“Neither does the media,” Justin said.

“Well, we’re back to the usual question. Where were you night before last?” Jackson asked him.

“Here. I took the girls to a live theater experience at Le Petit Theatre, and we and my mother-in-law went to dinner at Muriel’s. Then we were back at the hotel—and I had a stomach ache. I called down to room service for warm milk around one in the morning. I was seen by the waiter, and my mother-in-law will assure you I was with my family all night. Thank God I can prove that!”

“What can’t you prove?” Jake asked.

Justin met his gaze openly. “When the battle ended, I ‘skedaddled’ with Ramsay Clayton. That means we rode hard to the sugar-mill fences, up to the road and then back. Ramsay was with me—he kept telling me it was okay to play a Yankee. He liked being on the winning side. We rode back in time for the singing. When it first happened, I kept thinking that Ramsay had to be involved somehow—he was supposed to have been Marshall Donegal—but he was with me, then, and I could swear that I did see him in the crowd before we finally all wound up in the parlor at the house. And I was scared as hell, too, that I would be a suspect because we were staying at the plantation. I searched high and low with the others that night and wound up on a ride all the way over to Beaumont the next day. It was a nice ride—my girls loved it. But…”

“But what?” Jake asked.

“There was something strange about Ashley that day. Once we could see Beaumont across the bayou, she kept looking up at the windows. And she seemed to be afraid of something. She pretended it was nothing, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Don’t get me wrong—Ashley sure as hell isn’t guilty of anything. She was just about in tears about Charles being missing the day before, and she really came on the ride to keep searching the property. But—she saw something. She saw something that day at Beaumont.”

Ashley’s legs wobbled as she descended the stairs. Angela ran up to her quickly, frowning and setting a supporting arm around her shoulders. Whitney came over to her as well, her face a mask of concern.

“What?” Angela asked anxiously.

“I didn’t see who did it.”

“Who did what?”

Ashley looked at Angela. “I saw Marshall Donegal. He didn’t want to let me see the battle with him, but I insisted. Then—it was as if I lost him. I became Emma. She was raped, Angela—just days after her husband was killed.”

“By the enemy? But I thought—” Whitney began.

“Not by the enemy! By one of her husband’s men.”

“Who? Which one?” Angela asked.

“I couldn’t see, Angela. But—”

“But what?” she prompted.

“I think that Harold Boudreaux came to her rescue. I think that he pulled the rapist off of Emma, and that’s when they formed their real bond. I think that we never see Marshall and Emma together be cause he doesn’t know. It wasn’t her fault, but she’s ashamed, and she can’t go to Marshall or be with him because of what happened.”

Angela was thoughtful. “Maybe we can help them. First, however, we have to find out who the man was. We have to find out what happened to him and figure out why one of his descendants would be after revenge now.”

“What should we do next?” Ashley asked.

“Records!” Angela turned to Ashley. “Can you get those accounts of the battle we were wondering about earlier? We’ll start on one of the ancestry sites and see what we can dig up on these men by name.”

“I’m on it,” Whitney said.

“Look, I should be doing this,” Ashley said.

“Later. Let Whitney get started,” Angela said. “You come with me and find Jenna. She is in the cemetery. She’s—communing.” Angela looked at her and apparently decided that Ashley had figured out that Jenna did, indeed, see ghosts. “Jenna was meditating, in a way. She gets into a state, and if there are spirits around, even if they won’t communicate with her, she can usually see them, and we may see more clearly through her.” She took Ashley’s hand.

“Are you afraid?” she asked her softly. “Everyone is afraid at first—it’s having to believe the unbelievable. It’s accepting that there is a greater power.”

Ashley shook her head firmly. “No. I’m not afraid anymore. I want the truth.”

Griffin Grant’s office was in a massive building in the Central Business District, all beautiful glass and chrome. It was furnished with ultramodern pieces—but a picture of a Civil War cavalryman hung on a far wall of the reception area, with a pair of crossed swords above it. “Must be his ancestor,” Jackson said.

Jake walked over to the painting. The man had one hand behind his back in the painting; he held his sword in front of him. There was something a little bit odd about him.

“Henry Hilton!” Griffin’s secretary told them. “Interesting painting, isn’t it? Well, it should be. It was done from a death likeness. Creepy, if you ask me, but these boys do enjoy their reenactments and their roundtables. Henry was killed at Manassas, but he was already wounded.”

