1
Boston, Massachusetts
The North End
Summer
Griffin Pryce ran hard and as fast as he could, ahead of Jackson Crow by maybe ten feet. Not that it mattered. The clue had led them to the historic old cemetery, but once there, they’d have to look.
Thankfully it was summer. There was no abundance of multicolored autumn leaves to cover the ground; they would hopefully find an area that had been disturbed easily enough.
This was the first time the kidnapper/killer known as the Undertaker had actually left his victim in a cemetery. At least, so Griffin believed.
He was known to box his victims, nail them into wooden coffin-like crates.
Now, the box might well be a coffin.
There—behind dozens of slate stone markers, few really over the bodies they memorialized anymore and even fewer that had been rechiseled so that the words honoring the dead were legible—he saw where the ground had been ripped up.
He raced to the area—then swore when he hit a soft spot in the ground and went down—straight down—a good four feet.
“Here!” he shouted, though, of course, shouting was rather inane since Jackson surely recognized that Griffin had fallen into some kind of a pit.
Not so strange, he knew. In 2009, a woman had fallen into the stairway of a long forgotten tomb at the Granary cemetery. Time had a way with slate seals and old granite and the earth. Thousands had been buried here throughout time; all kinds of vaults lay beneath the surface.
He just prayed that they had found the right place, right now; that they were in time.
He heard Jackson coming up behind him as he frantically worked to dislodge more dirt from underneath himself. He doubted that the kidnapper would have had enough time to dig too deeply.
Thank God, he hadn’t. He found the poor wooden coffin in which the victim had been buried alive. As he worked to remove heavy clods of dirt and bracken, Jackson was already on the phone calling for backup and an ambulance.
Backup wasn’t far behind them. But before others arrived, Jackson joined him in the hole. They pried open the coffin lid.
And found Barbara Marshall.
She was pale beyond death; her lips were blue.
For a split second, Griffin and Jackson stared at one another. Then Jackson braced the coffin as Griffin pulled the woman from it, crawled from the hole with her in his arms, eased her gently to the ground and began resuscitation. He counted, he prayed, applied pressure and tried to breathe life into the woman.
Even in the midst of his efforts, a med tech arrived; Griffin gave way to the trained man who moved in to take his place.
“We may have been too late!” he said, the words a whisper, yet fierce even in their quiet tone.
“Maybe not,” Jackson said.
The emergency crew worked quickly. Griffin stood there, almost numb, as Barbara Marshall was moved, as a gurney was brought, as lifesaving techniques went into play with a rush of medical equipment.
Then she was whisked away, and he and Jackson were left gasping for breath as their counterpart from the police department arrived, while uniformed officers held back the suddenly growing crowd—and the press.
At last, with enough breath, Griffin looked at Jackson. “Think she’ll make it?”
“She may.”
“Think he’s watching?” Griffin asked.
“Hard to tell. Whoever is doing this is also leading the semblance of a normal life,” Jackson said.
“So he—or they—could be at work, picking kids up from school, or so on,” Griffin murmured.
“But I think that, yes, watching will be part of the pleasure, whenever they can watch,” Jackson said.
Griffin stood, fighting anger and disgust, and looked around at the buildings that surrounded them.
Boston was, to him, one of the most amazing cities in America. Modern finance and massive skyscrapers dominated the downtown area—along with precious gems of history. Boston Common, King’s Chapel, Faneuil Hall, the Paul Revere House, the Old North Church and more were within easy walking distance. Centuries of history within blocks. Colonial architecture, Gothic churches, Victorian; Boston was a visual display of American eras.
But the multitude of what was newer and contemporary in building might well afford the kidnapper a fine vantage point for watching as the police and FBI agents ran around like ants on the ground following the clues he so relished sending to the media.
This time, the clue had been, “James II, sadly not long for the throne. Still, a thief. Ah, Old Boston!”
A crew had been sent to King’s Chapel, as well. But Griffin had been convinced that their kidnapping victim would be found in the cemetery. This Undertaker liked drama.
And history and dirt, so it seemed.
Barbara Marshall was his fourth victim. Griffin prayed she survived.
The first victim, Beverly Tatum of Revere, had not.
But then, no one had heard of the Undertaker when she’d been taken.
When they had so desperately searched.
And searched.
Beverly Tatum had been found by police two weeks later, locked in an old freezer in a dump.
