3
Chrissy Ballantine appeared dazed—and brilliantly awake.
Griffin wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone so grateful to be alive.
George Ballantine had spent the night in a hospital chair at her side. His tender care for his wife was touching; Griffin had seen couples ripped apart by far less. He wasn’t sure exactly what the statistics were, but he knew couples who lost children often found themselves split apart by their grief, rather than brought closer together.
Not so with George and Chrissy. Maybe Noah had saved them.
“Griffin, Officer Pryce!” Chrissy said, reaching out her hands to him.
“He’s not Officer Pryce now,” George reminded her. “He’s Special Agent Pryce.”
“Whatever his title, a godsend!” Chrissy said.
He stepped close to the bed, taking her hands. “You look well,” he told her quietly.
“Thanks to you,” she said. “And to you, Special Agent Crow,” she added, looking past Griffin to where Jackson waited just inside the hospital room door.
“And, really Victoria Preston,” Griffin told her.
“I know!” she said softly, looking over at her husband. She added in a rush, “I understand that Vickie went above and beyond. George said he gave her permission to take Noah to her apartment for the night and they’ll be back here soon. And that an officer watched over them through the night. I’m very grateful. I’ll never be able to tell you how grateful I am.”
“We need anything that you can remember about yesterday morning, Mrs. Ballantine,” Griffin said. “Anything.”
“I know!” she told him, her smile fading, her voice dismayed. “I don’t know... I mean, I was in the kitchen, taking salad fixings out of the refrigerator. And then... I don’t know! I remember waking up and realizing that I was penned in and it was dark and I could smell wood and oldness and dampness—and I knew I was in the old log pit in the basement. I screamed at first, and I tried to claw my way out and then... No one heard my screams and I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t move and...and then I was here, waking up in this bed, disoriented...”
Neither Griffin nor Jackson had expected much; she’d woken during the night a few times, but been so disoriented they’d left her to the doctors and her husband.
Luckily, Barbara Marshall, rescued from the cemetery yesterday, was in the same hospital.
Barbara had become coherent at about three this morning; they’d spent time with her—and heard the same story. Nothing. Barbara had been slipping a pod into her coffeemaker—that was the last thing she’d remembered.
Both houses had been equipped with alarms.
The alarms had been set; the codes had been keyed in. The kidnapper—or kidnappers—had managed to find the alarm codes and slip into the houses without missing a beat on the codes—or being seen whatsoever.
Griffin pulled up a chair next to Chrissy. He was fully aware that the ghost of Dylan Ballantine was near his mother as well, standing by the bedside table, next to his father.
He was certain that the ghost had stood guard through the night. At the moment, however, he completely ignored the spirit. His attention was for Chrissy.
“You didn’t see anything, and you can’t let that distress you. This person—or these persons—are very good at what they do. And it may take you some time. But what I’d like you to do is think. Try to remember anything at all—especially involving your other senses. Did you hear anything that might have been a little odd? Did you smell anything? A cologne, a soap, anything...?”
He was afraid Chrissy was going to cry. He squeezed her hand. “Please, please, I know it’s upsetting. Just try to think about these things. Something may come back to you.”
She nodded. “Thank you!” she whispered again. “Thank you so much. I can’t believe that you’re here again. I mean, George said he didn’t even recognize you at first. But you were really the one who saved Noah. If anything had happened to Noah, I wouldn’t have wanted to live. A wood pit grave would have been a blessing!” she said softly.
“Chrissy,” George said, sounding anguished.
“Mrs. Ballantine, I was the beat cop who happened to be on the street at the time,” he told her. “But I’m grateful to have been there.”
“Of course, of course, and now you’re back,” she said.
“Yes, he’s back,” George said.
“The FBI was called in to help. I know Boston, so I was a natural to take the case,” Griffin said.
“Boston has its own FBI office,” George said gruffly.
“We’re part of a special unit,” Jackson said. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, but he had obviously listened to every word that had been said. “We deal with riddles and puzzles and cases that have strange elements regarding them.”
