“Well, what was it?” she demanded.
“The Galveston diamond.”
Chapter Six
Logan lay in his room, staring at the ceiling fan as it whirred. He’d spent all his time since he’d returned home going through the various files on the victims. The stories he’d heard about the Galveston diamond kept playing through his mind, but so far, all he had was the fact that if Kelsey’s vision was true, Rose Langley had left Galveston with the diamond, and she might have died trying to keep it. Once the ring had disappeared after a poker game in Galveston, it had never been seen again.
Chelsea Martin had been a part-time gemologist. But he couldn’t find anything relating to gems or gemology regarding Tara Grissom, and, of course, the as-yet-unidentified corpses had given them nothing about their past likes, loves or hobbies.
He started trying to find everything he could on Sierra Monte. There were plenty of newspaper articles, but he wasn’t looking for background on the investigation. He wanted to know more about the woman herself. He was glad to discover that he could trace the articles and police interviews to some of her friends and find old references on their social networking pages. She’d written one friend about an “amazing” citrine she’d found on eBay, and another page had an old reference to a ring she’d bought in New York’s diamond district. “A blue diamond! It’s magnificent—and I could afford it!” Sierra had written.
Clearly, she’d had an interest in gems and jewelry. Just like Chelsea.
He tried all the social connections he thought the young women had most likely used. He turned his attention back to Chelsea and Tara and looked through the links, and discovered that both women had—like a high percentage of the country—kept up Facebook pages. The pictures of their past lives made him sad, and the many messages of condolence, addressed to their families and friends, were heartbreaking. He wasn’t sure what he’d discovered; he hoped something would click in his mind at some point.
Finally, he’d tried to sleep.
And, of course, what he’d learned about the young women continued to dance through his head, but then he found himself thinking of his own life and events gone by.
He thought dully of the time it had taken him to get past the agony of losing Alana. He’d often wondered if it would have hurt any less if she’d died of natural causes. But ultimately, there was no way out of being human. He had met Alana soon after he’d become a Ranger, and she had loved his work and the history of the Rangers—that of the stoic, heroic frontier protectors, and that of the men who’d pictured themselves above the law. Her own father had passed away, but he’d also been a Ranger. The idea of Logan’s changing his line of work to something safer had never come up.
But then, neither had suspected that she might become a victim of violence.
Alana had known he loved her. She’d known that he would have given his life in exchange for hers, without question. She had loved him in return. If they’d ever been able to discuss the situation, she would have smoothed back his hair and said, “Hey, Ranger. That’s the way the beans fell, and that’s that.”
Since he’d come back, almost a year ago now, he’d worked on the tangible cases. A bank robbery. A gang war—with homicides. There was one case in which a clever killer had murdered his friend with gloves on, using the friend’s own gun—but he’d forgotten about the way circumstantial evidence could pile up, and he’d wound up confessing, afraid of the death sentence, carried out with frequency in the state of Texas.
And then Logan had been told to meet with Jackson Crow.
Whir, whir, whir, the ceiling fan went.
Hearing Alana call to him when she was already dead hadn’t been his first experience with the unacknowledged senses. He’d had opportunities as a child to embrace both Apache and Comanche ways—entirely different from each other. To the Comanche, it was natural to see signs and learn lessons from the creatures around them. They weren’t gods; they were energy and strength and power. The Apache saw a different world, in which there’d be an afterlife, and you might meet an enemy there, just as you could on earth. There were ghost riders, because there was a soul, and the soul lived on. Dreams were seen as omens, or as visions that might help a warrior make a decision. The unusual was far more accepted among most Indian nations. Not to mention the fact that the American west offered certain natural flora that occasionally enhanced a dream-walker’s quest. “All natural,” an Apache friend had told him once. “So is hemlock,” Logan had said. Yes, the world was filled with the natural—and what some saw as the supernatural. Like all things, there was both good and bad in what was natural—and supernatural.