Jennifer Hudgins of Lynn had also died. The family had notified the police, who’d suspected her husband was responsible for her disappearance. They’d tailed him, questioned his coworkers...and then they’d run out of leads. The husband’s alibi had been proven true.
Jennifer had eventually been found inside a locker at an abandoned school in Brookline.
Then, Angelina Gianni of Boston had been taken.
The FBI had been called in for help—the Krewe, specifically, because Angelina’s husband, Anthony, had been certain that his wife’s mother had been speaking to him from the grave, telling him that he must dig to find her.
By then, the major television and internet news agency that had received the first two clues—and had originally considered them to be nothing but odd statements from a kook—had determined that they might be from the real criminal.
The clues had been received in plain white envelopes—mailed from Boston’s largest post office, no matter what other towns, cities or suburbs had been involved. No fingerprints of course. They contained a simple line or two lines giving a clue as to the whereabouts of the victims. The first clue had been “Where the old is discarded, where one may find what was once cold.” The second clue had read “No longer may one learn; is all learning but kept locked away?”
They’d found the third victim, Angelina, before it was too late. Griffin could be grateful that his knowledge of his Massachusetts home had helped. The clue had read “Fire away, and so it begins!”
He’d focused on Lexington and an old house that had served as a bed-and-breakfast near the first famous battle site. Of course, even then, he might not have found her if it hadn’t been for a dream. Or rather, the ghost who had entered his dream. The ghost of the missing woman’s mother. Eva, her name had been. Even in his dream, she’d switched to Italian now and then.
Though Griffin had known since he’d been a child that the dead could sometimes speak, it was sometimes difficult to admit. Even now—even belonging to the Krewe of Hunters. Even working with Jackson Crow, who seemed to think their strange and very often useful “gifts” were nothing unusual.
And so Angelina had lived. Her family had been grateful and they would have done anything to help the police. But Angelina had no memory of what had happened to her.
All she remembered was the darkness of being locked away.
This time, no ghost had come to him. The kidnapper or kidnappers—while the press had decreed one man and dubbed him the Undertaker, Griffin couldn’t rule out there wasn’t more than one person involved—had come straight to Boston. Having grown up on Beacon Hill, and walked these streets on his beat as a Boston cop before joining the FBI, Griffin had been certain about the message.
He was grateful that he and Jackson and the Krewe, as representatives of the FBI, had helped. He was incredibly grateful that one victim had lived; maybe Barbara Marshall would make it as well.
But they were no closer to the kidnapper—or kidnappers, as he suspected. Jackson knew that Griffin believed it had to be more than one person executing the crimes, but since the press had gone with “Undertaker,” they referred to the kidnapper themselves.
A shout suddenly went up from the street and echoed back to them. An officer in uniform came running back to them as they heard the sirens from the ambulance moving away through the city.
“She breathed on her own!” the officer said, his face alight. “They think she’s going to make it.”
Griffin looked over at Jackson and nodded his appreciation. Then he looked up at the buildings again, certain they were, indeed, being watched. Jackson leaped up and offered Griffin a hand; Griffin realized he was still somewhat in a hole. Accepting Jackson’s hand, he stepped out.
“We’ll find him,” Jackson said quietly. He had a right to be confident. The Krewe solved their cases. Griffin knew that; he was extremely grateful to be a part of the unique and special unit.
“Sure,” he said. He knew their minds were on similar tracks.
They would find the sick criminal doing this. But would they find him, and stop him, before someone else died?
As he joined Jackson, walking toward the street entrance of the cemetery, he saw Detective David Barnes, Boston Police, on his phone, looking ashen and tense.
Griffin had only just met Barnes on this case. The man had been with the BPD over fifteen years, but when Griffin had been a cop, Barnes had been Southie, working patrol out of South Boston. The man had studied him intently when they had first met—he’d obviously heard Griffin had once been with the BPD, and that he’d been the patrolman to bring down escaped convict Bertram Aldridge. The dramatic takedown had been all over the news at the time, and had made Griffin’s reputation.
Barnes seemed to be a decent man and a good detective; he’d welcomed their assistance and had been glad to have them on the team. Griffin figured he was about forty-five—with the wear and tear of someone a few years older.
“Victory—and yet short-lived,” Barnes said, deep furrows lining his brow. “We’ve gotten a call from a nearby resident, George Ballantine. His wife didn’t show up after their son’s Little League practice—then he found out she never even made it to her garden club meeting earlier in the day.” He stared at Griffin, nodding, and added, “Yeah. Ballantine.”
