These Ancient Bones

Book 2: Crows

by Heather Graham

Genres: Paranormal Romance; Police & Law Enforcement Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

The X-Files meets Dan Brown in this suspenseful tale of dark magic, ancient curses, and modern murder, as two agents with unusual talents investigate a series of sensational crimes in the historic city of St. Augustine, Florida. 

The case is sensational. Whistle-blower investigative journalist George Maynard has been killed in his St. Augustine home, his body so badly burned the morgue is needed to verify his identity. Paranormal investigator Shelly Mahoney has been transferred to a special unit to help law enforcement. Off the books, the unit is called the Krewe of Hunters and deals with “strange” cases.

 

At the murder scene with federal agent Grant Markham, Shelly makes an odd discovery: a stone etched with what appears to be a curse that invokes flames. If Shelly can use her ability to summon the dead—providing they have remained behind—she may unearth what happened.

 

Grant, too, has an unique ability. By holding the hand of the recently deceased, he can see what has happened to them. Yet in this case, neither of their gifts is of any help. As they set out to question those who might have had a motive, they also study ancient “curse tablets”—often used in the Greco-Roman world to cause death or warfare.

 

What ensues is a shocking discovery by the medical examiner and a search that takes the team to Italy where a similar murder may reveal the creators of the mystical tablets—made deadly with a little human assistance. But soon, the danger is closer than ever—because the target is Shelly . . .

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“May the flame of your words ignite the human soul as you have wished, and may the flames you have thus created consume you, body and soul!”

The slab of rock was sitting on George Maynard’s front step as he returned from work that day. The words had been etched into it. He read them aloud with a sigh.

“Ah, come on, please!”

He had just left a press conference, and he was due to have a second in the morning. People were applauding him.

And then again, people were furious with him.

Well, he’d been warned since he’d been in his early twenties that his determination to follow a path into investigative reporting might prove to be dangerous.

Something had happened in the world. Maybe it had been the years of the pandemic, when people had sat home with nothing to do while acquiring cabin fever. Maybe they had needed something to be passionate about, a way to lash out because of their own misery.

No matter.

The pandemic was now in the past. But the determination of some people to lash out had remained, along with the determination of others to seize what they could in life—no matter the expense to others.

And hell. When people were screwing other people, he couldn’t help but feel that it was his calling to make sure he investigated—cleared the innocent and let the truth be known about the guilty.

He was always working in what he considered to be a search for common decency. Yes, he did want to ignite people’s souls! He wanted honesty, with no politics—if someone was doing something wrong, it was wrong, no matter what their political leaning. All sides could have good ideas; all sides could have special interests. Right and wrong were simple—and wrong should never be accepted, just as right needed to be. The powerful—which usually meant those with a great deal of money—could too often get away with too much.

Ah, well …

He pushed the stone off the little tile porch step that led to the house. It fell over, face down, into the flower bed at the side of the house. His house was strange in a way, he thought. On the outskirts of a city that prided itself on being the oldest inhabited by European settlers in the United States, his home just couldn’t really be considered that old, even though it had been built in the years just preceding the Civil War.

After all, some architecture in the city dated back over three hundred years.

But he loved his home. Through the years, the little tile porch and the step that led to it had been added. The kitchen, of course, had been modernized. The old carriage house out back was not used quite so much now that he had cast his hat into the political ring.

The front door opened to an entry, or a little mudroom, a place with hooks for jackets, umbrellas, or whatever. Where one could shake off the rain or the cold before entering the main house through another door that opened into the generous parlor. From there, the place branched off through fine archways into handsomely crafted rooms, a generous dining room to the left followed by the kitchen and pantry, an “entertainment” room to the right, with his home office right behind it. A magnificent carved mahogany stairway led from the parlor to the five bedrooms on the second floor.

Yep, the place was still historic, all right!