“So far, this has all been in Massachusetts,” George muttered. “But I suppose we’re lucky we have the FBI in on it, right?”
“You have good cops, too, sir,” Griffin said. “But we’ve been assigned—and the more officers working a case like this, well, the better.” He smiled at Chrissy. “We won’t stop until we know the truth.”
“The truth is that we were targeted. And, we were probably targeted because of Vickie!” George announced, emotion in his voice.
“George!” Chrissy remonstrated. “You let Noah go with her last night,” she reminded him.
“Her—and a cop!” George said firmly.
“Victoria Preston was very nearly the victim of a horrendous crime. She got out of your house with your child. I was there, remember?” Griffin said, trying to control the growing anger he felt. “Vickie was just the babysitter. Your house might have been targeted. Noah might have been the targeted one—just as Chrissy was targeted now.”
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful!” George said. He suddenly rose, agitated, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m upset. Does anyone but me not think it’s crazy that Vickie was named in the clue when my wife disappeared? It has to be that Bertram Aldridge. He’s involved, somehow.”
“Naturally, sir, the Bureau and the police have been exploring that angle,” Jackson said flatly. “But Aldridge remains in maximum security.”
“He should have died!” Chrissy said suddenly. “He should have been hanged or burned or electrocuted or given a needle or gas or whatever they do now in death penalty states. If he had died, those other poor women might still be alive.”
Everyone was silent for a minute.
Griffin realized everyone there was struggling with morality—and truth. Men did get out of prison—even maximum security prisons. Too often, they killed again. In the situation years ago, Aldridge had aimed to kill.
If he had died that day, would any of this be happening? But Aldridge was still safely locked away in prison and could not be guilty of kidnapping and murder.
“They used the name Preston in the clue,” George said. “And Victoria Preston was at our home when that maniac Aldridge broke in.”
Griffin swung on him, got his temper in check, and said politely. “Yes, sir. When that maniac Aldridge broke into your home. And, now, sir, your wife was taken. Perhaps you need to think about what you might have done in your past, Mr. Ballantine. What it is you might have done that has attracted psychotic killers?”
* * *
Vickie’s mom had implored her to stay at their apartment with Noah.
But she didn’t want her own parents involved any more than they already were.
She also wanted time alone with Noah.
He was extraordinary for a nine-year-old boy. And yet, as she packed him up for the overnight stay, she discovered that he was still, despite everything, at heart, a child.
They didn’t want to bring too many things, but they looked for his Thor pajamas and collected a number of his superhero action figures along with a box of Lego bricks and, for good measure, his tablet.
He’d read every one of the Harry Potter books, and enthusiastically assured her that he was a massive fan of Rick Riordan.
She wondered if he was enchanted by superheroes, magic and mythology because he knew he was unusual. While he didn’t have extraordinary powers, he did speak with his dead brother. In fact, once they were alone in his room, stuffing a change of clothes into his backpack, he told her he considered Dylan to be his best friend. He told Dylan everything. “But,” he told her, “Dylan tells me that you’re really cool, and it’s a sad thing that you moved away because going back and forth wasn’t all that easy.”
“I think he takes the train—for real,” Vickie told him.
“Oh, yeah, he told me that he’d kind of liked hitchhiking at first—just jumping into cars on the road,” Noah said. “But every once in a while, someone would kind of know that he was there. He was afraid that he’d freak somebody out or something and cause an accident. Dylan wouldn’t want that to happen to anyone.”
Dylan had died because of an accident. Vickie smiled and moved on, telling him, “You know what Dylan can do?”
“What?”
“He can push a soda can across the table to me when I ask him.”
“Wow! I’ve never seen him do that!”
“Ask him sometime,” Vickie said, smiling.
She realized that the toddler she had once adored had grown into a great kid. She was glad to be with him.
And glad to share the fact that she saw the ghost of Dylan Ballantine.
The next morning when they reached the hospital, Vickie held back in the waiting room, letting the officers bring Noah to see his mother.
