The witches, they are real...

A series of bizarre assaults is mystifying Boston police: an unknown attacker is viciously beating random strangers and leaving a note quoting an old warning about witchcraft. History professor Alex Maple was one of the victims, and now he’s gone missing. Vickie Preston is certain that someone has taken her friend for malicious purposes. She’s having blood-drenched visions that seem to be staining her waking life, and the escalating attacks suggest that a dangerous cult is at work behind the scenes—a cult so powerful that its members would rather die than be apprehended.

Vickie is grateful to have Special Agent Griffin Pryce and the FBI’s elite Krewe of Hunters on her side. She and Griffin are finding their way in an increasingly passionate relationship, and Griffin is desperately trying to keep her safe and the two of them sane amid the disturbing investigation. The search for Alex will take them deep into the wilderness of Massachusetts on the trail of a serial killer, and it will take everything they have to survive the ancient evil that awakens and threatens not just the man they’re striving to save but their very souls.

Praise for New York Times bestselling author

Heather Graham

“Intricate, fast-paced, and intense, this riveting thriller blends romance and suspense in perfect combination and keeps readers guessing and the tension taut until the very end.”

—Library Journal on Flawless

“Graham is a master at world building and her latest is a thrilling, dark, and deadly tale of romantic suspense.”

—Booklist, starred review, on Haunted Destiny

“A riveting mystery...interesting history, [and a] sweet romance with a second chance at love.”

—Fresh Fiction on Darkest Journey

“Graham is the queen of romantic suspense, and her latest is proof that she deserves the title. What makes this story more fun than most is the relationship between Kieran Finnegan, who wants nothing more than family harmony and a functioning restaurant, and FBI agent Craig Fraiser, who wants justice. Sparks fly, and it’s electric.”

—RT Book Reviews on Flawless

“The Krewe is back! Graham excels at weaving history, finding the proper balance between past and present and keeping a story fresh and authentic, with Haunted Destiny being no exception. The chaos and camaraderie of the characters are captured with vivid detail, and the identity of the killer will keep you guessing until the very end.”

—RT Book Reviews on Haunted Destiny

“Graham stands at the top of the romantic suspense category.”

—Publishers Weekly

“An incredible storyteller.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

Dark Rites

Heather Graham

In memory of two men from Massachusetts.

My uncle George Law.

An amazing in-law I would have been proud to have

as a blood relative, as close and giving and supportive

as any family could be. Kind, generous, wonderful.

A true hero in his strength and kindness.

And my dear friend Dennis Cummins.

Musician, bandmate, Lizzie Borden house protector,

Biography Channel Andrew to my Abby and Chynna Skye’s

Lizzie, amazing friend who quietly made every occasion

together one that made me smile.

I loved them both, and it is true—

the world is a poorer place now that they are gone.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Victoria (Vickie) Preston—historian and author

Griffin Pryce—special agent with the FBI’s Krewe of Hunters

Jackson Crow—field director, Krewe of Hunters

Craig “Rocky” Rockwell—special agent with

the FBI’s Krewe of Hunters

Devin Lyle—children’s author and Krewe agent

Dylan Ballantine—ghost of a seventeen-year-old boy

who haunts Vickie

Darlene Dutton—ghost of a nineteen-year-old girl

Roxanne Greeley—Vickie’s best friend

Alex Maple—history professor and Vickie’s friend

Milton Hanson—professor

Ron and Cathy Dearborn—local musicians

Isaac Sherman—man whose wife went missing

Law Enforcement

David Barnes—detective with Boston PD

Jim Tracy—sketch artist

Wendell Harper—Massachusetts State Police

Robert Merton—detective from Bristol, Rhode Island

Cole Magruder—detective from Fall River, Massachusetts

Charlie Oakley—retired detective in

Fall River, Massachusetts

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Acknowledgments

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Alex Maple wasn’t sure, as he first became aware of himself, if he was alive or dead.

He was miserable; he knew that.

Alive—he had to be alive to hurt in so many places.

He hadn’t opened his eyes. Slowly, he tried to do so. At first, he thought about the Undertakers—the duo of kidnapping killers who had recently terrorized Boston. He was probably buried—deep in the earth, in a hole, in a Dumpster, in newly poured roadwork...

No. When he opened his eyes, there was light.

Too much light, maybe. Looking around, he realized that he wasn’t buried. The harsh light of a naked bulb filled the room where he lay.

He tried to move; he sat up. He saw that he was on a gurney. The walls had once been painted that awful sickly green color that graced most of the country’s hospitals. Paint was peeling; dust and dirt covered the floors; spiderwebs were visible around the hanging lightbulb. There were several other gurneys in the large room—four or five of them. Scattered throughout and by the gurneys were tables, some made out of wood, some that appeared to be newer, made of stainless steel.

There were tools on those tables. Knives, clamps, more—instruments that resembled those used by doctors years and years ago, some not so different now. He narrowed his eyes to study the one set.

From the 1800s, so it seemed: bullet extractor, amputation knife, saw, cervical dilator, lithotome, scarficator and trephine, among others he couldn’t quite see.

Surgical instruments—the trephine for creating gouges in the skull.

And the strange shadowy color on some of the tables...

Dried blood.

He quickly turned to look at another table. Instruments for lobotomy, he thought—the controversial procedure invented by a Portuguese neurologist in the 1940s, known to create as many side effects as the initial mental problem, almost stripping the soul from a man.

He tried to rise from the gurney.

It was only then that he realized that he was shackled to it. One huge chain on his left ankle. Another on his right arm.

His heart raced; he couldn’t breathe. It seemed that his vision blurred before him and the world started to go black.

What the hell? What in God’s name had happened to him? Kidnapped, taken, was he going to be killed? Worse—tortured and killed.

The fear was nearly overwhelming!

He fought the sensation. Hard! He didn’t have any kind of training for this type of thing; he hadn’t even been a Boy Scout. But he was bright, and he wanted to survive.

He was—not all that useful in such a situation!—a historian. He had to make do.

Okay, that meant that, at the least, he was pretty darned sure he knew where he was. The Mariana Institute for the Mentally Unfit, opened circa 1840, closed down when the Commonwealth of Massachusetts had approved the disincorporation of several valley towns in order to create the Quabbin, a reservoir of water for Boston, in the 1930s. The Mariana Institute remained on high ground, ground that was deeply forested, now inhabited and visited only by the wildlife that proliferated the area—bobcats, black bears, moose, red foxes, eagles, deer, weasels, coyotes and more.

It was supposed that it existed no more.

But Alex was in it!

According to official records, it—like so many other buildings—had been razed circa 1936.

But clearly it hadn’t been, and he only knew that it was still here because of an obscure reference he had recently found in a book of incredibly boring records. Reading between the lines, he realized that they’d run late with the demolition—a complaint by the man in charge chalked it up to the fact that the doctors had been trying to find new placements for the remaining patients. And no more crews had been sent out after the date that it had been recorded as demolished.

The area was called “the accidental wilderness,” because no one had realized what a reserve they would create when they flooded the towns.

He’d been so excited about what he’d discovered.

He hadn’t been able to wait to...tell Vickie!

The terrible thought filtered in: no one knew it was here. No one would know he was here!

Of course, people hiked along trails that weren’t that far away. There was a visitor center, there were wildlife refuges...

None of them near the site of the abandoned mental institute—which had just been left there as the Commonwealth of Massachusetts dealt with matters far more serious than a derelict building that most people wanted to pretend had never existed. It wasn’t anywhere near any kind of an actual large city, with no real roads left to reach it. The wretched place—known for death and mayhem—was not even up for grabs to the many entrepreneurs who loved to create Halloween horror houses or museums out of such old institutes. Massachusetts had a solid grip on the area.

How the hell had he even gotten here?

He couldn’t remember. He had just woken up and...

Found himself shackled to a table.

Think! he commanded himself. He was supposed to have a brilliant mind. He was one of the youngest professors of history at one of the finest institutes of learning in the United States. That was, of course, why he could figure out where he was.

None of this helped in the least in explaining how he had gotten chained up in a supposedly nonexistent mental hospital!

Remember! Remember where he had been, what he had been doing.

For a moment, his past eluded him. So he went back to the beginning: he’d been born in Auburn, Massachusetts. He’d grown up on State Street. He’d always been a nerd, but thank God, it was okay; time and society—and The Big Bang Theory—had made nerds acceptable. He was a hair over six foot three, but his weight was a mere hundred and eighty-five—no matter what he ate! One of the biggest, toughest football players in the school had been his best friend. He hadn’t been stuffed into school lockers or had his head shoved into the toilet. He’d been treated like some kind of guru, really.

And after high school, Harvard.

Graduation. He’d dated Allie Trent; they’d been a good pair. But Allie had died, way too young, way too smart and lovely, to have been lost so sadly to the horrors of disease. That had been a few years back now. He’d gone on a dating website and had a few okay experiences, but nothing that had touched his heart. He indulged in a moment of regret, missing Allie again. His excursions with the opposite sex since had barely awakened his libido.

Maybe he needed a wilder libido. Not something to worry about now! Focus.

So...

He worked at the college, he came home and he researched historical events and whatever else grabbed his fancy; he loved coffee shops and acoustic music and...

