2
Taker—as he had determined his code name to be—stood watching the commotion. Cops, reporters, medics—you name it.
It was good. So good. The woman, it seemed, was alive. People everywhere were talking. A tall blonde next to him smiled at him radiantly. “Can you believe it? They saved her! Dug her right out of the ground—and saved her!”
“Hallelujah,” he said, nodding seriously. “Thank God!”
The blonde moved on.
He became aware that Under was coming to stand next to him. Under thought that being Under meant being the leader—and that Taker had agreed with that, since, in the name the press had given them—Undertaker—Under came first. Taker knew that Under was a lackey; he was the smart one. He was the one with the plan. And—though he refrained from saying it—being a Taker was far better than being Under.
No matter. His accomplice was good—and loyal. Loyal, he knew, mattered most.
“So, they saved her ass!” Under said.
“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Taker asked.
“Not when we’ve got a big one all boxed up!” Under said, and laughed.
Taker started moving down the street. Under followed in his footsteps.
“Think we’ll get to see what happens with that one? I got to admit, I’m hoping your clue doesn’t work. That’s one I’d love to see go bad.”
“Yeah,” Taker agreed. “But hey, not the prize we’re really looking for, right?”
“But a thread to the prize,” Under said, and paused in the street, smiling as they watched the growing throng of reporters in the area. “Love this, love it, love it...and best of all...”
“Best of all, what?” Taker asked.
Under grinned. “We’ve got the dough to keeping going and going.” Under paused, frowning. “Hey, what happens when we’ve taken down the prize, huh? I mean, this is cool, really cool. But I mean, you have an objective. And that’s okay. But...”
“You change. You change your direction. Your style, your signature. And start all over again. You become someone else.”
“So, this never has to end?”
“No, it never has to end,” Taker said.
It would end, of course. He did have an objective. And as to his good friend Under...
Well, friendships often—and tragically—came to an end.
But for now...
His eye was on the prize. And as for Under...at the moment, Under was loyal, like a lapdog, and had assets and abilities Taker did not. Under could, upon occasion, behave in a superior manner, but...
Really. It was all just a matter of time.
* * *
“Where Preston ran and good old Paul rode.”
Vickie sat frozen in her chair as Griffin Pryce read the words.
The two men had declined to take seats; therefore, her parents had refused to sit again. They were like a pair of puppies, blindsided by a couple of whacks to the head.
Not that Vickie felt any different. Or, perhaps, she did. She felt frozen.
“This is wrong, just wrong,” Philip Preston said. “I mean, Preston is not an uncommon name. This clue may not refer to Vickie in any way. You’re asking my daughter to become involved with a killer. A killer who might target her. You can’t mean—”
“Yes, Mr. Preston,” Jackson Crow said.
Vickie’s father was not ready to give in. “Victoria was almost killed once. That man, that awful man—it’s him? Aldridge! Bertram Aldridge. She won’t be involved. I’ll get her out of the country, I’ll—”
“Bertram Aldridge is sitting in prison,” Griffin said. “He will be there for life.”
“This is someone who likes to taunt the police with notes,” Jackson Crow said. “Most probably, they simply remembered and took her name from the newspapers or media at the time.”
“They can’t mean Vickie,” her mother murmured.
“They mean Vickie,” Griffin added quietly.
“Oh, no, no, no, no...” the ghost of Dylan Ballantine said, hands pressed to his temples. “My mom, they’re talking about my mom.”
“I know you!” Vickie’s mother gasped suddenly. “You—you’re Officer Pryce. You were the cop who was there the day that...”
“The day I was nearly killed, Mom,” Vickie said.
“Yes, yes, you’ve been at our home before, and we’re grateful, but...no, not again. My husband is right. You’ll get Vickie targeted by this sick person,” Lucy replied.
“She may help save a woman’s life. We don’t like bringing anyone into harm’s way, Mrs. Preston,” Griffin said. “But I’m afraid that whoever is responsible, they know about the attempt by Bertram Aldridge on Vickie’s life. The Ballantine house is near the Paul Revere house. And Vickie ran from that house.”
