“Nothing!” Barnes said, sounding disgusted. “I got nothing!”
Griffin had filled him in about their time at the Quabbin, Vickie’s discovery of the body and their conversation with Isaac Sherman. Barnes had promised to keep up with all the help he could give from Boston, but that what they needed to do was keep it open with Harper—who was state police.
“Sounds like you’re moving toward something out there at least. We’re sitting on a plateau here, so it seems. ‘Gloria’ is doing well enough as far as her health goes, though the doc says she might have done some damage to her organs that will kick back on her when she’s older. But as far as her memory...still nothing. I’ve asked him about bringing in a hypnotist, and he’s agreed, so probably tomorrow, we’ll do something in that direction. Oh, and as you asked, we’ve sent Officer Jim Tracy to Fall River.” He hesitated. “He asked Vickie’s friend, Roxanne, to accompany him. He believes she does an amazing job with portraits. She agreed to accompany him as a police consultant.”
“Okay,” Griffin said. “Well, let’s hope that they can put something together!”
“Let’s hope,” Barnes said. “If we get anything at all, we’ll let you know.”
“Thanks. We’ll attend the autopsy tomorrow. I believe we’ll discover that our victim’s throat was slit. I’m going to speak with your friend, Harper, about getting Brenda Noonan’s remains disinterred. They thought they were looking at a bear attack. Maybe a fresh look will help. Also, I’ll find Frank Sanderson. His daughter disappeared—and then called him and told him to leave her alone.”
“She over twenty-one?” Barnes asked.
“Twenty-three. She was a student at Clark when she came out here to see her dad—and then just didn’t make it back to school,” Griffin said.
“You think she’s dead, too?” Barnes asked.
“No.”
“No?”
“I think she’s in on it. I think that her calling her father helps prove that some people are missing because they choose to be missing. I don’t know what our mastermind behind the whole Satanist thing is doing, but he has a group somewhere out in the woods. And we’re going to find them.”
“Careful—you could have a whole suicide-pact thing going on out there,” Barnes said glumly.
“I know,” Griffin said.
But he was determined to save who he could.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said, and Barnes bid him good-night.
Griffin went back in the house, carefully locking the main door as he did so. He started for the stairs, and then he was aware that someone was standing in the shadows near the passageway between the dining room and the kitchen.
It was their hostess, Mrs. McFall.
“Are you all right, Mrs. McFall?” he asked her, heading her way.
The kitchen light was on behind her; he could see that she was holding a cup of tea, leaning against the doorframe—watching him.
“I’m fine. I was wondering if Isaac had gotten it together to speak with you,” she said.
“Yes, he spoke with us,” Griffin told her.
“I’m so glad you’re here! I’ve had the oddest feeling for the longest time now...”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one, I see strangers on the street sometimes. They’re here for a day, and then they’re gone. And I don’t know why they’re here, except that I think they’re looking for something.”
“And do you know what they’re looking for?” Griffin asked her.
“Call me crazy, Special Agent Pryce,” she said softly, “but I am eighty, and I have lived here a long time, and seen a great deal. I think that they’re looking for people.”
“People?”
“People like Brenda Noonan, Nell Patton or Carly Sanderson.”
“They believe that Carly Sanderson is alive.”
“And she may well be. She may be one of them now.”
“One of them—who?”
“The murderers, Special Agent Pryce, the murderers. You really do need to believe me. I’m not a crazy old lady. I’ve heard about what’s going on in Boston—and I’ve seen what’s going on out here. I’m very grateful that you’re here. You stop these monsters, sir! Somebody is pulling puppet strings. I just don’t believe that they’re bringing fire and brimstone and Satan in the flesh to the forest—but I do believe that there is a flesh-and-blood monster out there, and he’s going to kill until he is stopped.” She paused, setting her cup on the table. “Well, thank you for listening. Good night, Special Agent Pryce!”
She started to walk by him.
“Mrs. McFall?”
“Yes?”
“Please, call me Griffin. It’s a lot shorter.”
She laughed softly. “Okay.” Then she hesitated. “Mona. You may call me Mona. No, never mind. I like being Mrs. McFall!”
He laughed. “Good night, Mrs. McFall!”
She went on up. Griffin followed.