A couple of televisions were on, and Vickie went to stand before one of them. The news was on. The reporter was announcing that FBI and BPD forces had found both of the most recent victims of the Undertaker, an assailant who was kidnapping his victims and leaving them with just enough air to live—or not. They had shots of the old cemetery being dug up and shots of an ambulance. There were interviews with witnesses from the streets, but as yet, no interviews with either Barbara Marshall or her family, or Chrissy Ballantine or her family.
Vickie was staring at the screen as the woman recapped the previous victims of the Undertaker; Angelina Gianna was doing well. Sadly, the first two victims were lost, mourned by their families. And any leads in the Undertaker crimes were being kept close. As far as news sources went, law enforcement was no closer to catching the Undertaker than they had been when the first victim went missing. Everyone was, of course, grateful that Chrissy Ballantine, latest victim, was doing well at an undisclosed hospital; she and her family had been targeted previously by the killer Bertram Aldridge. Thankfully, their young son had survived, especially since the family had already tragically lost one son.
Vickie was staring at the screen, trying to determine if the anchorwoman had been helpfully informative for the public—or if she hadn’t somewhat sensationalized the Ballantine name—when she felt someone behind her.
She turned quickly. One of the policemen who had stood guard over her and Noah was still by the door. She was alone in the waiting room.
Except, she saw, for Dylan.
He threw his hands up in the air. “My parents! Such good people to be so ignorant at times! Oh, don’t get me wrong, Vickie. I love my mom. I’m so grateful she’s alive.”
“Everyone is grateful, Dylan,” she whispered.
“Of course. They’re scared, that’s it. First I die, then you and Noah are nearly killed—and now this. But scared or not. They should think before they talk.”
“So, what is it?” Vickie pressed.
“It is wonderful,” Dylan said, ignoring her. “I mean, you should be with them in there with Noah now. Precious. My baby bro is really great, isn’t he? Smart as a whip. You’d think he was a teenager.”
“He’s very smart—and perceptive,” Vickie said. “So, what—”
“They think you have something to do with the family being attacked again,” Dylan told her.
“What?” Vickie burst out with the word, drawing the attention of the cop at the door. She pursed her lips and lowered her head; she’d learned how not to look crazy by never visibly reacting to Dylan in any way—now she was doing so.
“Everything all right, miss?” the officer called to her.
“Yes, fine, thank you!” she called back, and turned her gaze again before repeating softy but fervently to Dylan, “What?”
“They’re just scared,” Dylan said quickly. “It’s just that you were there when Noah was nearly kidnapped or killed, and then your name...your name was on the clue.”
Vickie could feel the hot red flush that covered her cheeks. “Are they forgetting that I might have been killed that day as well? And that the Undertaker was after your mom—not me?” she asked.
“Vickie, Vickie, please, not you, too. Don’t fly off the handle. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ve never seen you so angry. Not even when I made the pile of books fall over on that one guy you were dating. By the way—he was a jerk. Vickie...”
“I’m sorry, Dylan. Yeah, they’re scared. That’s okay. They’re all together now. I think I’m going to go ahead and go home. Gee. Go figure, I do have to work for a living. I have a pile of books and old transcripts and other things to go through. Noah is fine; your folks are fine. I’m going home,” she told him.
“Vickie, it’s my fault, please, don’t be mad—they’re good people. Honest. My parents are good people,” Dylan said.
“And they’re fine now, and I do have things to do. I’ll see them again soon, I’m sure. I’m not mad.”
“You are mad. You’re wicked mad.”
“Just a little. I will get over it.”
“Vickie...!” Dylan had such a look of distress on his face that she paused.
He’d died as a teenager. He’d never be any older. He’d been a great young man. He always would be. She was sure he’d had no idea of just how deeply he had offended her.
“I’m really fine—I honestly understand,” she said.
As she headed toward the door, the cop stepped into it. “Miss Preston, may I escort you somewhere? Did you want to go down to the cafeteria, or would you like some coffee?”
“Officer, Noah is safe with his parents. Chrissy Ballantine needs her rest. I think I’d like to go home. I have to work,” she said.
She saw him frown. She supposed nothing about her going home had been in his orders that day.