Then he remembered. Three weeks ago, he’d been savagely attacked right in front of his apartment. Struck so violently on the head he’d spent days in the hospital. He’d never known what had hit him. Although he’d been somewhat involved in the Undertaker case, but that situation had been solved. His friend Vickie Preston and FBI Special Agent Griffin Pryce had come to see him in the hospital; they—and the police—were still looking for the attacker or attackers, but they’d discovered nothing so far. But there had been a note left on his battered body.

Hell’s afire and Satan rules, the witches, they were real. The time has come, the rites to read, the flesh, ’twas born to heal. Yes, Satan is coming!

The cops, he knew, had chalked it all up to some gang or even cult, acting out. Especially since he wasn’t the only one attacked; a young woman on Beacon Hill had been struck and left with the same note, as had an older man—one who had barely survived!—in Brookline.

Boston had never been crime-free—not even during the days of the very harsh Puritan laws that had first ruled the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

So far—in this rash of knock-’em-out-and-leave-’em-with-a-Satanic-warning attacks—no one had died. The police did what they could, but maybe they were busier with other murders than they were with the head-knockings by a would-be Crowley-esque cult.

Vickie and her agent friend would be on it, though. He was certain!

Alex had been left hurt but alive. And once he’d healed a bit, he’d looked up the rhyme that had been left on his chest. It wasn’t even original. It had first been used in the 1600s by a man named Ezekiel Martin, the bitter leader of a shunned Puritan group, and then again in the 1800s by a gang of thugs in Fall River; it had been used there again in the 1970s. But there were no known serious Satanic cults holding forth in Massachusetts now—not the kind who drew any attention.

The cops had watched over him for a couple of weeks. In fact, he’d become pretty friendly with the cop assigned to watch him most days. But nothing else had happened. Nothing had been found. He’d gone about his daily routine.

And the city budget hadn’t allowed for police protection for him.

Then there were other victims of other crimes. And life went on.

He’d accepted an invitation to a special art showing; he’d seen the newest superhero movie—he’d gone about life. He even went to see the duo playing at the coffee shop.

That was it!

The coffee shop by Faneuil Hall! He’d gone to sip a cappuccino and listen to a great musical set, a brother and sister with a pair of guitars, lead and bass. A pair of lovely out-of-time hippies, he thought, doing a delightful session of folk music.

Professor Hanson had called him about the paper he would soon be publishing on relationships between the founding fathers. Milton Hanson was a friend—one who was helping him make his position at Harvard permanent. Since Alex had been attacked in the street, with centuries-old Satanic cult words written in bloodred marker on his chest, Professor Hanson had also been trying to help him with research in that direction. But that had little to do with the night...

There had been the music. He loved music!

Then there had been the girl.

The girl! The waitress, who had waited on him even when he hadn’t really needed to be waited on. She’d been great.

He tried to remember what she had looked like. About five-six, a brunette—a bubbly brunette. She worked for the coffee shop, or so he thought. He’d gotten a chair before his drink had been ready. He hadn’t stood at the end of the counter waiting. The girl had brought him his cappuccino. She’d been so cheerful and nice.

He remembered listening until it was late, until even that beloved and heavily trafficked area of Boston had gone quiet. He’d stayed to the last song. He’d been thrilled because—right in the middle of it all—the pretty young singer had come to him and thanked him for being such a great audience member.

He’d stood; he’d gone out to the street...

And then the world had gone dark, and only images had swum before him, the people in line at the coffee shop, the musicians playing, the pretty singer, the bubbly waitress...

Dark had turned to black.

And he had woken up here, chained to the table.

Why?

Who the hell kidnapped a quiet and unassuming professor of history and brought him out here, far from Boston, to an abandoned mental institute in the wilderness? He wasn’t worth anything; he had no fortune. He sure as hell held no state secrets; he knew nothing about anything important. There was absolutely no reason to kidnap him, bring him here.

Maybe someone who was mentally deranged themselves had done this. And they were just going to leave him chained here—leave him to slowly die without food or water, chained to the gurney, rotting away until something found him—a bobcat, a rare mountain lion or a black bear.

Or even the rodents and insects that abounded...

Stop; stop, he told himself.

He was brilliant, or so they said. He should be able to find a way out.

Screw brilliant. He wished he was a mechanic—or a superhero. Yeah, a superhero with the power to break chains.

He studied the metal around his wrist and the chains.

At least he wasn’t a victim of the Undertakers. He wasn’t buried alive; he had plenty of air to breathe.

He thought of Vickie Preston. They had first met at the coffee shop—she had asked for his help. He knew she’d been instrumental in catching the killers who had so recently terrorized Boston and the city’s surroundings.

Nice person, beautiful woman...she’d quickly become a true friend, visiting him at the hospital, working on the history of the note—she’d even gone to a concert with him. She was supposed to have been...

Meeting him! Yes, with a friend! She would know that he wasn’t in the city—because he’d be standing her up!

He could picture her now, emerald green eyes glazed with concern. She’d worry, twirling a lock of long dark hair as she wondered why he wasn’t there. She might even stand—tall and willowy—and pace.

Surely she wouldn’t just think he’d suddenly become rude? Would she somehow know, and start to search for him, would she have any idea...?

She had been working with the FBI. With the agent she’d brought to see him, the one who had probed the note, who had promised that he wouldn’t stop until his attacker or attackers had been found.

He suddenly realized that he was thinking intently.

Find me, Vickie, find me! Find me, find me, find me...

He decided that his IQ statistics were wrong, and that he was an idiot—really, what kind of genius could he be? Did he really think that the woman had ESP and would hop up and send out the troops?

But she saw the dead!

True or not.

He was a scholar. He believed in science but he also believed she spoke to the dead. He had kiddingly accused her of it one day when he’d come upon her and she’d appeared to be talking to herself.

Of course, everyone looked as if they were talking to themselves these days—because they were wired to their phones!

But it had been different with Vickie. The way she’d flushed, the way he’d even felt as if something was there...someone else! He’d been joking, of course, and yet...

He’d never had such a feeling. Naturally, as an academic, he was above such fantasy. And, then again, because he was an academic, he did mull over the concept of memory and self and...

There was so much about her that was extraordinary. He’d seen that when she’d worked with the FBI during the recent rash of murders in the state. He’d seen her incredible mind.

Find me, Vickie!

Maybe, just maybe, she really did talk to the dead, and if that was true, maybe, just maybe, it was possible that she had ESP, too!

He frowned, realizing there was a lump of something in the corner. He twisted around enough to rise and see what it was.

Oh, God.

A body. A human body.

And the head...

Was gone.

And there was movement upon the remains...rats running havoc!

Terror raced through him, making it feel as if his blood ran hot and cold and then hot again, as if it tore through his muscle, turned even his bones into something more wobbly than gelatin.

He fell back on the table.

Then he heard the awful creaking sound of an old door, a sound something like a squeaky scream that cried out into the night.

Someone...something...was coming in.

1

Griffin Pryce leaped over the fence that connected the houses and yards along the Hyde Park neighborhood. He’d been running hard, chasing a man in a red cape. A woman had just been attacked—the fourth victim of the thugs terrorizing the area. This time, the attacker hadn’t gone unseen; a neighbor had called it in right when it had happened.

Miraculously, Griffin had been about to have dinner with friends and was being dropped off by another friend—Detective Barnes—at a restaurant on Hyde Park Avenue when they had both heard the call for help come over the police radio.

He’d reached the scene just as the attacker—down on his knees to leave the rhyme about Satan in red marker on his victim’s chest—had seen him.

And run.

Griffin had taken thirty seconds to assure himself that the woman was alive; the neighbor’s call to 9-1-1 meant that an ambulance and police cars were on the way. He could already hear the sirens.

And so he ran after the attacker, who was wearing a red cape.

Stupid, Griffin thought. You want to wear a cape and attack people? Makes it harder to run and leap fences—and stands out like a...a red light!

But the young man was fast and agile.

Griffin leaped fences, tore down alleys, ducked beneath drying sheets and leaped another fence.

At one point, he could nearly touch the young man. When he turned to glance at Griffin, his face was clearly visible. He couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-five tops. He was clean-shaven with green eyes and a clear complexion, long nose, good mouth.

Then he was gone. This time he ran into an alley that led to a seven-foot fence—no Dumpster to use to leap over it...nothing at all.

The man threw himself against the dead end.

“Stop!” Griffin demanded, pulling out his Glock and aiming at the young man. “Stop. Put your hands behind your head. Get over here, and get down on your knees.”

The young man stared back at him.

“Throw down your weapon.”

The man did; he tossed the club he’d used—it resembled one of the billy clubs used by British police—and shouted, “I’m not armed.”

He started to open his cape.

“Stop—I’ll fire,” Griffin warned.

“Hey, just showing you... I’m not armed! So shoot me. Come on, shoot me.”

“I’m not going to shoot you. I am going to arrest you. Do as I say, get down on your knees, hands behind your head.”

The man ignored Griffin. He reached for something in his cape; Griffin rushed the twenty or so feet that stood between them.

The man stuck something in his mouth. Griffin shoved him to the ground, reaching into his mouth, trying to find what he’d taken.

Too late.

Even as Griffin sought whatever it was, the man began to tremble—and to foam at the mouth.

Griffin swore, trying to support him as he began to thrash and foam. As he did so, Detective David Barnes—who had been close behind him all the way—came running down the alley.

“Ambulance, med techs! He took something,” Griffin shouted.

The man stared up at Griffin with wild eyes—terrified eyes.

Maybe he’d never really imagined what dying might be like.

But he was defiant.