He opened the door to his room, wondering if Vickie had waited up for him, but expecting that she crashed out, was sound asleep and lying curled up on her side of the bed.
To his surprise, she was not.
She was standing beside the bed, facing the windows. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t see him; she didn’t turn as he came in.
“Vickie?” he said softly.
She didn’t respond.
“Vickie!”
He walked over to her. He gently turned her to look at him, and then took her into his arms.
“Vickie!”
She started suddenly, and blinked. For a long moment, she was completely disoriented, staring at him, and then she murmured, “Griffin!”
“Yes, it’s me, Vickie. It’s okay, you were...”
“Dreaming. Griffin, it was so weird! Tonight, the animals in the woods talked. They wanted me to know that the bear didn’t do it.”
“The bear told you that, right?”
“No, a mountain lion. I guess he was speaking for the bear. But there is a connection, I know it—but we can’t become too fixated on the connection. Griffin, they were all in my dream—the beautiful blonde, who I don’t think is the same woman we found in the Quabbin today. She was very tiny. Although, I don’t know. I didn’t actually see that much... Anyway, the men from Fall River were all in the dream. Charlie Oakley, Syd Smith, Robert Merton and Cole Magruder. They were on a log when I walked through, and Syd was talking about misdirection again. We can’t lose focus—we have to concentrate on finding Alex.”
He held her tightly and gently, looking into her eyes.
He understood.
None of them could help the emotion that came with the job—and it was actually important that they never did. There was something horrible that tore at the heart to see what man was capable of doing to man.
And yet, for both justice and a chance to help the living, they had to see the dead.
For them, in more ways than one.
“We’re going to find Alex,” he assured her, gently smoothing back her hair.
She still seemed worried as he held her. He eased back, studying her again. “Are you okay?” he asked her. “I’ve been thinking that you are just too close to this. First, there is the point that Alex is your friend. And then, whoever is doing this wanted you warned away, or something. That’s why Gloria knew your name—why blood was thrown at you. I should call your dad—”
She started to laugh suddenly. “Oh, Griffin, really—you’re going to call my dad on me?”
He laughed, too. “I meant that it might be a lot safer for you right now, joining your parents.”
She shook her head. “You need me, and I’m staying. You’re right. I have a feeling I know what it’s all about, too.”
“You do?”
“At first, I think whoever it is wanted me to stop. To be terrified—and just stop. What was happening in Boston, I think, was to keep people from noticing what was going on elsewhere. If this guy really thinks that he can kill and kill and be ignored, he’s crazy. I don’t think that I need to be frightened, Griffin. I wasn’t physically attacked, not really, not in the sense to hurt me. The blood washed off. If I’m in any danger, it’s because this person may think that if Alex fails, I might find something that he didn’t. We’re back to Jehovah, Griffin. I’ve got to figure out where it was—not vaguely that it was out here somewhere. We have to find out where it really was, and then ruin any possibility of this creature using it for whatever his plan may be!”
She was fierce when she spoke to him, and he nodded slowly. “Okay, but you have to stay close. One of us will always be with you.”
They went to bed. For a long time, he just held her. They both started to drift off to sleep, but then a brush became a touch, and they made love.
Quietly, slowly...
The moon made its way in through the window, and it was beautiful.
* * *
“Vickie!”
The phone rang bright and early—or at least it felt bright and early when Vickie groped for her cell on the bedside table.
Griffin, however, was up and gone; a note lay on his pillow.
“Vickie! Are you there?”
The caller was Roxanne. Her voice was exuberant.
Annoyingly so, since Vickie was barely awake.
“Yes, yes, I’m here. Roxanne. Hey. How are you?”
“I’m great—I mean, really great. Vickie, I know I make a lot of mistakes, and you’re always warning me, and yes, I need to be careful. But—and thank you, because this is all you!—I’m in love!”
“What?”
“I’m in love!”
“That’s truly wonderful. Who are you in love with?”
“The cop, Vickie! The incredible artist cop. Jim Tracy. James Bradford Tracy. He’s so wonderful, Vickie. And shy, even. First, he asked me out for coffee so we could compare our sketches. Then he asked me to dinner. Then he asked me to come with him on this trip,” Roxanne said.