“Uh—he was—an admirable soldier,” Jake said. As he spoke, Griffin came out of his office.

“I know, I know, it’s a strange painting, but it’s a family heirloom,” he said dryly. “Please, come in.” Griffin ushered them into his office, quickly dismissing his secretary and offering them coffee or drinks from the handsome marble wet bar set to the far left of his desk. “Soda, whiskey, water—anything?”

Jackson declined. Jake accepted a bottle of water, thanking him and taking a seat in one of the executive chairs in front of the desk.

“I heard about Toby,” Griffin said gravely. “Do you know anything about funeral arrangements? Had his son been told about his death?”

“Detective Mack Colby was notifying the family,” Jackson told him. “And they won’t release the body until a full autopsy has been done.”

Griffin nodded and frowned. “They believe that these murders were related to Charles Osgood’s death? But…well, a man in a cemetery in full uniform and two people killed after a strange assignation near the bayou? Seems a stretch, doesn’t it?”

“Not really. Toby Keaton took part in the reenactment. Marty Dean wanted news on it so desperately I think she would have met anyone anywhere,” Jake said.

“Oh. I suppose you’re right.” Griffin drummed his fingers on his desk. “I wish I could help you. I don’t think there’s anything at all I could tell you about the newscaster. I didn’t know her. I knew Toby well, of course. We’ve all been friends forever. But I keep thinking that I should have remembered something about the night Charles disappeared. I mean, I was right there! Right there, in the midst of those rushing forward when we heard that Marshall Donegal was being beset in the cemetery—outside the cemetery for the reenactment, of course. I think I saw…maybe it was John Ashton? Helping him to his feet. But we were all there standing around when it ended. Charles was so proud! He wore his battle wounds and fake blood with such pleasure. I kept thinking that Ramsay had done him a real favor, helping him out that day. He made something of a man out of him, if only for a few hours. I swear, I keep trying to remember,” he said. He leaned forward. “It haunts me, you know? Thinking about it. First Charles, now Toby…”

“Who do you think might have done it? Any idea of anyone with a grudge?” Jake asked.

Griffin Grant shook his head. “We all had opinions, spats, disagreements, but they were all good guys.” He grimaced. “Even the Yankees. I mean, we do seriously like to argue tactics, but that’s not even a matter of sides. We’ve all done this so many times, with changes here and there through the years. The Yanks are good guys. I can’t imagine that any one of us would have ever done such a thing.”

“Well, here’s the usual—where were you the night before last?” Jake asked him.

He seemed surprised. “Right here. You can ask my secretary. I worked forever—we have a new lineup coming out, and it’s a bitch, making sure your shows and your sponsors are all aligned just so.”

“Thank you,” Jackson said, rising. He offered Griffin his hand. “Thank you for your time and your help.”

“I’d do more if I could,” Griffin told them.

They left his office and stopped by his secretary’s desk. “Miss Tierney” read the nameplate in front of her. “Miss Tierney,” Jackson said politely, “can you verify that Mr. Grant was in his office late the night before last?”

“Oh, yes!” she said. “Why, that poor man has just been working all hours.”

“How late were you here?” Jake asked her.

“Late—seven,” she said dryly. “So much for nine to five. And when I left, I could still hear him on the phone in there, placating a diaper company!”

Jackson thanked her.

Out on the street, Jake sighed wearily. “Time to find Ramsay Clayton,” he said.

Ramsay wasn’t in his hotel room. The desk clerk told them that they could probably locate him on the square, displaying his art.

Jenna sat on one of the few individual white sarcophagi in the cemetery; it belonged to the Donegal brother-in-law who had been killed during World War I.

At first, walking toward her with Angela, Ashley saw nothing. Will was leaning against her family tomb, and he spoke gently to Ashley. “She has brought them out. Sit quietly, and you will see them.”

No longer hesitant, Ashley took a seat next to Jenna. Jenna took her hand and gripped it tightly.

And in a minute, they began to appear to her as well.

There were four of them there, soldiers in blue. They walked in a procession, pacing the cemetery right in front of the family tomb. She could see clearly through them, and then she could not. They began to form something that appeared of real substance.