“Long live Satan!” he choked out.

Then he twitched again, and again—and went still.

Barnes hunkered down by Griffin and the young man. “He’s gone. What a fool. He must have taken a suicide capsule!”

“He wanted me to shoot him,” Griffin said, shaking his head. What a waste of life.

“Anyway, it’s over. People in Boston will be safer,” Barnes said. “You caught the guy, Griffin. Bastard killed himself. Sad as anything, but it’s over at least.”

“Ah, hell, Barnes, come on!” Griffin said. He liked Barnes, didn’t mind working with the detective, and they had a pretty good rapport. But Barnes was way off base with this one.

“It’s not over,” Griffin said quietly. “Why do you think he killed himself? They’ve got some kind of a pact. There’s a cult working here.”

“Well, yeah, obviously, this kid is some kind of Satanist. But, Griffin, you were right on top of this one. And we’re looking at one man. One man who smashed the skull of a young woman—and ran. This has been too hard for us because the attacks have been so random. But it’s got to have been the act of one crazy man. All he had to do was find someone alone on a dark street, strike fast, leave his message and run. It just took one person, Griffin.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t know if it’s been the same one person. I’m telling you, Barnes, we’ve got a real problem here. The violence isn’t going to stop.”

“Griffin, you’re concerned because you thought you’d be heading back to Virginia by now. You chose to stay because of the attack on Alex Maple—Vickie’s friend,” Barnes told him.

It was true; after the Undertaker case, he’d planned on going back to Krewe headquarters in northern Virginia.

But it wasn’t just that Alex had been involved.

The writing on the victims had been disturbing. His instincts told him there was more to it.

“I wish I felt like celebrating, Barnes. I’m sorry. I’m worried. I’m afraid that we have a Charles Manson, David Koresh or Jim Jones–type active here. I believe you’ve got someone out there who has been preaching witchcraft or paganism or—from what we’ve seen—the rise of Satan. If that’s true, you’ve got a group of people running around assaulting random but easy targets—and this won’t be the last attack.”

* * *

“He’s never stood me up—I’m worried,” Vickie Preston said to her longtime friend, Roxanne Greeley, looking at her phone again as she did so.

She’d been looking forward to the evening; she had become good friends with Alex Maple. She really liked him. He was boyish and enthusiastic, smart as a whip—and it was wonderful to know someone who loved history as much as she did. Alex was a professor; Vickie wrote guidebooks, and she was known for making the history within those books readable and relatable. She’d called on Alex for help in the recent Undertaker case and they’d quickly become good friends. And Alex had a great time talking to Griffin, as well. Ever since she and Griffin had come together during the horror and solving of the recent murders in the city, Vickie couldn’t imagine having friends who didn’t get along with Griffin. She was very much in love with him. As far as he and Alex went, they had similar taste in music and sports—Alex might be quite the intellectual, but he loved the Patriots. While others might scoff at the home team’s arrogance, in Alex’s mind they deserved to be a bit arrogant.

Griffin had gone to dinner with old friends, members of his unit who were passing through Boston on their way to their home a bit north, in Salem; Vickie hadn’t gone with him only because she’d already made plans with Alex this evening, and she’d invited Roxanne—she had it all set up. She already regretted the fact that she’d made previous plans. She really wanted to get to know Griffin’s friends—Devin Lyle and Craig Rockwell. Craig was known as Rocky, she had learned, and he’d grown up in Peabody, Massachusetts, while Devin had grown up in Salem. Now they were a married couple, and though Devin was still a children’s book author, she had also gone through the academy and become part of the Krewe of Hunters unit down in Virginia.

But Vickie had never ditched one friend for another, or ignored a promise of a dinner date with one person to go out with someone else. She had thought of switching dates with Alex. That hadn’t worked, however, because she hadn’t been able to reach him.

And she couldn’t just not show up—Alex had been so excited. He’d made what he thought was a pretty amazing discovery about something that had to do with Massachusetts. He was enjoying lording it over her—though he said he couldn’t wait to tell her about it.

Even though their friendship was pretty new, Vickie felt she knew Alex. He was often crazy busy, and still, like her, if he’d made a date, he’d be there. He didn’t seem to be the kind of man who would simply forget a friend, under any circumstance. Not that unexpected things didn’t happen, but he did have a cell phone, and he should have called.

Naturally, Roxanne was aware that Vickie had been entertaining ulterior motives in insisting that she come with them to dinner at the café.

They were both great people, and Vickie wanted them to get together. She wasn’t matchmaking; if they happened to like each other, that would be great. If not, it was just a dinner with friends.

Vickie’s pretense to have Roxanne join them at dinner was that she was worried; Alex had taken quite a beating when he’d gone down. Vickie had said that she was afraid that she’d be ridiculously emotional, embarrassing everyone, if they were alone.

Dumb excuse, yes. And Roxanne had finally accused her point-blank of trying to set her up.

“You are playing matchmaker,” Roxanne said. “Never a good thing.”

“No, not usually a good thing,” Vickie had corrected.

But Roxanne had laughed. “Let’s do it. My last affair fell apart quickly enough. Hot and heavy—and over in the two seconds we realized I love a good art show and he loves watching sports in his boxers and guzzling beer. I mean, lots of guys do that, but not twenty-four hours a day or every single second out of work! I don’t seem to choose well—maybe you choosing for me will be the right thing. How could meeting this guy be anything worse than what happened before?”

Roxanne had been—for a brief time—growing heavily involved with an old boyfriend of Vickie’s, but in the rising intensity of the case just solved, she’d not only been seriously injured, but forced to rethink where she wanted to be in a relationship.

And yes, Vickie wanted to set her up with Alex.

But now, of course, the guy wasn’t there.

Vickie dialed his number again. No answer.

“Maybe he knew I was coming,” Roxanne said. “That could scare a guy away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Vickie said. “You’re beautiful.” Her friend was beautiful: blonde, trim, with a great smile. She just didn’t have luck with men. Vickie continued. “I know he wants to see me. I’ve been working on all kinds of things having to do with his assault. I was tracing that rhyme that was left written on his chest—and now, the same rhyme that was left on the other victims of this attacker, as well.”

“Of course you have,” Roxanne murmured. She was a visual artist, filled with all kinds of insight and art appreciation, but she was nowhere near as fond of history as either Vickie or Alex.

“Bear with me,” Vickie said. “That saying that was written on him—it goes back—way back. I don’t believe there were really any kind of Satanists running around when the whole thing started. I found reference to a man named Ezekiel Martin, who had studied to be a Puritan minister. He was never ordained, but he practiced his own brand of religion and managed to take a slew of people with him west into the woods to form a new colony and sect—one that he ruled through preaching a different higher power—that, apparently, being Satan.

“In truth, he seemingly followed a young woman named Missy Prior, who had left of her own accord, being against the repression of the society. Anyway, Ezekiel had a thing for Missy—but she didn’t have a thing for him. He managed to blame her for every ill that befell his community. He claimed to have found those words written in the ground near where Missy Prior lived, and that Missy was trying to conjure Satan, and that Satan came to him at night and claimed that Ezekiel would have Missy Prior. Naturally, he saw himself as Satan’s representative. Satan in the flesh until Satan should appear... His personal religion afforded him lots of benefits.”

“Wow—and yuck! Even way back, people were going on icky ‘I’m close to God so I get to have all the sex’ trips, huh?”

“I’m still trying to find more on Ezekiel Martin,” Vickie said.

“Isn’t Alex a history professor?”

“Exactly. He’s in a guest position, or whatever they call it right now—and he loves Harvard, so he’s hoping to stay on.”

“And I’m sure he’s researching all this himself.”

“He is, but that’s also why he’s anxious to meet with me. Compare notes.”

Their waitress came by, a pretty, gamine-faced young woman with dark brown hair.

“You still waiting for your friend?” she asked.

“We’re going to give him a few more minutes,” Vickie said.

“Is it that fellow you’ve met here before?”

Vickie looked at her with surprise, and then realized that the young woman usually wore her hair down, and that—yes, of course—she’d had her several times as a server at the coffee shop.

“Yes, I’m waiting on Alex,” she said.

The girl smiled cheerfully. “He was here last night. I’m sure he’ll be along.”

“There—she’s sure Alex will be along,” Roxanne said.

“He was here last night?” Vickie asked.

“Yes, he’s always in when the Dearborn duo are playing. He loves them,” the waitress said. “I’ll keep my eye out!” she promised as she moved on.

“Thanks,” Vickie said. She’d been with Alex when he’d come to see the Dearborn brother-and-sister performers before. They were talented guitarists and played folk music, ballads and covers of Simon and Garfunkel tunes, John Denver, Carole King and more.

She’d heard that the pair were twins; if so, they were fraternal. He was blond with soft brown eyes; she had extremely dark hair and smoke-gray eyes. They were an attractive pair, and they definitely seemed to have a casual, easy way with a crowd.

“I just wish that he’d answer his phone,” Vickie said.

“Vickie!”

For a moment, her heart jumped. But it wasn’t Alex calling her. She looked through the milling guests in the coffee shop and saw Professor Milton Hanson, one of Alex’s closest associates. He knew Vickie’s father, though was more of an associate than a friend.

Actually, her dad didn’t like him very much.

“Who is that? Cool-looking guy, distinguished...dignified.”

He was “smarmy,” according to her dad. A little too good-looking. A little too close to some of his students.