“Look!” Philip Preston said angrily, “I won’t have it! I won’t have you use her.”
“Dad!” she said, standing up suddenly. “Dad, please. I know you’re talking out of love for me. But I’m an adult. I can make my own choices. And if there’s anything I can do, I’m willing to do it.”
“No!” her mother said, her face going as pale as ash.
“Mom, Dad, it will be all right. These men are FBI. There are cops everywhere. I’m going to go with them and see if I can do anything.”
“Then you’re going to Italy with us!” her father said firmly.
“Dad, we’ll talk later. But time may be of the essence here. Please. I’m going to go with them,” Vickie said firmly. She rose and looked at Griffin and said, “Shall we? I mean, I will be with the two of you at all times, right?”
“Absolutely,” Griffin said, looking at her. He had, she thought, the darkest eyes she had ever seen. Dark eyes, dark hair, bronzed, rugged face. For a moment, their gazes seemed to be locked. He didn’t like this, she knew. He wasn’t happy to be drawing her in.
She realized that he and the other agent, Jackson Crow, were here because they were desperate to save a woman’s life.
And she could help.
“You’ll call me, you’ll call us, the minute... I mean, you’ll keep in touch, you’ll let us know where you are every step of the way,” her father said.
“We’re wasting time,” Dylan’s ghost said urgently.
“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Vickie assured her parents. She looked from Griffin Pryce to Jackson Crow and said, “We need to go.”
“Go where? Vickie—”
“Where Preston ran and Paul rode,” Vickie said. “The corner where the Ballantine house is—down the street from the Paul Revere house. They have her there somewhere. If I see the site, I might know what the clue means.”
* * *
It had been some time since Griffin had seen Victoria Preston.
Over eight years.
He had never forgotten her.
She had matured well.
When he had first met her—terrified at the scene when he had shot and wounded Bertram Aldridge—she had still been a kid. At least basically. She’d already been about five-eight back then, willowy, with long black hair and tremendous green eyes and fine, slim features. She’d been a beautiful girl—but beautiful girls like her abounded, and he might have seen dozens like her at any sorority party or teen gathering.
He’d immediately felt an affinity for her.
And she’d needed to talk. Which was good, because there was paperwork. Lots of it. She’d explained about the door being slightly open, but Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine had been home. She’d made sure it was locked and the alarm on after they had gone.
He hadn’t been a detective back then; he’d been on the force three years, gathering experience, and had already started the application process with the FBI.
Detectives had taken over along with the FBI. Bertram Aldridge had gone back to being incarcerated with another trial in his future. He’d killed two guards during his escape.
Griffin shouldn’t have had anything else to do with Victoria Preston. But he hadn’t been able to leave it alone. He’d had to check on her.
Because he wouldn’t have been on time—he wouldn’t have saved her life—if Bertram Aldridge hadn’t gone down. His shot might have killed Bertram instead of wounding him, but Victoria Preston would have been shot as well if Bertram Aldridge’s shot hadn’t gone wild...
He hadn’t liked to think about it back then. He didn’t like to think about it now.
But he’d seen the kid who had been with Vickie.
The ghost.
Seen him, and then he’d been gone. Griffin never knew if Vickie had seen what he’d seen that day, if she hadn’t been saved to a far greater degree by a dead boy than she had been saved by his own actions.
He’d never point-blank asked her if she’d seen the boy; he hadn’t been sure of what he’d seen himself, despite his own past.
Now, of course, he knew. Yes, she saw the boy.
And the boy was still with her.
Chrissy Ballantine’s older son.
Griffin was doing the driving; he was the Bostonian, who knew where he was going, which streets were open, which were closed, which only went in one direction. They could have easily walked. But under the circumstances, the car was quicker—and more official.
And, thankfully, due to government tags, could be left anywhere, even in the narrow streets of Old Boston.
He’d suggested that they head to the corner street of the Ballantine house. Naturally, police were still in the house. George Ballantine was there with his son, and crime scene techs and detectives were going over the house and the grounds and trying to ascertain how the kidnapper/killer got in—and how he or she got out.