Something inside clicked hard against Griffin’s chest.
Ballantine.
He could remember too clearly when the killer, Bertram Aldridge, had made an attempt on the life of the Ballantine’s toddler son and their young babysitter. He could remember seeing the terrified girl, running, and the killer in the street, raising his weapon...
“Aldridge is still incarcerated—maximum security,” Griffin said.
“Yeah. And Aldridge liked to play with knives. This guy likes to let his victims smother slowly. Apparently, he’s not even that worried when we find them still alive—he just heads out for another victim. Aldridge liked to write taunting notes to the police, too, though. But...this tone is different. Can’t be Aldridge—absolutely impossible.”
“If we know he’s locked up,” Griffin said.
“First thing I checked—couldn’t help myself,” Barnes said.
“How long has Mrs. Ballantine been missing?” Jackson asked.
“Her meeting was at noon. She wasn’t there when George arrived home at 3:30 p.m.,” Barnes told them.
“That’s not a very long time,” Jackson said.
It was barely four-something, Griffin thought. In any other circumstances, the situation wouldn’t cause much alarm. Yet. There were a dozen explanations. Mrs. Ballantine’s phone might not be working. She’d stopped to see a friend and hadn’t even realized her ringer wasn’t on. She’d had a flat tire and a friendly driver had stopped and called roadside assistance for her—and she was still waiting. The police wouldn’t have even taken a report.
Ballantine. The family targeted again?
“It’s him,” Griffin said quietly. “It’s the Undertaker. We need to get over to the Ballantine house as quickly as possible. Get ahold of the media; find out about a note—a clue.”
Jackson studied him and nodded.
“Detective Barnes?” Jackson said.
Barnes didn’t argue. “I’ll get my car.”
“No need. It’s a short sprint from here,” Griffin said.
“You remember the house?” Barnes asked him.
“I remember it well,” Griffin said.
* * *
“Step light, my friend, for here I lie
Just steps away from a place to die
Boston Neck, and about the neck,
A rope I was forced to wear,
Years later was I found and cleared
By children bright and oh so dear
So now I rest in hallowed ground,
My story to be found.
No witch was I, no cause to die.”
Vickie Preston read the words from the monument aloud to her group of older teens, glad her dramatics—and simple, sad history—seemed to have them enthralled.
She had a group of ten with her: teens who had nearly been lost in the system. She had case files on all of them—if they hadn’t been neglected or abused by their own parents, they had fallen prey to the evil vices of others.
Most had bounced about in foster care. They would all turn eighteen soon and enter the world on their own, where statistically they didn’t seem to have much of a chance. Vickie had come home to Boston after college to work with a private charity called Grown Ups that was trying very hard to give such young people a better chance at survival in the real world as adults.
It had also just been a good move on her part. She’d split ways with her boyfriend, Jared Norton, several months ago; he’d liked to surprise her by waiting on the doorstep of her brownstone apartment in New York, convinced that she wanted him back in her life.
It wasn’t going to happen, and he needed to move on.
It was still nice to have a home with an address he didn’t know—and where he wouldn’t show up.
“Miss Preston!”
“Yes,” she said quickly.
“I thought they only killed witches in Salem!” One of the boys, Hardy Richardson, said, shaking his head in disbelief. He was a handsome kid, dark-haired, tall and broad-shouldered, with a quick and boyish smile. It was nice that he had maintained his smile; without it, he appeared to be years older than his true chronological age.
“Ah, no. The ‘craze,’ as we consider it, happened in Salem. Salem was part of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. And, sadly, while the Puritans came to the New World in search of religious freedom, they were the least tolerant people one could imagine. Quakers and members of other religious groups were banished or punished severely—several were hanged at Boston Neck. Also, there were a number of people who lived here who were hanged for witchcraft—even before the horrific events began in Salem,” Vickie said. “A woman named Anne Hibbins was hanged in 1656—long before the trials began in Salem. We don’t know the name of the woman buried here, honored by this tombstone. That’s because she wasn’t legally buried here.”
“Right. So, how can she be buried here?” Hardy asked. “I thought they dumped the bodies right by the hanging tree or in some marshy plot nearby?”