Logan’s first supernatural occurrence had fallen on the beneficial side. A young Apache girl had been kidnapped, and it was suspected that her own father had done it. He was known as a cantankerous alcoholic, who’d taken a strap against his sons often enough. There was little love for the man among his people, and it was easy to point the finger in his direction. But while sitting with his grandfather, watching the smoke of a fire, Logan believed he’d seen the girl. She was crying and afraid, and he thought he saw her at an abandoned emu farm outside the Apache reservation. Although he’d been seventeen at the time, and a “tinted white boy,” as some of his relatives called him, he’d been able to convince his father—who had brought in the Texas Rangers. The man who still owned the land had allowed them to investigate. They’d found the girl—with the corpse of another. They caught the pedophile who’d kidnapped the girls and assaulted them and accidentally killed the first.
Logan had lied, of course. He’d said he’d heard the information about the girl and, riding with his cousins across family land on the outskirts of the city, he’d noticed the buildings on the abandoned farm and put two and two together. That was the day he’d known he was going to be a Texas Ranger.
He’d learned to focus and had honed his abilities. At times, he’d spoken to his grandfather in the years since he’d died, and to other “souls,” those he’d known and those he hadn’t. He did understand one thing: If a soul had moved on, he would not be able to speak with that person again. He had heard Alana when she’d called out to him, because she hadn’t intended to let her killer get away with her murder. But she was gone now. He’d sat at her grave site often and long; he’d wandered the house with the little picket fence that they’d owned together—now sold—calling out her name. He’d gone to the restaurants they’d frequented, spent hours in the park where he’d proposed, ridden the Texas plains where they’d often taken his cousin’s horses, and no matter how hard he tried, how hard he focused, he couldn’t find her. Not even in his dreams. But when they’d recovered her body, buried in the coffin, the oxygen supply not properly set, he thought he saw her eyes open. He thought she touched his cheek. He had heard her whisper, “Goodbye, my love. Do good.”
They were the words she’d often said to him when he went off to work.
He had been convinced she was alive. He’d tried to drag her out of the coffin and into his arms. Insanity had struck him, and he’d beaten back his friends, heedless of injury to them. All he’d seen was that Alana needed help. It had been Tyler Montague, another Ranger, who’d finally taken him by the shoulders and wrestled him down, and it had been the tears in Tyler’s eyes that made him see the truth. Alana was dead, and he was destroying the evidence they would need to see her killer convicted.
He’d taken a two-year leave. When he’d come back, he’d refused to deal with anything that smacked of the supernatural.
And yet here he was. Like it or not, he was sucked in. Last night had been the clincher. He wasn’t sure why. But Kelsey O’Brien’s vision in Room 207 had started the process, and he believed that the murder of Rose Langley had something to do with what was going on now.
The Galveston diamond. It had never been found. He wondered what it was worth in today’s market. Millions.
But…what could the deaths of so many women have to do with a diamond that had disappeared more than a hundred and fifty years ago? Especially when they suspected that most of them had been living on the fringes of society, surviving as prostitutes or by doing whatever odd jobs they could get. People who were on their own, who hadn’t even been reported as missing.
Or so he assumed. They knew about Tara Grissom and Chelsea Martin. And maybe they could uncover something about the others.
He thought back to the files with the bios and information they had thus far. Chelsea had been a teacher. And part-time gemologist.
After an unsatisfactory night’s sleep, Logan rose, showered and dressed, then headed out, anxious to get to Jackson Crow’s temporary headquarters.
He paused as he stepped out his door.
The birds were back. There were sitting on the eaves of his house; they were arrayed around him on poles and wires, and some even sat on his car.
They watched him, and he watched them in return.
They seemed to be exuding no ill will.
“Ah, my friends, are you offering energy and strength? Or are you warning me that what lies ahead should be avoided?”
The birds did not reply.
He opened the door to his car, revved the engine and the birds took flight.
Kelsey had brooded through the night. No other dreams or visions had come to her, but she’d spent hours thinking about Logan Raintree. She realized that what she’d learned disturbed her, and she woke feeling out of sorts.
Arriving in the kitchen early, she hoped for a little time alone, but that was unlikely. The inn was now full, and Sandy had hired help to prepare breakfast. Kelsey was glad to see that coffee had been brewed, but disappointed that there was nowhere she could be alone to enjoy it. She stood in a corner of the kitchen, trying to keep out of the way.
“Everything all right?” Sandy asked.
“Great,” Kelsey assured her.
