She laughed softly. “No problem. I was expecting you.

  “Oh?”

  “This was tricky. It’s almost as if the tomb allowed the body to decompose in two different climate zones. And while I’m not sure about this, I think John Doe number one here might have been dead a bit before being brought into the tomb. Maybe even refrigerated before he became part of the grotesque display. At any rate, I had to—”

  “Hydrate the fingers,” Jackson said.

  “Right. Good call.”

  He laughed. “Patrick told me.”

  “Of course, he did.” She smiled. “Anyway, I was just starting. You’re welcome to watch.”

  A sheet covered John Doe’s body, but his right hand rested on a small metal table by the gurney, where it lay near a strange little mechanism that apparently provided a slow return of moisture to it.

  Kat carefully withdrew the appendage from the box, reached for the scalpel that lay beside it, and began a slow and meticulous removal of the skin.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “I have to be careful. This is...”

  “No, ignore me. Take your time.”

  Jackson had seen the worst of what man could do to others in many different ways. Still, there was something unsettling about the painstaking removal of the skin on a man’s hand.

  In short order, it was off.

  The upper layer of skin separated.

  “Now...” Kat murmured and then paused. “Actually, this will work better with you. Size-wise,” she said.

  “Oh, uh...”

  “Yeah. I need you to put his skin on like a glove. You already have disposables on, naturally, so it’s not as disgusting and creepy as you might think. I’ll slide it on carefully and slowly—if you’re all right with that.”

  “Kat, when have you known me not to do something when it was necessary?” he asked, offering her his hand.

  The act of sliding the skin over his gloved hand was as painstaking and meticulous as the removal of it.

  But then it was done. And Kat had ink pads out and ready on another table.

  It took another twenty minutes at least, but in that time, they had a full set of prints for the man who lay on the gurney.

  “Wonderful!” Kat said, seemingly both pleased and relieved. “I’ll get these into every database we know of immediately. We might have an ID soon.”

  “Perfect. Great. We can get moving on this and see if the man had any contact with the other victims. If we can associate them...”

  “Patrick kept us all informed,” Kat said. “We know that Mercy and Arnold knew one another. But that text... it didn’t sound as if they had a dating thing going on or anything like that. Nor did their jobs coincide. Mercy made some real money, and I would guess that Arnold was respectfully paid, but from what we’ve seen so far on social media, Mercy played some high-stakes games. She was a flight attendant but apparently worked for several big-money people and corporations. She didn’t work commercial flights, rather on private, very expensive luxury planes.”

  “Coming in and out of the country,” Jackson murmured.

  “What are you thinking? Drug deals?” Kat asked.

  “Quite possibly. It’s a theory for now. Keep at it. And thank you.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “The cemetery. I’m going to meet up with Angela and Patrick. And then I’m going to find out how our people have been doing on searching through the neighborhood videos and traffic cam footage. I believe Officer Whittaker is alive. And I intend to find him that way.”

  * * * *

  Angela didn’t see their Revolutionary War ghost when she and Patrick arrived. They checked in with the police and walked toward the Robertson tomb.

  “I’m not sure what else you think we’re going to find, Angela,” Patrick said. “Our crime scene investigators were here. You know they went over the place more than once. That’s one thing Jackson impresses on us all. We’re a team, and we get things done and have results because we are a team. Yes, a bit of a different one, but still.”

  “I know. But... when that writer was in today, he didn’t say much that was helpful. Except that he had the same feeling I’ve been having. Something is... off. I can’t help but believe it has something to do with the tomb.”

  “What do you think it could be?”

  She shook her head. “I want to know more about the architect who designed the place. Maybe that will help. I’d intended to look into it already—”

  “Hard to do everything at once,” Patrick said.

  “I know. And this is my hang-up, I guess. I believe it’s going to be important to find out if all three of the victims were together in something. Mercy texted that she wanted out, suggesting they were involved in something criminal.”

  “Or she didn’t want to play Dungeons and Dragons with them anymore.”

  Angela made a face at Patrick. “Come on, Patrick, what do you feel?” she asked.

  He stood still for a minute with his eyes closed.

  “A depth of history,” he said quietly. “Strange, something sad, something beautiful, peaceful, and something... I don’t know. It’s almost as if the air remembers all the things that have happened during the past two-hundred-plus years.”

  Angela nodded. “But more,” she said softly and then noticed something. “Hey!”

  “What?”

  “I probably saw it but didn’t really note it. There’s a little American flag stuck into the ground there.”

  “There’s everything everywhere here,” he reminded her and began pointing in different directions. “Toy witches on brooms over there... a great big grinning Casper the friendly ghost over there. Oh, wow... slasher-movie killer over there. And, nice, someone put out a bowl of candy on that grave. But...”

  He walked over to where the flag was stuck into the ground. “Probably a soldier buried here.”

  The grave had a rounded headstone. The marker denoted the final resting place of a Tammy Brighton, born January 20, 1920, deceased May 21, 2000. There was no indication that she’d served in the military.

  “Some people are patriotic,” Patrick murmured.

  “But it’s odd, right?”

  “Yes, and no. Everything here is odd.”