“That’s—um, great.”
“We’re in Fall River. In an hour, we’re heading over to the gas station to get the brothers to describe the man they saw with the missing woman. Vickie, he is so cute. I mean, Jim Tracy is so cute. Not the creepy brothers. Honestly, I haven’t even met them yet, but everyone says that they’re creepy. And I am so crazy about him. Jim, I mean, obviously! He likes art. He loves art.”
“Roxanne, I’m... I guess I’m happy for you both. But should I be worried about you? You told me you were a chicken.”
“I was a chicken. Well, I’m still a chicken. But coming out here with Jim...it isn’t doing anything dangerous. Hey, he knows how to use a gun and he’s taken all kinds of martial arts classes. I don’t think I could be in safer company. Besides, we’re not after anyone. We’re just here to listen to a description and try to do up a likeness. I thought it was so amazing of Jim to ask me. I mean, he had permission. Your guy, your Griffin, thinks he’s really good. So, we were sent out from Boston. I think he’s really good, and he thinks I’m really good. I am in love!”
“Aren’t you...rushing things?”
“No...don’t be silly. I haven’t told him that I’m in love with him or anything! But we’re at a bed-and-breakfast.” Roxanne paused to giggle. “You’ll never guess where. Yes, you will.”
“The Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast,” Vickie said.
“Yes—I love it. The tour was great. And Jim and I both sat up and drew last night, and we did fun pictures for people.
“He has a room, and I have a room. We didn’t sleep together. We were both up in the attic. I slept really soundly. No ghosts.”
“Great.”
“Oh! I know that you wanted to fix me up with Alex, but under the circumstances, I mean, he might be...uh, I mean, under the circumstances...actually, like I said, in a weird, roundabout way, you did set me up!”
“Well, then I’m superhappy for you,” Vickie said. “Just don’t forget to send us the likeness you guys come up with as soon as possible, okay?”
“Of course!” Roxanne said, slightly indignant. “This is a work expedition!”
Vickie smiled. “Go forth and draw well.”
“I will, I promise!” Roxanne told her. “I had to call you. I’m so happy.”
“And I am so glad. And, by the way, Alex isn’t dead.”
“You found him?”
“No. I just know that he isn’t dead. Gotta go—and so do you! Talk soon!”
Vickie hung up before Roxanne could continue speaking. She reached over for the note on Griffin’s pillow.
At autopsy—Devin waiting downstairs for you.
Vickie quickly got ready, and headed down to breakfast where she found that Devin, Mrs. McFall and Isaac Sherman were still at the table.
“Good morning,” she told them all, heading to the sideboard to pour herself coffee from the urn there.
“Good morning” came back from all three, as if in an echo.
“I’d offer you something, dear, even though you’re late, if you weren’t going out,” Mrs. McFall told her.
“Oh, well, thank you,” Vickie said, looking at Devin.
“Isaac has told me that Carly Sanderson’s dad, Frank, usually has breakfast at a place down the road a bit before heading out for whatever he’s up to during the day. He’s retired, so sometimes he works construction side jobs, and sometimes...he hikes,” Devin said.
“Oh, well, great. I look forward to meeting him,” Vickie said.
Devin and Isaac rose. “Okay, then, we’re off. We’ll see you a bit later,” Devin told Mrs. McFall.
“Have a good day,” Mrs. McFall said.
Vickie hoped they had a good day.
One in which they found the living, rather than the dead.
Mrs. McFall rose and followed them to the door. “I always keep it locked, as you know,” she told them.
They waved goodbye to her as they headed down the steps to the driveway.
Griffin and Rocky had apparently taken Griffin’s car, but Devin tossed the keys to Vickie and asked, “Do you mind doing the driving? Isaac, want to sit next to Vickie up front? You know the way.”
“Sure.”
And so Vickie drove, following the roads as Isaac directed. They didn’t even go five miles before he pointed to a building ahead on the left. It was Aunt Priscilla’s House of Pancakes.
She drove into the lot. Isaac walked ahead and Devin caught up with Vickie.
“Isaac seems to be the real deal—we had him checked out last night. But still...you drive, he’s next to you—and I watch him. Keeps us safe,” Devin said.