Jackson Crow was fast to get out of the car, but Vickie Preston was already out the back door. She stood for a moment, looking around. Griffin hurried around to her side, looking around as well.
The Paul Revere house was just down the street. They were on the Freedom Trail. When Griffin had been growing up, he’d had lots of friends who lived in other areas and the suburbs who came here just to shop for their Italian sausages and cannoli.
It was Old Boston. Centuries of history unfolded in a number of fairly centralized streets; giant skyscrapers stood among cemeteries where founding fathers had long lain at rest. Great Gothic houses of worship stood among the modern, built in defiance of restrictions long before the Constitution affording a separation of church and state had been penned. Boston was, in Griffin’s mind, a perfect example of the making of a country—and, in this particular area, there were treasures to be found.
It was also a mammoth haystack. How to find a woman among the new and the old—and the many giant buildings that rested here and there between those crafted at a time when a skyscraper had yet to be imagined?
“You think that she’s here—somewhere near the house?” Jackson asked Vickie.
She stood looking up, thoughtful, distraught. Then she glanced Griffin’s way.
“I’m a writer and researcher,” she murmured. “I don’t know much about the mind of a killer, I’m afraid. But...”
“But what?” Griffin heard himself ask, a little too sharply.
“Yeah, what, what?”
The ghost of Dylan Ballantine was with them, anxious. Griffin hadn’t felt his presence in the car—Dylan must have come on foot. Or through the air—or however the dead managed to travel.
None of them actually responded to the boy.
Griffin glanced at Jackson.
Apparently, none of them were going to acknowledge the fact that the others also saw Dylan.
“The clue is, ‘Where Preston ran and old Paul rode.’ I mean, he might have ridden on any of the streets around here, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything. The reference to ‘Preston’ could also mean anything, but ‘where old Paul rode’ might suggest that she’s somewhere Paul Revere might have been.”
Griffin looked around the street. He tried to judge the age of the buildings they saw. The apartments across from them had 1830 chiseled into the stone. They were near Boston Common, and they were near a few of the very old churches, and, of course, burial grounds.
But he didn’t think they’d find her in a cemetery or vault. Their last victim had been found so. Maybe the killer thought that they’d start digging, with such a clue.
“The Ballantine house,” Vickie said. “It was here before the Revolution.”
“The Ballantine house is crawling with cops,” Jackson pointed out.
“The basement?” Dylan said.
“They haven’t found anything to explain how the killer might have spirited her out,” Jackson said to Griffin. “It’s easy enough for a determined criminal to watch people coming and going—and to notice they might have forgotten to lock a door or haven’t found time to lock it and set an alarm. No one saw or heard anything. It wouldn’t be surprising if a criminal had just slipped in and even out. But it’d be more surprising if someone came out carrying something the size of a woman, even if Chrissy Ballantine is a small woman.”
Dylan was already running across the street.
“Vickie?” Griffin asked.
“They have a basement. Only part of it has been finished. The foundation is really big—so, as you can imagine, there’s a lot to the basement.”
Griffin studied Vickie. He was pretty sure that she had something of a “gift.” Intuition, or something stronger that helped her. Like her ability to see the dead.
A gift...that some people might consider a curse or a sickness! Whichever. At the moment, he had to think that they were working with a gift—one that could save lives.
The three of them headed toward the house. Men in uniform stood outside, blocking entrance to it, but Griffin and Jackson quickly showed their credentials. They were allowed through.
George Ballantine was seated on the couch in the grand parlor of the house; it was a large room, tastefully furnished with antiques. He had a cup of coffee in front of him that he hadn’t touched. When they entered, he was talking aloud, rambling, just to talk and try to figure out why this would have happened to him.
“Chrissy is smart, she doesn’t just open the door. I mean, my God, we had a maniac in here once. She’s careful. ” He paused, breaking off in pain. “We lost my older son—we nearly lost Noah. And now Chrissy...”
He broke off, staring across the room.
“Vickie?”
“Mr. Ballantine,” she said, hurrying forward.
George stood, a distinguished man in his tailored suit, and reached out for Vickie. She hurried forward and he enveloped her in a trembling hug.
“Mr. Ballantine, we think that Vickie can help,” Jackson said.
