Sloan.
As the bullet hit his chest, he knew he had killed his own cousin. But not on purpose, God forgive him. Not with intent, and never with malice. Oh, dear God, what an end for all of them, damned in the eyes of those who would come after…
How ironic that Sloan had managed to kill him, as well. For he was dying, he knew.
It was then that he saw Victor Grebbe, swearing where he stood on the balcony, holding his injured shoulder, blood seeping out between his fingers from where Sloan’s bullet had taken him.
His own arm was cold, and he knew he was nearly dead. He had no strength. Still, with one final effort, he lifted his weapon and strained to pull the trigger.
He fired. Fired at Grebbe, a man who shamed any uniform, who shamed humanity.
Grebbe, who had damned them all.
As he died, he heard the terrified wails of the infant inside the house. Sloan’s son. Sloan had never even known he had a son, because that was news Brendan had never shared, thinking it Fiona’s place. He prayed to God that the child would live, would somehow make up for the cursed fate of his family.
For they were damned to memory, damned in the eyes of men.
What about the eyes of God?
All too soon he would know.
He could only hope that God—and time—would forgive them all.
The Flynn Plantation
Present Day
Sheila came to. She felt a keen sense of confusion. She could hear…water. And she could smell an awful dampness and decay that seemed entrenched in the walls…wherever it was that she lay. She blinked several times, but it wasn’t foggy now; it was pitch-dark.
She sat up, trying to fathom where she might be.
Suddenly there was a light. Just a pinprick, but it didn’t help. It was too bright, boring painfully into her eyes. She raised a hand to try to protect herself against the blinding brilliance of it.
Hand raised to her eyes, she looked to the side and sucked in a huge gulp of air in stunned horror.
There was a face in the darkness. Hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, rotting flesh. It was floating in the water that was rising around her, and it looked as if it were staring at her.
Halloween, she reminded herself. Halloween was coming. This was undoubtedly just someone’s macabre idea of a prank.
But deep inside, she knew it wasn’t. This was real. This was a human head, no longer attached to a body.
She opened her mouth to scream, her heart and soul filled with terror, but before she was able to make a sound, the voice stopped her.
“Sheila…” it whispered gently, even affectionately.
And then…she knew she would never scream again.
1
New Orleans
Present Day
“It’s a bone,” Dr. Jon Abel announced.
“Obviously,” Aidan Flynn noted dryly.
The doctor shot him a glance. “A thighbone.”
“And it’s human,” Aidan said.
“Yes, it’s a human thighbone,” Dr. Abel agreed. He stood on the muddy bank at the side of the Mississippi and shrugged, looking at the faces around him. It was heading toward evening, but it had been a hot, sultry day, and only the breeze coming off the river hinted that a cooling-down was coming. Beyond the muddy shore where Aidan had found the bone, the churning water was an ugly shade of brown. A mosquito buzzed nearby, and the doctor slapped at his arm and shook his head in disgust. He’d never been much for working out in the field.
Aidan was the one who had asked that he be called out, but since Aidan was just a P.I. out of Florida who, along with his two brothers, had just inherited the old family plantation, it was Hal Vincent, parish homicide, who had actually placed the call. Jonas Burningham, local FBI, had attached himself to the “case,” such as it was, too, in case they were looking at a serial murderer taking advantage of the disorder—and all too often violence—left in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.