“You’re the trained agent—I follow your advice!” Vickie assured her. She paused, however, outside of the restaurant.
“What is it?” Devin asked.
“Dylan and Darlene. They’re here somewhere. I didn’t see them last night, or this morning. They took off once we reached town, and I haven’t seen them since.”
“Well, maybe they’re on to something,” Devin said. “And...”
“What?”
“Well, they have to be all right.” She paused just a second. “I mean, they’re already dead. They’re really the best help we have.”
“Hey!”
They both looked over to Isaac at the door to the restaurant. “Are you coming in?” he called to them.
They hurried after him.
Isaac saw Frank Sanderson right away and lifted a hand in greeting. He encouraged Vickie and Devin to follow him to the booth where Frank was waiting.
Isaac had evidently told him that they were coming; the booth had four water glasses and four sets of silver.
Frank stood as they approached. He appeared to be in his early sixties; he was about five foot eleven and still had the body of a man who kept busy and fit. His hair was salt-and-pepper and thinning and his eyes were a pale blue that seemed to mirror a great deal of sadness—even when he smiled and greeted them.
“You’re a government agent,” he said to Devin.
“I am, sir.”
“There’s something wrong. I’m told that no one can tell an adult that they have to keep up a relationship with their parents, but...it’s not my girl. It’s not Carly. There’s something wrong. I know that... I know that my girl doesn’t hate me.”
“Did the police even try to talk to her?” Vickie asked him.
“She sent a postcard—from Boston. When she called, it was from one of those pay-as-you-go things. When I tried the number, there was no answer. And then it was disconnected or whatever. I think that my Carly is out there somewhere. But I swear, something is wrong and she can’t come back to me. She would—I know that she would if she could.”
“Just like I know that Brenda wasn’t attacked by any bear,” Isaac said.
“Tell me about Carly,” Devin said. “When she did disappear—did anything out of the ordinary happen?”
He shook his head. “I was just seeing her every other weekend—she had an apartment in Worcester. Everything was fine. In fact, she was talking about meeting a guy. Someone smart—someone into studying, like she was. My girl...she loved school. Sounds strange, but I was glad. She was a late bloomer, didn’t date during high school. She never knew, but I paid a neighbor kid to bring her to her prom. Oh, it was all fine. I don’t believe she ever found out. Sounds bad for a father, huh?”
“Sounds like you love your daughter,” Vickie said.
“Then she called and said she wouldn’t be home for a while. And when I didn’t hear from her, I went to Worcester. She hadn’t been in her classes. She’d told her landlady she was leaving, and she was gone—lock, stock and barrel. I reported her missing to the police. But they never put much credence in my story. After all, she left on her own accord—told her professors and her landlady she was leaving. Then I heard from her, but it...it was strange. I can’t tell you how strange. It didn’t sound like her. Sounded like she was...distant. Distant and dopey. So, I figured maybe she was on some kind of dope or something like that. That someone out there was holding her—and keeping her doped up.”
“What about Carly’s mother, sir?” Devin asked.
He waved a hand in the air. “Linda and me, we just weren’t meant to be. She was seventeen when Carly was born. We were divorced by the time Carly was five. Linda met a surfer—she headed off with him to California. She has three boys now. She sends Carly birthday cards and Christmas cards, but that’s it.”
“Could she have gone out to see your wife?” Vickie asked.
“Ex-wife. And no. Carly wrote her once, wanting to come out and meet her brothers. Linda told her it wasn’t a good time. Hurt the kid badly. I tried to make up for it. Carly... Carly was my life. Carly is my life. She’s got to be alive out there somewhere.”
He seemed like a devoted single father to Vickie. He wasn’t giving up on his daughter.
He went on to talk about her. Carly was sweet and impressionable. Terribly bright when it came to books, pathetically naive when it had to do with street smarts.
As Vickie listened, she couldn’t help but notice an older man who was at the counter, paying his check. There was something familiar about him.
At last, he turned to face her.
She was startled to see that it was Charlie Oakley.
What was he doing now, out here by the Quabbin?
* * *
“We’re not going to get anything from soft tissue—other than DNA, which might help, at least in identifying her,” the ME said.
They were at the county morgue.
Griffin and Rocky were staying for the autopsy.
