15
Griffin and Jackson had gone on to the hospital; as impossible as it had seemed, fire rescue had moved in, gotten the folded and twisted body of Gail Holbrook out of the small box—and discovered that she was alive. Her pulse had been faint; her air so nearly gone. Had they been as much as another five or ten minutes in finding her, one of the young EMTs had told them, she wouldn’t have made it.
“As it is, she’s got a dislocated shoulder, cracked ribs...not sure what else,” he told them. “Maybe it’s a darn good thing she was knocked out cold—and, as far as I can tell, she didn’t regain consciousness. If she’s lucky, she’ll never remember how she was in that box.”
Forensic crews were going over the scene.
With all the commotion, Vickie was afraid she’d be in the way. She knew the cop assigned to her—same guy she’d had the day she’d met the kids at Mario’s after they had gone to the Paul Revere house. He was young and sharp and she thought he seemed good at his job.
Griffin, of course, had wanted her to stay with him, telling her that she was making him one hell of a liar.
Truth was, as much as she wanted to be with him, she needed time alone. She wanted to go back over what she’d read about the murders in the south side in the late 1800s. And, she hoped maybe, if she was alone, the ghost of Darlene Dutton might appear again.
The cop accompanied her into her apartment; as Griffin always did, he went through the apartment room by room, and reminded her to lock the door once he was out. She thanked him and did so.
When he was gone, she headed for her desk—but then veered into her room, finding nightclothes and heading on into the shower. The street had been dusty and dirty, and the fall of steaming water was delicious.
She half expected the ghost of Darlene Dutton to appear in the mist of the bathroom after her shower.
Darlene did not.
Refreshed, she headed out, made tea and went straight to her desk.
Vickie logged on to the internet and looked up the pages that had been written about the notes in the diary of the nineteenth-century cop, Joseph MacDonald. Only two people had actually been mentioned by name—Mary, the prostitute. Flannigan, the day laborer. Then, of course, he’d talked about the doctor who had just disappeared.
She was actually reading over the notes when she noticed she had messages on one of her social websites. Some were from friends, a few were from her Grown Ups kids.
The notes from the kids were nice—they were mostly thank-yous.
But there was another note, and that one excited her. It was from Alex Maple.
“Hey. Alex Maple here,” it read. “Would love to meet with you.” He’d left a phone number.
She drummed her fingers on the table. It was late now; she figured she’d call him first thing in the morning. She wrote a note back to that effect. There was no reply. Morning would be good. She wasn’t even sure what she could glean from him. The murders had happened so long ago. The dead were in the hands of scientists; they would receive decent burials. Eventually. They couldn’t be avenged; it was far too late.
They knew George Ballantine’s ancestors had lived near the Pine house. They knew Bertram Aldridge had come from the area. The police had positively cleared Pine himself of wrongdoing. What else could they learn?
She wasn’t sure.
But as she stared at the screen, she felt a presence, and she turned. Darlene Dutton was there. She appeared more solid than she had on the street.
“Hello,” Vickie said very softly.
Darlene nodded, a sad smile on her lips.
“You saved her,” she said softly.
“Darlene, were you there? You were right—we wouldn’t have found her without you, you know,” Vickie told her.
“I’m so glad to have helped!”
“But how did you know where she was? Did you see them put her there?”
“I only saw the man leaving.”
“What did the man look like?” Vickie asked, hopeful.
But Darlene shook her head. “He was wearing blue, I know that. Blue jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt. The same sweatshirt every tourist in town seems to wear. I didn’t see his face. I didn’t even see the color of his hair, and I didn’t know what he was doing at first. I had come to the corner... I guess I was there because I had loved the Paul Revere house so much. And when I saw you... I figured you knew the woman was somewhere near and I’d seen the guy there, and those cement things looked so much like pustules... But I couldn’t seem to stay. I couldn’t seem to speak. I’m so glad you found her. So glad.”
There was a knock at Vickie’s door. Darlene immediately began to fade.
But it wasn’t a hard knock; it wasn’t a real knock.
“Darlene, please, please stay. It’s Dylan. Dylan, come on in!” Vickie said.
And Dylan appeared. For a moment, the image of Darlene faded.
Then it solidified.
“Vickie, they thought my dad did it! Okay, so I know he strayed. But...you know? Thank you! They made up tonight. I mean, I didn’t hang around for the whole thing, but you should have seen my dad. I never saw him so humble in my life! So good to my mom, really. And she’s the best person in the world. She forgave him.” He suddenly seemed to realize that Darlene was in the room. “Hi, Darlene,” he said softly. “Did you know anything, did you see anything?”
Darlene managed another sad smile. She repeated what she’d told Vickie, and Dylan listened gravely.
“Ah. But Vickie, my dad told a cop what the strange woman—June Jensen—looked like. It sounds as if she may be involved.”
“Maybe. I know the police have another person who knew her. Between the two images, it’s likely they’ll get something useful!” Vickie said.
“I’m going back to my house,” Dylan said. “I just wanted to check on you. I’m not ignoring you, Vickie, I swear. It’s just that my family...”
“You do need to watch over your family, Dylan. Noah—Noah needs you now,” Vickie said. She smiled. Her ghost was apologizing to her for not “haunting” her. Nice.
Dylan stretched out a hand to Darlene. “Want to come with me? We’ll just check up on my house and then maybe, if you can, walk around the area. See if we can find anything that might help as well.”
Darlene looked at Dylan’s hand for a minute. “I’m not... I’m not good, like you are, at staying...at staying around,” she said.
“You’ll learn. You’re really great!” he told her.
Darlene took his hand.
Dylan looked at Vickie again.
“I’m okay. Go.”
The two of them seemed to dematerialize as one. She smiled, watching them go. She rose, and as she did so her phone rang.
It was Griffin, telling her he was just outside.
She ran to the door and let him in, looking at him anxiously.
“Gail Holbrook is hanging on,” he told her. “They’re pretty sure she’ll survive. She’ll be in a few casts, but she’s not in a coma—just heavily sedated. It will be a while before we can talk to her.”