One day, he’d bring Ainsley here. Right now, due to the ugliness of a few of his press conferences and current stories, he’d had her staying at her own place in the heart of the city. But his father had bought what was now his house for almost nothing when it had just been an old home out in the wilderness, or just a bit of a distance from the heart of the city. His dad had created the stunning drive, hedged by great greenery, that led to the entrance. One day, George thought with pride, Ainsley Drake would be Ainsley Maynard, and their children and their children’s children would come and play in the great yard, enjoy the pool.

In the future! That night …

Well, he was going to be glad to be home, and to be alone. He was going to pour himself a big whiskey and curl up in bed, get some sleep, and be ready to hit the trail again. Since he had tackled Gen-Zec, press conference had followed press conference. And it was cool because it had brought others on board.

He turned his key in the first lock, but spun around, startled, as an owl let out a loud cry in the night.

He smiled at himself. Just an owl. And a beautiful full moon was riding overhead.

Beautiful.

Screw the stupid stone! People were mad at him because he was sane, moderate, and wanted decency.

He smiled. Yep, he was ready for the fight for right!

He stepped into the entry and slipped his key in the second lock and pushed open the door.

That’s when he saw the large dark form, like a massive shadow in the dim light, facing him from the entry of his house.

And it was a second later that the burlap bag fell over his head, when something heavy and sharp struck him violently and hard on the temple, and when his muffled cry went out into the darkness …

Only to be heard by the night birds as his world went from gray to black.

There was very little left of the body.

Shelly Mahoney had been on many crime scenes before; this one was strange in the extreme.

The remains were little more than ash; it almost appeared like a human form crafted out of black sand by kids at a beach.

Even the medical examiner and his assistant appeared perplexed as they hunkered down next to what remained of the body, trying to determine the best way to move what remained of what had once been a man.

Evidence was sadly lacking.

“Anything?”

Special Agent Perry Banyan, the young investigator from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement who was lead investigator on the case, looked hopefully at Shelly.

“So far?” she murmured. “This is truly horrible, and the killer must be found. I believe with my heart that we will not stop this until we find the killer—or we’re all dead ourselves.”

Maybe she shouldn’t have spoken so boldly. They were taught not to make promises; there were cases out there that had never been solved.

But she knew about George Maynard. And she knew that she would never stop looking for his killer. She had never seen a journalist with such an amazing ability to discover the truth of a situation and to present his findings clearly. He never skewed a situation one way or the other; it was the facts and just the facts.

She, in turn, looked up at Jackson Crow, the respected and somewhat mysterious head of a branch of the FBI known as the Krewe of Hunters, so called since the unit’s first case had been in the city of New Orleans, a place known for its krewes, or clubs dedicated to the celebration of the Mardi Gras carnivals.

Of course, each krewe was unique, and Jackson’s unit was known to be unique.

Jackson looked back at her. He had called her in on the case specifically, because, as he had told her, he was in the process of creating an auxiliary unit of the Krewe for more, slightly different situations.

Different? More different? Was there such a thing?

How?

She didn’t understand what he was doing. The Krewe of Hunters already dealt with different or special cases.

The unusual.

So. That made her wonder, worry a bit about things she’d been taught her entire life that she needed to keep hidden.

Just exactly what did he know about her?

Jackson had come to St. Augustine, Florida, because of the importance of this case, but also to meet with her. But they were supposed to meet with another agent, a man named Grant Markham, who was from the local Florida office of the Bureau and had worked not just with Perry but with Jackson previously, too.

And with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, as the case had fallen into their hands and therefore into Perry Banyan’s hands.

Shelly hadn’t expected to find herself in the old Florida city, since she had begun her career working in the LA office and usually worked in the western arena of the country.

But there were personalities at play here.

She had learned that Special Agent Grant Markham had been friends with FDLE Agent Perry Banyan, the man who had been called in by the state and was handling the case as the lead investigator. Perry Banyan had, therefore, called Grant Mark ham, his friend who was in the Bureau and thus had all the federal tools in existence available for the investigation. While it was a single murder that had been committed—and might have been handled as a local matter—the victim’s status had demanded that big guns come in and come in fast.