George Ballantine looked at Jackson and then at Griffin.
They’d met at the house, briefly, before heading over to pick up Vickie. George Ballantine hadn’t really seemed to recognize Griffin from the past, but then, they hadn’t had much interaction. The detectives and FBI agents on the case had dealt with the family. He’d looked at Griffin strangely, but hadn’t seemed to have grasped the connection.
Vickie—he knew.
“Vickie, dear, so good of you to come...it’s been so long. Noah... Noah is in his room. I’m trying to keep him from everything going on. Of course, I haven’t managed that at all. He’s nine now, still a kid, but... I’m going to have to explain. He just knows that his mom is missing. He had baseball today, Little League, you know? They called me because Chrissy wasn’t there to get him, and then I came home, and she wasn’t here, but she had a cup of tea out... Chrissy doesn’t leave things out like that. Her purse is here, her keys...it’s as if she’s vanished into the thin air. And that clue, Vickie, I mean, thank you. No one can know that ‘Preston’ means you, but...oh, God! I can’t believe this. My family, Chrissy, she’s amazing...you know Chrissy. Oh, God.”
Vickie Preston drew gently away from him. “Mr. Ballantine, we need to search the basement.”
“The basement? The cops have been down there—they’ve been everywhere,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Ballantine, but we need to look, please,” Griffin told him.
The man still looked dazed. “Of course. Whatever. But shouldn’t you be out there looking for her?”
“We’re working on it, Mr. Ballantine. Please,” Jackson said quietly.
“What about the other woman—the other woman who was just saved? It’s all over the news—you just saved her. Can’t she tell you anything—tell you who did this? She could help, she could give us something!” George said.
“We keep checking in,” Griffin assured him. “I’m afraid she’s still unconscious. We need your help, sir.”
Ballantine nodded. “Sure.” He frowned as he stared at Griffin. “I know you,” he said.
“I used to be a Boston police officer,” Griffin said.
“Yeah, yeah, you were here...” George Ballantine seemed confused, and then angry. “Are you the reason this madman took my Chrissy?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. I haven’t worked here in years,” Griffin said.
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Mr. Ballantine demanded. Then he looked at Vickie as if it all might somehow be her fault. “Both of you...maybe it’s because of you.”
Vickie was visibly shaken; Griffin fought his anger. The man was in no condition to be rational.
“I’m with the FBI now, Mr. Ballantine,” Griffin said. “Excuse us. We’re hoping that something in the basement will help.”
He turned; he didn’t know the Ballantine house, but Vickie did. She took his cue and walked away from Ballantine, heading to the kitchen.
Vickie opened the door that led to the basement. Griffin and Jackson followed her down. It was evident the police and techs had been down there already. Shelves that lined the brick walls had been gone through; the door to a half bath stood open.
One door led to the water heater and cooling system, another to other mechanics. The first room held a pool table and old comfortable chairs. There was a half bar that had been built to one side.
Structural components blocked off various areas.
They walked through the different rooms in the basement, between giant brick columns, leaving behind the finished section and moving into a raw work area. They all searched.
Vickie stood in the middle of the floor, baffled.
Dylan Ballantine appeared at her side.
“Vickie, please, please, think!”
She was thinking; that was painfully evident.
“I’m not sure what else...where else. The clue seems so evident. Where Paul rode...this house would have stood then. I’m not sure what else...there’s the Paul Revere house down the street, but too many people are in and out. And the churches...there are so many tourists around.”
“And we just found a woman in one of the cemeteries,” Jackson said quietly, encouraging her train of thought.
“She’s here. She’s here—I’m sure she’s here,” Vickie murmured.
Griffin looked around. A pile of wood was neatly stacked against a far wall. He closed his eyes and tried to see with his mind’s eye. Yes, there could be someone beneath it. But with just the wood piled on top?
Had the killer changed his ways, and strangled or stabbed her first?
He strode firmly over to the woodpile and began to toss the large and small logs to the side. He became more frantic, and then he was joined by Jackson and Vickie.
But as they neared the bottom of the pile, he felt his frustration grow. There was no woman there.