“Please,” she said.
He didn’t have to deal with the dilemma. FBI Special Agent Griffin Pryce came walking into the waiting room.
“Hey,” he said, smiling at the officer and then her.
“I’d like to go home,” Vickie said. She was braced; she expected trouble.
“I hurt her feelings. I didn’t mean to,” Dylan said.
Special Agent Griffin Pryce gave no sign that he heard Dylan speak. “I’m sure that’s fine. It was good of you to take such special care of Noah last night.”
“Taking care of Noah is a pleasure and no hardship,” Vickie said. “But he’s fine now. In with his parents.”
“Of course. I’ll see you there myself, Vickie,” he said.
“Thank you, Special Agent Pryce,” she said.
“It’s all right, Officer Murphy. Thank you,” Griffin told the cop. He indicated the open waiting room door to Vickie; she headed on out.
He joined her in the hallway. “Special Agent Pryce?” he repeated, glancing at her as they headed to the elevators. “We used to be friends.”
“Were we? Not that I mean to be rude or offensive in any way,” Vickie said. “But I’m not sure we were friends. You saved my life—and Noah’s. And then you came to my house and checked up on me a few times. And then I graduated and went to college and never saw you again. Until now. I mean, we’re not not friends, but...you have a very formal job now. I think I’m being rude. Or babbling. I may just be tired...forgive me.”
He wasn’t looking at her as they stepped into the elevator. She thought that he was subtly smiling. “Of course,” he said. “And, you know, of course, that we—the FBI and the police—are indebted to you.”
She waved a hand in the air. “Honestly—I’m so sorry about the other women. The two who died before they were found,” she added softly. “But for me, it’s over now. I just want to go home and maybe have an early glass of wine and start working on some of the materials on my desk.”
“Working at your desk. That’s good. You don’t have to be with your kids today, working for Grown Ups, right?”
She looked at him as the elevator door opened. “How do you know about my kids?”
“Obviously, once your name was mentioned in a clue and it had to do with the Ballantine family? Our office immediately pulled up all kinds of information on you.”
“Great. You thought I was somehow involved?”
“Nope. We just needed to find you. And we did, at your parents’ house.”
She laughed suddenly. “I must be tired. It just now occurred to me how easily you found me. I wasn’t at my own apartment, and my parents have moved since...since that night.”
“We are the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said with a shrug. “It would have been sad if we hadn’t been able to find you. Neither you nor your parents were in hiding.”
“No,” she murmured.
“That’s our black SUV there,” Griffin said, indicating a vehicle that was double-parked.
“You have a driver.”
“At the moment.”
“You have come far.”
“I’m in the right place,” he said simply.
“And, of course, you know where my apartment is,” Vickie murmured.
“Yes.”
“Good. I won’t have to give anyone directions,” she said.
He opened the back door of the big black vehicle for her, and Vickie slid in before he walked around to the other side. He quickly gave directions to the driver.
When they reached the front of her building—another brownstone she had found in the downtown district; she did seem to have a thing for brownstones—he asked the driver to wait.
“I’m okay to go on my own, really,” she told him, surprised. “You must be very busy right now.”
“We are busy, but I’ll see you up. And, for the next few days at least, don’t worry—you won’t have an officer breathing over your shoulder, but you will have a patrol around the building.”
Vickie decided not to argue.
Actually, she wasn’t against some kind of protection.
Although... She hadn’t really considered herself to be in danger! Her name had been used as a clue. It was like sports stars or actors or actresses being used in trivia games...wasn’t it?
Deadly games.
“You’re on the ground floor,” Griffin commented, looking up at the building.
“Yes, I am. Well, almost. The basement rises above the street level a bit, so technically, I’m a bit off the street. And the basement is finished with apartments as well,” she told him.
Vickie didn’t know why she was so nervous as she slipped her key into the main door. She seemed to be fumbling with it. She opened the front door, and crossed the small entryway to her own inner door. It was located to the left of the stairs that led to the apartments on the second and third floors of the old building, two on each floor.
Griffin was still right behind her.