“But she is hanging in.”
“Yes.”
Vickie threw her arms around him. He pulled her to him and held her tight.
They were still so new...
She couldn’t just be held. She kissed him. And touched him.
“You smell deliciously like a summer’s day,” he told her. “And I’m a mess.”
“And I don’t care,” she said.
“I can shower.”
“Tonight, that will take too long,” she said.
And it would. She slid out of her robe and tee with his help, turned her hands to his clothing, pausing to walk backward to the bed, kissing him in between steps, feeling his hands on her, so seductive in their need.
As always, he paused to carefully place his gun and holster down.
Then he crushed her to him, still half-dressed, and made love while he was still crawling out of his clothing. And only when it seemed they were both assured that they were still touching, breathing, together, did they pause long enough to talk again.
“Dylan came by. He said his dad has been great—he’s very happy. He said the cop came and the sketch was done. I should turn the TV on—they were going to put the sketch out tonight.”
Griffin sighed impatiently.
“What? What happened?”
“Well, we got two sketches, you know. One from George Ballantine—and one from Hank Fremont.”
“Yes?”
“Well, we expected they’d come out very similar. They didn’t. The artists are going back to both men tomorrow. They’re going to try and see if they can make them combine. There are techs down at the station, too, trying to see if the compositions are close.”
“There can’t be two different women using the same name—and using men in the same way, disappearing in the same way!” Vickie said.
“I agree. I’m sure we’ll still have something by tomorrow.”
“By the way, I got a message back from Alex Maple.”
“Who?”
“Alex Maple. The Harvard grad who did a great paper on the old South Boston cop, MacDonald. He’s the one who wrote about the people who had disappeared—those who are probably the victims found at the Pine house.”
“Ah.”
She knew that he was wondering if anything from that far in the past could help. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and pulled her closer to him.
“Can’t hurt to find out what he can tell us,” he said.
“To be honest, he sounds like someone I’d really like to meet anyway—he did some pretty cool research to come up with all the information he did. A lot of people rehash what’s already known in history—he went out in the field and found new information.”
Griffin was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “We’ve really got to be exceptionally careful now—if we don’t get one composite sketch out by the morning, we’ll use both of them. I really believe this woman—this June Jensen—got close to both George Ballantine and Hank Fremont to get closer to the old situation. I think, for some reason in his twisted head, Bertram Aldridge had it out for George Ballantine. That’s why he nearly killed you and Noah in the house. And June Jensen’s affair with George now would have given her all the information needed to get in the house and attack Chrissy Ballantine.” He paused a minute. “Getting close to Hank Fremont meant that she could get closer to you—get information on you. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re coming close to an end—and that scares me. You’ve got to be careful with everything that you do.”
“Hey,” she said, rolling up on an elbow to look down at him. “Not to worry. I don’t try to shake my good cops—I try to buy them cappuccino! I am careful—not afraid or alarmed at having help close at hand. I am careful—you know it. Absolutely careful.”
“I know. But be really hypervigilant, okay? If you meet with Alex Maple, you even want to let the cop on duty join you for coffee or lunch or whatever. Have someone with you at all times.”
“Absolutely,” she promised.
He smiled, reached for her, and pulled her down to him for a kiss. She wondered if—had the time come when they’d been together forever—they might have given in to exhaustion and slept then. Not in a bad way; just in a comfortable sleep-is-necessary survivor way.
But it was all still so new. And so they made love again. And finally slept, and when the sun rose and Vickie stretched her arm across the bed, Griffin was gone.
There was a note on his pillow.
She smiled. It didn’t say “I love you” and it wasn’t accompanied by a rose. The note said, “Hypervigilant!”
And it was accompanied by a time for when they’d meet at a gun range that night, and a P.S.: “Don’t worry. The cop will know the way!”
“Actually, that is an ‘I love you’ from Griffin,” she murmured aloud, and she rose, anxious to get the day going and hopefully meet up with Alex Maple. And, of course, later that afternoon, she’d have her excursion to the New England Aquarium with her Grown Ups group.
* * *
George Ballantine’s June Jensen had a headful of short dark curls, wide lips and blue eyes.
Hank Fremont’s June Jensen had a sleek bob of rich auburn hair. Her mouth was large and generous, and her eyes were dark brown. Fremont’s girl was sketched as wearing a well-tailored shirt and business jacket; Ballantine’s June had on a frilly, low-cut blouse.
“Eyes and hair are easily changed,” Jackson commented. “Here’s the thing—when you put them together on a computer screen, you do have something of the same face shape.”
“I want to see both Ballantine and Hank Fremont again,” Griffin told Jackson. “I want to see what their reactions will be—and if they see the images as the same woman.”
“I have a feeling she’s a chameleon,” Jackson said. “Walking down the street, she can doff a wig and a jacket, and even pop out contact lenses. She’s probably not a redhead or a brunette.”
Griffin let out a sound of aggravation. “So we get the pictures out on the news—and say she may not look like the pictures at all.” He frowned, studying the screen image in which one of the computer techs had tried to combine the pics. There was something about the face shape that seemed familiar to him.
“What is it?” Jackson asked.
“I don’t know—I can’t quite get it. But I think I have seen this woman.”
“Maybe after you’ve seen Ballantine and Hank Fremont again, it will come to you.”
“Maybe. Are you coming with me?”
“Yes, and after, I’d like to go back to the prison again. Aldridge knows something. I know he does. We have to get him to tell us what’s going on,” Jackson said.
Griffin agreed.
They started with the Ballantine house. George was home. He told them he was going to take the week off and stay close to Chrissy.
Chrissy seemed to be happy. While George led the way to the parlor, Griffin was alone with her in the kitchen for a minute.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she asked him quickly in a whisper.
“An idiot? Why?” he asked.
“Forgiving George. They say women should be strong and leave a cheater.”
“Chrissy, ‘they’ haven’t lived your life. Only you know what’s right for you.”
She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek. In truth, he didn’t really understand the underlying psychology of any of it.
Maybe Chrissy was just so glad to believe her husband wasn’t a murderer that discovering an indiscretion meant nothing.