“Beneath, beneath!” Vickie cried. “There’s a door to a deeper pit...they used to store way more wood down here before, decades ago, long before modern heating systems came in.”
And there was a door. Griffin saw a little metal ring in the middle of it. He jerked so hard on it that he almost ripped the thin wood portal out of its sockets.
And there she lay. Chrissy Ballantine, covered in the minutiae of dust and chips and dirt that had fallen upon the place where she’d been entombed...
“Get her out,” Jackson said.
“Mom, Mom!” the ghost of Dylan sobbed.
Griffin dropped low on his knees and lifted Chrissy Ballantine from the little pit in her own home. He was prepared to resuscitate; Jackson was shouting to the cops upstairs to get a paramedic down to him.
Vickie stood by, silent, watching, as if she were frozen.
Chrissy Ballantine took a deep breath and coughed and sputtered on her own.
Resuscitation wasn’t necessary.
Chrissy Ballantine was alive and breathing on her own.
And her eyes opened. She looked up and smiled.
“Vickie... Dylan.” Her eyes closed. She was alive.
And the paramedics were hurrying down to tend to her.
Griffin closed his own eyes for a minute, silently thankful that they’d found a second woman alive—on the same day.
Then he realized that Dylan’s mother had said his name.
He looked up where Vickie was standing. She stood alone, staring at him with enormous green eyes. He tried to smile and rose and moved away from the paramedics and Chrissy Ballantine. They could hear George Ballantine above, fighting with the cops to get to his wife. They could hear a policeman urging him to let the paramedics work.
“She’ll be okay, Mr. Ballantine. She’ll be okay. You can come along. They’re going to get her to the hospital now,” one of the officers assured him.
“We’ve got to go to the hospital, too,” Jackson told him.
“Yeah,” he said. “But first, we have to get Miss Preston home.”
Vickie shook her head. “I should go back to my parents’ house, Agent Pryce. They need to know—I mean, I can call them, but they’re parents and need to see me, to know that I’m just fine and that Chrissy Ballantine has been found. Alive.”
“Of course,” Jackson told her. “But we’ll get an officer to escort you.”
“And,” Griffin added, “please assure them that we’ll have officers outside their building.”
“Do you think Chrissy Ballantine will know what happened?”
“Two victims were found alive today, Miss Preston,” Jackson said. “We can certainly hope that one of them is able to give us something. Mrs. Ballantine owes her life to you, and we got lucky with the other victim. We’re working to find real answers soon.”
The med techs were getting Chrissy onto a stretcher. Boston med techs were among the finest in the country, Griffin was certain. Chrissy Ballantine already had an IV in her arm and an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Her color was already better; she was going to make it just fine, he believed.
When they had cleared the room, Vickie headed toward the stairs.
Detective David Barnes was on his way down.
He almost ran straight into Vickie.
“Miss Preston?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Barnes. You found her—you found her already?”
Griffin wasn’t sure if the note in Barnes’s voice was amazement—or skepticism.
“Logical, Detective,” Jackson said, stepping forward. “And thank God for Miss Preston. She went the historical and reasonable route. No one saw anything. Hard to slip the woman out in a neighborhood like this without someone seeing something. And as for the clue—where old Paul rode. This house was here. Victoria Preston was pretty amazing.”
“Of course—and still, wow. Amazing—that’s the word,” Barnes said. “Thank you for your help, Miss Preston. Naturally, there’s paperwork.”
“There always is,” Vickie said.
“Miss Preston would like to get to her parents’ home and let them know that she’s fine and that Mrs. Ballantine is alive as well,” Griffin said.
“Yes, of course. But...” Barnes said.
“I’ll go with Miss Preston and take her statement,” Jackson said. “You and Griffin can head to the hospital and speak with Mrs. Ballantine as soon as it’s possible without endangering her health.”
“All right,” Barnes said. Griffin was sure the man was still looking at the three of them suspiciously, as if they shared something that he wasn’t in on.
And they did.
“Let’s go then,” he said to Barnes. He paused and turned to Vickie.
