10
“You don’t do things like that. You just don’t do things like that!”
Vickie was seated in the back of a state vehicle, a blanket around her shoulders, cup of hot coffee in her hands.
Griffin was wearing a blanket around his shoulders, still drenched, but apparently oblivious to the cold. He was angry—with her.
“I do what I choose to do!” she snapped back.
He wagged a finger at her. “And that will get you killed. What the hell is the matter with you?”
“I found her!”
Another officer was coming to speak with him and he turned away and walked hard to meet him. No one else had heard the exchange, she was certain, but when Jackson Crow walked toward her with another blanket to add to the one she was wearing, she was expecting much of the same.
Instead, he looked at her apologetically.
“Ignore him,” he suggested. “You just scared the hell out of him.”
“You seem to be all right with what I did,” she said softly.
He sat on the edge of the vehicle’s seat with her. “We’ve all had our crazy moments of certainty when we’ve done something rash,” he said. “He’ll calm down. He’ll even apologize. If I didn’t believe he would, I’d have to be a gentleman and call him out,” he added, giving her a rueful smile. “Griffin is just...invested.”
He made her laugh. “Invested?”
“My dear Miss Preston! You have amazing sight and abilities—surely, you can’t be that blind when it comes to Special Agent Pryce?”
She looked at him blankly. And then she flushed.
“He saved my life, of course.”
“Get past that,” Jackson said.
“Well, I am past it. We’re both past it. And I...”
“For a man who speaks with the dead, he’s pretty blind, too. Or the two of you are afraid. Maybe you believe you have to fight against some kind of survivors’ bonding. You don’t. We’re all different. That is one of the reasons we come together. But people are specially drawn to one another, too. If you take a college graduating class of healthy men and women, all young, all beautiful, they’ll bond—but each as an individual is also drawn to certain others as individuals. Now, we’re all older than college graduating classes, but like them, we do share this strange bond. There’s still the individual thing of a man being drawn to a woman and vice-versa. That’s life, and a beautiful part of life. I say, in the midst of all this, go for it. But then, I’m a very happy man. I have a wife who understands me and often sees and understands the dead better than I do myself. She’s beautiful and I adore her—and we’re both hopelessly devoted to our work as well. Excuse me, I’m being summoned. We’ve got an ambulance for...our young lady,” he added sadly. “Who was she, I wonder?”
“Darlene—I haven’t managed to see her long enough to find out more,” Vickie said.
“They’re working on it. I’m sure we’ll have some answers by the time we get back into Boston.”
Jackson rose and headed for the ambulance pulling up.
Darlene—still in the sodden box—was loaded into the back of the vehicle. Forensic teams would see what they could discover before her final resting place was further compromised. She would be brought to the morgue in Boston and receive her autopsy there, as had the other women they had not saved. The police were already combing through missing-persons cases across the country, seeking her identity. By tomorrow, they’d also have dental records and DNA.
Finally, she was taken away. Paperwork was filled out, though there would be more.
Jackson and Griffin returned for Vickie, Griffin not speaking, Jackson apologizing and assuring her he’d get heat going so that they could all dry out.
Apparently, he was going to drive back. Griffin didn’t even want to be in the front of the car with her.
Griffin’s phone rang and he answered it. He listened to someone, and then, to her surprise, he handed the phone to her.
“For you,” he said.
She realized with a sinking heart her phone had been in her pocket, drenched now. It was clearly not working.
And she had forgotten to call her mother.
“Mom!” she greeted Lucy.
“You promised to call and let us know you were okay,” Lucy said. “We tried to reach you—tried and tried. I called Roxanne, the Ballantine house, Grown Ups...everyone I could think of!”
“I’m sorry, truly sorry!”
“You’re with Griffin Pryce and his people again. Oh, darling, this is all so dangerous. Where are you, what are you doing?”
“I’m fine, I wasn’t involved with anything dangerous.” Seriously, the pond had been cold—not dangerous. “Riddles and history, Mom. It’s what I’m good at.”
“You must come by tomorrow,” Lucy said. “Oh, God, I can’t say that, can I? I mean, you’re an adult, you’re a good adult... But I’m your mother! And I’m worried sick.”
“I’ll be by tomorrow, I promise. It’s no problem. I promise!”
“Let me speak with Griffin again.”
“What?”
“Please, darling, let me speak with Griffin again.”
Vickie handed the phone back. “My mother is still on the line,” she said. “Um, she wants to speak with you.”