So, here she was, because she’d already been summoned by Jackson Crow via her supervisor for a transfer into one of Jackson’s units. She was a well-trained and experienced agent, and still …

She hadn’t expected to be part of this kind of “big guns” case. And again, she had to wonder …

Just what did Jackson Crow know about her?

She felt the pressure of the situation. The victim’s death was shattering news sites across the country. She also felt an absolute determination. They would discover the truth.

And they would stop this and find justice for an incredible human being.

Because this was a truly horrific event for the state and for the nation. The dead man had been admired by people across the country. There had never been a man, woman, business, or political or national entity that the man had been afraid to tackle. He defended the “little men,” those who didn’t have the income for the legal fees that might be incurred while protecting their rights. He had, in short, been something of a national hero.

But the man was gone. His life had been stolen from him and from so many who believed so passionately in his fight for the truth of any given situation.

“He was so admired. Loved by everyone,” Perry Banyan said.

“Not, apparently, by everyone,” a new voice, deep and authoritative, noted.

Shelly stood and turned to look at the newcomer, a man she assumed to be Grant Markham.

He had the look of someone between a professional law enforcement official—dressed in dark blue suit with a light cotton shirt beneath but no tie—and a Florida beach boy. His hair was a sandy blond, and not as rigid a cut as she had often seen on her coworkers, other than those working undercover. His eyes were dark, almost black, a startling contrast with the lightness of his hair. She thought he couldn’t be forgotten easily, as she imagined that he had to be at least six foot four or five.

“Grant. You’ve made it,” Perry said. His words were spoken dryly, but he had a small, twisted smile on his face. It was evident the two men knew one another. More importantly, they trusted one another.

“You knew I’d come as soon as possible,” Grant Markham told him, nodding and then turning to Jackson to give him a similar acknowledgment.

“Good. You’re here. Back to the situation, to this man. So. Most apparently, he was not loved by everyone,” Jackson said. “Of course, it’s easy to understand since he put many people and organizations into the bright light, where their illegal activities brought about repercussions. He was loved by the average human being, those who just want to live their lives, work, play with their kids, go about their lives. At this moment, and as to this scene, I assume we’re all seeing the same factors,” he added gravely, looking at them all in turn and ending with Shelly.

“So, yes, as to the here and now, I believe we’re seeing the event in the same manner,” Shelly said. “There are certain factors that seem to be obvious but not terribly helpful, I’m afraid. It appears that whoever did this was in the house when George Maynard came home. There was no sign of forced entry. Your people have checked the entire house, and our people have checked the entire house—two amazingly competent forensic teams. Someone found a way to get a key. And, possibly, a code. While the door still requires a key for entry, the house did have an alarm system. It did not go off. We can still hope that forensics can find a clue. But it is my belief that whoever did this had it well planned, and they know something about forensic investigation, either through a form of law enforcement or the internet. The person was smart enough to be wearing gloves, but you would think anyone committing such a murder would be that smart these days.”

“There’s got to be something!” Perry said, shaking his head. “This … you can only imagine the pressure on this. The man was loved; his speeches were … he’s what we need in the world. He was such a proponent of simple and common decency, determined on right and fairness. And even when he went after someone—a politician, a business, a celebrity—he was willing to listen, to seek out a defense for a reported wrong. And,” he added with a pained shrug, “he was Florida’s own. We haven’t always been known for such a passion for everything that was right, fair, and equal. St. Augustine was his home, his lifelong home, and when he was here, he acted like just any other guy. Oh! He played guitar, and he’d sit in with local bands!”

Shelly understood completely why the case had been so incredibly important to Perry. She was certain, from his words, that he had known the dead man. He had admired the man, but there had been more. They had been friends, even if casually so.