“I’d ask you in, but—”
“I’d love to come in.”
He followed her into her apartment. Once inside, she realized that he was instantly assessing it.
“Alarm system?” he asked her.
“I haven’t been here that long. I’m in a pretty popular area, lots of people—”
“You should have an alarm system. Everyone should.”
“Well, I don’t at the moment...”
He moved through her apartment. It wasn’t small—and it wasn’t especially large. She had a full parlor that stretched into a dining room; the kitchen was visible over the counter that separated it from the dining and living area. There was a hallway that led to her bedroom in the back, and the guest room—which she used as her office—just across from the kitchen.
He didn’t ask permission; he walked through the place.
Back in the parlor, he looked at her and said, “At least you have storm windows and they have sound locks.”
“That was the first thing I looked for when I came up here to rent a place,” she said.
“Really?”
“No.”
He laughed out loud at that; he wasn’t the entirely severe man he had seemed when she had first seen him again at her parents’ apartment. But then, at that time, a woman’s life had lain in the balance.
“Would you like coffee or tea, a drink, soda...a bottle of water?” she asked.
“Coffee would be great.”
“Um, it’ll just take a minute. I like a Hawaiian bean. Is that okay?”
“Whatever.”
“Black?”
“Yep.”
She headed into the kitchen, wondering what had made her ask him to stay. He would have left, gone back to do his job. Then she wouldn’t have seen him again.
It wasn’t as if they had really been...anything. He’d come to see her after the Aldridge attack. He’d been a good cop; he’d made sure she was doing well. He’d wanted to see how she had been dealing with the events that had occurred. And then, he had disappeared from her life.
She’d been an adolescent, of course—not quite eighteen. He’d been in his early or midtwenties. She’d had something of a man-who-saved-me crush on him back then—as had her friends. Griffin Pryce was very good-looking. Tall and broad-shouldered. Great eyes. Great body. Yep, at the time, all of her friends, including Roxanne, had dreamed about him a little, giggling—they’d giggled a lot at that age. They’d liked to tease one another. Imagine love—and sex—with just such a man.
She managed to make coffee without her hands trembling or giving any other indication of where her thoughts had strayed. She prepared herself a cup as well. He took a seat at one of the stools by the counter.
She kept the counter between them, leaning against it from the other side.
She was glad Dylan wasn’t there.
“Other than all that’s going on, it’s really good to see you,” Griffin told her. “You’re doing well?”
She smiled at that. “Define well! I’m happy to be home in Boston. The Cradle of Liberty, and all that. College was great—New York is amazing, too. I enjoy what I do. They aren’t exactly bestsellers, but my history books do okay and... I honestly love the work I’m doing with Grown Ups. So many kids just need a chance, someone to care, someone to open doors in their minds. I hope I make some kind of difference.” She paused for a breath. “I may be answering you with way more than you were asking. You. What about you? I mean, patrolman to agent. Special Agent.”
He laughed. “We’re all ‘Special Agent.’ But I love my unit and I love what I do.”
“You were a good cop.”
“Hopefully I’m a good agent.”
“Obviously, you are. Strange, I’d just finished with the kids when we heard all the commotion over by the cemetery. I’d heard about the other women who were kidnapped, but...that was terrible and unusual, wasn’t it? Two women taken...just hours apart?”
“Strange and very scary. Barbara Marshall was taken at night—Chrissy Ballantine the following afternoon—in broad daylight.” He looked up from his mug, pinning her with his dark eyes from across the counter. “We need to get him.”
“Was Chrissy Ballantine any help? What about the other woman?”
“Neither has been much help—not yet. Chrissy doesn’t remember anything. She never saw her attacker. He came from behind. We’re hoping she’ll get some kind of memory back, think of something.”
“Yes, hopefully. And the other woman?”
“Barbara Marshall. She’s taking a little longer to come around. Hopefully, too, one of them will think of something that might be helpful.”
“Not that I know a lot about forensics, but...what about DNA? Fingerprints? Footprints?”