He took the phone. “Yes, Mrs. Preston?”
He listened for a long moment. Then he said, “Yes, ma’am. Certainly. As you wish.”
Vickie looked forward for a moment in silence. Her mother had probably just read him the riot act about him using her in the investigation.
He’d probably just agreed she shouldn’t be involved.
“Don’t forget, we have an appointment to see Bertram Aldridge at the prison tomorrow,” Jackson said.
“I think,” Vickie replied, “Special Agent Pryce might have just agreed that I not be part of any more appointments.”
“No, that’s not what I agreed to,” Griffin said.
She turned slightly in the seat to look at him.
“Then what?” she asked.
“I told her that certainly, Jackson and I would see that you arrived at their place for dinner tomorrow night, and we would be happy to join you.”
* * *
The day had been long. When they reached Vickie’s apartment, Griffin took her to the door; he seemed extremely hard, cold and distant. He went through the usual—having her stay by the door, walking through the apartment and then giving her an all clear. He barely said good-night.
Then he was gone.
Vickie showered and changed and decided to try the rice remedy on her phone.
Dylan didn’t show up. She supposed he was still home, and, perhaps, seeing the information on the news that a young woman named Darlene Dutton, most probably the first victim of the Undertakers—the media was using the plural now—had been found that day. Everything Vickie saw in the news was true—only specifics about her clothing, the box and the method of her death were left out. But then, to the best of her knowledge, there wouldn’t be an autopsy until the next morning.
There had been no missing-persons report filed on Darlene; she had aged out of the child-care system in New Jersey and made her way to Boston, according to authorities. Her last foster parent, according to the news, said she’d been waiting to leave the state—where she’d been tossed about from home to home since she’d been orphaned at the age of seven—forever. She’d hoped to find work in Boston as a childcare worker or waitress. The city had fascinated her since she’d been a child.
Vickie thought about the poor girl; she was so glad that they had found her. Although they hadn’t saved her life, it still mattered.
The news report finished in the same vein as it had since the killings had begun: residents were again begged to take extreme care in all that they did.
There was a knock at Vickie’s door and her pulse quickened. The knock was too hard for the arrival at her door to be Dylan.
Griffin.
Despite the fact that a policeman watched outside, she checked through the peephole on her door.
Not Griffin.
Roxanne.
She let her friend in.
“Same cop I met before!” Roxanne said, smiling. “Thankfully, or I might have been up against the wall, being frisked. Hmm. Depending on the cop...hey, that might not be so bad. Don’t look at me like that! I’m joking. Although, maybe I’m not. Finding a good cop might not be such a bad thing.”
“I’m not looking at you in any way. I think you’re just not always careful,” Vickie told her.
“That’s because you are, and you trust your instincts.”
“Hmm,” said Vickie, thinking about how trusting her instincts had just had her plunging into an icy pond to retrieve a dead body. “Anyway,” she added lightly, “I think I actually can introduce you to a plethora of cops!”
They settled onto the sofa, and Vickie begged Roxanne to distract her with conversation that had nothing to do with the Undertakers.
Roxanne obliged. “So what really happened with Jared? From what I could tell, I think at heart he’s a decent person. He’s just trying too hard, you know? His art really is everything to him.”
“He’s good and I wish him well, and I just hope he stops feeling he has to be smashed or stoned to create real works of art,” Vickie said. “He’s a good guy—we’re just done, and he needs to move on and take care of himself. He’s clever and charming—and he needs to find his own way, or whatever. I truly wish him well.”
“You don’t think that he’d follow you up here, do you?” Roxanne asked.
“No. He likes New York art galleries. Why?”
“He’s called your mom a few times.”
“Oh? She never said anything.”
“She doesn’t want you to know.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Vickie said. “He can call her all he likes, and I hope she’s good to him. I’ve been honest with him. We were never going anywhere. We were really okay—just not forever, if that makes sense.”
“Hey, speaking of your past, I saw your other main man the other day. Hank Fremont.”
“Yeah? How’s he doing?”
“He looked good. Well, he always looked good. He told me he’s working as an assistant manager for a food produce company. I ran into him at Pasta Fagioli, Mario Caro’s family’s place.”
“I was just there with my Grown Ups group.”
“Mario’s a good guy. Anyway, Hank was there showing him a catalogue about their new organic line. We all talked for a while. It was nice. Hank, naturally, asked about you. The cops have been tight-lipped, but all that stuff about way-back-when has been dredged up in the news over and over, so, of course, he knows you’re in Boston.”