  Angela smiled. “I don’t know. It just seems... strange. I mean if there really was a creepy ghost on the tomb, I’d just think it normal—for here. Why does the flag seem out of place? It’s about ten feet from the entrance to the Robertson tomb, and another ten feet to the north. There are markers here for other people in what I assume to be Tammy Brighton’s family, and they are decorated for Halloween. I wonder if the flag is a... directional? Or...”

  “You want to dig up the ground here,” Patrick asked.

  She huffed out a breath. “No. Yes. Maybe. Hey, look there.” She pointed to a spot about three feet from Tammy. “It looks like a recent burial. I see a temporary marker. Harold Brighton, born November 3, 1939, deceased October 23 of this year.”

  “Okay, naturally, the ground remains...”

  Patrick paused, looking around.

  “Patrick?”

  “I’m feeling something different. Something almost malevolent.”

  Angela started to walk over to him. He swung around to look at her.

  “Get down!” he cried.

  She didn’t need to be told twice.

  Falling flat, Angela reached the ground in time to hear the whistle of a bullet flying past.

  A bullet that would have struck her dead-center in the chest if she’d still been standing.

  Chapter 6

  As Jackson parked on the outskirts of the cemetery, he was surprised to see a patrol car pull up and the ghost of Colonel George Clayborn slide through the door of the rear right passenger side, unnoticed by the officer who had been driving the car.

  Clayborn saw Jackson and nodded, aware he needed to wait for the officer to approach Jackson before he spoke to him.

  “Special Agent Crow,” the officer said in greeting. “Anything more on finding Officer Whittaker?”

  “I believe our experts will have something they can give us on video shortly of whoever took off with Officer Whittaker. We have a few great dogs in the Krewe, and one of our best scent dogs found a trail that let us know he was put into a car and driven away. If we can trace some of the video, we’ll have an idea where to focus a search.”

  “Thank you. That’s the hardest thing. Not knowing where to begin,” the officer said. “Anyway, sorry to interrupt your work here, but... well, yeah. Everyone loves Whittaker. We’re all praying he’s still alive. We almost don’t understand why we’re still... I mean, what was discovered here was horrible, but those victims are dead. We can only pray that Whittaker is still alive. He needs to be found before he ends up like the others.”

  “We are well aware of that,” Jackson assured him. “But if we can figure out what happened here, we can narrow down who took Whittaker.”

  “Yeah, right. Sorry. I, uh, sorry.” He smiled awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you here, and I know you guys don’t really keep hours, but it will be dark soon. The cemetery has lights, but between the density of the woods and no crypt-to-crypt lighting, it’s going to be dark. I’m on the night crew, so I’m going to relieve Officer Kyle over there, but I’m not sure what you can do this late.”

  “An officer is missing.”

  “You’re going to keep looking. And we’re grateful. As I said, everybody loves the man.”

  “Of course—” Jackson began.

  He broke off as a series of shots rang out, ripping through the quiet air of the cemetery.

  He and the officer looked at each other, froze for a second, frowned, then turned to the wall and leapt over it, drawing their weapons as they did.

  “Coming from the woods, there,” Jackson shouted.

  “Right. Hell, we’ve got no cover.”

  “Yes, we do. Stay between the tombs and the mausoleums,” Jackson told him.

  He was already heading for the woods, his mind on Angela and Patrick.

  Fortunately, he quickly saw the two of them, despite the encroaching darkness. They were headed in the direction of the shots, carefully dodging tombs, rounding mausoleums, and skirting stones as they ran.

  The shooter seemed to have two weapons, a semi-automatic among them. A single shot was immediately followed by a barrage of bullets.

  As Jackson closed in on the others, he heard a sudden scream of anguish coming from the woods. Another shot slammed into a stone, this time a single shot.

  Jackson reached the side of a mausoleum where Angela had taken cover.

  “I think I got the hand wielding the semi-automatic,” she told him.

  “Where’s Patrick?”

  “One tomb back,” she said and hitched a thumb. “The cops are moving into the woods, trying to wedge him in. We’re holding the front, hoping to keep his focus here.”

  “Good plan,” he said. “Moving,” he told her. “Cover me.”

  She just stepped aside, taking aim at the woods as he hurried to duck behind the next largest tomb.

  A single bullet flew wildly into the air. He nodded at Angela. She took another shot.

  This time, he made it to the trees and began slipping through the oaks and the brush growing so richly in the area.

  He honestly shouldn’t have been surprised by what he found when he finally discovered the shooter.

  The man—or woman—wore a sheet with cut-out eyeholes, a nose hole, and a macabre, painted-on mouth, complete with fanged teeth and dripping blood.

  Halloween.

  But Jackson saw there was more blood dripping down the length of the garment. And the person still held a gun in one hand. From the size of the hand and build of the body, the shooter appeared to be male.

  The other side of the shooter’s body seemed to hang limply. Angela had indeed managed to strike one of the man’s arms, causing him to release the semi-automatic he’d been wielding.

  “Drop the gun!” Jackson roared. “Drop it, now!”

  The man didn’t do as instructed. Instead, he aimed for his head but then lowered the weapon slightly.

