right. And I haven’t seen any here.”

  “Probably too bizarre for the dead,” Jackson suggested.

  “Possibly. I mean... I think decorating for holidays to remember those we have lost and who are still family is great. Still...”

  “Halloween,” Jackson said. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

  “I was in Savannah once, and we went to see Bonaventure. It’s a truly beautiful cemetery. It was Christmas, and many of the stones and tombs had been decorated with ornaments, stars—pretty things,” Angela said.

  “I think the decorating thing is okay. Kind of like the Day of the Dead, but...”

  “Halloween is a favorite holiday for lots of people, and it’s the spooky fun that makes it so,” Angela murmured. “Some of this, though.”

  “Seems to be the wrong side of... I don’t know.” Jackson shrugged. “But, hey, I have no family here. Who am I to judge, hm?” he murmured.

  Angela laughed softly. “As you tell me, we are all entitled to our opinions, so long as we don’t attempt to force them on others. So, I’ll say it. It’s creepy.” She frowned suddenly, noting that the great metal doors to the mausoleum weren’t locked—they weren’t even fully closed.

  “Jackson?” she called.

  “Ahead of you,” he said and was already moving forward.

  She wasn’t sure why she felt the way she did. She had worked in law enforcement in one way or another her entire adult life. She was a capable agent and armed, and she was an expert with her Glock.

  But she was glad Jackson was with her. Of course, she loved her husband. More, she respected him as an agent and as a human being. Even more than that, though, she couldn’t imagine anyone she’d rather have at her back. It was an extraordinary situation with the Krewe of Hunters. Agents often wound up with other agents as their spouses and partners, which the bureau didn’t accept in most situations. But the Krewe, under Adam’s assistant directorship with Jackson as the supervising field agent, was a different creature altogether. Their gifts—or curses—were strange and difficult to share since only a percentage of the population was born with such strange abilities.

  No one ever said publicly—or even privately to others who weren’t in on the minuscule spectrum of those born with the ability to speak with the dead—that the deceased helped with their cases.

  They’d be laughed out of usefulness.

  And Jackson was also determined that such things never be twisted to injure truth and justice. Half Indigenous, he was a passionate student of history. With the early witch trials, the dead had been helpful. And Jackson was extremely appreciative that they still were to this day.

  But they could not testify in court. That was reserved for the living and restricted to good investigative work—how to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that a criminal was guilty.

  The Krewe members were law enforcement; they were not judge and jury.

  “Wait up!” Angela called. Jackson was tall, an imposing man and striking with the ink-dark hair of his father’s people and his mother’s deep blue eyes. He could also move like the wind.

  Angela was shorter and slimmer, but fast as a whip herself when she chose to be. She almost crashed into his back as they reached the doors.

  Her phone rang before Jackson had a chance to grasp the brass handles and pull open the giant, carved metal door.

  “Hang on. It’s Kat,” she said, answering the call.

  Kat and Will were among the original six members of the Krewe of Hunters. Before joining, Kat had been a medical examiner. She was still their on-call person when they encountered mysteries concerning a death.

  “This is absurd!” Kat said. “Will and I have been all over this place. I’ve seen ghosts, ghouls, witches, bats, black cats, werewolves, slasher demons, you name it. Still, we dug a bit where we noticed some disturbed earth. Referring to the map we were given, all those plots received recent burials. We checked mausoleums and crypts, and all were securely locked. Which may not mean anything. Still, I hate to say it, but I might have to agree with the local police on this one. The young lady so sure she saw a murderer might have been the victim of a prank—or her imagination. I just spoke with Colleen and Mark. They are turning up nothing. Anything your way?”

  “Not sure,” Angela told her. “We’re at the Robertson mausoleum. You must be near us. We’re almost dead-center of the triangle. The doors here weren’t locked. We were about to go in to check and see—”

  Angela broke off. Jackson had thrown open the double metal doors, which allowed her to see within the crypt.

  The odor that emerged from the tomb was the first warning.

  Daylight was truly dying. Shades of the coming night—weakening golds, mauves, and grays—fell over the contents of the crypt.

  One fine mahogany coffin was in the center on a dais. Bronze lettering honored Ethan Robertson, the Revolutionary hero for whom the crypt had first been constructed. One of the two coffins set just off-center commemorated the most recent death, that of the man’s descendant, Joseph Robertson.

  Catacomb-like shelves on either side of the room contained countless bodies—some in coffins, others in shrouds.

  The natural contents of a tomb built over two hundred years ago.