She looked tired, covered in sawdust and damp from exertion. Her dark hair was disarrayed and her eyes seemed incredibly large and green in the garish light of the unfinished area of the basement.
“Thank you,” he told her.
“Of course,” she said. “Of course.”
That should have been it. He should have moved instantly.
He didn’t. He stood there a few seconds longer. There was more to say.
He didn’t know how to say it.
When he finally turned to head out, he knew that he’d see her again.
He had to. He had to because...
He simply had to.
* * *
“Bick-bick! Vickie, Victoria!”
Vickie was almost out the door, escorted by a nice big cop on one side and the rock of a man who was Jackson Crow on the other, when she heard Noah Ballantine calling to her.
She turned, and it felt as if her heart melted in her chest. Though the families had stayed friends since the night of the traumatic events—they’d seen each other now and then at church or other social events—it had now been years since she had seen Noah.
She would have recognized Noah Ballantine, now a nine-year-old, anywhere. He hadn’t changed much. His dad was a truly dignified-looking man, and somehow, Noah was just as dignified. His mother was beautiful, and Noah was still a beautiful kid.
He remembered her. And that was truly amazing. He’d been so young the last time they’d seen one another.
He was tall for his age, lean, with a thatch of sandy hair and hazel eyes. He stared at Vickie gravely, and yet with a look of hope that was humbling. He wasn’t a particularly big kid, but something about his face and eyes seemed way older than his years.
His father, Vickie knew, had just headed for the hospital. Griffin and Detective Barnes would be following. She hoped that everyone hadn’t just forgotten Noah in their anxiety for his mother and determination to talk to her.
“Noah!” she said, and she walked back to him as he raced into her arms.
She hugged him tightly for a minute. When he pulled away at last, he looked at her and said, “I knew you would come. I knew you would save my mother. The way you saved me.”
Vickie flushed, humbled. “Noah, it wasn’t just me, lots of people were involved.”
He smiled at her. “But I knew you would come.” There was suddenly an oddly mischievous look about him. “And, of course, I know there are others involved. But Bick-bick...wow, gotta quit calling you Bick-bick.” He laughed. “I mean I’m older now. And so are you.”
“Thanks.”
“Not that old!” Noah said quickly.
“Thanks again. And, well, I’m not so sure you’re so grown-up they need to throw you out on the streets with the work force,” she told him. “And you may call me anything you like. Noah, it’s so good to see you.”
“My mom...she’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”
“I believe so, Noah. And, hopefully, she’ll be able to tell the officers what happened, and all this will be over,” Vickie said.
Griffin Pryce and Detective Barnes came up behind Noah, waiting patiently before heading out to follow the ambulance to the hospital.
Noah swung around and headed to Griffin to shake his hand.
“Thank you. Thank you. Twice now. You’re really good, I figure. You knew to bring Victoria in. Somehow, sir, I think all this must be that awful man from before,” he said.
Vickie liked the way Griffin smiled down at Noah. He apparently had a nice soft spot for kids.
“We’re just super grateful, Noah, that your mom is going to be okay. And the man before—we made certain—he is in prison. So. What are we going to do about you right now? I think your dad was pretty eager to go be with your mom. Do you have any other family here?”
“No, sir. My parents were kind of old when they had me. Late-life kid, I’ve heard people say. My grandparents are dead. I think I have cousins in Baltimore. But I’ll be okay. This house has an alarm system—and I watch cop shows, even though I’m really not supposed to,” Noah said. “I know as soon as he can, my dad will come back and get me so I can see my mom.”
“You know what, Noah? If you want, Detective Barnes and I are on our way to the hospital—we’ll take you with us,” Griffin told him.
“Really? That would be great.”
Barnes looked at Griffin and frowned.
“We’ll have someone from social services sit with you until you can see her,” Griffin said.
“I can do better than that—just let me see my parents and I’ll head to the hospital and sit with Noah,” Vickie offered. She could have called them, of course. Under the circumstances, it seemed best to actually see them and speak with them in person.
“Miss Preston, you’ve been invaluable,” Detective Barnes said. “I’m sure that—”
“Noah and I are old friends,” Vickie said. “It will be my pleasure.”