Or maybe she was just a very good woman, understanding both she and George had been through rough times, and marriage was something both parties had to work on. Maybe she was able to forgive—and move forward.
In the parlor, Jackson already had the sketches out, showing them to George Ballantine.
“I thought it was a wig,” George said. He looked at Griffin as he came into the room. “A good wig.” He glanced at his wife, shamed embarrassment on his face. “It was a good wig. It never came off. And, I didn’t say anything. She might have been coming back from cancer treatments, for all I knew.”
They thanked George and moved on to find Hank. He wasn’t at his residence, however, and when they checked in with Roxanne Greeley, she told them when she had called him back the night before, he had already been in bed and said if she wanted, he’d see her that evening.
She sent a text to Hank for them and tried calling; there was no response. But just as they were leaving Roxanne’s, he called back. He was on a service call out in Framingham, but would be happy to see them if they wanted to come to him, or later that afternoon.
They agreed to meet that afternoon; Hank would come to the station.
Jackson spent part of the drive to the prison on the phone, calling Adam Harrison to see they’d have easy access once they got to the prison. The officials there were not fond of making arrangements for a prisoner like Bertram Aldridge to be interviewed.
But arrangements were made. And Bertram Aldridge appeared to be delighted by the visit—though he frowned when he realized that Victoria Preston wasn’t with them.
“We told you she wasn’t coming,” Griffin told the man.
“She’s something, though, huh? I mean, you buffoons and the police never would have found all those women without her, would you? Now, I admit, two died—no, three died—before you were involved. That one in the water... Darlene Dutton. Too fast. Fools. If they’re playing a game, they started out botching it pretty badly. I mean, if your victim drowns right away and no one even believes you have a victim, what kind of masterful planning is that?”
“You know who is doing this,” Jackson said flatly.
“I’m in here. I haven’t had any correspondence—at all—since you clowns came to see me. No, I just get the news. I don’t care what they say or what they try—everyone gets the news,” Aldridge told them.
“But one of the major events was at the Pine house, South Boston,” Griffin said. “Is that why you hated George Ballantine? He had family from the same place, but his family moved on and he turned into a rich and prosperous man?”
Aldridge leaned forward. “His family were cutthroats.”
“What makes you say that?” Jackson asked.
Aldridge leaned back. He started to cross his arms over his chest, but his shackles stopped him. He shrugged and leaned forward.
“I had a great-grandma who used to talk about the old days when I’d stay with her. She remembered the murders from when she was a kid. Said she saw the doctor who disappeared there. He had been a wealthy man, and she was pretty sure he’d been done in because he was rich. He’d brought a whole ton of money—in gold—with him to start up a practice. She believed a fellow named George Ballantine killed him—for the money. ’Course, after, he had to hide the money. But here’s the crux of the thing. Turned out my ancestor was suspected of the crimes and shunned. My ancestor—who didn’t commit murder and sure as hell didn’t wind up with the gold.”
“And that’s why you murdered women with a knife—women who had nothing to do with your past or Ballantine’s past?” Griffin asked.
Aldridge smiled—the look on his face was the closest thing to a glance into pure evil that Griffin had ever seen.
“I murdered women with a knife because it got me off. Because I loved the spill of blood. I loved their screams. I loved looking into their eyes and seeing they knew they were going to die, but somehow hoping until the last second they were not. I murdered women with a knife, Special Agent Pryce, because it was pure, primal pleasure.” He leaned back suddenly. “But I was younger then. The act itself was so important. We learn patience with age.”
“Federal charges can be filed, Aldridge,” Griffin reminded him. “I can see you on a gurney now, a needle in your arm.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The federal government can go after the death penalty. But, it ain’t easy—we both know that. You’ll never connect me,” Aldridge said.
But Griffin was certain he had unnerved the man.
“You get the news,” Jackson said.
“And I think you’ll be surprised quite soon to discover that we are on to one of your people,” Griffin continued.
Now he was certain something in the man’s face changed.
“No, you’re not,” Aldridge said, and then added quickly—too quickly, “Not that I have any people.”
“Well, we’ll see you again, Aldridge,” Griffin said, rising.
“Gotcha!” Jackson said, rising.
Aldridge’s chains rattled against the table. “Assholes!” he screamed after them.
“Yeah, pretty much so,” Jackson muttered as they left. “Though, I wonder what will happen when we post images of our mystery woman. Aldridge gets the news—he’ll see we’re on to something.”
“We can hope. This June Jensen might just be a run of the mill gold digger or user. But I don’t think so. And I think we did get something from him today,” Griffin said.
“What’s that?”
“These killers have moved around. They get what they want, when they want it. They’ve got some kind of decent financing.”
“Which might suggest George Ballantine.”
“Or someone who found the stash that belonged to the doctor killed in the late 1800s,” Griffin said. “Aldridge knew it was there—maybe Aldridge had used some of it. I think we need to head back to the Pine house. Let’s assume, too, the money was in gold or silver. Anyone using it now would have to go very carefully.”
“Or take a loss on the black market.”
“But even then, we’re looking at some nice income—usable income—at today’s rates. The killers have money. They have easy access to a car. They know Boston, because they had to know just the right time to dump the refrigerator with Gail Holbrook in it,” Griffin said. “And, here’s the thing. I believe they’re known in the neighborhood—and no one is surprised to see them when they’re on the Freedom Trail, or around the Paul Revere house—or the Ballantine house.”
“Let’s head on out to find Hank Fremont.”
“Yeah, but let’s get ahold of Barnes right away. I don’t think we should wait. Hank Fremont may be able to help us and we can put up another image after. But for now, let’s move. Let’s get the images—with the police overlay as well—up on the news.”
“I agree,” Jackson said. “Something has to break. They must have made a mistake somewhere, and involving the public now with our mystery woman might help us recognize that mistake.”
“Let’s pray that ‘June Jensen’ herself is the mistake,” Griffin said.
* * *
Vickie met with Alex Maple at a café just outside Faneuil Hall.