“Sometimes, a brave and intrepid family member went out and found the body. If you study this stone, you’ll see there is a date carved into the stone—1733. She was probably found and buried here secretly by the family—and they marked her grave when they dared,” Vickie said. “But that doesn’t mean she’s down there—progress and decades and then centuries mean that stones get moved around sometimes. Still, I love this memorial.”
“Vicious people,” Cheryl Taylor, a petite—but very pretty and well-built—brunette murmured, before looking over at Vickie. “Do you think that’s why we have such a bad reputation now?” she asked Vickie. “I mean, Bostonians, we do have a reputation for being snobby. Think that dates back to the Puritans?”
Vickie grinned. “Maybe—who knows? It was an extremely repressive society. In fact, when King James II ordered that an Anglican chapel be built in Boston, he had a hard time getting land. The cemetery was here first—he took part of the cemetery to build the chapel. We’re standing in the oldest cemetery in the city. You can actually learn a tremendous amount about people and society by visiting graveyards. Of course, remember, a lot of original old grave markers would have been wood—long gone now. Time and the elements take their toll. But you can see on some of the oldest stones that the art is severe—a skeletal head with wings, rather scary-looking. The stones, for such a serious people, could be expensive to buy and carve. Over time, the appearance becomes more that of a cherub or angel—life itself becoming more valuable, the terrors of death less extreme.”
“Whoa, those Puritans!” Cheryl said, shaking her head. “Still I don’t get it—when did they begin to die out? I mean, if everyone was banished or hanged for not being a Puritan...”
“All legal machinations, as well as religious. Charters came and went. James II of England was forced to abdicate his throne; William and Mary became King and Queen of England. They opened the colonies to others. Actually, it’s complicated, but—as in many cases—it had to do with politics and government,” Vickie said. “But in my mind, William and Mary made the greatest changes when they came to the throne of England in 1689 after the Glorious Revolution.”
“The Salem witch trials were 1692! So, William and Mary let that happen.”
Vickie nodded. “True. A large part of the world believed in the evil of witchcraft back then. Communications were very slow. William and Mary turned it over to their royal governor, William Phips. Phips set up the trials of oyer and terminer—which meant to see and to hear. When the dregs of society were being accused, William Stoughton, a tough old buzzard who wholeheartedly believed in Satan and witchcraft, allowed spectral evidence. Then suddenly everyone was being accused—including the governor’s wife. So, in a way, public opinion turned the tide. And Phips—when his wife was accused. Rather than going out with a bang, it rather all ended with a whimper. In the years following, there were many changes in the entire colony, by law, by religion and by people. Like most things, change came about slowly. And the land for King’s Chapel was actually taken during the rule of James II. Like I said, it had a lot to do with charters and laws and who was running what when. What’s actually good here is that execution for witchcraft was far less frequent in the colonies than in Europe. And, when we did create our American Constitution, we set forth a separation of church and state. That guaranteed freedom of religion when we became our own country.”
“Right. Now we just have weirdo cults!” Hardy said.
“True, but they don’t run the country,” Vickie said.
“Thank God, have you seen some of the stuff on some cults? Scary!” Cheryl said.
“Really scary,” Hardy said. “If spectral evidence was allowed in court and the dregs of society were killed first, we’d be goners,” he said. “I mean, heck, the right person just had to accuse you and your ass was in jail.”
“Pretty much—but you’re not the dregs of society. You’re about to be adults and choose your own course,” Vickie said. “There will always be room to improve, but laws do protect us now.”
“Speaking of us as a country, though, is Paul Revere here?”
The question was voiced by Art Groton. Like Hardy, he was nearly eighteen. He was tall, blond and wiry strong. In Vickie’s mind, he was just beginning to come out of his shell.
Art still seldom spoke. He had a truly sad personal history. Both parents had died in a blaze they’d created themselves while freebasing heroin. The uncle who had taken him in had beaten him; his psychiatrist suspected sexual abuse as well, but Art wouldn’t say. According to Art’s records, the uncle was also long dead due to drug abuse. Art seemed to have bounced around the system through several counties, but he now lived with the kindest couple Vickie knew working with foster children. And she was glad when they told her Art’s excursions with her were something that seemed to awaken him. He talked about them constantly; he said he wanted to make his way through college and work with the system as well.
Who better to understand an abused and neglected kid than an abused and neglected kid?
