Chapter 1
“Of course, we’re in the final days before Halloween,” Jackson Crow said, staring at the phone he’d just set on his desk.
Angela perched on the corner of the same desk, looking at him, shaking her head.
“Well, we should expect it, you know. It brings out the fun in people, dressing up, having parties . . . and getting ghoulish if it’s in their nature.
I don’t remember a Halloween when we weren’t called out for something in the days before or on Halloween .
. . or even in the aftermath,” she reminded him.
“So, what’s going on? I take it that call was from Adam? ”
He smiled. “Adam Harrision, our illustrious founder, is one of those people who can just make friends anywhere and . . . people love him. In government, in law enforcement—those he runs into at a coffee shop, so . . .”
“Arabella Watkins. She walked into a coffee shop, and she never walked out,” Jackson told her.
“Twenty-nine years old, an attractive blond schoolteacher. She and her husband stop at a local place every morning; she runs in, gets their order, he takes her to work, and heads on to his own job at a local bank.”
“Bank. There you have it. Someone thinks they can make Mr. Watkins get them tons of money for the return of his wife? I’m assuming the local police—”
“Of course. They’ve been on it. But apparently, no one saw anything.
It’s busy there in the morning. And Nate Watkins was in the car, reading the paper.
He saw it was busy, so he didn’t get worried right away.
Anyway, you know Adam. No matter how good all our agents are at what we do—especially our ‘Crows’—he is anxious that we take on the case. And of course—”
“Are we heading to the coffee shop? Try to find witnesses—among the mortal folks buying brew and those spirits who might be hanging around?” she asked.
“It’s a start. We’ll get our tech teams out there investigating friends, enemies, business associates . . . anyone who might have a problem with either of them. But . . . someone had to have seen her leave the coffee shop. Alone—or with a gun-wielding enforcer. But what I’m afraid of is . . .”
“Halloween. Random,” Angela said gravely.
“Crazies who make legitimate voodoo or wiccan practitioners look bad by twisting everything they do. We’ve dealt with it before—Samhain in the ancient Celtic tradition, costuming, giving food to the poor, maybe sacrificing a few cattle—but there’s always a modern whacko—”
“There were probably ancient whackos, too,” Jackson reminded her. “And I don’t think the Celts had anything like the wiccans and voodoo practitioners—they don’t believe in doing evil because it would come back at you three times.”
“Jackson, we’ve dealt with that. But at this time, we could be dealing with anything—revenge or random Halloween craziness. I’ll get my bag—we need to move.” As she left his office, she paused at the door. “Thankfully, we had the get-togethers for Corby and Victoria last weekend!”
“Thankfully,” he agreed. Their son Corby was now in high school; his school was doing a dance on Halloween night.
Victoria was just in grade school, but she’d already asked if they could trick-or-treat with her friends; and many of the parents they knew and trusted would be with the group.
And Mary Tiger, of course, would be there.
Special Agent Axel Tiger’s aunt, and the best help they might have ever hoped to find when it came to their domestic situation.
And maybe, just maybe, they’d make it home for the trick-or-treating!
He rose from his chair, instinctively checking the Glock beneath his jacket and heading out. Angela was with the tech crew who were already busy finding any information that they could on Arabella and Nate Watkins.
But . . .
Right when they were about to leave the office, Bruce McFadden called them back.
“Hey, sorry, I know you’re moving quickly.
But we just got a call from the federal prison system.
Escape from maximum security. Darrell Manderley, the guy you two hunted down with the help of our spirit friend, Maurice MacMann, somehow managed to escape.
There is not much more info on it—except they believe that a guard had to be involved.
No tunnels, nothing like that . . . got someone to use a shiv on him or did it himself.
He was in medical—and managed to get out in an ambulance.
The driver and the med tech involved are now both in the hospital. Anyway, figured you had to know.”
“Important, yes. Bruce, this is a favor we’re doing for Adam. Send some of our agents to the prison; see what they can discover,” Jackson told him. “And of course—"
“On it,” Bruce promised. And he would be. Bruce was one of their best. Every law enforcement agency in the country and beyond had received every possible piece of info on the man.
