Haunted Destiny by Heather Graham Page B

PTSD. Sure. Made sense. He’d lived in a world where it was often a case of kill or be killed. Back in North America, he was entering a world where danger often lurked below the surface and the monsters were hidden.
    But he wanted that world. Nothing on earth was perfect; he’d seen the good, the bad and the hideous and learned about imperfection. He found he loved his country with an even greater passion, and out of the war zone, he wanted to fight the monsters who lived beneath the civilized veneer.
    He had tried to consign Al to the far reaches of memory, although the man had continued to haunt his soul. Especially when they’d lost Lily, and he’d sat with her lifeless body for hours, praying that he would hear her whisper a single word.
    The truth was that he’d spoken with a ghost before. He’d spoken with Al.
    He was so lost in his thoughts that at first he didn’t hear the buzz of his cell phone. He snapped out of his trance and answered.
    Good agents did not become lost in the fog of the past, he reminded himself.
    It was Jackson Crow, of course.
    â€œI’ve met with Beach and his men,” Jackson told him. “They’re on high alert, although it would be nice if they really believed me about a killer being on board. What about Alexi Cromwell?”
    â€œI’ve talked to her,” Jude said. “And Byron Grant.”
    â€œByron Grant?” Jackson Crow’s voice was controlled and even. “Byron Grant was the second-last victim of the Archangel—that we know about, at any rate.”
    â€œYes, I’m aware of that,” Jude said.
    Krewe of Hunters, huh?
    â€œMeet me back at her cabin. With any luck, she’s still in,” Jackson said, not skipping a beat.
    * * *
    When the ship was first built, tiny peepholes had been set in each cabin door, including those in the crew quarters. No unwary cabin girl or waitress would be taken by surprise on the Destiny.
    Alexi had never been more grateful for that—even as she realized she’d seldom used it before.
    She’d half expected Clara, since she knew how nervous her friend was feeling.
    But it was Jude McCoy. He was back, this time with his partner.
    She opened the door for them and waited. This man—Jackson Crow—might believe that she was more illusionist or charlatan than pianist and entertainer. She was afraid he’d come to confront her.
    He hadn’t. He smiled and merely asked if she minded talking to them again. She agreed.
    Her cabin seemed entirely too cramped. Jackson Crow sat at the dressing table; Jude McCoy was next to her on the bunk. For a few minutes she found it hard to breathe and wondered if she was having a panic attack. It was impossible not to be aware of the man sitting beside her, of his intensity, which seemed to burn around her—almost as if it held her in a strange grip. She tried to concentrate on Crow, but she was acutely conscious of Jude McCoy. He sat so close to her they were almost touching.
    â€œYou’ve met this man Byron Grant?” Crow asked her. He smiled; he had an intriguing face, his smile both gentle and enigmatic.
    She looked at Jude, whose face was impassive. He studied her in return, but she saw no mockery in his eyes. Not anymore.
    Because he’d stood there just an hour ago, talking to the ghost himself.
    â€œHis fiancée was killed. He came home, and he was killed, as well. He was attacked from behind, so he couldn’t tell me much.”
    Agent Crow nodded. “He and his fiancée, Elizabeth Williams, were murdered in Mobile, a week ago.”
    â€œThe medallion around her neck was that of St. Bernardino—patron saint of advertising. Elizabeth was a graphic designer with an advertising company.”
    Alexi hadn’t known that.
    â€œThe young woman found at the New Orleans church had a St. Luke’s medallion around her neck. Patron saint of physicians, among other similar vocations and