“Nothing so far. Fingerprints are easily obscured. This person is wearing gloves. Still, we have good teams. Maybe they’ll come up with a hair or a fiber or something that will help. Then, of course, you have to have something to match your evidence to... But we’re on it.”
“Two women died,” Vickie said, remembering the news. “But another one lived, right?”
“Yes, Angelina Gianni, very sweet woman,” he said. He looked at her steadily, sipping his coffee. “Very interesting case. Local police were frustrated and the different cities and townships involved—along with the state—decided it was time they brought in the FBI. Anthony Gianni—Angelina’s husband—believed that he was visited by Angelina’s late mother.”
And was she?
Vickie was so tempted to say the words.
She didn’t.
“And you found her—because of the clues, though, right?”
“We found her,” he said, watching her closely.
“Would you like something to eat?” Vickie asked nervously. “Do you guys take time to eat? Well, you must, of course. But I have the feeling you’re hanging around because you’re worried I’m not all right. I’m fine. Truly. I’m a lot older than when you last knew me. Much steadier! Hey, some of the kids I work with barely made it out of juvenile hall, and they have tales to tell that would make the hair at the back of your neck stand up. I’m good. I’ll be okay, really. Except, of course, I could make you something to eat.”
He was smiling.
Still older, wiser, more experienced. Comfortable with himself. Confident as hell.
“I’m good,” he told her. “They do let us eat.”
She started to speak; she was saved as she heard a buzzing and he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his jacket.
There was no way of telling who he was talking to or what was going on. His responses went from “Pryce, here” to “good” and “I’ll be right there.”
He rose, still looking at her. “Hopefully, we’ll get something soon. I can keep you in the loop, if you want.”
“Please,” she told him.
He was heading to the door. He paused there, looking back.
“There will be a patrolman around your door. If you have any trouble...if you’re frightened in any way...”
“I’ll run out of the apartment screaming blue blazes,” she promised him.
He was about to go out when he paused again.
“You have my number?”
“Number? What? Oh, phone number. No, I...”
“Here’s my card. Please, put it in your phone right away. And call me—that way I’ll have your number in my phone.”
She would have laughed if it weren’t for the rugged contours of his face and the intensity in his dark eyes. No one had ever asked for her number so seriously before.
This wasn’t a pickup line.
He was all business.
“In case you need me,” he said.
“Um, thank you,” she murmured. “But really, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m sure this case is really time consuming and...remember, they do let you eat.” She tried to smile and add a little lightness to the conversation.
She failed miserably.
“I’ll be fine,” she told him.
He was still looking at her.
“But,” she promised, holding the card and her phone. “I’ll put the number in right away. See? Dialing you already.”
He nodded, stared at her a moment longer—thinking God alone knew what.
And then he was gone.
The minute he was out the door, she felt oddly alone.
And ever-so-slightly afraid.
* * *
Taker stood on the sidewalk just down the street from the old home-turned-apartment-building where Vickie Preston lived.
He stood in the shadows, pretending to give his attention to his phone.
He watched as the FBI guy came and went.
He noted the patrolman on the street, keeping careful guard. The patrolman was worrisome, but not too much so.
The FBI guy.
Taker knew all about him. Bizarre that he was back; bizarre that he’d been the cop on patrol duty in the Ballantine neighborhood the night Bertram Aldridge had been caught—and now he was back. No matter; obstacles were just things to be overcome. They were challenges. In fact, he was a good challenge.
Like Victoria Preston and the kid, he deserved to die.
Patience, control and care.
Taker turned and headed down the street. He glanced at his watch. Time was everything; he still had a little time tonight. But time was also put best to use in planning.
He loved the game; the cleverness of the game. Deciding whom to take, and how and when, and finding each nook and cranny where he’d do his hiding. He loved the clues, thinking of just what he wanted to say. So few words, yet each one important.
He wasn’t much on torture. It was the glee that followed a successful maneuver that was the high for him.
No, he wasn’t much on torture, although, of course, there were those who might think that being buried alive was a form of torture...
But, it wasn’t. Not compared to what torture might be!
And in Victoria Preston’s case...
He just might change the game.