  Jackson heard Angela as she moved almost silently behind him.

  “We can’t let him shoot himself. We need to know what’s going on. He could lead us to Whittaker,” she murmured and nodded.

  He knew she meant to step out and try to talk to the man. He would cover her. She was experienced. An expert—and capable. He nodded in return and whispered, “We need Patrick.”

  “He’s close,” Angela said.

  “Stop!” she cried to the gunman as he started to raise the gun to his head again.

  She stepped out from the cover of the trees, looking at their costumed ghost. “Don’t. Please, don’t. You didn’t hit any of us. No one is dead or injured. You might do some jail time, but... please. Don’t throw away your whole life. Life is precious. Your life is precious.”

  “My life is worthless now.”

  The voice was that of a man.

  “No. No life is worthless,” Angela called to him.

  “You don’t understand. You can kill me, or I can kill me. Better than—”

  Patrick arrived. He touched Jackson’s shoulder before holstering his weapon and stepping out to join Angela.

  “Not armed!” Patrick said quickly, lifting his arms. “I think I know what you’re trying to say. You’re afraid of whoever you’re working for or with. You’re scared that what they’ll do to you will be far worse than dying.”

  “I—”

  Patrick took a step toward the man, and the gunman shifted to point his gun at Patrick.

  “Hey,” Patrick said, stopping with his hand in a placating gesture before lifting his arms again. “I just want to see your face. To see you without that sheet. Maybe we can help with that injury.”

  “Back away again,” the man said.

  Patrick did. After a brief hesitation, the shooter appeared to attempt to maneuver himself out of the sheet while maintaining control of his weapon.

  “May I help you?” Angela asked him.

  He started to laugh. “You. You, of all people. Sure. Um... don’t forget, I have a gun,” he warned.

  “We know that,” she assured him.

  Jackson held his position, ready to fire if the lives of either of his agents were threatened. But Angela moved to the man and carefully pulled the sheet away from him.

  His side dripped with blood. She had definitely struck him.

  “You need medical help,” she told him.

  The man was in his early twenties with shaggy brown hair, a narrow face, and a slim body. He had the look of a nervous terrier.

  Drugs, Jackson thought. He needs a fix.

  It was lucky he hadn’t hit anyone, even with a semi-automatic.

  Yet still...

  Jackson maintained his position. They needed the man alive. They tried to bring people in whenever possible.

  They were law enforcement, not judge and jury.

  But this time was especially important. Whittaker might still be alive.

  The man shook his head.

  “I need... I need...”

  His words broke off as he collapsed. Angela caught him, easing him to the ground as best she could. “Medics. We need help now!” she shouted.

  The woods came alive with police. They allowed the Krewe to take the lead, but offered backup if necessary.

  Jackson holstered his weapon and hurried over to Angela to check the man’s vitals.

  “Not sure what he was on, but our country has been suffering from the huge supplies of fentanyl circulating through the drug trade. It’s been mixed with just about everything: heroin, meth, cocaine, marijuana—you name it. Angela, rip up the sheet. We can use it to slow the bleeding.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  Jackson helped Angela rip enough fabric to make a proper tourniquet.

  “Honestly, I don’t think this young man is behind anything. I think he was simply drugged up and told to get out here and take out the agents and police. They probably threatened to withhold his drug. But he seemed to know what happens to those who go against whoever is in power,” Jackson said.

  “Right. It’s amazing he could even hold a gun, much less two. Much less hope to hit anything,” Patrick said. “I am willing to bet he’s on fentanyl, though I don’t know mixed with what. He’s lucky he’s still alive.”

  “He was expendable. Maybe they expected him to die,” Angela said.

  “Probably,” Jackson agreed. “Which means we need to keep him alive. The EMTs are here. Hallelujah. They can at least get him to a hospital.”

  The EMTs carefully wound through the trees and foliage, carrying a stretcher, nodding as they arrived. Patrick rattled off the man’s status and vitals and told them that he believed the man’s collapse had been caused by fentanyl-laced drugs.

  “The curse of the day,” one of the medics said. “Great tourniquet. You likely kept him alive.”

  “Thanks. He needs oxygen, probably a transfusion—”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be on the line with the ER doc.”

  “And I’ll be with you,” Patrick said.

  “No one is—”

  “You can take one person. Especially one who has gone through medical school,” Angela said softly.

  “Great, fine. One person. And a doctor. Good,” the EMT said.

  They all nodded, and Patrick turned to Jackson and Angela.

  “I’ll be at the hospital, hoping he wakes up. Won’t do any good for all of us to sit around. Besides, Angela has something to show you.”

  Jackson looked at Angela. “It could be something or it might be nothing, I don’t know,” she said. “Still, Patrick is right. We won’t do anyone any good just waiting. And Patrick and Kat are our medical specialists.”

  The EMTs were already moving with their patient, so Patrick hurried after them. One of the police officers who had hovered nearby came over to Jackson and said, “We’re ninety-nine percent certain he was a lone shooter. We’ve been through the woods, too.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re right,” Jackson said. “Someone put that young man up to this. Someone who hoped that one of us would shoot him. Thank you for clearing the area.”