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too,” Jackson said.

      “That being?”

      “We’ve recently worked two serial-killer cases involving the Celtic American cruise line. The cruise company wasn’t at fault, of course, but both killers carried out their work aboard their ships.”

      Ethan frowned, wondering how the recent deaths of the two reenactors could be related to the cruise line.

      Then he saw it. A slim connection, but a connection nonetheless.

      “The Journey,” he said. “Celtic American owns the Journey, and she does a run from New Orleans to Vicksburg, with a stop at St. Francisville. And of course, I know about the cases involving the Destiny and the Fate. Anyone in the world with media access knows about the cases.” He hesitated. “We’re sure there was no direct connection to the cruise line or the Journey?”

      “We can’t know for sure, not yet,” Jackson said, his tone tight. “But not as far as the owners, operators or employees of Celtic American go. But Charlene Moreau’s father is the cruise director and resident historian aboard the Journey.”

      “I know Charlene’s father. I promise you, he had nothing to do with murder.”

      “I’m not suggesting anything like that. But here’s where the connection to the cruise line comes in. Both of the dead men took part in a reenactment aboard the Journey. The ship does themed cruises. A week ago, the theme was the Civil War. Considering the route, a lot of their cruises are Civil War–themed, but this was their once-a-year extra-special Civil War cruise. Celtic American’s claim to fame is that they specialize in historic cruises. Interestingly, the Journey offers ghost tours as well as your standard history-based ones.”

      “The Journey actually has a legitimate historical claim of its own. She was conscripted to move Southern troops up and down the Mississippi when the war began. She was seized by the Union forces when they took New Orleans in 1862, then used to move wounded Union troops. For a brief time she fell back into Confederate hands, when a small troop of Confederate soldiers slipped aboard and took her over. She went back to the Union, though—a trade was arranged that allowed for injured Rebels being held by the Union to be exchanged for the Union men aboard the ship. There had been an outbreak of fever on board, so the Confederates were only too happy to hand the ship and the men over to the Yankees, and the Journey continued on her way, mainly doing hospital runs for the rest of the war.”

      “See?” Jackson said softly. “You know your local history—something that can be invaluable in cases like this. So...back to the connection,” he continued. “Both the murdered men were involved in that extra-special reenactment aboard the ship about a week ago. That’s one of the reasons the police are so sure the killings must have been planned by someone in the reenactors’ group.”

      “But you don’t believe that,” Ethan said.

      “It’s certainly possible, given what we know so far. But I don’t like to grasp at the easy answer.”

      “Sometimes the obvious answer is the truth,” Ethan said.

      “And sometimes it’s not.”

      “No,” Ethan agreed, and stood. If he was heading to Baton Rouge and then up river to St. Francisville, he was eager to get started. “What are my travel arrangements?”

      “A car’s waiting to take you home to pack and then to the airport. The plane leaves as soon as you’re aboard.”

      “As soon as I’m aboard?” Ethan asked.

      Jackson smiled. “I guess you haven’t gotten used to our form of ‘troop movement’ yet. We have a nice, new private jet. Adam financed it himself. No taxpayer dollars.”

      “Ah. Well, then, nice I won’t have to change planes in New Orleans.”

      Jackson grinned. “Report in to me as soon as you have a feel for what’s going on. Jude and I can join you early if you think we can help. That plane goes back and forth whenever we want it to.”

      Ethan took the folder and headed out of the office.

      Within an hour he was on the private plane provided by Adam Harrison.

      As he flew, he read the dossiers on the dead men.

      Then he looked out the window and gave himself up to memories of Charlie Moreau.

      * * *

      “It’s going to be all right, Charlie—really. This situation has nothing to do with you or Brad or the movie. You stumbled on something very bad that someone else did. You can’t go letting it affect your life. In fact, you should be glad you found the poor man, because now the police can try to find some justice for him.”

      Jonathan Moreau set his arm around Charlie’s shoulders and hugged her gently.

      She was sitting with her father on a bluff high above the Mississippi. It was a short distance from Grace Church and the place where she’d found the body of a man who’d been identified as Farrell Hickory dressed in his Confederate cavalry uniform.

      That area still had crime-scene tape around it.

      From her perch atop the bluff she could see the people she assumed were forensic investigators searching the area. The police had told her that they hoped to finish by that evening. Meanwhile, Brad had rearranged the shooting schedule until they were free to use the fields again.

      Since then she’d spent a lot of time on the phone in a three-way conversation with Clara Avery and Alexi Cromwell, good friends she’d worked with a number of times in the past. They were now working with the FBI and knew a number of agents, including Ethan.

      “You can’t let it get to you, Charlie,” her father said.

      She knew he was right. The murder had nothing to do with her or the film crew. A vicious killer had murdered Farrell Hickory, and it was likely that the same person had murdered Albion Corley, as well. He’d been of mixed African and Caucasian descent, and had been wearing a replica Union uniform when he’d been killed.

      Not long before Albion’s death, he and Farrell Hickory had performed with a number of other reenactors on the same riverboat, the Journey, where her father worked, as part of an in-depth Civil War–themed cruise.

      Charlie turned to her father and asked, “Why, Dad? Why them? This is nuts! I mean, one victim was half black and one was white, one was reenacting the Confederate side and the other the Union side. What was the killer thinking?”

      “Maybe he’s just someone who hates war,” her father said.

      “That doesn’t make any sense. He hates war, so he commits cold-blooded murder instead?”

      “Charlie,” her father said, “if you ask me, murder never makes sense. Taking another man’s—or woman’s—life is brutal, cruel and ultimately senseless. But the police are investigating, so leave it to them. You’re an actress, and a darned good one. You’re not a cop. You...” He paused, looking off into the distance.

      Charlie loved her father. Her mom had died suddenly the summer after her first year of college. It had been an aneurysm—one day a minor headache she laughed off, the next day...gone. She and her dad had been devastated. Her father was a handsome man, fifty-four years old. But he still hadn’t even gone on a date. When she’d actually tried to get him to go out with one of the entertainers on the riverboat, he’d just smiled and told her, “Maybe one day I’ll be ready for someone, but let’s face it—in my heart and mind, no one can begin to live up to your mom.”

      She’d decided to let him be. When he was ready, she would be ready, too. She knew that—right or wrong—if he’d gotten involved with another woman right after her mother had died, she would have been bitter. Now, though, enough time had passed that she could deal with equanimity with the idea of him falling in love again. More than anything, she wanted to see him happy. Of course, she knew he loved her, and she made him happy—as did his work. He loved the old riverboat—the Journey—and

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