“Hello, young lady. How are you?” he asked, stopping by the table. He had an attractive woman on his arm; she offered Vickie a big smile.

“Professor Hanson,” she said, introducing him to Roxanne. He, in turn, introduced his lady friend.

“I wanted to come by to check out this café,” Hanson said. “Our mutual friend, Alex Maple, loves this place. But there’s no music.”

“Yes, Alex loves it,” Vickie agreed. “But the music is on Saturday nights.”

Roxanne opened her mouth; she was clearly about to say that they were waiting for Alex.

Vickie kicked her under the table. A little tiny squeak escaped her.

“Saturday night. I’ll have to come then. Well, nice to see you!” Hanson said, and he moved on.

“Hey! That hurt,” Roxanne said.

“Sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell him we were waiting for Alex now?” Roxanne asked.

“I don’t know.”

“He’s still here somewhere,” Roxanne said. “We could find him.”

“No, I just don’t feel comfortable asking him about Alex.”

“Okay. But Alex isn’t here. So, seriously, maybe something just came up,” Roxanne said. “Let’s face it. Not that I blame you—I mean, you were kidnapped and nearly killed recently—but you’re overly suspicious of the world. I’m overly suspicious, too, since that wasn’t such a great time for me, either. And I’m your basic coward, so that adds to me doubting everything. But honestly—aren’t you getting a little carried away, being so worried just because Alex didn’t show up for dinner? Maybe his sister was sick, or maybe he had to rush his dog to the emergency vet or something. Things do happen.”

“But someone like Alex, Roxanne, he would let me know. You know, maybe I am being ridiculous. I just can’t believe he’d be so rude.”

“I’m sorry, Vickie. I love you—you really are the best friend and most courteous human being—but maybe his emergency was just more important than you.”

“I hope that’s true,” Vickie murmured.

Just as Roxanne spoke, Vickie’s phone rang. It was Griffin.

“Hey! How’s it going? I wish I could have joined you,” Vickie said.

“Dinner didn’t happen. Barnes was dropping me off at the restaurant when someone called in an attack down the street from where we were—we heard it on the scanner. Anyway, to make a long story short, I gave chase, caught the guy—and he took some kind of a suicide pill,” Griffin told her.

“So, he’s dead?”

“Who’s dead?” Roxanne demanded, looking at Vickie with alarm.

“An attacker,” Vickie murmured quickly.

“That’s great!” Roxanne said. “No, I mean, not the dead part. He’s been caught, right? But... Griffin killed him? I mean, we shouldn’t want anyone dead. Except this guy really hurt a lot of people, so—”

“He killed himself,” Vickie said quickly.

“How, what, why?” Roxanne asked.

“I don’t know! Let me listen,” Vickie pleaded. “Griffin? The attacker is dead?”

Griffin didn’t seem to have noted her absence from the conversation to whisper to Roxanne; whatever had happened that evening, it was still consuming his mind.

“Yes. Strange, he was trying for suicide by cop. I told him I wouldn’t shoot him. He took a pill before I could stop him.”

“But it was the man who attacked Alex, right? I mean, was it? You just said that it was an attack. It was the same kind of attack—with the same words written?”

Griffin hesitated on the other end of the phone line.

“A guy is dead. A guy who was seen leaving the same note that was found on Alex and the other two victims. I’m sure Alex will be glad to hear that. Tell him for me, and that I’ll give him details in the morning. Except...”

“Except what?”

Griffin seemed to hesitate a long time.

“What is it?” Vickie persisted.

“I don’t think the man who killed himself tonight is the only one in on this,” Griffin said. “But hey, that’s for later. Anyway, I’m at the station. Devin and Rocky are going to stay at my place tonight. I told them I seldom use it and they kind of figured that. Salem is only forty minutes away—well, forty minutes or two hours, depending on traffic! They were actually taking a little personal time to check on their homes up there, see some family and friends. I’m glad they’re here, though. I can toss around what’s going on with them. You can give Alex the news that we’ve stopped one of them, anyway.”

“I can’t tell Alex anything. He didn’t show,” Vickie said. “We’re still here—we’re having the café’s Sunday night special and hoping that he will make it eventually.”

“He didn’t show? You know him better than I do, but that’s not like Alex, is it?”

“No, it’s not like Alex at all.”

“Did you call him?”

“At least a dozen times. And I’ve left just as many messages,” Vickie said.

Griffin was silent for a minute. “How long have you been trying to reach him?” he asked her.

“Um, let’s see... I started calling him this morning, when you got the call from Devin telling you that she and Rocky were going to be heading up to Salem, and did you want to meet for dinner. So, I’ve called and texted all day.”

“I can come and join you. Well, in a while. A woman was attacked—she’s on her way to the hospital. And a man died. I’ve still got things to do and, you know, paperwork.”

Paperwork.

She’d learned all about police paperwork during the Undertaker case.

“Roxie and I will go ahead and have dinner and then head to my place,” Vickie said. “We’ll wait for you there. In the meantime, I’ll hope that Alex calls me with some kind of an apology!”

“Is his family near?”

“He grew up in Massachusetts, but his folks are living on an island off Georgia now—his dad started getting asthma,” Vickie said. “He has a little sister, but she’s studying in Europe somewhere.”

“Okay.” Griffin was quiet for a minute. “I just have to report to the local office, get my statement in. And Barnes has to do the same, but he can kick this over to one of the task force members. Finish eating. I’ll get to you as soon as possible.”

“I’ll head home,” she said.

“I’ll see you soon.”

She hung up and looked around the room again with frustration, hoping—perhaps ridiculously—that Alex might have appeared. No Alex.

She frowned, though. A young blonde woman was standing at the end of the counter bar, as if waiting for a coffee creation.

But she was staring at Vickie intently, with unusual intensity.

“Why is that woman looking at me like that?” Vickie murmured aloud.

Roxanne turned to look toward the counter, but at that moment, several young men walked by—all of them a fine size to serve as tackles for the Boston Patriots, should they choose.

“There—she was right there. Really pretty blonde. Young, long hair—white summer halter dress with a flowy white wrap...”

“I don’t see her.”

“She’s gone. She was staring at me, weirdly.”

“Maybe she got a bad shot of coffee, Vickie. Hey, not trying to be insulting or anything here, but it’s not always about you, Vick!” Roxanne said lightly.

Vickie laughed. “Yeah, yeah, honestly, I know!”

“So! Back to earth here. Griffin is on his way?” Roxanne asked.

“In a roundabout way,” Vickie said. “We’ll just have dinner and go to my place.”

“You’ll go to your place,” Roxanne said. She shivered. “I want to stay a mile away from whatever it is you have going on!”

Vickie didn’t blame her friend; Roxanne had gotten a concussion when she’d been dragged into the investigation during the Undertaker case. She might have been killed.

“Oh! What I said—it sounded absolutely horrible!” Roxanne said, wide-eyed. “I mean, I’d like to think that I’m a good friend, that I’d be with you through thick and thin, but—”

“It’s okay!” Vickie assured her.

“You two will want to talk. Do you think that Griffin caught the person who attacked Alex? Do you think that Alex is safe now?”

“I don’t know. Griffin seems to think that there’s more than one person involved.”

“Oh! Then...maybe Alex isn’t just rude, or forgetful, or having an emergency with his dog,” Roxanne said.

“He doesn’t have a dog, Roxanne, and I am getting more and more worried.”

Vickie managed a smile for her friend. “It’s okay. Go home. I do understand. And Griffin will be tired and we will need to talk. So, we’ll finish dinner...and hope that Alex is okay. That he’s just being rude—and the danger facing him is going to be from me!” Vickie said. She tried to speak lightly.

She just didn’t believe that Alex was rude. He was too good a guy.

And that meant...

She tried to keep her worry at bay as they ordered and made small talk as they waited. She didn’t do so very well. She picked at her food. And finally, Roxanne said, “Hey, let’s go. I have to wrap up my latest painting to bring to a gallery at Copley Square tomorrow. And you’re not enjoying your time with me. And I’m enjoyable. So let’s just cut it short. I know you’re worried.”

They left the restaurant, walking together as far as they could to their apartments, and then warning each other to keep their eyes out for trouble.

Both women carried whistles and mace—something Griffin had insisted on after all the trouble during the Undertaker situation.

But Vickie reached her apartment with no one doing anything other than giving her a nod in acknowledgment as they passed—that was Boston’s method of a smile, she thought. A nod!

Entering her apartment, she called Griffin’s name, but she didn’t believe that he’d returned yet, and he hadn’t.

Her apartment, however, wasn’t exactly empty.

It appeared that a young couple was seated on her sofa.

They were both just teenagers, and attractive. He had been a high school football hero, well-built, charming, quick to smile. She had been a light-haired, light-eyed beauty, incredibly sweet, tragically naive. They were really adorable—completely absorbed with one another...

And dead.

Of all things, they seemed to be watching a marathon showing of The Walking Dead on Netflix.

The boy was Dylan Ballantine. He’d saved Vickie’s life when she’d been a teenager—and he’d haunted her ever since. A good thing, since he’d helped incredibly in the recent Undertaker situation. His family had been involved, and Dylan dearly loved his family.

The young lady...

She was newer at being a ghost.

Tragically, she’d been a victim of the Undertaker.

Vickie saw the remote on the coffee table and picked it up to turn the volume down.

“Hey,” she said to the two.