“I’m glad it sounds as if he’s doing well.”
“Oh, yeah. He told me he met the right girl; she keeps him on the straight and narrow.”
“That’s great!”
“We talked about having dinner—a ‘for old-times-sake’ dinner.”
“Somewhere along the line, maybe.”
“Okay, well, I’m off. It’s late.”
“You came over just to tell me it’s late?” Vickie asked.
“I was worried—you weren’t answering your phone.”
“Oh, I got it wet. I’m trying to dry it out now.”
“Ahha! So you were there.”
“Where?”
“At the pond. You did help them find that body!” Roxanne said triumphantly. “You always had something going for you—weird instinct! But...oh! So you were with Special Agent Pryce again. Cool. I can see which way that’s going. Hey, the man has a future. He isn’t into alcohol or drugs to get his ‘mojo’ going. He’s tall, dark and handsome. Studly, even. Where is he?”
“Okay, I was at the pond. Now I’m home. And he’s wherever he goes, probably still working, or maybe sleeping.”
“Okay, okay, I’m leaving. And you’re an idiot.”
“Good night. I love you, Roxanne—you’re a great friend.”
Roxanne gave her a huge hug. “Call me when the rice has worked, call me tomorrow—on something. Can’t help but be worried. Okay? Oh, you probably have to call your mom every day, too. Sorry—just add me in, all right?”
“I will, I will. Good night.”
When Roxanne was gone, Vickie locked the door and started to head back to her computer. She should have been working, looking at all her materials on Cotton and Increase Mather. Since she really thought Cotton Mather had to have been an A-one self-righteous ass as a Puritan minister, she wondered briefly why she’d been determined to write about his part in the events surrounding the witchcraft trials and those others who had been persecuted.
“To show he was an A-one ass?” she murmured aloud. She sat, and then just stared. She didn’t care about her work research at the moment. She wondered if she’d see the ghost of Darlene Dutton again—she hoped the young woman would find peace.
And then again, of course, she had to wonder how it all connected, the past with Bertram Aldridge, the Pine house and the killer couple who had sent Darlene to her watery grave.
And why the hell, how the hell, was she involved?
She didn’t have long to contemplate; she heard a commotion out on the street.
There was a cop out there, watching over her.
She’d thrown on sweats after taking her very long hot shower—decent enough, she decided. Stepping out into the hallway she hurried to the front door.
Her ever-watchful cop was there—questioning a man.
The man looked up. Vickie recognized Hank Fremont, looking older, a little broader and very confused.
“Vickie! Will you tell this man, please, that I’m an old friend!” he asked.
Hank appeared woebegone and lost—the way he’d always looked the few times their team had lost a football game.
She smiled. “It is okay, Officer! He is a friend,” she said.
“I’m out here if you need me,” the officer called.
“Thank you!”
“Wow!” Hank said, adjusting his jacket. “You’re under protection, Vickie!” He started to hug her, an old friend hug, but then stopped, looking back at the cop. Vickie laughed and hugged him.
“Come on in. Roxanne just told me you were back in Boston—working with produce?”
“Yeah, a bit shy of the NFL, huh?”
“Sounds like a good job.”
“It is,” Hank agreed. He followed her in. “You want to make me some tea?”
“Tea?” she asked. “I mean, sure—I don’t think I have much else in here right now.”
He grinned. “Believe it or not, you were the best thing that ever happened to me, Vickie.”
She let him in; while she made tea, he talked about the years he’d wasted, the way he’d discovered he’d wasted his years and meeting his new girl, June Jensen.
“I’d actually applied to online college before I met June, and I was so glad. She’s encouraging, she’s helpful, wonderful... I’d love you to meet her.”
“That would be great,” Vickie told him. “Is she from here?”
“Originally. She has family out in western Massachusetts, too. But anyway, she’s working here now. She’s a secretary for an ad agency. And I’m with a company called Great Organics. Whoever figured I’d be a happy man talking broccoli with old Mario?”
Vickie laughed and brought cups of tea out to the parlor. “I’m just glad.”
She’d barely set the tea down before there was a really hard knock at the door.
The cop didn’t let people get close if he hadn’t checked them out—he knew who lived in the building and who didn’t, and he was always on them to make sure they locked the door to the house itself, but people always forgot.
She had just forgotten. And the lock wasn’t automatic, so...
She looked through the peephole.
This time, it was Griffin.
She opened the door. He swept in, looking around as if he was on high alert, ready to forge into battle.