“It is set then,” Jackson Crow said firmly. “I’ll see to it that Miss Preston visits her parents, and then gets to the hospital. Vickie, if you will?” he asked, indicating the door.
Vickie smiled at the others and spun around to head out the door. The big cop was patiently waiting for them. A crowd had gathered; traffic was snarled.
News, it seemed, traveled fast. Maybe people just gathered any time an ambulance and cop cars appeared. “Duck your head—we’ll keep your involvement out of the press,” Jackson Crow told her.
She ducked her head.
The cop drove; Vickie was next to him, aware of Jackson Crow behind her.
The cop stayed with the car, Jackson politely thanking him.
Up in her parents’ apartment, Vickie was nearly crushed to death by her mom and dad. She told them happily that Mrs. Ballantine was going to be fine, they were fairly certain. She would spend at least one night in the hospital.
“We should really visit when we can, Phil,” her mother told her father. “It is sad—we were close with George and Chrissy for so long. And then the thing happened with that maniac Bertram Aldridge. We just... I guess we just drifted apart lately. Anytime we saw one another... I guess all we could think about was that our children might have...died.”
“Of course we’ll visit!” Phil said. He still had an arm around Vickie’s shoulders. He stared at Jackson as if daring the man to take her away from him.
“Actually, Dad, I’m going to the hospital now. I’m going to stay with Noah Ballantine,” Vickie told them.
“No,” her mother said. “No, no, Vickie.”
“Mom, it will be okay,” she said firmly. “Noah is nine and he doesn’t have any family here and he might wind up hanging with child services.”
“Which isn’t terrible!” her dad said.
“Which isn’t happening,” she said firmly. “I came right here so we could tell you what happened and so you could see I was okay. Hey, you know how to work the Skype on your phones. I’ll keep in touch—visually!—okay? I know you’re scared, too. But we’re talking about a little boy who has to be in some real trauma right now.”
She kissed her dad’s cheek and then her mom’s.
Her dad stared at Jackson Crow. “Don’t you let anything happen to her!”
“Sir, we will not,” Crow promised.
“This is all too much. Vickie isn’t a cop or an agent or—”
“Dad, I’m just going to hang with Noah. It will be fine,” Vickie said, determined. “Love you both. We have a cop double-parked downstairs. We have to go.”
Her parents kissed her again. She glanced at Jackson Crow, flushing slightly. She was surprised at how overprotective her folks were behaving.
“I’ll be in touch,” she promised.
They managed to escape to the hallway. In the elevator, she looked over at Jackson. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’ve been away from home a long time. I’ve just moved back and...”
“Never be sorry that you have people who love you so much,” he told her, indicating that the elevator door had opened.
She smiled uneasily and headed out.
They didn’t speak in the cop car; Jackson Crow received a call. When they reached the hospital, Jackson knew just which way to go after receiving clearance from the hospital’s security. Chrissy was already out of the emergency room and on a floor above.
There was a waiting room; Griffin Pryce was there with Noah Ballantine. He rose when they arrived, nodding at them all. “Jackson, I’ll head back in. Chrissy has been in and out of consciousness. Detective Barnes is there. We haven’t pressed her yet.”
“Great. Noah, how are you doing?” Jackson asked.
“I’m fine, sir. Griffin talked to the doctors—my mom is really going to be okay. Whoever did this to her gave her a really good conk on the head. They want her to stay here tonight and probably tomorrow night. But she’s going to be okay.”
Griffin looked at Vickie. She had no idea what he was thinking; he seemed to have acquired the ability to look as stoic as Jackson Crow. Maybe it was FBI training, not to give anything away.
“So, Noah, here we are,” Vickie said. “I’m so glad—so grateful about your mom.”
“Bick-bick,” he said, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re with me.”
“Okay, we have some time to kill,” she said. “Tell me what’s up with you.”
They sat in the waiting room. Jackson Crow took up a position by the door. Griffin went out.
Noah told her about school and Little League and everything that he was doing. She, in turn, told him about school in New York and coming back and working with some of the older kids in the system. They managed to pass time—until Noah fell asleep with his head on her lap.