  But three scarecrow-like figures hung from the catacomb shelving to the right of the tomb. Figures strung up with heavy wire, all with jackets stuffed with straw and wearing strange hats.

  But faces peered out from beneath the head coverings.

  Features on bodies in various stages of decomposition.

  Fresh corpses that were real—one with open eyes that seemed to stare at Angela with tearful and desperate appeal.

  Too late.

  As the scent of death and rot continued to assail her, Angela knew the scarecrows in the tomb were anything but Halloween decorations.

  “Angela. Angela, are you there?” Kat’s voice came to her over the phone.

  “I’m here,” she whispered but then took a breath and found her voice. “And we need you here, too. Along with your medical expertise.”

  “Um... it’s a cemetery.”

  “No, Kat. We’ve got some newly dead.”

  * * * *

  Kat was one of the best medical examiners Jackson had ever known, and she now used her knowledge as an agent of the Krewe. She was the only member of their number who had first been a medical examiner. While Philip Law also had a medical degree, his was in psychiatry. His knowledge of the human mind, along with his extra talents, often helped in dealing with the criminal element.

  But even with Kat at the cemetery to give them her best preliminary findings, Jackson immediately called in the city and county law enforcement and then briefed Adam.

  Night fell as FBI forensic teams arrived, along with a second and third medical examiner. As they turned the site over to those with the forensic skills, Jackson and Angela headed into headquarters. It was time for his wife to perform her research magic. Kat naturally stayed behind, and Will, Mark, and Colleen would also stay until the forensic teams had finished for the evening.

  “In Kat’s estimation, John Doe number one has been in the tomb for approximately three months. Jane Doe has been there one month, and John Doe two was most likely killed last night. Kat believes the cause of death was exsanguination, while the method was a knife,” Angela said. “No ID on the victims, and no clothing to trace. The corpses were wearing strange scarecrow costumes.”

  “When was the last interment in the mausoleum?” Jackson asked. “I know about the article in which Benjamin Robertson talked about decorating the cemetery for the holidays, but I don’t recall seeing the exact date that his father was interred.”

  Angela looked up from her computer. “He was laid to rest about the same time our first John Doe is presumed to be killed and set up in the tomb. Which makes his son and now owner of the vault, Benjamin Robertson, a suspect. Then again, is it too obvious? Unless he wanted to be caught.”

  “Someone wanted them found. The vault wasn’t locked,” Jackson noted.

  “And if it was Benjamin...” Angela murmured. “I mean, could you forget to lock a vault after slicing up a human being and leaving him or her within? Was it locked before? We have three victims, killed at three different times. If it was Benjamin Robertson, then... what? He wanted to be discovered? Or he loved the display. Whoever did it, the spectacle mattered.”

  Jackson shrugged. “Naturally, the man who owns the vault is a person of interest. Keys to the family vaults are in the family’s hands. Except the cemetery keeps a copy of each key for vandalism purposes, storm damage, or other forces of nature that can cause problems. Some of the family vaults are old, and the families have moved on to other states—though they maintain ownership. So, it’s more than possible that a key might have been taken and copied and even returned.”

  He continued. “They do have security cameras at the front office. They don’t really cover anything inside except who comes and goes, but if a key was taken and copied, we can at least see who has been in the building over the last three months.”

  He walked over to the board that Angela had created, looking at all the dates. At this time, and even after full autopsies, they wouldn’t know the exact times of death for the first John Doe and Jane Doe. Identification on the dead would help with the timeline. But even then, simply going by the date they disappeared might not be accurate. Some killers held on to their victims until they were ready to commit their final crime.

  “There is little else we can do until tomorrow,” Jackson said. “The local police will keep the cemetery closed. Luckily, no burials or interments are scheduled for the week. I’ve informed Cassandra in the cemetery office that Debbie Nolan, the young woman who witnessed the character with the knife, wasn’t seeing things. She probably did see a killer. We’ll need to interview all the managers and groundskeepers in the morning. We’ll need to bring Debbie in, too.”

  “Jackson, do you think the killer saw her?” Angela asked worriedly. “If he’s involved with the cemetery, he’ll likely know the bodies were discovered. That could put her in danger.”

  He nodded. “Already thought of that. We have a patrol car watching her home.”

  Angela smiled at him and nodded grimly. He walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. It was amazing to work with his wife. They’d met when Adam Harrison had first formed the Krewe of Hunters to investigate a case in New Orleans. And Jackson had been thankful every day since.

  “Tomorrow is going to come early. And it’s already late.” He slipped his hands down and squeezed her biceps gently.