Hank stood. “Hey!” he said. “Griffin Pryce. Special Agent Griffin Pryce. You were the cop here when...well, way back when. Good to see you, sir.”
He offered Griffin a hand. Griffin seemed to hesitate just a second. Then he shook Hank’s hand.
“Glad you’re here again. Vick probably needs someone like you watching over her now,” Hank said.
“It’s a tough time in Boston at the moment, yes,” Griffin said.
“Tough for the poor Ballantine family!” Hank said. He looked from Vickie to Griffin and grinned awkwardly. “Well, so, I guess I’m going to head on home. I hadn’t seen Vickie yet—just got back into the city again myself recently. Anyway, good to see you both.”
“Take care,” Griffin said.
“Don’t forget, we’ve all got to have dinner, Vickie!” Hank said.
“I won’t forget,” she told him.
Hank left. Griffin was still there.
“Vickie, look, I’m not trying to mess with your life, but this isn’t the time to be letting people into your apartment. I know you and Hank were a big item, but if you know him now, if you’re back into correspondence, or back into a relationship, you’ve just got to be really careful.”
“Ah,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t see old friends, huh?”
“Vickie...” He paused for a long moment. “Old friends might be new enemies.”
“What?”
“Hank—he was around when Aldridge escaped. He wasn’t a bad kid, just an idiot kid, drinking, pot, all that, in high school. He was out in the western part of the state—now, he’s here.”
“You think Hank could be a killer?” she said incredulously.
“I know he was basically a carnie out with an amusement park for years. I know he’s started seeing a woman who grew up on the south side.”
“You know all that?”
“Vickie, naturally. We’re the FBI. We look into everything. We look into everyone. Hell, we’re even looking into George Ballantine!”
“Wait, wait—back up! Hank Fremont was a kid when Aldridge attacked the Ballantine house. George Ballantine was at a company dinner. That’s all crazy. And George Ballantine would hardly bury his own wife in his own basement!” she said.
He was silent.
“You mean...you really think that could happen?”
“We really believe someone who knows you is involved, yes,” he said quietly. “Look, seriously, I’m not trying to interfere with your life, your hopes, anything you want, anyone you want, but—and I’m truly sorry!—this involves you. You have to be careful.”
“You’re yelling.”
“I’m not yelling. I’m a government agent. I don’t yell.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re yelling.”
Vickie stared at him, hands on her hips. And she suddenly felt like laughing—he really was something, he had always been a rock of fitness, ethics—and sexuality. Images tumbled before her; him in his BPD uniform, holding her and Noah as she shook, him stopping by her parents’ home to see that she was okay, him in the court room, him...years later, standing in her parents’ house again.
His face as he plunged into the water after her...
And she remembered Jackson Crow’s advice to her as well.
She suddenly walked across the room, rejection be damned, and protocol be damned.
She slipped her arms around his neck, pressed against him and kissed his lips.
For a moment, he was stiff as a concrete wall.
Then his arms swept around her. She might have kissed him first, but he was kissing her then, and their mouths were wide, tongues plunging, and it was all ridiculously hot and wet and steaming. She was glad his arms were around her, holding her close to him, because her knees were like rubber and she was trembling and weak and still...ready to burst into something that was fire and electric and filled with strength and energy.
Their mouths broke apart; he seemed to be trying to get himself under control.
“Vickie, we shouldn’t, I shouldn’t...”
“Do you ever shut up?” she asked him. “For the love of God, please quit thinking!” she told him.
He stared down at her, eyes so dark and ever enigmatic. He kissed her again, this time fumbling with her flannel pullover sweatshirt, breaking the kiss long enough for the shirt to come over her head. They kissed and broke and kissed and broke, divesting clothing, backing toward the hallway and her bedroom all the while.
He paused long enough to see that his gun and holster were carefully set on the bedside table, and then they were into the comedy of trying never to lose contact while ridding themselves of all the clothing that now seemed so obnoxious between them.
She realized she’d waited forever to run her fingers over his flesh. To feel the twitching and contortion of his muscles as she touched him. To drown in the sensation of feeling his hands on her. So good, too good. She fell back, luxuriating in him resting half atop her, half to her side. Feeling his mouth again on hers, traveling to her throat, her breasts, her midriff.
His heat and energy soared into her. She halfway rose, capturing his face again, finding his lips, slipping down the length of his chest.
They rolled again, each touching the other, playing, teasing, desperate...
And then he stopped.
“No thinking!” she pleaded.