She was hunkered down near the body, studying the remains and the ground nearby. Yes. It was Florida. It had rained recently. Footprints were easily left behind, except it seemed that this killer had known that.

The ground had been swept with a branch in the wake of the killer’s movements.

She gave herself a mental shake, rose, and looked at the new arrival, the man Jackson had chosen, along with her, to work the case. He was studying her. She gave him a barely perceptible nod; he returned it.

“The body was dragged out here, but the trail has been brushed by branches, I assume to hide the fact. We’re off to the side of the house, where there are plenty of trees. I guess the murder wasn’t supposed to be discovered too quickly,” she said.

“Perry,” Grant Markham said, “you found the body?”

Perry nodded. “George is—was—engaged to Ainsley Drake. Because of his latest fight against that tech company—and a press conference he was supposed to have today—he wasn’t having her live here with him. He was in good condition himself—took karate lessons, knew other means of self-defense—and didn’t like the idea of worrying about security. And he didn’t, but …”

“He was smart enough to know that he could be in danger and didn’t want it visited on her,” Grant said. “Seems to have been a good plan. Did Ainsley call you, Perry?”

Perry nodded. “I’d met her. I can’t say that I was friends with the man, but I had met him—with her—at a benefit for FDLE, our highway patrol, and our local police. He was supportive of law enforcement. Determined, of course, that bad officers and agents be removed, but supportive of law enforcement. He felt those working in law enforcement laid their lives on the line every day, and the bad eggs needed to be recognized and excised. But in general, other officers working hard and following the law needed to be supported. Anyway, Ainsley called me when she couldn’t reach him last night or this morning. She was going to come to the house and call me from here if she still couldn’t reach him, but I told her to stay away. I’d come over and pick up her key, and I’d check it all out and find out what was going on. There was no answer at the house, no response on the phone. I went in. Nothing was out of order. Like our killer, so it seems, I also wore gloves and moved with extreme care. Anyway, when I couldn’t find him inside, I started to walk around outside.”

“And you found these remains,” Grant said, a note of sympathy in his voice as he stared down at the ground, at the pile of ashes that covered almost all that remained of the man’s bones. “Then again,” he said, looking at the medical examiner and asking, “do we know that these remains do belong to George Maynard?”

“There’s enough of the skull left for us to do dental identification, though, of course, we won’t be able to do anything about fingerprint identification. You can’t see it, but there are bones left, including the man’s skull. We’ll do what we can,” the ME, Doctor Amos McGrath, promised.

He was a man in his early or mid-fifties, serious and yet pleasant, a man who seemed well-versed in his chosen vocation.

“If we may begin?” he asked.

He didn’t seem to be sure whom he should be asking. Perry, of course, was the senior agent with the FDLE, but the feds were here, too.

“Are we set here?” Perry asked the others.

“We are,” Grant said, looking at Shelly. He appeared to be respecting the fact that they were to be in a partnership as he waited for her agreement.

She nodded in turn.

“I realize I’m the latecomer on this,” Grant said, “but I’d like to go back to the front of the house and get a mental visual on what happened when George Maynard got home.”

“That sounds fine,” Perry said. “In fact, if you wish, we can go through the house, now that the forensic teams have finished in there. George Maynard was a neat man, and it doesn’t appear that the house was trashed in any way. Whoever did this didn’t seem to be after anything. Other than George’s life,” he added quietly, looking downward.

“I’ll be quick,” Grant promised. “I just want to get a real lay of the land, so to speak.”

“Of course,” Perry agreed.

“I’ve been in,” Jackson told them. “You and Shelly go through with fresh eyes. I’ll be waiting in front with Perry to help if the ME or his team need any assistance.”

They walked back around the house. Grant was surging forward, and Shelly followed him. But as she did, she noted that the area near the porch seemed to have been slightly disturbed.

Of course. A man had been dragged through it.

And still, something there seemed to haunt her mind.

She turned back.

“Have you been in already?” Grant asked her.