  “At least the kids will be sleeping.” Angela placed her hand over his.

  He smiled, thinking of Mary Tiger at home watching the kids. “Let’s hope.”

  “Except I feel bad. They are so excited about Halloween. I’m sure Mary has seen a half-dozen possibilities for their costumes. Corby is imaginative and helps Victoria become more and more so, too. I think she would have been happy being Spider Baby, but Corby likes to get a bit ghoulish.”

  He chuckled his agreement.

  “Ghoulish. Just what we need,” Angela said. She gave a little shudder and made a face. “We have to find whoever did this, Jackson.”

  “We will. It’s what we do,” he reminded her gently.

  She stood suddenly. “Right. We’re on it in the morning. But now... a shower. I feel that I still smell like death,” she finished quietly.

  He wrapped his arm around her and started them toward the door. “Then let’s go.”

  They did. At home, they found that the children were indeed sleeping. Mary, Axel Tiger’s aunt, was the best caretaker in the world, and they knew they were incredibly lucky to have her. She said that she was lucky to have them.

  Mary was watching television when they came in but quickly greeted them. She frowned a bit with worry and asked about the case, then told them, “Well, I took pictures tonight as Corby dressed himself up—and enhanced a few of Victoria’s ideas. But I think I’ll show them to you later. I’d best be getting home, and you should get some sleep.”

  Angela, of course, still wanted to see the pictures.

  As expected, Corby, nearly a teenager now, had come up with all kinds of bizarre costumes. A few were just fun, from a member of the old rock band KISS to a Marvel superhero, a demon, a dark angel, and a ghoul.

  They managed to smile through the pictures.

  Then Mary was gone. Angela looked at Jackson and grinned, blue eyes shining like sapphires.

  “Race you!” she said.

  “Race me?”

  “Shower.”

  He let her beat him, though they both had to slow down to secure their service weapons, always carefully locked in the mini-vaults by the bed because of the children.

  But their clothing still wound up strewn everywhere, and they burst into the shower together, laughing, with Jackson warning her they might not get anywhere if they tripped one another or fell because of the slickness of the tile.

  Slicker still when the soap came out, both of them washing themselves and then each other, the determination for absolute cleanliness their one concession to the night they had just passed. They had learned long ago that to do what they did, they had leave work behind when they came home. That afforded them sanity and a real life with Corby and Victoria.

  And themselves.

  They should have been tired. They were tired. But soaping and shampooing each other became something erotic, slick hands sliding here and there, bodies pressing. Fingers touching and caressing...

  It was Angela who laughed softly and whispered that it wouldn’t be terribly sensual or exciting if one of them broke a leg attempting something romantic in the shower.

  Jackson had to be a little romantic, though. So, he swept her up to step out of the stall, then held her close and headed out of the bathroom. Angela grabbed for towels and assured him that he was incredibly romantic but it wouldn’t lend itself to a great night if they totally soaked the bed.

  “Oh, you romance-crusher,” he accused her.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” she promised.

  She did. He smiled, gazing into her blue eyes, and felt the slide of her body against his. Her touch, her caress. Her kiss.

  Again, he had a moment when he thought about how incredibly lucky he was. She was practically a super-agent at work. And at home?

  She could make all the ugly and cruel in the world go away.

  Making love expended the last of their energy. Angela whispered that she loved him, and even as he replied, he realized that she was asleep, curled against his shoulder.

  He held her.

  Then he closed his eyes and slept, hoping that neither of them contemplated the horrors of what they’d found in the tomb in their dreams.

  Chapter 2

  Two days before Halloween

  “Debbie, I know how upsetting this must be for you,” Angela began, speaking with Debbie Nolan, the young woman who had reported the man with the bloody knife at the cemetery. “But—”

  “No one believed me,” Debbie said miserably. “Of course, they do now. But I was terrified. There was a minute, or at least a second, when I thought he turned and might have seen me. But one of the caretakers was on a cart going down the path, and he wasn’t that far past me. So maybe he didn’t see me. I was afraid he would come after me if he did. Because he was real! I mean, really real. He wasn’t a Halloween decoration or someone playing a prank. I saw him!”

  The young woman was in her mid-twenties, small and slim with enormous brown eyes and a nervous manner. Angela reached a hand across the distance that separated their chairs in the conference room and set it gently on Debbie’s knee.

  “Debbie, yes. Of course, we believe you. And we need your help.”

  “Right. I saw the news. You found more than one body. You found three. I mean, it’s a cemetery, but—”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid someone was murdered recently. Any help you might be able to give us—”