“Just asking. Are we...okay?”
“Yes! Still on birth control. No talking, please!”
“Talking can be good.”
“As long as there’s no thinking.”
“No thinking...except...oh, yes, there, and there and there...”
She laughed softly, and felt his mouth on her flesh again.
“And there, and there and there...” she agreed.
She marveled that reality could be more sensual than ever her imagination had dared venture; she allowed herself to feel and revel in every touch of his fingers and his lips. She dared to touch and tease and hold and torment, kiss and caress...
And indulge in every kiss and caress, allowing him to slip down the length of her body, tease the length of her limbs...abdomen again, limbs again...around, between...
And she arched against him, rolled again, alive and kinetic, returning every touch and brush and stroke until he lifted her atop him, brought her slowly down, and their eyes met as their bodies joined. She knew no one else would have ever been right, he was what she had wanted, and she’d waited, and somehow, life had brought them together.
Then she stopped thinking.
She moved and writhed and whimpered, moaned and cried out.
Then there was breathing, desperate breathing, and her heart racing as it had never raced before, a drumbeat of wonder.
It was sex, of course, just sex.
Good sex.
Great sex.
Incredible sex...
And after the gasping for breath and the heart pounding, it began all over again, and she was unaware of time or place. Just the scent of his flesh, the heat of him, the wonder of him.
Eventually, she realized she was exhausted.
Sated, and yet...
She’d never really be sated, she thought, she’d always want him. She’d known it when she had been just on the verge of eighteen.
She knew it now.
They lay together, curled side by side, and for once, he was silent, holding her.
Then he spoke softly at last.
“Maybe I should yell more often.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Seemed to work well.”
“What? It was me, all me. Obviously, I had to shut you up.”
“Hmm. Frightening concept. I mean, you don’t always end your arguments this way, do you?”
“I wasn’t arguing. You were.”
“I was scared,” he said softly, holding her even closer.
She drew away, halfway sitting up to look at him, a frown on her brow. “Griffin, really? You can’t possibly think Hank is a killer.”
“I didn’t know him like you knew him—he was a kid, yes, back when we met briefly. And that’s the thing with the way we work—back at the main office, of course, they’re drawing up dossiers on all kinds of people. Don’t worry, please, it’s not like Big Brother is watching—I don’t even know exactly who Big Brother is, or what he watches. But yes, we have researched a lot of people. Sometimes, you just have to eliminate people. And you do have to look at anyone who was involved with Aldridge closely. So, yes, we’ve known Hank Fremont was back in the city after an extended time out in the Springfield area. We are watching the Ballantine family in many ways. We’ve investigated Grown Ups. We know your publishers, and, of course, your parents are as squeaky clean as a pair of babes.” He sighed softly. “Your mom won’t like this.”
Vickie laughed. “You’re going to tell her?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’m thinking after the next time or the next or the next...we’re probably going to have to say something.”
She smiled and laughed and curled back down beside him. “So, there will be a next time?”
“Please don’t say there won’t be.”
“You know, you really had me over eight years ago.”
“You were seventeen.”
“I think you can actually marry at that age in some states!”
“But this is you, and me.”
“And now is right?” she whispered.
“Now is right.”
She knew he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and that he was thinking.
“What?”
“I’m aggravated. No clear-cut suspects. Decaying bodies out of time, someone from the past—and a couple from the present, no forensic clues, just the dead—and the waiting. For another note to the media—and another missing woman,” he said. He rolled toward her. “Well, tomorrow, we see Aldridge.”
“Aldridge. Yes, who knows...maybe he will give us something,” Vickie said. Then she suddenly bounded out of bed, looking around for a robe. She found one and grabbed it.
“Um...what’s up?” Griffin asked, startled.
“I think I have my kids tomorrow.”
“Your kids?”
“Grown Ups. My young adults. I think we’re supposed to do our Duck Tour tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“After school—three thirty.”
“You’re fine. We see Aldridge at 9:00 a.m.”
“Oh. Oh, well, good! Excellent. I can do both.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
“So, why are you still standing there?” he asked.
“Um...”
He patted the bed. “Come on in—we’re going to have to get up early. I’ve obviously got to get back to my hotel room...it’s going to be a long day. Of course, it’s quite cool to make it a long night beforehand...”
“Oh? Oh.”
“Yes, well, I guess we’ve both been waiting a long time.”
“Too long,” she said softly.
And she cast off the robe, and joined him again.
And it was a delightfully long night.