Wendell Harper had been in only long enough to ask that the report be emailed to him as soon as possible. He was heading back out to the Quabbin.
Dive teams were going to go over the area once again, just in case.
The good thing that morning was that the morgue wasn’t busy, and there was no question that their lady from the lake would be getting first priority.
There were only two others awaiting autopsy at the moment; one was an eighty-year-old who had suffered from cancer and died in her home, and a ninety-year-old who had simply died in his sleep.
Death, for the most part, had been gentle in the area the last day or so.
Except for the poor woman on the gurney before them.
“Even pinning down a date and time for when she was killed is almost impossible—the damage to the body is so great,” the ME said.
He was a young man, ironically named Dr. Graves, Dr. Evan Graves. But he was as serious and seemed to be as thorough as a doctor could possibly be.
The body had been cleaned by Graves’s dernier, or assistant. It lay naked—and heavily, heavily decomposed.
Graves pointed out every factor that he could. “I’m going on a lot of scientific research,” he said. “Bodies found in the water—especially cold water—in the first week are usually in decent condition. After eight days—according to research done for a paper called Legal Medicine—decay begins to set in. They looked at bodies off the coast of Portugal—those found in the first week were easily identified. After twenty days—DNA was their only method of identification.”
Griffin held silent, letting him talk. The young doctor was still a newbie; in a few years, he’d get to where he’d tell law enforcement just what they needed to know. He’d come to realize that most of them had been through enough autopsies to have a decent rudimentary grasp of what happened to a body after death.
Then again, there was always something that could be learned.
“About ten years ago,” Graves continued, “studies were done on plane crash victims—one off the coast of Sicily and off the coast of Namibia. At three weeks, the body found was partially skeletonized. At thirty-four days, in that kind of water, the second body found was completely skeletonized. I’ve read a great deal about such studies,” he assured them. “So, looking at our body today, considering the cold water, I’d estimate three to four weeks. Decomposition—in the water or on land—begins immediately at the point of death. The water allows for other creatures, but kept insects away. Fish eat each other often enough—and they have no problem nibbling on a decaying human being. Crabs are brutal on a body—crabs are probably responsible for the fact that there’s really no face left.
“And the water was cold,” Graves told them, “so that creates a different timeline. Had she been down there for months, we’d have had nothing but bone, and maybe a bit of something here and there.”
“So, you believe, three to four weeks.”
“I’m going to say, because of the water temperature, possibly almost four weeks.” He sighed. “From what I can thus far fathom from the bones, she was young—twenty to twenty-five years of age.” He hesitated. “We’ll probably strip her down to bone, and get our best answers that way at this point.”
“Thank you,” Griffin said. “The main question here is, can you tell us how she died?”
Graves looked up at him. “I most certainly can.” He indicated the neck. “Her throat was slit, gentlemen. Slit hard and far back—if she had received much more of a blow from the knife, the head would have been decapitated. Actually, it’s a miracle that it was still attached when you found the body.”
* * *
Vickie didn’t mean to slam Devin in the ribs with the force that she did. She was just so startled to see Charlie Oakley she had reacted without thought.
Devin yelped, then smiled at Frank Sanderson across the table from her. “Cramp!” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Excuse me!” Vickie said. “A friend just walked in.” She slid out of the booth, catching Devin’s eyes and indicating the man who was about to leave. Devin quickly appraised the situation.
“Vickie,” Devin said, “ask retired detective Oakley to join us.”
Vickie nodded and hurried over to catch up with Oakley. She tapped him on the back, startling him.
He turned around and stared at her. “Vickie!” he said. “Miss Preston.”
“Charlie. Hi. What are you doing out here?” she asked.
He lowered his head and eyes, squirming uncomfortably. “I couldn’t stay away,” he told her, looking up at her at last. “It was on the news, Vickie. That a body was found. In the Quabbin. I had to come out here. I have to know what’s going on.”
“Charlie, Sheena died long ago.”
“And I’m still around, right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Charlie, where are you staying?”
He hesitated again, she thought.
“With a friend,” he told her.
“In Barre?”
“In Ware,” he told her.
She nodded, looking at him. The restaurant was on Route 32, almost in between Barre and Ware. Ware itself was something like fourteen miles, about a twenty-or twenty-five-minute drive, due to the winding roads in the area.
