The Night is Watching. Heather Graham

of place. She walked into the bathroom, but again, saw nothing.

      Returning to the bedroom, she holstered her weapon. “Interesting,” she said aloud. “I assume you’re Sage McCormick, although, of course, I could be wrong. If I said anything that offended you, I’m sorry. I’ll keep my opinions to myself.”

      The room yielded nothing.

      She kicked off her shoes, removed her jacket and holster and plopped down on the bed. It had been a long day of travel, since she’d started off at the crack of dawn, East Coast time. She was tired. She lay there for a few minutes with her eyes half-open, wary now of the room. But nothing else happened. Finally, she decided she wanted a shower, and if she was going to have a shower and get something to eat, she needed to rise before she fell asleep and found herself waking, starved, at three or four in the morning.

      She placed her gun and holster in the bedside drawer, went through her closet for fresh clothing and hurried into the bathroom. The whirlpool was tempting, but it would send her right to sleep and she had to switch time zones. Instead, she got into the shower and emerged ten minutes later, feeling nicely refreshed.

      Still in the bathroom, she dried off, then wrapped the towel around herself and looked in the mirror. It was solidly misted from the steam. But as she picked up a facecloth to clear it, she paused. An eerie sensation swept over her.

      She wasn’t alone.

      And as she stood there, writing appeared in the mist.

      BEWARE

      She froze. She’d long accepted that there was a thin veil between life and death and that restless spirits could linger behind for any number of reasons. And yet, despite everything, despite every Krewe case she’d worked and those she’d been involved with for the San Antonio police, she still felt a moment’s primal fear. Her heart thudded. Her breath caught.

      The writing began again.

      TRICKSTER

      “Beware of a trickster,” she said, exhaling as she did. “Who is the trickster?” she asked softly.

      But, this time, she wasn’t to be answered. “Talk to me, please. If there’s something I should know...”

      No more writing appeared in the mist on the mirror.

      She didn’t touch it. She brushed her teeth and looked again. Nothing more than the two words she’d already seen.

      She left the bathroom, closing the door so the mist would remain awhile longer, and dressed in casual clothes for the evening to come. She debated staying in the room, but by the time she’d brushed her hair, the fog had cleared in the bathroom mirror and no other incidents had occurred.

      Jane figured she’d go downstairs for dinner. She stood in the middle of the room. “I know you’re here,” she said. “If you have something to tell me, please do.”

      No objects flew, the air didn’t grow cold, nothing happened at all.

      And still, Jane was certain that she was being watched. And judged.

      She made her way downstairs, and when she reached the lower level, she noticed that the velvet curtains were drawn and that laughter was coming from the theater section of the Gilded Lily. She turned and saw that there were still a few diners at the tables and a mix of locals and tourists at the bar; she assumed the locals were the men in work wear rather than the designer jeans and denim shirts or T-shirts and cutoffs the tourists tended to wear. Women, of course, were harder to peg. Several wore casual dresses and others were in pants or jeans and T-shirts.

      She sat at a table that she thought must be in Liz’s station, since she was delivering food to a family at a nearby table. She was right. As she studied the menu, Liz breezed by with a smile. “Hi, glad you came down! Okay,” she said, lowering her voice, “I don’t suggest the fish. We have farm-raised tilapia and it’s kind of blah. Are you a vegetarian? We do a cheese and broccoli risotto that’s absolutely delicious. But, hey, we’re in meat country. The beefalo is pretty darned good, either as a steak or in a burger. And then, of course, there’s Tex-Mex. We have excellent fajitas, tacos, burritos...”

      “The risotto sounds great,” Jane said.

      “Oh, you are a vegetarian.”

      “No.” Jane shook her head. “It just sounds good for tonight.”

      Liz was going to give her the full list of wine choices to complement her meal but Jane didn’t think she wanted her perceptions dulled in the least that night. “I’ll have an iced tea, thanks.”

      “Sure thing!” Liz said. “Be right back. Oh, take a peek at the show if you like—just slip through the curtain. We’ve all been told that you have free rein of the place and to make you as happy as we can.”

      “That’s really nice. Thank you,” Jane told her.

      Liz grinned and hurried off, and Jane decided to check out the show. As she stepped through the divide in the curtain, she saw that there was a full house and moved to the side to hover in the background.

      “Oh, no, oh, no! What shall I do, what shall I do?” Valerie Mystro was crying out as Jane entered. Valerie was tied to the train tracks on the stage, struggling against the ropes that held her there while a train whistle sounded in the background.

      “I’m coming, my heart, I’m coming!” Cy Tyburn cried in return. He’d been tied to the old stagecoach across from the tracks.

      “Save her! Save her!” someone from the audience called out enthusiastically.

      Cy stopped and looked at the audience, arching his brows. “Well, duh!” he said, bringing a rise of laughter from the crowd.

      Jane laughed herself as he tried to drag the stagecoach toward Valerie.

      “The knife!” Valerie shrieked.

      “The knife?” Cy asked.

      “The one strapped to your ankle, idiot!” someone yelled from the audience.

      “Oh, yeah...yeah!” Cy said.

      The play was ridiculous, Jane could see, but tremendous fun, and the audience seemed to love it. Cy cut himself loose, then ran over and freed Valerie as the audience urged him on.

      Valerie spoke loving words of appreciation, while he gazed into her eyes adoringly. The two ran offstage together just as a train pulled out from behind the curtains. Alice, in full vamp mode, was standing in the front of the locomotive, hissing as she saw that she’d lost her victims. The audience booed her until she stepped down, played with them, telling them she was really a good girl caught in terrible circumstances. Then she launched into a musical number in which she told the audience why everyone should love a vamp. Watching, Jane smiled. It was a cute show, suitable for all ages. The physical humor had broad appeal and the sets were impressive.

      She felt a tap on her shoulder. Liz had come in to get her.

      “Take your time, but your food is on the table,” she said cheerfully. “And,” she whispered, “all hell breaks loose when the show lets out!”

      Jane whispered a thank-you and watched a few more minutes of the show. As Alice’s musical number ended, Cy Tyburn, naive and innocent hero, came back onstage. He tried to warn Alice about the evil machinations of the villain, Brian Highsmith, and Alice listened with wide-eyed adoration. They shared the number “You Make a Bad Girl Even Better at Being Badder.”

      It was clever, and Jane decided that the next night she’d make a point of seeing the whole show. She quietly left the theater and returned to her table. A metal cover had been placed over her plate to keep her meal warm and, as she lifted it, she glanced at the stairs.

      A woman was standing on the upper landing, her hand resting on the stair rail. She was dressed in late-Victorian attire, in a dark green travel suit with a slight bustle and a tailored jacket over a high-buttoned blouse. A green hat was worn at an artistic angle, her dark hair neatly tied at her nape. Her facial