“Hey, Vickie! We didn’t expect you back yet!” Dylan jumped up, looking as guilty as a teen caught petting in the back seat of an old Chevy. “We thought you’d be late, that you and Alex would go on forever and ever over all you’d dug up!” Dylan added. “We aren’t really TV hogs, you know.”

“It’s okay. You know you’re welcome to the television. I’m happy that you guys are enjoying your...”

She almost said “lives”!

“Enjoying each other, being together. Enjoying...”

“The Walking Dead?” Dylan asked, amused.

“You’re ghosts, not zombies,” she reminded him. Dylan did have a wicked sense of humor—he’d spent years totally enjoying tormenting her, trying to make her speak to him in public and, in short, look entirely crazy.

Years ago, Vickie had been babysitting when an escaped serial killer had targeted her. Her charge—Noah Ballantine—had been born after the death of his older brother, Dylan, who’d been struck by a drunk driver at seventeen. And when the psycho had been in the house, Dylan had materialized before Vickie, warning her to grab Noah and get the hell out.

Terrified, she had done so. At that time, Griffin Pryce had been a cop and was out on the street, and he’d been the one to bring down the man who had been about to kill her and Noah.

While she’d felt an instant connection to Griffin, she hadn’t seen him again until he had returned to Boston as an FBI agent, looking into the Undertaker kidnappings and killings.

But while the ghost of Dylan Ballantine spent much of his time in his parents’ home, which wasn’t far from Vickie’s, he’d apparently made it his vocation in death to haunt Vickie, down in New York City when she had been at the university, and again here, in Massachusetts, since she had moved back. He’d actually become an amazing friend—although one who still liked to taunt her in public and make her appear to be insane when she forgot herself and responded to him.

And now, Dylan had a friend of his own—a ghost friend.

Darlene Dutton was a couple years older than Dylan, but she was equally sweet and innocent. She had been the first victim of the Undertaker murders. And while she had seen justice done, it appeared that she liked learning about the spirit-world-on-earth—and being with Dylan. So it seemed she was sticking around.

Dylan was now an experienced ghost. He was quite capable of manipulating items, like moving a can of pop a few inches or using a remote control. And he had no problem making himself seen to those with the special gift of seeing the dead. Vickie had noticed that while most of the population didn’t see Dylan or Darlene, they did often stop and frown when the ghosts passed, or shiver, as if aware that they’d been brushed by someone or something that they hadn’t seen.

“Alex didn’t show,” Vickie told them.

Dylan immediately looked perplexed. Alex couldn’t see Dylan—he didn’t see ghosts. But Dylan had tagged along with Vickie to a couple meetings with Alex.

He liked the nerdy historian. And he admired him.

“Alex didn’t show? I think he lives for his time with you and other friends with whom he can actually talk a lot of history. I don’t mean that in a bad way, but... It’s weird he flaked.”

“I’ve told Griffin that Alex didn’t show up. We’ll figure out something when he gets here. By the way—since I doubt you guys watched the news at any point—Griffin stopped one of the attackers tonight. A head-smasher, just like Alex’s assault. And the guy killed himself rather than be taken.”

“Wow, heavy,” Dylan said, very serious despite his words.

“That’s extremely scary,” Darlene agreed. She hopped up off the sofa. “Vickie is worried, and Griffin is headed home. Let’s go, Dylan. We need to leave them with some privacy. We’ll go see how Noah and your folks are doing.”

“Sure, yeah, sure, we should get out of here,” Dylan said. He looked worried, though. “Darlene is right. Griffin is going to be wrecked after a night like that. He’ll want to talk.”

“He’ll want to be alone,” Darlene said softly.

“That’s fine,” Vickie said.

“No, you’re in a relationship now. Can’t let it grow ho-hum,” Dylan said, grinning at Vickie.

“Thank you. I’ll remember that!” Vickie said.

“Dylan, really,” Darlene murmured.

“It’s fine. Dylan has enjoyed tormenting me for years, Darlene. And I’m sure it will all be okay.”

“No, none of it sounds okay,” Dylan said. “Alex is a cool guy—it won’t be okay until you know that he’s all right. Don’t forget, we’re always here when you need us.”

“But you don’t need us tonight,” Darlene said firmly.

“Not to worry, Vick—we always come back to haunt you!” Dylan told her, trying for a light grin.

“Haunt me—and help out,” she reminded him. “Remember, I’m quite accustomed to you and that we both—Griffin and I—appreciate the two of you very much.”

“I just wish my parents watched The Walking Dead,” Dylan said, shaking his head in puzzlement that anyone wouldn’t want to watch the series from beginning to end. “And Noah, well, he’s great, he’ll put on anything we want, but...he’s only nine.”

“Maybe in a few years we can do a marathon viewing with Noah,” Darlene said.

“That will be fun!” Dylan agreed, grinning at Darlene. But then his grin faded and he turned back to Vickie. “I will see you tomorrow. We need to know everything that went on with Griffin—and, most importantly, with Alex.”

“Absolutely,” Vickie said.

She watched them go. They both simply disappeared through the wall. When Dylan came to visit when she was home, he made a point of knocking. Only emergencies caused him to do anything less thoughtful or proper.

When they were gone, Vickie tried Alex’s number again. No answer.

Maybe he’d lost his phone. No—he would have called her from another phone. Actually, he’d have been at a store in two seconds to get another—he had a Facebook group that talked about all kinds of history, travel, weird places and such similar things, and she was pretty sure that Alex went into withdrawal if he couldn’t catch up on the latest at every possible opportunity.

She opened the app and checked Alex’s Facebook page.

He hadn’t been on the site in over twenty-four hours.

She called Griffin quickly then. He didn’t answer at first. Frustrated, she plopped down on the sofa in her parlor.

Her phone rang right back.

Griffin.

“You all right?” he asked.

She smiled; she could tell he was trying to keep any touch of anxiety out of his voice. She knew that he’d always be concerned about her—it was part of what he did for a living, and by vocation. He saw too much that was bad.

“Fine. I’m home. In the apartment. I had an idea. Can you trace Alex’s phone?”

“Well, there are a lot of legal ramifications,” Griffin said.

“I’ll report him missing—how about that?” she asked.

“You know, unless we have good reason, twenty-four hours is—”

“We have good reason! He was clunked on the head. He had a police guard for a couple of weeks after. Go figure—he disappears after that guard is taken off.”

“The attacks appeared to be random,” Griffin reminded her. “No community has the manpower to watch victims endlessly, especially when it appears the danger has moved on.”

“I know that.”

“He could be fine.”

“No. I don’t believe that even as a ray of hope anymore,” she said.

“Okay, we’ll take the angle that something is wrong. We’ll get a missing-person report going, and...we’ll get into his phone records,” Griffin said. “I’m in a paper tangle right now as it is—I’ll get Barnes to have a man from the right department get everything started for Alex. Lord, if he’s just off doing...doing whatever scholars do...well, I guess that’s the best-case scenario. But we’ll treat him as a missing person and work on finding him with all possible resources, okay?”

“Much better. Are you coming home soon?” she asked.

“Well,” he told her, his tone ironic, “I’ll be a little longer now.”

“Don’t be too long.”

“You going to make it worth my while?”

“Hmm. You bet,” she told him.

“Aha.”

“I can be full of surprises,” she assured him before hanging up.

Restless, she headed into the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea and then settled down at her computer with the pad of scribbled notes she’d made from research sites and her own library.

Ever since seeing the scrawled quotation on Alex, she’d been looking up Satanism and witchcraft in Massachusetts.

Most of what she could find on witchcraft had to do with the travesty of justice that had occurred during the Salem witchcraft trials of 1692. She’d recently turned in a nonfiction book for a university press that had dealt with the Puritan rule in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, with a special focus on Puritan ministers. While Cotton Mather had “saved” a few witches, by caring for them himself, he’d also been instrumental in the executions that had occurred in Salem. There had been a few other trials and executions of so-called witches in the colony, as well. It seemed so appalling now and, in her mind, so ridiculous she couldn’t believe anyone had abided it—even in the devil-fearing darkness of the early days of the colony.

Of course, Salem—and surrounding areas—also had a nice population of modern-day real witches: wiccans. They were an acknowledged religion and Vickie had friends among them. They didn’t cast evil spells—they lived by a threefold rule, where any evil done to another comes back on one threefold. It was a pretty good framework for not hurting people!

But there were instances of Satanism rather than witchcraft that had taken place in Massachusetts. According to the Puritan fathers, there would be little difference. In the Puritan world, witches danced naked in the moonlight, signed the devil’s book and frolicked with all manner of decadence and enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh—in return for being wicked, of course.

The first accusations of witchcraft had occurred in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1645. Hugh and Mary Parsons had accused one another. Hugh was eventually acquitted; Mary was set to hang for the crime of killing her child—by witchcraft, or so the records implied. Between 1645 and 1663, eighty more people were accused and thirteen women and two men were put to death.

The fear of the devil had begun in Europe in the 1500s—thousands were put to death, burned at the stake or hanged, or through some other even more painful means. In comparison, what went on in the colony was pretty tame.

But even then, there were dissenters, and there were those who were ready and eager to take a faith and twist it around and give it a few new guidelines.

At the same time—circa 1665—Ezekiel Martin was growing stronger in influence among the young people swayed to his sect.

Missy Prior was a stunning young Puritan woman, an orphan who survived through selling produce from her small garden and from doing handcrafts—mending and sewing. Ezekiel Martin wooed the girl.