“We’re sitting with a couple of new friends who are also involved with this situation,” Vickie told him. “Won’t you join us? I’ll tell you quickly first—Isaac Sherman’s fiancée disappeared about a year ago. Her body was found in the woods near the Quabbin. A bear attack was blamed. Frank Sanderson’s daughter, Carly, is missing. The police believe that she’s alive. Sanderson thinks that she’s being held somewhere against her will. Because she’s an adult, there isn’t a great deal that the police can do.”
“I’m happy to come meet them,” Charlie Oakley told her.
She brought him over to their table.
Frank Sanderson and Isaac Sherman rose to meet him. Charlie sat with them. He told them about the case in Fall River.
And about the murder of Sheena Petrie, and how he never believed that it was connected—or that the prostitution ring had been real Satanists in any way, shape or form. It was his sincere belief that someone else had carved the Satanic words into the earth near the place that Sheena Petrie’s body had been found, and that the “cult” had been purposely set up to take the fall, since they were already going up on murder charges and no one was believing a word they said, anyway.
“They’re out there!” Isaac Sherman announced suddenly. “Can’t you feel it? They’re out there in the woods, and they’re planning for something very, very bad.”
Vickie glanced over at Devin. Goose bumps had risen on her arms.
Because she believed it was true.
They were out there.
But they were hiding in acre upon acre of forest, and her group had no idea where!
* * *
“I wish we were just at headquarters with this one—with Angela Hawkins and all her wonderful boards,” Rocky said.
They had left the morgue, and were traveling back to Barre.
“We have dead people. We have missing people,” he said. “We have massive acreage where someone could be hiding. Why are they hiding? Cults are usually out in the open. They have great big compounds.”
“And then, they sent people into Boston to attack others,” Griffin noted.
“Think that was to keep us away from this area?”
“If that’s the case, it wasn’t really a bright move—not if you consider the fact that most historians know the quotation links to Ezekiel Martin, and that Jehovah was out here somewhere.”
“Say that our killer—and I use that term whether he or she wielded the knife themselves or not—is a bright person. Extremely bright. Sometimes, those who are superintelligent don’t really have a lot of street smarts,” Rocky pointed out.
“Theory?” Griffin said.
“Sure, let’s hear your theory.”
“Our killer may or may not really believe that he can bring Satan in the flesh to the world. But he’s been working this cult for a long time—authorities didn’t notice at first, because there were day-to-day problems in Massachusetts and, of course, the Undertaker case. Our killer liked it that way. He didn’t want people realizing what was going on out here in the more westerly area of the state—so send people on suicide missions to keep authorities thinking that if something was going on, it was going on in the big city of Boston. But, as you pointed out, he might not have been quite as bright as he thinks. Using the saying from old Ezekiel Martin sent us out here,” Griffin said.
“Okay, why was the blood of Helena Matthews thrown at Vickie?” Rocky asked.
“The killer knows about Vickie. He knows she’s friends with Alex Maple. He has taken Alex because Alex is so very knowledgeable, and if you didn’t have Alex, you might well want to have Vickie.”
“And what about Helena Matthews?” Rocky asked. “And, for that matter, Sheena Petrie.”
“Sheena Petrie is the hardest to connect, I think. But it is possible that she was our killer’s first victim.”
“And Helena Matthews?”
“Well,” Griffin said, “we don’t yet know if we might have just found her or not.”
“And Carly Sanderson,” Rocky said.
“I think that Carly is one of the number of followers,” Griffin said. “Just like Darryl Hillford and Gloria. In fact, I haven’t heard from Barnes in a while. I’ll call in and see if they’ve gotten anything more from Gloria.”
“How would you do that, Griffin?” Rocky asked, shaking his head. “How would you get people so caught up in something so ridiculous that they’d kill themselves? Young people, with everything to live for?”
Griffin was quiet for a minute. “Where do you find terrorists? Among the poor and the disenfranchised—those who have nothing and feel powerless. Our killer staked out his converts—he chose young people who were searching for something to believe in.”
“But Carly Sanderson has a father who loves her,” Rocky pointed out.