A police officer in uniform came in and Jackson Crow went out. When she looked down at her lap, Vickie saw that Noah had woken up and was staring at her.
“You see Dylan,” he said softly.
She didn’t mean to jerk with her surprise at his words, but she did.
He smiled. “We haven’t seen a lot of each other since you went to New York, but I know that you see Dylan! I mean, he told me that he hangs with you a lot. He comes home now and then, too. Did he help you find Mom? He wasn’t at the house.”
“No, he wasn’t at the house when it happened. But...” She hesitated. She had certainly agreed that she saw him. “I’m sure he’s in with her now,” she said simply.
Noah nodded and began to whisper quickly. “I don’t tell anybody—they’d think that I was crazy. And we never got a chance to talk about it. Or, I guess we just didn’t talk about it.”
“You were so young. And I thought that I was crazy,” Vickie said.
“I tried to tell my dad once and then I heard him talking to my mom and they were both worried that I was still troubled subconsciously by all the stuff that happened when I was a toddler. They wanted to have me like picked apart at some institute—and I was never a dumb kid, Vickie. They meant a loony bin. I never told anybody after that. Not my friends, not my teachers...not the priest. I didn’t tell anybody. I didn’t want to get locked up. And I knew that nobody else saw what I saw. But I did know that you saw him, too, because Dylan told me that he had a good time ‘haunting’ you, though he hitched a ride back up here on the train a lot.”
Vickie looked at him and nodded and actually managed a slight smile. She’d gotten Dylan to knock—mind over matter, he’d told her. He hadn’t been so good at first, but he’d learned to make noise rapping at the door. She’d always had a bad time when he thought that she was dating the wrong guy. He had no problem telling her, and—she was quick to discover—Dylan tended to be right in his character assessments.
“I see Dylan, yes, and he’s still my friend, and way back when, you really can’t possibly remember, but... Dylan kept us both from being killed.”
“I do remember,” he said. “Odd, huh? They say you can’t possibly remember when you were so little. But I guess, maybe... I always saw Dylan.”
“I didn’t, until that day. And then...after a while of seeing him, I realized that sometimes, I saw other ghosts as well. I think I realized it first when I was walking by a cemetery. Not that I’ve found that the dead really want to hang out in graveyards all the time.”
Noah looked at her somberly.
“Right—like, I mean, really, who would? I’m sure there are more fun places to be. But, you know, Agent Pryce sees him, too,” he said. “I know Griffin sees Dylan. He just can’t say anything. Maybe Agent Crow sees him, too. But I know for sure that Griffin does. And you know what?”
“What?”
“You need to ask him about it. Because it’s important. I know I’m a kid, and people don’t listen to kids, but... I think it’s going to matter. I think Dylan is going to help again. And I think you’re going to have to tell Griffin that you see Dylan. Because I know...”
“You know what?”
“I know this isn’t over.”
“Noah, your mom is fine, she’s going to be fine, and—”
“My mom will be fine. That’s not it, Vickie.”
“What is it, then?”
“Vickie, I’m afraid that it’s not over for you.”
* * *
Taker watched the news. He really hadn’t given a damn that a few of the women had been found alive. Why bother taunting the police and sending the clues if they didn’t want them to have some hope?
But this...
They’d found Chrissy Ballantine so damned quickly. How the hell...?
For a moment, he felt a rush of unease—almost bordering on fear.
Had he really learned his lessons well? Yes, always be on the lookout. Take care of cameras, know the lay of the land, know the victim, know timing, always wear gloves, never let the thrill—the rush of pleasure over a kill—get in the way of a controlled crime scene.
His unease suddenly turned to anger; his anger to raw fury.
He stared at the television screen.
Control. Care. Organization.
He waited until the rush of fury was gone, and then he dialed Under.
“The party is alive and swinging,” Under said.
“Yep, so... I think we need to find another cool party, huh? Have you checked out any?” he asked.
“I know just the place. You ready?”
“Hell, yeah. Time to dance!” Taker said.
Was he ready?
Absolutely. Oh, yes, absolutely. And this time...
This time, well, he’d just have to tighten up his “party” package.