He had killed his hostage and tossed her to his would-be captors before escaping.
Backup wasn’t going to help.
Not here. Not now. While agents and officers might be all around, Mason was alone in the cabin with the man. His backup crew was holding. They all knew if the killer heard anyone trying to enter from the rear or break down any of the old wooden walls, the girl would die.
“You can do it, and there is no choice,” a voice whispered to Mason.
He was alone in the cabin with the killer—and with the ghost of one Gideon Grimsby, an Englishman who had come to the new world to meet, befriend, and then serve under the legendary Jean Laffite. He had fought at the Battle of New Orleans. Gideon had survived the battle, fallen in love and changed his ways—only to be shot down in the street by a vengeful man who had once coveted the beauty who had become Gideon’s wife.
Now, Gideon enjoyed the music of New Orleans, watched over his descendants and tended to haunt Frenchman Street. But having realized Mason was aware of him at a lounge one night, he’d discovered his afterlife of being a ghostly—and very helpful—investigator as well.
“Do it. Do it, Mason lad, you must!” Gideon said. “He’s going to kill her. The officers and agents outside will lose patience. They’ll seek entry as you know they must. And this rotten beast will die, but so will she. Dammit, man, take your shot!”
“I have to be sure!” Mason said the words aloud and cursed himself. He was accustomed to seeing the dead. And he’d learned before he was ten not to be seen talking to them.
But maybe this time it was good.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” the killer demanded.
Mason made a split-second decision and shrugged, saying, “I guess you can’t see him. Gideon is here. You’d have liked him. He was a pirate. Well, he was, but then cleaned up his act. And sadly wound up being murdered, but he’s enjoying his afterlife.”
“Man, they think I’m crazy. You’re crazy!” the killer said.
There was suddenly a gentle tap at the door to the cabin, surprising both Mason and the killer. Mason knew he frowned as the killer frowned. No one was bursting in; it was a gentle and polite tap.
The killer’s young hostage let out a terrified squeak as the knife drew closer against her flesh.
“What the hell?” the killer murmured. “You—you go and see what those idiots outside want. Because I’m telling you, you can kill me today, but she will die with me.” He laughed. “Maybe the two of us can haunt you, too.”
“God help me,” Mason murmured. “Fine. You want me to check the door?”
“Yeah. I want to see who is trying what.”
His gun still trained on the killer, Mason backed to the door.
“We don’t need any disruptions here,” he said loudly.
“I’m not a disruption,” a female voice said. “I’m unarmed. I just wanted to offer to trade myself for Melissa Wells.”
“What?” Mason demanded.
“Open the door, check her out. See if she’s really unarmed,” the killer said. “And don’t forget—if I’m going, she’s going with me!”
Mason cracked the door open. There was a woman standing there, mid-to late-twenties, about five foot eight with long light brown hair and a striking thin face. She was wearing black knit leggings and a tunic and lifted her arms to show that she carried nothing.
“I’m really a better choice,” she said, looking around Mason to see and talk to the killer. “Think of it! If you don’t manage to escape and get out of this or if you do, you’ll have killed a special agent or used her for your escape. I’m Della Hamilton, FBI. And I know you like your victims to have long hair. My hair is long and I’m the right age... Come on. This kid is a teenager. So far, you’ve at least chosen victims who were out of high school!” She paused, shaking her head. “You have a reputation. You’re a famous killer—don’t sully all that by having people think you were a pedophile.”
Apparently, she’d said just the right thing.
“I am not a pedophile!” the Midnight Slasher protested. “That’s disgusting. I haven’t gotten it down right yet, but I’m working on it, and I will be a master! I will learn to... Well, never mind! I will achieve what is necessary!”
“Whatever,” Mason said dryly. “And she has one hell of a point, I mean, you want to be a master killer, get it all right...perfect it all. But you don’t want to be remembered as a pedophile. That would...well, ruin your whole legacy.”
“Yeah, yeah... I never touched any of them. Except to kill them. And I was going to get it all right this time, but you found a stupid boat and followed me and... Ah, screw it! But you’re right. The pretty girl at the door can get me out of here, or... Well, I will be known for having killed a special agent! Yeah! Get in here, Special Agent Whoever. You come straight to me. When I can switch the knife over, this kid can go. But you need to know—if I die today, you die, too.”
“I’m willing to accept that,” Special Agent Della Hamilton said.
The killer laughed. “Suicidal, eh?”
“No, I just think I can talk you down,” she said. “And frankly, you fascinate me! Your mind is so amazing! And I’m older, okay, and maybe this is only in my own mind, but I think I’m...well, sexier, grown-up, and just a better choice for a victim all the way around. If you want to be famous—kill an agent!”
“Talk me down? I don’t think so. But I fascinate you? And you really are pretty damned gorgeous, so...hmm. Okay, lady, come on.”
“I am coming—when this guy lets me!” she said, smiling and shrugging to Mason.
“Let her by!”
“She wants you to take the shot during the exchange!” the ghost of Gideon Grimsby said. The ghost’s presence was near him. He all but whispered in Mason’s ear, almost startling him.
But Mason was staring at Della Hamilton, and she nodded at the words. As if she had heard them.
Had she?
He’d heard there were others like him. He’d even heard there was a special “ghostbusters” unit in the Bureau with some nothing title like Special Circumstances Unit.
He inclined his head; she blinked, letting him know she had the message.
“I’m coming over...slowly, slowly, and I’ll back up so you can free Melissa and get the knife right on me...”
She walked to him just as she had said she would do.
The killer moved the knife to push Melissa forward and reach out for Della Hamilton. And as he did, Della Hamilton dropped down, shouting, “Now!”