She turned him down. Sweetly. She talked about her youth—and mourning for her parents.

Ezekiel was hurt—deeply offended.

Since he’d never made it to being ordained—suspected of not being a learned or good man himself—his orations weren’t sanctioned by the church. But according to the diary of an ordained minister of the time, Ezekiel was capable of talking the good talk; he could preach convincingly and sway people, and he had a following that terrified the others before they even began to become aware of just what kind of a danger he could be.

He lured many people away from Boston, taking them west. There, he created the village of Jehovah.

Jehovah was no longer in existence, but it had once been situated between present-day Barre, Massachusetts, and what was now the Quabbin, the massive water reservoir created in the Swift River Valley.

Missy Prior, along with some of her friends, had been ahead of Ezekiel; she’d left Boston in order to escape Ezekiel’s attention, and she’d had a cottage in the woods, right in the area that Ezekiel would soon name Jehovah. It seemed that no matter how far she went, she couldn’t outrun Ezekiel, a man who had become obsessed with her.

There was nowhere else to run, and Missy’s friends were forced from her side as Ezekiel gained power and determination. But she still wanted nothing to do with Ezekiel.

He, in turn, woke one night screaming and shouting words of warning about Missy—and he woke the population of Jehovah and rounded them all up in front of Missy Prior’s cottage.

And he’d showed them all the words that had been written in the earth.

Hell’s afire and Satan rules, the witches, they are real. The time has come, the rites to read, the flesh, ’twas born to heal. Yes, Satan is coming!

According to the diary and journals from others who had lived during the time, Ezekiel then proceeded to convince a number of people that he was their salvation. They could not stop the arrival of the devil; they could only embrace him when he arrived. He would reward them, of course, if they were to come to him through his vessel on earth—Ezekiel Martin.

Missy Prior was terrified; she had turned down a madman one time too many.

She feared for her life.

She didn’t die; not then. She was taken in to be “healed” by Ezekiel.

Missy Prior, however, wasn’t enough for Ezekiel.

Ezekiel did what those who were both charming and evil at heart had a talent for doing—he seduced his followers into his House of Fire and Truth, a cult in which, of course, they followed a Mighty Power, pretending to still be Puritans to those around them, since those who were not Puritans in the colony at the time were killed or banished. What he was really doing, ministers and public officials became certain, was practicing out-and-out witchcraft or Satanism. He, Ezekiel, as Satan’s disciple on earth, was absolute ruler with absolute power, demanding the sweet fruit of the innocent and beautiful among the maidens, bestowing those he had used and deflowered upon those of the men of his congregation, those who had earned his admiration and devotion.

Missy Prior tried to flee. She was caught. By then, of course, Ezekiel had many women. She was to meet the fate reserved for one who betrayed her master. Death.

How that death came about, Vickie could not ascertain with certainty. She tried a number of her resources. Some suggested she was burned, not as a witch, but as a heretic. Some said that she might have actually been drawn and quartered, and others suggested that her throat was slit and that her blood was passed about to imbue the rest of the congregation with strength.

But while the Massachusetts Bay Colony was, at that time, still working under the charter that allowed for Puritan rule, the Crown did have a decided interest in the county. Cromwell had died in 1658 and Charles II had been asked back to rule in England—a good majority of the population had grown weary of Cromwell’s very strict ways. Charles happened to have men in the colony, soldiers under Captain Magnus Grayson. Grayson eventually got wind of Ezekiel’s activities. Heading into the village, he hadn’t the least problem demanding the immediate arrest of Ezekiel and his little pack of cronies. The small would-be self-governing colony was dispersed. Ezekiel found himself deserted when his men were faced with the armor and arms of the king’s men, and he slit his own throat—swearing that Satan would embrace him in his fiery power, and he would live again.

Captain Grayson had found skeletons and an altar stained with blood. It was believed that one of the skeletons found belonged to poor Missy Prior.

It seemed a heartbreaking story to Vickie.

Poor Missy.

She had been relentlessly pursued by Ezekiel Martin in life.

Perhaps her only escape from him had been in death.

Jehovah had been quickly begun—and even more quickly ended.

Captain Grayson had loathed and been sickened by the entire place, and he’d had all of what had been Jehovah burned to the ground. The settlement disappeared into the landscape, and where it had been, no one now knew.

Erased from memory.

But not all memory.

Because someone was violently attacking people and leaving behind the words Ezekiel Martin had once written into the earth in order to have Missy Prior.

Vickie couldn’t wait to tell Alex the depths of what she had discovered.

She looked at her phone and tried Alex’s number again.

No answer...

“Alex! Where are you?” she murmured aloud.

And she wished that she wasn’t alone. She wished that Griffin would come soon.

It seemed that the wind suddenly began to howl outside.

Summer was waning and fall was on the way.

And it sounded as if the earth itself was moaning...

Crying out a warning.

2

Griffin sat behind the desk in David Barnes’s office, typing out the last words of his report regarding the evening. As he did so, he saw everything replay in his mind. He shook his head, damning himself. He couldn’t see how he could have stopped what had happened.

The door opened and Rocky walked back in. “How’s it going?”

“Almost through here,” Griffin said. “I’m waiting for a callback from Dr. Loeb.”

“Medical examiner? Theodore Loeb?” Rocky asked.

“You’ve worked with him?”

“No,” Rocky said, “but I did meet him at a crime summit a few months back. Guy is brilliant and looks like a mad professor, right? Crazy white hair and thin as a sack of bones?”

“Yep. That’s him,” Griffin agreed. He drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t know what he can tell us about our dead man that we don’t already know. He appeared to be healthy before, young and hardy looking. And now dead. Suicide capsule. What makes someone do that?”

Rocky took a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Well, usually you have to be more afraid of living than you are of dying, I imagine.”

“Right. Afraid of what—or who—he had to face.”

“That’s a solid theory, anyway,” Rocky said.

“If we look at most things that have had to do with that kind of behavior—suicidal sacrifice behavior,” Griffin said, “it’s usually because we’re looking at those who feel disenfranchised or forgotten. If we look at history, men and women born in dirt and poverty are willing to practice terrorism when they’re promised something wonderful on the horizon—a special place in heaven or Valhalla or Mount Olympus. From Japan to Germany to the Middle East, Ireland and beyond. Those who feel that they have been chosen by a higher power to strike back at their oppressors are often ready to fight and die, whether it’s beneath a hail of bullets or on a suicide mission. Then again, there’s the fear that if you don’t carry out the suicide mission, what comes next will be even more terrible.”

“You think we’re looking at domestic terrorism?” Rocky sounded doubtful.

“No, no, I really don’t. So far, people have just been sent to the hospital. We’re not looking at anyone having been murdered—that we know about. But I believe that some kind of statement is being made, that there is something larger going on.”

Detective Barnes came into his office.

“The body is at the morgue, the forensic team is done in the streets and the techs are trying what they have to get an ID on the body. Autopsy won’t be until tomorrow, so we won’t really have real physical answers until then, but then you know that, and you know that we have been able to get Dr. Theodore Loeb on our case. I swear, if there is anything we can get from the body, Loeb will get it.”

Barnes was, in Griffin’s mind, a good cop. He was willing to put in whatever hours were needed. He had nearly a decade more experience on the force than Griffin, but had no qualms about working with him or the FBI.

Except that now he looked at Griffin, and then Rocky, and shook his head.

“Ah, hell! We couldn’t just be pleased—we couldn’t just be certain that we’d gotten the attacker—and that the newest craze in Boston beatings was over. No...you think it’s something deeper, and that we’re about to find out.”

Griffin glanced at Rocky and shrugged.

Devin Lyle tapped at the door and then walked in, carrying a foam tray with four large coffee cups.

“One is for me?” Barnes asked.

“Of course,” Devin assured him. She was about five-nine with a headful of long black hair. Devin had great stature, though; in her “real” life, she wrote children’s books. She still had the ability to appeal regal—and very authoritative.

“Thank you, thank you!” Barnes said.

Then he rose. “I suppose I’m glad I have a few specialists from your division of the bureau here. But I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to run the attacker’s fingerprints, see if he’s in the system.” He started out, then turned back. “Oh! I’ve got a report written up for Alex Maple. I’ve pushed accepted protocol around on this, you know. But we’re looking for his phone, and we’re checking out his apartment. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

“Thank you, Barnes,” Griffin told him.

“Yep. All right, I’m getting out of here.”

“Actually, this is your office,” Griffin reminded him.

“I do know that. You all take your time. If I don’t find you here, I’ll call when I’ve got something.”

“Thanks.”

He left them.

Devin silently handed out coffee.

“So, nothing yet?”

“Nothing but musings,” Griffin told her.

“And they don’t bode well,” Rocky added softly.

* * *

“Wow,” Vickie murmured to herself. She realized she’d been on the computer for hours.

She looked at her watch; she knew it was late, of course. Paperwork did take a long time. She had to give up working for the night, though.

Her shoulders were beginning to hurt!

She winced, rubbing the back of her neck, wishing Griffin was there to do it.

Then she remembered that she had promised she’d make it worth his while to hurry home.

A wicked little smile crossed her face. She leaped up, heading to shower and shave her legs, now hoping that he wouldn’t arrive until she was ready. After toweling dry, she touched up with some makeup.