She always loved coming there, and since it was both vibrant and historic—originally built in 1742 by Peter Faneuil as a gift to the city—she figured it was a place Alex Maple might like—and where her cop—a man named Justin Hornsby that day—could comfortably sit and enjoy coffee and the beautiful summer’s day as well.
She’d worried about recognizing Alex; she shouldn’t have. No one wore the scholarly nerd look better. He was tall and bone thin and slouched slightly as he walked. His hair was brown and shaggy and fell over one eye.
She wondered if she might resemble a nerdy scholar, too—they looked at one another and said each other’s name carefully as Alex approached Vickie’s table.
She laughed and rose to greet him.
“I was—and wasn’t—surprised when I got your message,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite her. “Naturally, I’ve seen the news and know that the bodies were found at the Pine house. And, of course, I sent what info I had to the anthropologists working on the bodies from the wall. Otherwise, I’ve got to tell you, not too many people get into scholarly papers written about events that may or may not have happened back in the 1800s. But I know your name, of course. We’re about the same age. I was in high school in Brookline when Bertram Aldridge escaped and went after the Ballantine house—with you in it. I looked you up, after you wrote me, of course,” he told her. “I admire the work you’re doing with Grown Ups. And, of course, I looked up your book. Nice style! I haven’t figured out how to convey what excites me in my research without boring people to tears.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’ve got a guest spot at Harvard. I’m hoping for a full-time position.”
“You went there for college—my dad was a professor there.”
He nodded and smiled. “Great teacher. I had him years ago. After looking you up and checking on your books, I figured you had to be his daughter.”
A waitress came. They ordered coffee.
“I’m trying to find out anything else you can tell me about the situation on the south side. The police really did nothing?” Vickie asked.
“I don’t think it was so much a matter of them doing nothing. I think that they had no idea of what to do. Remember, that was way back, as far as forensic science went. And, sadly, a lot of people in the area then were immigrants, many were just traveling through. When they disappeared, there was no bloodshed seen anywhere. They were just gone.”
“You’d have thought the bodies would have smelled. That someone would have known.”
“Farms were still far apart. From what I understand, the Pine family seldom lived on the farm. The odor of manure from the animals must have been strong and maybe some kind of natural substance was used to keep the odor down,” Alex told her. “Anyway, I found something of interest the other night. I was going through papers written by guys who came long before me. I guess some people have been curious through the years. Anyway, a guy named Hugh Belford—Harvard class of ’39—also wrote on the subject. He honed in on the doctor who had planned on opening a practice in Boston on the south side. Doctor Marquette, Alain Marquette. Witnesses said that Marquette treated a Jonah Aldridge when he first arrived in the area, so Jonah Aldridge definitely knew Marquette. When the man’s brother, Robert, arrived in town, he accused Aldridge of killing his brother to steal his money. There was quite an uproar over it all. Apparently, though, he was never arrested and nothing was ever proven. Aldridge was an outcast from that day forward. I don’t know if that helps you any or not.”
“Do you know where the Aldridge home was?”
“Right on Washington. But it was torn down decades ago. I think there’s a building there now that houses offices and shops. Whatever—apparently, Aldridge sure as hell never appeared to be rich. His family would have definitely been considered blue-collar, lower working class. I’m curious. I guess those horrible people somehow knew about the bodies in the wall at the Pine house, but...even so, how do you think that affects these kidnappings and the deaths?”
“The killers are most probably hiding in the throng of Boston’s day-to-day movement,” Vickie said. “But to go from place to place, to manage to get wooden boxes, refrigerators and all, and to get around—they have to have some money.”
“So, you don’t think George Ballantine is involved?” he asked.
“I don’t. But I’m not sure what the police think—or the agents, or if they all think alike. And, God knows, I don’t consider myself an expert. But I do know George and his children—I mean, his son—and I know that his family loves him.”
“Yeah. BTK killer—bind, torture and kill. He was a regular Joe,” Alex reminded her.
“Yes.”
“Oh, of course, here’s something else to think about. We know the Aldridge back then also had a number of children.”
“Yes, but the Aldridge in prison now doesn’t have a family—neither a wife nor children,” Vickie said.
“Doesn’t have a wife—that doesn’t mean a man didn’t have kids.”
“True, and something to think about. Though how we might find an illegitimate child, I don’t know. However, I can suggest that to the people who investigate for a living. They can track down women he was known to have had relationships with. Nonkilling relationships.”
“Who knows? Maybe he did kill the baby mama, just not the baby,” Alex said.
“Good point.”
“Anyway, if you think of anything I can help you with at any time, I’m here.” He smiled. “Actually, I tend to be available. I have a habit of talking too much history. Or hanging around at art galleries. Love art.”
“I have a friend who majored in art at Boston College,” Vickie said. “I should introduce you some time.” Of course, now Roxanne was involved with Hank. Still, people could be friends. “She’s great—works with the kids for Grown Ups, too.”
“Nice,” he said.
They chatted a few more minutes. Vickie wasn’t sure what she’d gotten from him, if anything.
Except, of course, a stronger belief that Bertram Aldridge was pulling the strings.
He must have known about the bodies in the wall at the Pine house.
And, he must have known, too, there was a hoard of gold which had belonged to one of the victims in the wall. It hadn’t been found—that anyone knew about. Of course, this was assuming that one of the bodies in the wall had been the doctor, Marquette, and he’d still had a stash when he’d died, and his killer had hidden at least some of it—afraid to use conspicuous treasure from a dead man.
The nice thing was, she figured, when they did part ways, she’d found a new friend. She liked Alex. They promised to keep in touch.
When she rose to leave, she saw that her cop, Justin Hornsby, was casually folding his newspaper and rising, too.
She headed toward her apartment, glad to know Justin Hornsby was behind her.
She passed an electronics store and paused. The news was showing from TV screens in a variety of sizes. Two images were shown—sketches of June Jensen.
They were then overlaid, shown as one. Though the woman had appeared very different at first, the overlay showed the facial structure—nose, chin, eyes—were shaped very much the same.
Something about the image caused her to frown.
Did she actually know the woman?
