Dreaming Death (Krewe of Hunters #32) - Heather Graham Page 0,89
Their leader was the man in the jeans and rock-band T-shirt. One was in a short-sleeved cotton shirt and cargo shorts, and the last was in jeans and a T-shirt that advertised a theme park. They were all in their twenties or early thirties.
Keenan and Stacey both got out of the car.
“See, they didn’t run!” the young man in the cargo shorts said.
“And they see us!” the theme-park-T-wearing man said.
“We’re FBI. Trying not to be seen waiting,” Keenan informed them. “And we are assuming that something damned bad happened to you and that’s why you’re hanging around. You’re buried on these grounds somewhere?”
“Hey, so, he is a genius!” rock-band man said.
“You are buried here,” Stacey said. “D-did Dr. Lawrence kill you?”
“Don’t know. Here’s what’s sad,” rock-band man said, and he looked at Keenan as if he was a bit embarrassed by having behaved like a jerk. “Not one of us knows what happened to us. We were attacked. Jumped. Each of us! Then, a searing pain in the head. Blackness...falling, falling, falling...into a whirling pit of darkness. And then, here...and, miraculously, finding one another.”
“It’s horrible. Not a clue. We don’t know what happened,” the cargo-shorts man said. He had dark hair with a clipped, businesslike cut. He seemed to be the oldest in the group, but at that, not much past thirty if he had even reached the triple decade mark.
“We just woke up here,” the fellow in the polo shirt said. He was fit; he might have been playing polo or some other sport before he was taken by surprise. “We don’t even know just where the hell we are!”
“How we got here, and how on earth we are...what we are,” rock-band man said.
“Just blackness,” Cargo Shorts said.
“We’re getting good,” Rock Band told them. “We can get around—we’ve gotten to know one another. Kinda cool—if we’re crossing the road and a car comes, it doesn’t matter.” He winced, shaking his head. “We are aware that we are deceased. I’ve tried to learn to open the mailbox, but I can’t quite do it. So we don’t have an address.”
“You’re in Virginia, just northwest of Richmond,” Stacey said. “I’m Stacey Hanson, and this is Keenan Wallace.”
“Oh! Sorry. Let me make introductions,” Rock Band said quickly.
He was Tim Dougherty, Polo Shirt was George Seasons, Cargo Shorts was Ronnie Gleason and Theme Park was Harvey Ryan. They introduced themselves and started to offer their hands.
Keenan and Stacey shook them...in a way.
“So, you’re out here, I take it,” Tim Dougherty said, “because the doctor who lives in that house might be the one who murdered us?”
“Talk about a genius,” George Seasons said, grinning, his smile taking the sting out of his words. “This is his property.”
“And when have you ever seen him out in the yard?” Harvey Ryan asked.
“Do you know when you were buried?” Keenan asked. “Was it together, or one at a time? Do you know anything?”
“I know I was on vacation,” George said. “I had a few too many at a bar near Lafayette Square. Then, like Tim said, sudden pain. Blackness...and then waking up or whatever to find Tim staring at me. Then, pain again,” he added softly. “Realizing I was dead.”
“I’m so sorry,” Stacey murmured.
“You think that maybe we’re here,” Ronnie Gleason said, “because...it was so sudden. So unfair. Then again, I like you guys, but man... I’m not sure I want to spend eternity hanging out with you in a little bit of forest.”
“Hey, these guys see us. They must know something. Are we...stuck here?” George asked anxiously. “It could be worse. I mean, I don’t mind being...well, something. But I don’t particularly like it being here.”
“If we tried to leave the area, would we go up in dust, disappear, cease to be?” Harvey asked.
“We don’t really have all the answers,” Keenan said.
“And maybe you are here to help us,” Stacey said. “We would have driven away with nothing, but you called out to us.”
“Yeah, forgive me for that ‘genius’ thing,” Tim said to Keenan.
“Not a problem.”
“Do you know what happened to us?” Ronnie asked.
“To be honest, since your bodies have never been found, I believe you’re all still listed as missing persons. We don’t know what happened to you. We are out here because of some vicious murders that have taken place in the DC area. A killer the media has dubbed the Yankee Ripper.”
“Ripper...like Jack the Ripper?” Ronnie asked.
“Yeah. Like Jack the Ripper,” she said.
“But none of us was a prostitute,” Harvey said. “Not that men