“No. I arrived about twenty minutes before you did. Jackson was here. He’d met Perry as soon as possible, but I was coming in from the West Coast, so … You were right here in the area,” she said frowning. “Didn’t you set this whole thing in motion?”

He paused. They were in the parlor, a beautiful room with pieces of furniture that were either copies of nineteenth-century pieces or the real deal. A beautiful fireplace offered artistic moldings in stone. Archways led to other rooms.

And as Perry had told them, everything seemed to be exactly in place. George Maynard had kept the home impeccably clean and ordered.

“Finishing a case,” he told her. “Luckily, it did tie up yesterday. But there were a few interviews I had to finish and complete the inevitable paperwork. But I got it all moving as soon as Perry called me. He’s a good man, excellent in law enforcement.”

“I’m just curious. I mean, you called Jackson Crow, a man known for working unusual cases, cults, criminals who think they’re voodoo priests or priestesses or … Frankly, he’s known as a ghostbuster, more or less.”

He nodded, but didn’t look at her.

“This is a horrendous crime. I mean, the taking of any life is horrendous, but this was like a true champion was taken away from the world.” Shelly paused to draw in a deep breath. “He was murdered in cold blood. Sadly, murders happen. In every corner of the world. And these days, forensic science has come a long way in helping any investigation. I believe Perry Banyan is a capable man—” Shelly began.

“You don’t want to work the case?” Grant interrupted.

“I didn’t say that. But it’s not suspected to be a cult case, a voodoo case—”

“Jackson Crow’s solve rate is the highest in the country,” Grant told her flatly. “And as you’ve surmised—”

“Yes. Perry is your good friend.”

“Apparently, Jackson has been watching you. So. Let’s do this. Let’s bring justice to a man who spent his life standing up for decency and the rights of others.”

She nodded. And she was pretty sure it was her own fault, but she was feeling a bit of hostility toward the man.

It was a beautiful house, arranged to feature antiquity, but with a modern bent.

The killer had gotten in; that much was obvious. How? The killer knew about George—and his house.

They went from room to room. Grant seemed focused on the entry beyond the mudroom.

“I think I’m going to study the door and porch area again,” she said simply, turning around to head out.

She’d experienced that strange feeling before; they weren’t seeing something.

They were missing something.

Outside, Jackson was speaking with Perry in front of the porch.

She walked over to join them.

“Agents!”

The call came from the medical examiner just as Shelly reached the men’s position in front of the house.

Dr. Amos McGrath appeared from around the corner.

“Agents, I’m sorry to ask, but we’re trying to get a sheet a bit deep beneath the remains to carefully take everything to the lab. If you’d be so kind, we could use some help,” he said. He grimaced. “My assistants are very good at their jobs. This is just a bit of an unusual situation.”

“More than happy to help in any way,” Jackson assured him.

“Of course, Amos,” Perry said, “whatever you need.”

Shelly, Jackson, and Perry followed the medical examiner back around into the trees and brush where Perry had discovered the remains.

As they walked around, Shelly commented, “His body was moved, obviously. But was he burned where he’s lying?” she asked.

“I believe so,” Dr. McGrath told her. “I need to be back in my morgue with all my tools and our abilities to determine substances, but I think the body was dragged around and drenched in gasoline. As you’ll note, while the remains are surrounded by brush and trees, the area where the ashes lie is a clearing. The killer didn’t want a big brush fire bringing in a horde of firefighters. But if you look, you’ll see that the leaves on nearby bushes and trees are singed or discolored. But that works well for now, because we’re getting a tarp beneath the whole of the scene.”

Dr. McGrath’s assistants were waiting; they had a large tarp at the ready. They just needed two others to grab the ends while McGrath supervised, seeing to it the tarp was deep enough beneath the ground to collect all the remains and straight enough in its movement.

“We got this,” Jackson said, nodding toward Perry but speaking to Shelly. “Go back in front; see what your instincts tell you.”

Instincts?
. . .