And he and Angela should have been on it themselves.
Well, they would be. No one had an idea as yet just how the man might be traveling—what old “believers” he might be pulling back in to help him.
And he was smart—he would only use one person, one vehicle, one mode of travel.
That way, no one could give authorities all the information necessary to find him.
If there had ever been a monster in human form, it was this man.
Darrell Manderley. One of the worst “cultists” they had ever apprehended, responsible for the deaths of at least twenty people.
Sacrifices to the true lord, the fallen angel, Lucifer.
Despite the “voluntary” sacrifices the man had made during the years before they’d become involved, Jackson had always been grateful they’d brought the man down.
Angela had tricked him. She’d convinced him he could have anything he wanted, and she lay down on his sacrificial table as had so many others. She needed to go first, though, she’d told him, to be there to guide the children “on the other side.”
But when he had reached for her, she’d sprung into motion.
He hadn’t expected a woman who had been through just about every form of martial arts known to man.
He’d never had a chance to grab his gun or his great “sacrificial knife.” Jackson and a group of Krewe agents had quicky moved in on the followers who had gathered in a circle around the stone.
It had been over quickly. The terrified children had been swiftly taken to children’s services, and Darrell Manderley had been arrested on many counts of first-degree murder.
And though terrified, many of his followers had testified against him.
He’d been sentenced to life without possibility of parole.
How the hell did such a man get anyone to help him escape?
Then again, how had he convinced a tribe of adults to believe in his ancient religion?
Although, one woman who had been brought to the stand was still convinced the man was Lucifer in human form, and she had cried in terror throughout her testimony.
She had been given a new identity, and the Marshal Service had moved her far, far away from the wilderness home in the west where Darrell Manderley had created his cult.
“An alert is out everywhere,” Jackson told Angela as they headed out. “On Darrell Manderley. And, of course, we have the local cops and our agents looking for our missing young woman as well, so let’s pray—”
“That we find her quickly. I’m wondering . . .” Angela murmured.
“You’re wondering if the cases might be related?” he asked her, frowning.
She shrugged. “They could be.”
“Right, but . . . this young woman is not any kind of a cultist! Adam knows the kid and if anything, Adam is smart as hell. He reads people well,” Jackson reminded her.
“Oh, I agree. No, I don’t think our missing young woman is a follower in any way. I just don’t think he cares who he does what to,” Angela said.
“Well, that’s a given. But he did thrive on making people believe that being the ultimate sacrifice assured them a place in his weird after life.”
“He won’t have time. He can’t create a following with the entire country after him, his face on the news warning people,” Angela said. “Which is—”
“Exactly why he might just be kidnapping people. I guarantee you—the man has a plan. So, coffee shop! Let’s see what we can discover!”
“Hey, let me help!”
Jackson smiled and turned to see that the spirit of Trent Fielding had known what they were about to do and determined to join them.
Not a problem. They had met him during a recent investigation; and like several of the spirits they had encountered through the years, he sometimes showed up at their headquarters, anxious to see if he could be of assistance.
Trent was a great guy. In life, he’d lost his own life soon after he’d done everything he could to save a group of children. In death . . .
He still wanted to do everything he could to help others. And they might not have solved that case without his help. He had given them the one clue that had led them in the right direction through which they could solve the case. And again, he’d been passionate about saving children.
Near and dear to Angela’s heart. And his own, Jackson knew.
“Please, yes, join us,” Angela told Trent. “We’re always grateful—and often dependent on—those like yourself. But—shotgun!” she cried teasingly.
“Oh, I do prefer sliding into the back!” he told her, and did so, his spirit form sliding right through the car’s interior.
As they drove toward the coffee shop where Arabella Watkins had last been seen, they caught him up on Arabella’s case, and on the fact that a monster had escaped and was touring the country again.
“I read about that case! My God, that man is beyond being a sociopath!” Trent said. “I saw it on the news, too, down by the local pub where I was back then. Oh! Wow, they don’t give out a lot of names, but I’m guessing you’re the guys who put him away.”