and the four corners of the tomb. High at the front was a life-size angel, and, caught upon its foundation by the heavy canvas straps of a period backpack, was the body of a man. He hadnât known Charles Osgood, and if he hadnât seen many a portrait of Marshall Donegal, he wouldnât have known that this wasnât a trick of time, that they hadnât gone back approximately one hundred and fifty years to discover a dead cavalry man in the cemetery.
Convenient place to die. Or be murdered.
But despite the blood that dripped from the body and pooled at the feet, he didnât believe that the man had been killed here. He had been brought here soon after death, but he hadnât died here. The body had been put on display. It was evident that whoever had killed the man had done so to be historically accurateâand to make sure that the world knew that a man had been killed just as Marshall Donegal had been killed long ago. Was it an assault on the Donegal family? Or had someone wanted this particular man dead and used the Donegal family history as a means of throwing off suspicion?
âHe was so proud to be playing Marshall Donegal!â Ashley whispered.
âStay hereâexactly here,â he told her.
He was afraid that she was going to cling to him, but she didnât. With him there, she seemed to be finding her own strength.
âI know. Itâs a crime scene,â she said woodenly.
Jake, watching where he walked, searched the area surrounding the tomb. There was nothing there. The graveled paths around the tombs certainly didnât allow much room for footprints, and he didnât expect to find any. They would have to hope that the forensic team summoned could find fingerprints, hair, fibers, DNAâanything that might tell them who had brought the man to his death, and then here.
They could hear the sirens then, shrieking throughthe night. And then voices as guests staying in the various rental rooms began to rouse.
âGet to the cemetery gates,â Jake told her. âMake sure no one but the police comes through.â
She nodded jerkily yet didnât move.
âAshley!â he said, taking her shoulders. âYou donât want guests wandering in here, and your grandfather will be coming out any minute, worried to death, and he is in his eighties!â
She snapped to finally and nodded, spinning about in a whirl of shimmering white. He watched her go, his insides twisting in a knot of pain. She didnât need this; she didnât deserve this. Of course, the dead man hadnât deserved it, either. As he heard the sirens come closer and closer, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Jackson Crow. It hadnât been so important before that the team arrive quickly; now, it was.
He looked back at the corpse, and time melted away again.
Someone had reenacted murder.
5
A shley stood shivering at the gates of the cemetery, trying to compose herself. She had certainly been in something like shock, but Jake was here, and now she was okay. It was bizarre that she was okay because Jake was here, but that was the way that it was; he was in control, and it brought her back to herself.
She had felt that sheâd been losing her mind; the dreams had plagued her mercilessly, and Charles had been gone, and she had longed to see Jake.
And Charles was deadâand Jake was here. Really here.
And she had to quit behaving like a âdumb blondeâ screamer out of an old movie. She started to move again, thinking that she had to get to her grandfather.
But she didnât get that far.
The first person to rise and rush out, hearing the wail of the sirens, was Cliff Boudreaux, and he didnât have far to come, racing out of his quarters in a flannel robe. His graying brown hair was mussed andhe was barefoot, as if he had been sleeping. She saw that he first looked back to the house, but then saw her and ran to her instead, gripping her shoulders,
Convenient place to die. Or be murdered.
But despite the blood that dripped from the body and pooled at the feet, he didnât believe that the man had been killed here. He had been brought here soon after death, but he hadnât died here. The body had been put on display. It was evident that whoever had killed the man had done so to be historically accurateâand to make sure that the world knew that a man had been killed just as Marshall Donegal had been killed long ago. Was it an assault on the Donegal family? Or had someone wanted this particular man dead and used the Donegal family history as a means of throwing off suspicion?
âHe was so proud to be playing Marshall Donegal!â Ashley whispered.
âStay hereâexactly here,â he told her.
He was afraid that she was going to cling to him, but she didnât. With him there, she seemed to be finding her own strength.
âI know. Itâs a crime scene,â she said woodenly.
Jake, watching where he walked, searched the area surrounding the tomb. There was nothing there. The graveled paths around the tombs certainly didnât allow much room for footprints, and he didnât expect to find any. They would have to hope that the forensic team summoned could find fingerprints, hair, fibers, DNAâanything that might tell them who had brought the man to his death, and then here.
They could hear the sirens then, shrieking throughthe night. And then voices as guests staying in the various rental rooms began to rouse.
âGet to the cemetery gates,â Jake told her. âMake sure no one but the police comes through.â
She nodded jerkily yet didnât move.
âAshley!â he said, taking her shoulders. âYou donât want guests wandering in here, and your grandfather will be coming out any minute, worried to death, and he is in his eighties!â
She snapped to finally and nodded, spinning about in a whirl of shimmering white. He watched her go, his insides twisting in a knot of pain. She didnât need this; she didnât deserve this. Of course, the dead man hadnât deserved it, either. As he heard the sirens come closer and closer, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Jackson Crow. It hadnât been so important before that the team arrive quickly; now, it was.
He looked back at the corpse, and time melted away again.
Someone had reenacted murder.
5
A shley stood shivering at the gates of the cemetery, trying to compose herself. She had certainly been in something like shock, but Jake was here, and now she was okay. It was bizarre that she was okay because Jake was here, but that was the way that it was; he was in control, and it brought her back to herself.
She had felt that sheâd been losing her mind; the dreams had plagued her mercilessly, and Charles had been gone, and she had longed to see Jake.
And Charles was deadâand Jake was here. Really here.
And she had to quit behaving like a âdumb blondeâ screamer out of an old movie. She started to move again, thinking that she had to get to her grandfather.
But she didnât get that far.
The first person to rise and rush out, hearing the wail of the sirens, was Cliff Boudreaux, and he didnât have far to come, racing out of his quarters in a flannel robe. His graying brown hair was mussed andhe was barefoot, as if he had been sleeping. She saw that he first looked back to the house, but then saw her and ran to her instead, gripping her shoulders,
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