Since he was the only other human being in the world to have her key, she figured she was safe with whatever she did. And so, wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of spiked heels, she set up a perch on the sofa with throw pillows. She brought out an ice bucket and, since she didn’t have any champagne, opted for two bottles of Sam Adams beer. All the while keeping an ear out for the entry door to her complex—an old brownstone converted into four apartments.

Lastly, she arranged a plate of strawberries and chocolates and set them at the end of her little throne, right by the ice bucket. She turned most of the lights off and set just a couple lamps down low.

She took off the towel, curled her legs beneath her and posed and waited.

“Ho-hum, eh? Call this ho-hum!” she said aloud.

Then, of course, she felt a little ridiculous, naked on her sofa with high heels on. But their lives seemed to be twisted all the time by life-or-death situations, and—with Griffin’s work—it always would be that way. He’d told her that agents learned to seize their personal time, love it and embrace it. It was how they all managed in their world day after day, to appreciate every life they saved—and accept when there was damage they could not stop.

She decided to turn on the television—if she just held the remote control, she could keep it low and ditch it the minute he came in.

The news was filled with the evening’s reports. A recording of Detective Barnes was shown, giving out what information he could. The assailant was as yet unidentified. Yes, he had committed suicide with a pill; exactly what it contained, forensic experts would soon inform them. Did he believe there would now be a stop to the assaults? The police would be investigating all avenues, along with agents from the FBI.

He promised that new information would be forthcoming as they had it. He reminded the citizens of Boston and environs that they were a large and important city and never immune to harm; whether they had stopped the assaults or not, residents should always be vigilant.

As the news rolled to the next story, Vickie was certain that she heard someone at the building’s front door.

She quickly switched off the television—Griffin didn’t need to hear about the night he had experienced.

She switched into what she hoped was a truly sexy pose.

She heard the key in the lock. And the door opened.

For a split second, she froze.

And then she let out a scream.

* * *

At first, Alex Maple stared in disbelief at the man—the creature?—who came toward him. His mind was not working at all well, he determined.

Why would it be working well? He’d been kidnapped; he was a prisoner in a defunct loony bin!

Get it together, Alex. Survive! he told himself.

So. Figure, yes, figure—that was safe to say. The figure coming toward him was wearing something like a KKK outfit—only it was bloodred and trimmed with strange black markings.

“Ah, Professor! You are awake—ready to join us!” the figure said.

It spoke; it moved. It appeared to be human.

Man.

Alex fought for reason and reaction—for the ability to move his mouth and form words.

“Join what? Who are you? Why am I here?” he managed to ask.

The man came closer.

“I am the high priest,” the man told him. His face was more or less covered by a mask that appeared to be loosely connected to his conical red hood. Alex could see the man’s eyes, though. They weren’t burning red or anything—they were just dark brown.

“I am the high priest, Professor, and you will join with us.”

Alex blinked. It would be laughable if it weren’t for...

For the chains that held him.

For the headless body that lay crumpled in the corner, with rats destroying it.

“I’m sorry, join with you for...what?”

“The resurrection.”

“The resurrection of what?”

“You, sir, are not just going to join us, you see. You are going to help us!” the high priest said.

“Help you...?”

“Well, we’re going to bring Satan to earth, sir! More specifically, we’re going to bring Satan to Boston. And you, Professor, are the man with the knowledge to help us do it.”

He couldn’t see the man’s mouth, but he was sure that he smiled.

Did this dude know how ridiculous his words were?

“Yes, you are the man!”

What if I refuse?

Alex wasn’t exactly an atheist. He considered himself a deist, believing in a higher power, but not in all the myth that went along with it—through any religion.

Satan wasn’t real to Alex, and, therefore, he couldn’t be summoned.

But...

He didn’t bother to ask what happened to him if he refused. He knew.

He could see the instruments of medicine, surgery—and torture.

He could see the rat-riddled body in the corner.

“How intriguing,” he said. “I assume you believe that I will somehow be able to find the proper rites and means by which to do this through historical research?”

“Oh, yes. You see, Satan has come to Massachusetts before,” the high priest said. “You will bring him again.”

“Great challenge!” Alex said, trying to put some enthusiasm into his words.

Find me, Vickie, find me, for the love of God. Yes, there is some kind of a God, I do believe that, Vickie, find me, find me...

The high priest spoke, apparently accepting Alex’s words.

“Indeed! Yes, hail Satan! He has lived among us before. Through you, he will return. All hail! Satan shall return!” The high priest stepped forward, a key in his hand. He was going to free Alex.

Free, if he was free...

He was skinny, but he was no weakling. He could try to overpower this man...

“Hail Satan! Hail Satan!”

It was a chant. Alex looked up; there were several people there now, in the doorway to the old operating room. They were all in the red capes and masked hoods.

He could not fight...

“Come, brother!” the high priest said. “We will initiate you by letting you witness our sacrifice!”

He was going to see a sacrifice. Please, let it be a chicken! he thought.

It wasn’t going to be a chicken.

He suddenly found prayer, prayers he had known as a kid.

Please God, he prayed silently, don’t let the sacrifice be me.

* * *

“Vickie!”

Griffin suddenly came bursting into the room, pushing past the unknown man who had stood in the doorway when it had opened.

“Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” Vickie cried.

She felt like an absolute idiot—no idea what to do, how to react. She was sitting on the sofa, naked and in heels, and Griffin was with Craig Rockwell, one of Griffin’s closest friends—and coworker!

A man she had met just once!

Pillow! She grabbed a pillow and pressed it before her.

Griffin was doing his best to block her, and Rocky and Devin Lyle were backing away, excusing themselves awkwardly—and laughing, certainly.

She wanted to disappear. To sink beneath the floorboards.

Vickie could hear herself talking, garbling out something. Griffin was talking...his friends were apologizing as they moved back into the hall...and she was backing her way into the bedroom.

In the bedroom she grabbed a robe from the closet and slipped into it as fast as humanly possible. By then, Griffin had reached the room. She started in on him furiously. “Why didn’t you call me, why didn’t you let me know, why...”

She couldn’t help it; she let him have it with a pillow.

“Hey!” he protested, catching the pillow. And she saw that he was almost smiling. His dark eyes shining in his rugged face, drawing her in and almost making her forget her embarassment.

Almost.

She got another pillow and let it fly.

“I just wasn’t expecting such a greeting!”

“Oh! Your friends! Your work associates. Your professional work associates!” Vickie said, shaking her head. “Oh, my God. What must they think? Oh!”

Griffin pulled her tight against him, smoothed back her hair and looked down into her eyes. And now he was smiling. “They’re thinking I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he told her.

He kissed her—a tender kiss, a great kiss. She wanted to forgive him.

Her level of humiliation was just a little too high.

“They’re still out there, right?”

“I think they’re standing awkwardly in the hall, maybe trying to leave...”

“You can’t...you can’t just leave people in the hall. Or make them leave. I mean, you—get out to the parlor. Go. Try to...oh, I don’t even know what you can try to do. When I can, I’ll come out.”

“They’ll leave. They won’t mind.”

“No!”

“But after everything you did for me, your preparation...”

“Out!”

“Got it. I’m on it,” Griffin assured her.

“I’ll never be able to face them if I don’t face them now!” Vickie said.

He left her, heading on out to the parlor. During the moments the bedroom door was open, Vickie could see that his Krewe friends hadn’t stayed in the apartment; they were out in the hallway waiting. Or they had left altogether.

She could also see that Griffin was still smiling. She felt like crawling beneath the floorboards.

But as much as she wanted to, she knew that she couldn’t hide out in her room forever.

Vickie slid into jeans and a T-shirt, and stood in front of the mirror again. Totally unsexy, she decided. Except for the flood of color that rose to her cheeks every other second.

She hesitated, then opened the door to her room. She could hear Griffin speaking, hear a female voice, and another male voice. Griffin was in the kitchen, making coffee, it seemed.

She paused, listening.

“You think that there are a number of people, all of them assigned to randomly attack people?” Devin Lyle was saying. Vickie had met her—and Rocky—just briefly, earlier during the day. She’d instantly liked Devin. They had a lot in common. Even if they’d grown up in very different cities, they had both been born in Massachusetts, steeped in the history of the state, come and gone, seen the good and the bad—and still loved it as home.

“I get how you figure it might be a number of people, but...why? I’ve been thinking about it since you were so convinced that the young man who died had to be one of many,” Devin finished.

“I don’t know. Gut feeling. I can’t help it. But from the beginning, someone has been making a statement. That poem. Attacking people without killing them...thank God they’re not dead!”

“Maybe the attacks are the statement,” Rocky said.

“Or the attacks might be a way to distract law enforcement from what is really going on,” Griffin said.

“If you believe that, what do you think is really going on?” Rocky asked Griffin.

Vickie heard plates being set on a table. She figured that maybe Griffin and his friends hadn’t quite gotten through dinner. She hadn’t had much of a meal herself.

And they weren’t talking about her, didn’t even seem to be thinking about her...

She had to get over herself and just step out into the room.

She managed to do so. It didn’t go quite as well as she’d hoped, but then again, she had no control over the flare of heat that rose into her face.

Devin Lyle was sweet and charming and tried to pretend that she’d seen absolutely nothing when they’d come in. Rocky was just as circumspect. But then she could see that the man lowered his head and turned away, and that he was trying to keep from smiling when he looked over at Devin. But then Devin shook her head and gave Vickie a tremendous smile and said, “Hey, hi! Well, let’s try to get a bit more comfortable here! We’re so sorry...”