Maybe she had seen her on Boston Common, or walking the street—or maybe even in a restaurant. She might have passed her in a ladies’ room, or been behind her in a grocery store line.
She shivered.
Yes, at some point, she had been close to that woman. She recognized something. Something familiar. But it was disturbing. She should know—she should...something.
She just didn’t.
She hurried on; she did have the kids this afternoon, and she was anxious to see Griffin again. Maybe together they could figure out what it was in the picture that seemed so very familiar.
* * *
Griffin called Vickie, determined he’d be in touch with her throughout the day.
She answered cheerfully; she’d met with Alex Maple and her very fine officer—Justin Hornsby—had kept a close watch. He was, naturally, behind her now.
“Do you think you might have learned anything from Alex Maple?” he asked her.
“I think so. One of the victims in the wall—I theorize, at any rate—was a doctor named Marquette. He’d come to Boston with a lot of money. Sam Aldridge way back then was suspected of doing away with him, but there was no body. The money vanished. So—theory—Bertram Aldridge knew about the bodies in the wall and he gave the information through some code via his phone calls and letters that led his killing duo to the money. They’ve used it on this spree of theirs—to get around, probably to buy the clothing and wigs and whatever else this June Jensen has been using. Hey—the image with an overlay—did George or Hank recognize her as the same woman?”
“We haven’t seen Hank yet. He’s late. We did see Aldridge, and, after we spoke with him, we have pretty much a similar working theory,” Griffin told her.
“And then there is this,” Vickie said. “Alex wondered if there might not be an illegitimate child of Bertram Aldridge out there somewhere.”
“I never heard of him having children, but if he had a kid when he was young and no one admitted to it...anything’s possible. I’ll get people looking into it, though that’s a task that could take a lot of investigators a very long time.”
“I know.”
“But your new friend did have a good idea. We’ll get on it. And you—what are you doing now?”
“I’m going to head out to the aquarium. Think my cop will mind if I walk?”
“I think you’re talking four blocks, maybe five,” Griffin said.
She laughed softly.
“I doubt he’ll mind,” Griffin told her. “Keep in touch. I don’t like it that we haven’t heard from Hank.”
“Want me to call Roxanne?” Vickie asked.
“We called her. No response.”
“I thought a cop was watching her place. Because of Hank.”
“Yep. He says no one has come or gone. He told me he knocked, but just lightly. She hasn’t done anything wrong—he’s just there to protect her and he thought she might be sleeping.”
“She might have been up all night, worried about not trusting him—or that he could be a killer.”
“There was a shift change, but one officer stayed until the other was at his post. Unless she went through a window, she’s in there, just not answering anyone. I’m going to give her a few more minutes, and then we can start getting worried.”
“I’ll try her. Maybe she’ll answer me.”
“All right. Well, we’re at the station waiting—we’ve got feelers out, trying to search the black market for old gold. And I’ve got blueprints here of the building where the Aldridge family once had a house. Looking for stash sites. Luckily, I have a task force of computer geniuses here, too.”
“They might have moved the money.”
“I don’t know—they might not want to be caught with it. This woman is moving around the city on an assumed name. She doesn’t exist. We’re checking nationwide records, too, trying to find out if she might be using the identity of someone who died, or if she’s just playing it as she goes. I’m going to get back to work. Keep in touch. Please, stay in crowds. Be safe.”
“Don’t worry, I know Officer Hornsby will protect me, even if a beluga whale jumps out of the water.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously—I’ll be in public, well-populated places. I’ll be in a throng of adolescents soon, in a busy tourist spot. I’m going to watch for Officer Hornsby at every turn. And I’ll keep in touch,” Vickie promised.
He hesitated on the line, thinking he should say something. Something more. Something about his feelings for her.
“Hey, don’t forget we’re going to the gun range later.”
“I’m ready!” she assured him. “I’ll call Roxanne and get back to you,” she said. “Griffin, I am worried.”
“If you don’t get an answer, the cop will go right in.”
He hung up and stared at the mountain of papers and architectural plans before him.
Hank had promised to show up. He wasn’t answering his phone, he wasn’t at his residence and he hadn’t gone to Roxanne’s apartment. They’d called his work; he hadn’t reported in since leaving Framingham.
His fingers itched as he held his cell phone. He was ready to break down the door to Roxanne’s if she didn’t respond to someone soon.
His phone rang. Vickie.
“Did she answer you?”
“Yep, she says she’s fine, and she hasn’t heard from Hank.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Sure. See you soon?”
“I’ll come to the aquarium if I can,” he promised.
He hung up still feeling that something wasn’t right.
He stood and walked into the conference room where Jackson and Detective Barnes were also going through records, papers and tip-line info.
“We need an APB out on Hank Fremont. I don’t like this,” he said.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Jackson said.
Barnes nodded. “Consider it done,” he said, rising.
“And,” Griffin added, “Vickie reached Roxanne—but I don’t like it. We need to get into her apartment.”
Again, Barnes nodded. “Consider it done,” he said.
Barnes left the room. “Jackson, you can deal with Hank when he comes in, right? I’m going to head to the aquarium. I don’t like Vickie being alone.”
Jackson didn’t try to tell him Vickie wasn’t alone, or that the BPD officers were among the best in the country and she had one guarding her. Sometimes, the person needed for a particular task was you, yourself.
“I can handle Hank just fine—assuming we find him,” Jackson said. “Go, watch over Vickie.”
“Thanks,” Griffin said.
And he left the station, heading for aquarium.
He was only halfway there in a mass of Boston traffic when his phone rang. It was Jackson.
“They broke Roxanne’s door because she wasn’t responding. She wasn’t there.”
“How could she not be there?”
“She actually went out a window.”
“Okay. I’m getting to Vickie, as fast as I can.”
* * *
Vickie’s phone rang right after she hung up from Griffin.
It was Roxanne.
“Hey, you okay?” Vickie asked her.
“Yes. Are you headed for the aquarium? You have your kids there today?” she asked. “I’m on my way to join you.”
“Why aren’t you at your apartment? You should be with your protective detail!”