“Paul Revere,” Vickie told them, “is buried in the Granary cemetery along with Samuel Adams and John Hancock and many other notable people. Not far, of course. Boston is a small city—an old city! The three oldest burial grounds are King’s Chapel, where we are now, Copp’s Hill, and the Granary. All are on the Freedom Trail.”
“Yah, Boston!” Hardy said. “And we have the oldest college, right? Harvard?”
“Yes, Harvard is the oldest university,” Vickie agreed, “1636.”
“And then Yale, right?” Hardy asked.
Vickie shook her head and smiled. “Nope. Harvard was followed by the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, St. John’s College, Annapolis—and then Yale, 1701.”
Cheryl laughed and said, “Man, you are a walking encyclopedia, Miss Preston!”
“I just like history,” Vickie told her. She glanced at her watch, knowing it was time to break for the day. Her students returned to their various foster homes on their own after their meetings. It was part of their agreements with the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. She was careful, always, to make sure she finished up in time for them to make their way home.
“Next week,” she told them, “we’re touring the Paul Revere house, and I’ve arranged for dinner after at a great restaurant in Little Italy. Courtesy of an anonymous benefactor, I’ll have you know. Maybe someone who made it well in life—after having a rough start like many of you.”
“Cool!” Art called.
“Go! See you next week—meet right in front of the Paul Revere house.”
Her charges scattered, waving. Vickie watched them go. She liked each and every one of them, and deeply hoped she could make a positive change for their future.
As she made her own way to the street, she tried to keep focused on the entrance ahead.
There were days when the old cemetery was quiet—very quiet.
There were also days when she saw the dead walking. Mostly they just eyed her curiously—and suspiciously. Sometimes, someone would smile. She would smile in return, but hurry on. She wasn’t fond of seeing the dead—at least, not so many dead.
Dylan Ballantine—or the ghost of Dylan Ballantine—suddenly fell into step beside her. She glanced at him, arched a brow, shook her head, and hurried on.
“Hey! That was great,” he told her.
“I hope so. The plan is that I get them really interested in history or something useful,” she murmured.
An old couple, following the Freedom Trail, most probably, paused and looked at her, frowning. Of course. It appeared to them that she was talking to herself.
“Please, Dylan, let me get out of here, huh?” she asked.
“Of course, of course,” he said.
But he wasn’t going away.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t accustomed to seeing Dylan now.
They were old friends.
They’d established rules.
He’d terrified her when he continued to appear to her years before—even when she realized that she and little Noah might well have been murdered if it hadn’t been for Dylan’s spiritual presence. He’d saved them; he’d gotten her and the baby out of the house when a serial killer had been watching them, biding his time, playing with them as he waited, amused, before showing himself to torture and kill them—as he had other victims before.
She could still feel a cold shiver of fear grip her heart when she thought back to that night.
But she’d had to put that behind her. Despite Dylan appearing here and there—startling and scaring her terribly at first, then begging for her recognition and friendship, and then actually seeming to take up residence with her when she’d headed down to NYU—she’d gotten dual degrees in history and literature. She’d published her first book on the tombstones of New England and was happily writing one on the decline of Puritanism in New England. She was making herself be very fair—she tended to hate the codes by which they had lived and their absolute lack of tolerance for others.
They were, on the one side, her ancestors. Her mother’s grandmother had come over from Ireland, and her great-grandfather had been a fresh-off-the boat Norwegian actor. But her father’s family could trace roots back to the mid-1600s; they’d arrived on a ship just a few decades after the arrival of the Mayflower. Dylan loved to tease her about that.
His family had actually been New Yorkers. Sane.
“Don’t you have someone better to haunt?” she asked him.
He shook his head gravely. “Not today. Followed you to the cemetery, thinking I might find someone to chat up. Other ghosts, you know. People who lived in different decades and centuries can be really interesting. But whoa! Those people. Straight-laced to the core. They don’t seem to want to talk to strangers.”
“Don’t go blaming it all on the Puritans,” Vickie told him. “This cemetery also houses those who died well after the Puritan days.”
“Yeah, well, it’s no fun to hang around a cemetery anyway. Unless you’re you, of course, looking up the lives of all those who came before!”
“I’m ignoring you!” Vickie said, hurrying on ahead.
Naturally, he caught up to her.
On the street, she looked around, and then turned to him, speaking firmly. “Hey! I’m going to my parents’ place. If you come, you behave. You understand.”