“She was socially awkward. She was lured somehow. Then I believe that our killer is working with a number of drugs—drugs known to have an effect on memory, drugs that can cause hallucinations, as well.”
“Where would you get all those drugs?” Rocky mused, and then he looked at Griffin and answered himself. “What’s the matter with me—after all these years, I should know that just about anything is available on the street anywhere.”
“True,” Griffin agreed. “But I think there’s something else we should look into that might help. Okay, so we don’t know this for fact yet, but I do believe that our killer is keeping his little cult under control by ensuring they are obedient and docile. I mean, give someone a hallucinogenic, and you can make them panicked enough to kill themselves. I’m willing to bet that a few pharmacies have been held up—that they’ve been cleaned out so that certain prescription drugs can be mixed with street drugs. You don’t have to be a chemist to discover what properties can destroy memory and stability, or make someone susceptible to suggestion.”
“There are many—and far too available on the street and in a store,” Rocky noted.
Griffin started to put through a call to David Barnes.
His timing was pretty amazing; he never made the call. Barnes was calling him.
“Hey, Barnes,” Griffin said, answering the phone and glancing over at Rocky with a nod. “We were just about to call you.”
“Did you get something out there?” Barnes asked.
“This morning? No. Not yet. We’ve been at the morgue. Our only chance on an ID is going to be DNA, and if we don’t have DNA to compare it to, well...we’ll have a Jane Doe. Anything there?”
“Gloria seems to be doing well. I’ve gone by to see her each afternoon, of course. She hasn’t remembered anything else as yet—not for certain. It might not be a bad idea to drive back in for a morning or an afternoon. The drive, even with traffic, shouldn’t take you more than a few hours. I keep thinking that it doesn’t hurt for Vickie to talk to her. She was supposed to attack Vickie, so that means she had to know something about her. If we could just jar that somewhat, you never know.”
“You’re right. I’ll see about driving back in for a bit and let you know. I’m not with Vickie right now. She and Devin were going to have breakfast with a fellow here—Frank Sanderson. His daughter is missing. I remembered seeing her name in some of the reports I’d pulled.”
“Ah, well! I do have something for you—hot off the press—or email, I should say. I believe it’s coming straight from Officer Tracy.”
“We have a likeness? A sketch?” Griffin asked.
“Yes, Officer Tracy and Vickie’s friend, the artist Roxanne Greeley, just finished with the two characters from the gas station in Fall River. They had something, though how good it is, we don’t know, of course. But better than nothing.”
“Roxanne went with him to Fall River?”
“You asked for him, and he asked for her. She’s apparently a really talented artist—with a nice ability to draw a face from memory or someone’s description. She could have a nice career with the BPD, if she were interested. Anyway, we’ve got the sketch.”
“Great. I’ll find it on my phone,” Griffin said. “Anyone you know?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t someone that one of you might recognize. We can also distribute it widely, which has been not perfect, but helpful for us thus far. Check it out and see what you think. And let me know when you’re coming in. Gloria’s doctor has been slacking off. He doesn’t believe she’s ever going to get back all of her memory, and he isn’t sure how much longer she should be in a hospital.”
“Will do. We might be able to drive in this afternoon. Though...”
Though he felt that they needed to stay out where they were.
Why?
Because Jehovah was out here somewhere.
“Whatever you need done, we’ll be out here,” Rocky told him quietly.
Griffin nodded. “Thanks. I’d like Brenda Noonan disinterred.”
“I’ll get going on the paperwork, and I’ll stay out at the Quabbin waterfront with Wendell and his officers,” Rocky promised him. “We need to move in every direction,” he added.
Yes, they did!
“Okay, Barnes, I’ll let you know about timing this afternoon. Other than that, we’d like you to do what you can to find out if drugstores—pharmacies of any kind—have been robbed in this area. We’re pretty sure this guy has to be dealing with a lot of drugs. Cyanide is one thing—getting people to take it rather than face the law is another.”
“I’ll get on it right away.”
Griffin rang off from Barnes and went to his email, finding the message that had been sent to him from Officer Jim Tracy.
He opened the attachment and stared at the picture.
And he was stunned.
He knew the man.
Yes, it was a good likeness.
An uncanny likeness.
He definitely knew the man.
And so did Vickie.