“I wasn’t sure they were really protecting me. I—I’m scared. I need a friend. I’d feel better with you.”
“Roxanne, I’m really angry with you! That was crazy—you had people watching you!”
“I need you—I need a friend!”
“All right, all right, but you be careful, and you get with me now, okay?”
“Yes. Right away.”
“Where are you now?”
“Faneuil Hall area. I’ll head back to our favorite coffee shop.”
“Great—I will be there as quickly as possible and I’ll find you,” Vickie said and hung up.
Her phone rang again almost immediately. She thought it was Roxanne, calling back, maybe with a change of heart. If not Roxanne, Griffin.
If not Griffin, her mother.
But it was none of them. The voice on the other end of the line was young and hushed; scared, Vickie thought.
“Miss Preston, it’s Cheryl. Your Grown Ups student, Cheryl Taylor.”
“Hey. What’s wrong? Are you not going to make the aquarium today?”
“I don’t know. I really need to talk to you. Please, can we meet somewhere?”
“Where are you now? I was on my way to the aquarium, but I’m pretty early. I’m by Faneuil Hall.”
“I’m in the cemetery.”
“Cemetery?”
“Yes, people here, but it’s quiet, I can be alone...there’s a cop following you, right? Or that handsome Fed. I mean, you’re okay, right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Who are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know... I’m hanging around here, at the Granary.”
“It will take me a few minutes. But yes, I have a cop. And yes, I’ll come to you. Stay put.”
She turned and waved to Justin Hornsby—letting him know that she was changing directions. As she walked, she called Roxanne and told her where she was going and why.
“Poor kid is probably in trouble. Maybe the wrong guy,” Roxanne said. “I’ll head for the Granary instead of the cemetery.”
“I don’t know who to worry about more.”
“I’ll be okay. I promise. You get close to me. Please. Then I’ll hover and you can nod when you see me, let me know if you need time with her alone, or if maybe I can help.”
“All right. Stay safe!”
The aquarium was actually a much shorter walk.
She thought about Cheryl Taylor and thought it maybe had something to do with either Hardy Richardson or Art Groton. Both boys liked her—that was obvious. But she was a very pretty girl with her tiny, sexy body and vivacity. Hardy liked to flirt and say wild things; Art was quieter, gazing in wonder at her all the time. Had they gotten into a fight over her? Or had one of them threatened her?
She knew, of course, that sometimes those from abusive homes or situations could lean toward being abusers in return. Unless, of course, the cycle was broken.
She hurried around the Old State House and on to Court Street and then around the corner to head for the Granary Burial Ground. Turning back, she smiled and waved to Justin Hornsby.
He waved back. She didn’t know why he didn’t just walk with her.
When she reached the cemetery, she didn’t see Cheryl at first. She walked around the old slate graves and marveled at the age of the cemetery, the air of nostalgia, sadness and history about it. She was ready to call Cheryl back and ask where she was when the girl stepped nervously from around a tree. “Hey!” she said to her softly.
“Hey. There’s a bench over there. Want to sit?”
Cheryl nodded nervously. “Where’s your cop?”
“Right back there,” Vickie said. She pointed around the graves, smiled and waved at Justin Hornsby. He smiled and waved back.
Cheryl let out a long sigh. “He’s going to kill me,” she said.
A sudden loud scream erupted. Both Vickie and Cheryl leaped up and looked toward the street. There had been a tremendous crash—a car had veered around another car and slammed into two others. People were screaming.
“What the hel—heck?” Vickie murmured, automatically remembering Cheryl might use any language herself, but an adult should be careful.
“A baby carriage! There was a baby carriage in the road.”
“Come on—let’s get closer. I don’t see Officer Hornsby now. He’s probably moved out to see if someone needs help,” Vickie said.
“No, no, come back...we have to stay back! He’ll see us. He’s going to kill me!”
“Who?”
At that same moment, Vickie saw Roxanne a few rows away in the cemetery. Her friend lifted a brow to her, looked toward the street, and shook her head.
Then, Roxanne seemed to pale, going dead still, staring.
Vickie whipped around again.
Hank Fremont was also at the cemetery, heading toward her. He paused, seeing Roxanne was a distance across the ancient stones and sarcophagi.
“Come on!” Cheryl said, grabbing her hand and heading through the stones. “Come on, please.”
For a moment, Vickie was pulled along at Cheryl’s impetus. Then she stopped. Roxanne was there. And Hank had been going after her.
Cheryl tugged back on Vickie’s hand. “Vickie! We need to go to the crowd, and I have a friend back there and...” She turned.
Hank and Roxanne were together. Walking toward her and Cheryl.
“Come on!” Cheryl said. “Now, run!”
“Wait!” Vickie protested.
Maybe Hank was a killer.
She hadn’t seen him in years. She’d known him as a kid in high school—she did not know the man he had become.
She did know Roxanne. Her best friend.
Something wasn’t right.
Suddenly they were behind a maintenance vehicle. “Down!” Cheryl urged.
Though wary, Vickie ducked low, then looked around the big dusty vehicle. She gasped; Roxanne was screaming, falling to the ground.
But Hank wasn’t hurting her. Hank was prone on the ground as well.
“Oh...” Cheryl murmured. “Look! He got them—he got them!”
And as she looked, Vickie saw a man running toward them.
It was Hardy Richardson. Vickie gasped, starting to rise. It was all getting too crazy.
Hardy was there? Hardy had just saved them from... Hank?
But Cheryl’s next words startled her; they didn’t fit.
“Hardy! You can’t kill me—I don’t care what he told you! You can’t kill me. Look, I got her for you! See, I got her for you.”
“It might as well be Grand Central Station here!” Hardy spat out furiously. “And you went to her for help. You made it look like it was all me.”
“What the hell?” Vickie demanded. She did not adjust her language that time. She stared at Cheryl.
Then she knew. Take away the schoolgirl hair and switch up a few things and...
Cheryl was the woman in the sketch artist’s renderings. And looking at her now...
It was always so hard to tell a young woman’s age. Cheryl was so petite, but...