He grinned. Dylan was still not quite eighteen. Charming, boyish and handsome. If she was going to have a continual haunt—or a crazed personality—she could have been plagued by a far worse ghost, she was certain. But some days, he was truly and mischievously out to make her appear to have gone daft.
“Sure,” he said.
A cop car went by, sirens blazing. And then another. Dylan looked after the cop cars.
“Hey, something is going down—over by the Granary cemetery. Want to check it out?”
“No,” she said flatly. “You feel free to do so.”
“I will,” he told her.
“See you then,” she said.
He laughed. “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry. I know where your parents live.”
“Yes, of course, you do,” she said.
It wasn’t much of a walk to her parents’ home in Little Italy. They’d moved when she’d gone to college, but they hadn’t moved far. They were now in a refurbished building that dated back to the 1820s but had been meticulously updated and turned into state-of-the-art condos.
They loved it; her father was now retired after thirty years as a history professor at Harvard, and her mom had left her position as first-grade teacher just last year. Their apartment had everything they could desire and they were close to all the restaurants they loved—especially a certain cannoli shop.
When Vickie arrived, the two were studying a travel website.
“Italy! The real thing,” Lucy Preston said, her smile wide and her words excited as she opened the door. “Dad and I are really doing it! Rome, Florence, Venice...we’re going! Doing the booking right now.”
“Great!” Vickie told her mother, giving her a hug.
“Want to come?” Lucy asked.
“No,” Vickie said with a laugh. “Join you two lovebirds on a romantic trip? Nope, thank you, but no thank you. Besides, you two kids are retired now. You can come and go as you like.”
“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” her dad, Philip, said. “It would really get you away from Jared.”
“That terrible man!” her mother said.
“Mom, he isn’t a terrible man. He’s just—not right for me.”
“Well, you could come to Italy for a few days. I mean, you’re writing now. You can write anywhere.”
“Ah, but I can’t find those persnickety Puritans just anywhere, can I? My research is here, in this area, Mom, you know that.”
“We’ve created a monster, Lucy,” her dad said, coming up behind her mom. “She has a work ethic, dear Lord!” he teased, kissing her cheek. “Seriously, though? You’d love this trip, Vickie. I know. You would absolutely love it! You could do research in Italy.”
“Dad, the Puritans came from England, not Italy.”
“Ahha! But later, Italians flocked in and now, we’re living in what they call Little Italy!” her father said triumphantly.
“That’s not the point. You two need to go on alone and have a wonderful and really romantic trip!”
Vickie smiled. She loved her parents deeply. They were so savvy in many ways, and just a little bit clueless in others. They sometimes reminded her of a pair of children—incredibly responsible children, but in their enthusiasm, they frequently appeared on fire. As parents went, they were comparatively young and in excellent health. The trip they were planning was to celebrate the fact that they’d both turn sixty that year. In her mind, her dad—the esteemed Dr. Philip Preston—was as handsome and cool-looking as a rogue pirate—he kept his head clean-shaven and wore a tiny gold stud in one ear. He was well over six feet tall, lean and wiry. Her mom, on the other hand, was about five-two with a froth of blond curls and cat’s eyes—a hazel color that changed constantly. Her parents were attractive and energetic and she could just see the two of them cuddling in the back of a gondola.
Nope—she definitely didn’t want to go with them!
“I’m excited for you two,” she said.
“Coffee is on—want some?” her dad asked.
“Love it!”
“Come see what we’re planning,” her mother told her, urging her over to the dining room table where they’d set up their computer.
“Venice!” her mom said. “We’ll stay right on St. Mark’s Square. And in Rome, well you won’t believe this, but one of dad’s old students works as a tour guide and he’s going to take us on a special tour of the Forum and the Coliseum, and we’re meeting friends at a little restaurant near the Vatican... You know, you could meet us for just part of the trip, if you wanted.”
“My darling parents, I’m delighted that your health is great and that you’re off on an adventure,” Vickie said. “It will be wonderful. How long are you going for?”
“Twenty-one days,” her dad said. “I know you love Italy. It was all you talked about after that college trip you took. But,” he said, smiling at his wife, “I think you’re right to stay home. We both love that you’re working with young people now. It’s great for them.”
“I do love Italy. And I’ll go back with you one day,” she promised them.
“You staying here...does it have anything to do with Jared Norton?” he mother asked.
Vickie was surprised by the question.
“Mom, no—I’m just busy right now. And you guys need time to enjoy each other. Italy, so romantic! You two need to go. I need to stay and work.”