Maybe she wasn’t just seventeen!
“No, no,” the girl said.
But even as Vickie looked at her, she saw Hardy moving out of the corner of her eye.
He was gripping a piece of an old marble tombstone.
And it was coming down on her head.
* * *
Griffin discovered Vickie was not at the aquarium. Most of her high school kids were there, waiting.
The minute she didn’t answer her phone, his instincts went on alarm. He didn’t have to try to reach Officer Justin Hornsby. Hornsby dialed him.
“The cemetery. There was a crash in the street. People screamed—I thought someone was near death. I turned and she was gone. She was just meeting a kid, Special Agent Pryce. She was just with one of her kids...”
Griffin was pretty sure he swore. “You’ve lost her. Where?”
“At the Granary.”
Griffin didn’t wait for more. He left the aquarium. He ran. His car was there, but the Boston traffic was jammed.
Running was faster.
He made it in a matter of minutes. Cop cars were there already, but it was a scene of mass confusion; they were dealing with the accident on the street.
He raced into the cemetery, shouting Vickie’s name. And as he made his way through the stones, he nearly tripped.
Over the prone body of Hank Fremont.
And at his side, hand in hand with him, was Roxanne Greeley.
He hunkered down, feeling for pulses. Both were alive. He saw blood dripping down their foreheads; residue of broken tombstones mingled with the blood.
He rose, shouting for help. Officer Hornsby pushed his way out of the street crowd and jumped over a barrier to come running toward him.
“Get help for them—get an ambulance,” he said.
Hornsby was on it immediately—he yelled into the street, demanding EMTs on the double.
Griffin rose and looked around the cemetery. He hurried around slate and marble stones, death heads and sarcophagi.
His phone rang. Jackson.
“It’s the kid, Griffin. One of Vickie’s so-called girls. She’s using the identity of a dead teen from Worcester County. They just found her body in a weir last night. The real Cheryl Taylor. Watch out for the girl. It’s got to be her and Hank.”
“Vickie’s missing, Jackson, I’m here, where she disappeared. Granary. It’s not Hank, Jackson. Hank is on the ground with his head bashed in. Along with Roxanne Greeley. It’s only been a matter of minutes. I’m combing the cemetery. She has to be here somewhere.”
“I’m on my way.”
There was a maintenance vehicle parked up against a section of tombstones.
Griffin hurried to it.
There was a woman on the ground. His heart froze. Her head was so matted with blood that he had to stoop down...
He turned her over.
Not Vickie.
It was Cheryl Taylor.
Or the woman who had claimed to be Cheryl Taylor, teenager. And June Jensen adult.
Her eyes, glazed, stared up at him.
She was dead.
* * *
Vickie awoke with a searing pain in her temple. For a moment, all she could feel was the pain. And then she realized the darkness, and, when she tried to move, realized she couldn’t. She was in a tight space.
She was in a box.
A coffin-like box.
But she could hear something.
Like dirt being shoveled over her.
“You’re an ass, Hardy!” she shouted. “This time, they’re going to get you. They’ll find you and Cheryl or June or whatever the hell her name is. And, guess what? They’re going to see to it you get a needle in your arm.”
The noise stopped. She felt a shift, as if someone had lowered himself right over her.
“Guess what?” Hardy asked.
“What?”
“They are going to get Susan. Oh, that’s her real name. Susan. Susan Malloy.” He laughed. “And she’s twenty-three. All grown up. And she was good—for a while. But women! Who can trust them? They can be the worst! That brat was going to tell you it was all me. That I forced her into sleeping with men for information and I raped her and subjugated her and she was afraid for her life and all that rot...biggest pile of bull anywhere! Want to know where we met? Wait, don’t answer, save your air. We met through my dad. You know my dad. Bertram Aldridge. She was one of those women in awe of a prisoner like him. She was his fan, yeah. Sicko herself. Who do you think came up with the idea of burying people or shutting them into things, huh? She liked the torture of it. She liked to bet me just how long someone could stay alive. Oh, and she was the jerk who threw the first girl into the water. What a fiasco. I mean, torture? She wasn’t tortured long. She had to have died pretty quick. But hell, the newspaper even ignored us then. We had to be more careful next time. And then, there you go! Two dead women and someone finally starts paying attention to the clues. Thing is, I didn’t even care about Chrissy Ballantine. That one was really for my dad. Did you know that a Ballantine killed people years ago—and look at George Ballantine now! A pillar of society. A rich man. People were murdered for all that gold. Well, about half of it, anyway. We got the rest. When Dad broke out years ago, he knew he probably couldn’t get to George himself. But he could do worse—he could kill his other kid. Use the kid, maybe, to find out if that gold was still around—hadn’t figured out where it was yet—but he could make George give it to him...and then kill the kid. That’s the worst torture in the world, so I’ve been told. My dad told me. Said it was torture that my mother had lied about having me—she tried to tell him that there was something wrong with him, so she kept his baby from him! Go figure on that. But...ah, well, I may not be able to get that FBI agent, but killing you will be torture for him, right?”
“How did you do it all?” she asked.
“Dad was a great teacher. Hit ’em, and hit ’em hard, first. Then they don’t scream. And, while it lasted, Susan was good. Cheryl. Susan-Cheryl-June,” he said laughing. “But you see, I hit her more than hard. I gave some damned good whacks to those friends of yours, too. They never saw me coming. They’ll have no idea what happened. Well, of course, they didn’t know me to begin with. Hey, it will be pretty cool if they keep thinking your old pal Hank is the culprit! God! Was it fun watching them. And now, wow. They won’t have you. You were the one who kept solving the puzzles. You know, they all came from stuff you taught us—stuff we learned on your excursions. Figured if anyone was going to get the clues, it would be you. But alas...oh, alas! Now they have to find Vickie—without Vickie’s help!”
Earth; she could smell the earth all around her.
“One might have thought you had divine help.” Hardy laughed softly. “If I believed in divine help.”
“Better watch out!” Vickie said. “There is divine help. Darlene Dutton. She’s the first girl you killed. She’s still walking the earth. She helped me find Gail Holbrook last night. I do have divine help.”
“Oh, Miss Preston. I’m trying to be respectful, but really—blow it out your ass! Whoops—don’t! Save all the air you have, wherever it might be.”
“And the FBI agents, Hardy. They found Angelina Gianni because the ghost of her mother came to help.”
Air...she would run out of air. She was in a box, and he was burying her. They’d been in a cemetery, but...
There had been commotion everywhere by the cemetery. He couldn’t be calmly burying her there. How had he gotten her out of the graveyard?
And had he killed the woman named Susan whom she had known as Cheryl?
What about Roxanne, and Hank?
What about breathing...?
She did need to quit talking. But what the hell could she do? Could she scratch and claw her way out of the dirt—wherever this dirt might be?
She felt the ground shifting again.
He was rising. She heard the weird sound of him throwing dirt on the coffin again.
Then he spoke once more.
“Don’t worry, baby. We’ll see how good your FBI guy is. The papers will have received the clue about you. And, I won’t be worried, though I really doubt he’ll get it. I’ll be gone—got all the fake papers I need. I’ll be on an island somewhere, soaking up the sun and some good tequila. And I’ll find me a new Susan/Cheryl/June. I’ll write! Oh, wait. No. I’ll send flowers now and then.”
Laughing, he rose. Vickie could barely move.
She had to! she told herself.
Had to move, had to fight, now. He couldn’t have sealed the box well. He wouldn’t have had the time.
Use her strength and her air carefully, very carefully. Think about the situation, how to twist, get her limbs in position...
How to live.
* * *
Griffin, along with Jackson, Barnes and a horde of officers, went over the cemetery, foot by foot.
A witness remembered a man supporting a woman out of the cemetery to a car.
Another remembered it as well. The woman had been crying or hurt, but the man had seemed to have it all in control.
The car was a Buick, one man said.
No, a Chrysler.
No, a Ford.
It was blue; it was black. No, it was a deep green.
With every minute that passed, Griffin fought to keep from growing frantic.
Then they received the call from the newspaper. The clue was in.
Remember last night!
The Puritans, raw, the physician in chains.
The teacher is taught, poor lady, distraught.
What will you find?
Just the remains.
“What the hell?” Barnes said, disgusted.
Griffin stood there, tense, torn and thinking. “The physician,” he said. “We thought that the long riddle referred to Zabdiel Boylston last night. But...pustules...the road, the place. Puritan—he used Cotton Mather last night. Tonight, Zabdiel Boylston. He drove away. Drove somewhere. With all this going on.”
“She’s not here—not in the ground here,” Jackson said.
Griffin felt something. A light touch on his arm.
He turned; it was the ghost of Darlene Dutton. She began to fade almost immediately.
But Dylan was there.
“She saw them leave. She knows who it is—it’s Hardy. Hardy, one of the other so-called kids in the group,” Dylan told him. “She heard him muttering to Vickie, as if she could hear him. Talking to her, even though she was out cold. He was heading for Brookline.”
“Brookline,” Griffin said aloud. “She’s going to be somewhere near the grave of Zabdiel Boylston.”
* * *
“Stop that! I’m running out of time!” Hardy told her. She could hear his voice again, even though there was more dirt between them now.
But she had gotten her arms and hands wedged up in front of her chest.
And her wooden coffin hadn’t been sealed.
She was able to push at the wood.
But he was still there; still shoving dirt on her.
“Save your air, you idiot. Hey, I gave him a good clue. And if you happen to push through, it’s going to be all over for you. I have a knife, too. I’m not my father’s child for nothing, Miss Preston. He told me how to cut and hurt—and how to cut and kill.”
She paused for a minute.
“Yep, give them time. I gave them a good clue. I play a game fair, Miss Preston. But if you’re not good, I won’t have to abide by the rules. Should have hit you harder. I did want to give you a chance to wake up, though.”
She held still, listening, waiting.
And she realized that it was becoming harder and harder to breathe.
Dirt was falling on her from cracks in the wood. If he kept going she was going to be smothered by the weight atop her and the earth filling the coffin.
And her head was still pounding, a horrible, sharp pain that managed to throb as well...
Wait? Pray?
Asphyxiate in the earth...
Or die in a sea of blood.
* * *
Griffin was ahead of the others, out of the car as if he was the fictional Flash. He’d used the time riding in the car to study the cemetery map.
He knew right where to find the grave of Zabdiel Boylston.
Of course, the killers had used a natural degradation of the earth to bury Barbara Marshall.
In an old cemetery, that could be anywhere. And now the light had waned.
He leaped over old slate stones and monuments, running hard. And then he saw a light; just a pinprick.
It was Hardy. He was still there, standing over the grave. He was using a flashlight.
Griffin’s heart was thundering.
He ran and dodged the old stones and the trees with their branches as gnarled as old bones.
And then, he almost stopped.
There was a sudden explosion of earth and a splintering of wood. Like some kind of an avenging angel, Vickie was bursting out of the earth, out of the ground that would have been her grave.
And Hardy was screaming—furious. Kicking at her. And raising his hand. Griffin saw in the pinprick glow of the flashlight the man was holding a knife. And Vickie wouldn’t have the power to fight in any way, to stop him.
Griffin nearly flew over the last graves.
He tackled Hardy a split second before the knife could fall on Vickie as she slipped backward, trying to crawl out of the grave.
He rolled with Hardy, slammed a fist against the hand holding the knife.
The young man let it go.
He stared into Griffin’s face, laughing.
He felt the ghosts of Dylan and Darlene Dutton coming up behind him.
He resisted the temptation to kill.
But he slammed his fist against the laughing jaw of Hardy Richardson.
Jackson ran to the scene, followed by Barnes and more police officers. EMTs rushed forward with them as well.
He left Hardy Richardson lying on the ground; they would take over.
He rushed to Vickie’s side.
She was covered in dirt. There was blood on her forehead. But when he lifted her into his arms, she smiled at him.
“What took you?” she asked.
“I’m just not as good without you,” he told her.
And she smiled.