Her mother sighed deeply, and then accepted her words.
“Come on, then! Coffee. And, of course, I’ve got a pie,” her mom said. “Oh, wait—we should have dinner first. You’re here! Oh, and don’t make faces at me. I know I can’t really cook, but I do make the best clam chowder to be found anywhere, even you say that!”
Lucy grinned at her daughter. And Vickie laughed. “Yep, your clam chowder is to die for, it is, Mom. I’m totally wiped out, though.”
Naturally, her mom served up the clam chowder anyway. Vickie had a spoonful almost to her mouth when the ghost of Dylan Ballantine came streaking through the walls with a trail of mist, not unlike a dust storm in a cartoon.
Vickie dropped her spoon, startled. Clam chowder hopped out of the bowl in little droplets.
Her mother and father stared at her; then her mother shivered and frowned and looked uneasily about the room.
“Sorry! Clumsy me,” Vickie said.
Dylan paid no mind to her words or her parents. He was intent on her attention.
“Vickie, Vickie, you’ve got to help, you’ve got to do something. Dammit, Vickie!”
She kept smiling at her confused parents, refusing to look in his direction.
“Vickie, that killer, that Undertaker. He’s taken my mother, Vickie. You’ve got to do something!”
She couldn’t help herself. She jerked around to stare at him, horrified.
“Yes! They found the last woman who’d gone missing and right after, my dad called in about my mom. We have to find her fast, Vickie. Somehow, we have to find her. Now. Before he kills her, too! Please, Vickie, don’t let this happen to my mother!”
He was still speaking when there was a knock at the door. A heavy knock, pounding and insistent.
“FBI! Folks, please open up!” came a voice.
“What in the world?”
Philip Preston rose and strode to the door; he looked through the peephole before frowning and opening it.
Two men stepped in.
The first was tall and dark and had the high cheekbones and golden skin tone of a Native American, along with striking blue eyes.
The second man...
Vickie had started to rise. She froze by the table.
She knew him.
He had aged nine years, of course. His features were still striking, but they seemed cleaner cut, leaner, more rugged. His shoulders were broader. He’d been wearing the blue uniform of the Boston Police Department that day; now he was in a blue suit he wore with casual ease.
Yet she remembered him so clearly. He’d seen her...and he’d warned her to get down. He’d taken a shot, and he’d disarmed the man who had been after her and little Noah on that fateful day. He’d been tall and strong and ridiculously macho and beautiful to her. Detectives had interviewed her, but he’d been there with coffee and a blanket, and he’d held her when she started to shake and had nearly fallen because she was so nervous. He’d been called to be there when she brokenly described everything that had happened that day.
She had thanked him for saving her.
“But it wasn’t really me, was it?” he’d asked her.
She hadn’t answered; she’d never known what to say, how much he knew, how much he had seen...if maybe he actually spoke to the dead himself.
She’d watched him interviewed on the news. He’d stopped a stone-cold killer. He had done nothing any man on the beat wouldn’t have done, he had told reporters. He’d just been there when escaped convict Bertram Aldridge had burst out of the Ballantine house.
She could have been brutally murdered that day. Bertram Aldridge had come after her with a gun. That wasn’t his customary means of murder. He liked to slice up his victims and write messages in their blood. He liked to write notes to the police and smear them with blood.
She had been lucky; so damned lucky. Time had allowed her to walk and talk normally again. To head down to NYC for college, to take work there as a researcher, but now...
She’d come home. And there he was. Griffin Pryce. He was standing next to the tall dark-haired man who was explaining that Chrissy Ballantine had been taken and they’d like to speak with Victoria for just a few minutes.
As Vickie continued to stare while her father explained that she hadn’t worked for the Ballantine family since she’d been in college, she saw that Dylan had gone to the men, that he was speaking a blue streak at the same time.
“You have to find my mother. This isn’t fair. My family has lost too much. Whatever the hell it takes, you have to find my mother.”
It was almost as if Griffin Pryce had heard him. Because he spoke next, almost interrupting Philip Preston.
“We will find Chrissy Ballantine. We will,” he said with conviction.
“But what makes you think that Vickie could help?” her father asked, frustrated.
And then Griffin Pryce looked at her. His eyes were older, harder than she remembered, though still determined and macho and beautiful and...
“Because her name is part of the clue that was sent to the media,” he said softly.