“So, so sorry!” Rocky agreed.

“On so many levels!” Devin said with a grin. “And even now, well, we have to mention the elephant in the room. Only way to clear it out. We are beyond sorry!”

“And, wow, envious,” Rocky said.

“What?” Devin demanded. “Hey!”

“I’m referring to the fun of it, my love,” Rocky assured her. “What a cool thing to have thought of to do for someone after a hectic night,” he added.

Devin grinned and looked at Vickie. “There you go—the pressure is on!”

“So, anyway, we’re all good?” Griffin asked Vickie hopefully.

“Terrific,” she said, deadpan.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Griffin said.

“I’d leave it,” Devin told him sagely. “Take whatever you can get right now!”

“Yep, just leave it for now,” Rocky said. “Anyway, for the last time, please forgive us the invasion. We were going to head straight to Griffin’s apartment and go to bed. Then we figured we’d talk among ourselves, see if we got anywhere, over a midnight snack. We never ate. The night became very long and convoluted.”

“Because, of course, there’s what happened,” Devin said.

“And the fact that your friend Alex is now missing. You still haven’t heard from him, right?” Rocky asked.

“No,” Vickie said.

“We’ve made sure that we—as in the Bureau, and especially the Krewe of Hunters—are involved at every level,” Griffin told her seriously.

“FBI participation? In investigating the attacks, the death of the man tonight—or with the disappearance of Alex?” Vickie asked. “As far as I know, everything that has happened has happened within the state. And we’re not looking at murder here.”

“We may be looking at a kidnapping,” Devin said.

“Rules and protocol have changed,” Griffin said. “You know, Vickie, that all kinds of boundaries and jurisdictions changed after 9/11.” He turned toward the counter and she saw that he’d brewed coffee. It was late for coffee, but she doubted that it would keep any of them up.

“Here,” Vickie murmured, moving forward. She went to get mugs. Griffin opened the refrigerator and drew out sandwich makings.

“The FBI even does more on foreign soil,” Devin murmured. She looked at Vickie and asked, “May I help with anything?”

Vickie laughed. “I’m not even sure what Griffin is doing.”

“This is it, I’m afraid,” Griffin said. “Sandwiches, chips...”

“A gourmet buffet at this point!” Rocky said. He took a plate of cheese from Vickie and told her, “Roles change, and it’s often good—we’re sometimes involved with cases that concern just one state or area—or the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, as it is here. It can be a really good partnership, especially when the local police want help and are ready to become part of a task force with a lot of cooperation.”

Vickie poured the coffee, taking her own cup and sinking into a chair at the table. “Well, naturally, I’m delighted that you’re all on this—whatever this is. You’re working with Detective Barnes? And everything is going well?”

“Fine—I like Barnes,” Rocky assured her. He seated Devin and then he and Griffin took chairs at the table, too—and dug in. The three were obviously hungry. “He seems to be a very good man. Comfortable and assured—and not in the least daunted by the feds. But then, you’ve already worked with him, right?”

“Yes, during the Undertaker thing,” Vickie said.

“Doesn’t hurt to have a precedent set,” Rocky said.

“So, do you know who the man was tonight—the man who killed himself when Griffin caught him? Was he the one who hurt Alex Maple before? And if so, why is Alex still missing?”

“I admit that no one can reach him, but are you still convinced that Alex is missing?” Griffin asked her. “Even Barnes helped us start a report before it’d normally be done.”

“I haven’t known Alex that long, but I do know him pretty well. He didn’t show for dinner. I really believe that if he could, he would have found a way to have called me by now,” Vickie said. “I am seriously worried.”

“We have people checking the local hospitals,” Devin said.

“And the morgue, of course,” Rocky added.

Devin nudged him hard.

“Hey, it’s all...necessary,” Vickie murmured.

“I know that Barnes said he’d call us, but...” Devin said, looking at Griffin.

“I’ll go ahead and call him,” Griffin said.

He dialed. Vickie listened, looking at him hopefully.

“Have they found anything?”

“They’re still tracing the phone. Alex is not home. His landlord opened the apartment and he wasn’t there. Also, there was no sign of a struggle in his apartment,” Griffin told her. “They’ve checked with every hospital—and the morgue. No sign of Alex.”

Vickie nodded. “Thank goodness for that, anyway,” she murmured.

“So far, people have been attacked in the street,” Devin said. “Are we assuming that the same perps who struck Alex Maple so hard they could have killed him have now kidnapped him?”

“I know it sounds strange, but let’s face it—everything to do with these attacks is strange,” Vickie said. “Here’s why I’m scared that what you’re saying just might be what happened, Devin. There was a great deal of publicity about the attack when Alex was hurt. There was information about him on every channel, in every newspaper and on the web, as well. Alex is young and brilliant. He may know more about Massachusetts history than just about anyone else alive. What if...?”

Griffin looked up from his sandwich, considering Vickie from across the table. “What if whoever is doing this needs someone who knows the ancient lore of Massachusetts?”

“It doesn’t explain the random attacks, really,” Vickie said, looking at Griffin earnestly. “But from the beginning, those attacked had the same historical words written on them. So whoever is behind this is making a statement. Alex was the first victim—the press and media went wild with the story. Details about Alex were shared with just about everyone. He was happy at first—it was nice to be recognized as one of the youngest professors. Of course, he hoped the publicity would help his attacker be caught. This is just a theory—what if Alex’s attack was random at first. The attacks were random, or carried out on vulnerable people when help didn’t seem to be near. But after this person or these people learned about Alex, they wanted him.”

Griffin, Rocky and Devin were silent, looking at her.

“Yes, it’s a stretch. But hey, the attacker or the cult or the group is saying that Satan will come back. That implies that he’s been here, and we all know that the devil and Massachusetts have quite a history. We have the very sad truth of the worst witch trials in the New World, for instance. But there’s more because of the very harsh situation of the times—brutal winters and repressive societies and, of course, constant fear of Indian attacks. The darkness in the forests—all those things made it easy for impressionable minds to believe in Satan. The human creature hasn’t changed so very much. People have always wanted power. They’ve always coveted what others have.”

Again, silence greeted her words. Then Devin smiled. “I like her, Griffin. I really like her.”

“We know a little bit about that witchcraft thing,” Rocky said ruefully. “And very sick minds.” He looked at Griffin. “She really might have something.”

“But where does it all lead?” Vickie wondered. “Where do you start?”

“Well, the good thing is—we are part of the Krewe of Hunters,” Griffin said. “Adam Harrison and Jackson Crow call the shots, but they’re the kind of guys who just don’t believe in micromanagement.” He smiled at Vickie. “When we need help, we can call the office. When we don’t, we go where our intuitions take us. We start with what we know, and we investigate from there. And sometimes, what we know about the past—in this case, the witch trials—can lead us into answers for what is happening now.”

“Here’s the good—God help us, the trials are remembered for their inhumanity! We look back at them now and shudder at the concept that anyone was condemned on spectral evidence. And the thing is, I don’t think we’re looking back at Salem.”

“The good old founding Puritan fathers might not have seen a difference, but today, there is a tremendous difference. We’re not looking at any modern form of witchcraft—or the midwives and other healers who might have been persecuted as witches. We’re really looking at Satanism,” Vickie reminded him. “‘Hell’s afire and Satan rules, the witches, they were real. The time has come, the rites to read, the flesh, ’twas born to heal. Yes, Satan is coming!’”

“But you told me that rhyme is not even original,” Griffin said. “Right?” He glanced at Devin and Rocky. “Alex and Vickie had been researching the words left on the victims. They date way back.”

“From 1665,” Vickie said. And she went on to explain what they had discovered about Ezekiel Martin, his obsession with Missy Prior—and his early invention of cult wherein he was able to “marry” any woman he chose, share them with his closest male followers and wield strict control over his little colony of “Jehovah.”

“I have heard of Jehovah,” Rocky said, “and we even learned about Ezekiel Martin. Of course, Devin grew up in Salem and I’m from Peabody. That history was just a brief side note for us, though. When you grow up anywhere near Salem, you kind of live and breathe the Salem witch trials. And due to the case occurring when we met, we’ve been pretty heavily steeped in it all, too.”

“We all knew there were other instances of supposed witchcraft and that there were other executions in Massachusetts—and even the other colonies,” Devin said. “I believe that the Salem witch trials just grew in such hysteria, volume and ridiculousness that they dwarfed everything else we learned. And, of course, for the Puritans anything suggesting witchcraft had to do with the devil, so it wouldn’t have been like today. Wiccans these days have a recognized religion in which they honor the earth. But in the 1600s, the only concept of witches was one which included Satan.” She shrugged. “Even if, when you look at the pagan religions from which the Wiccan derived, the tribes practicing the religions wouldn’t have even heard of Satan.”

“To be fair, in Boston, you pretty much had to rub the faces of the powers that be in the fact that you were a Quaker or other religious dissenter to be executed,” Vickie said. “You were usually banished. And, from what I’ve read, I believe that Ezekiel Martin was furious that he wasn’t permitted to become a minister and given a congregation. We know that when people are disenfranchised, miserable and can’t find their place in society, they are most vulnerable to join a cult. There must have been people back then who were equally susceptible, especially if he was a charismatic speaker.”

“That quotation,” Griffin said. He shook his head. “Whoever is pulling the strings here knows all about Ezekiel.”

“And whoever it is has Alex,” Vickie said. She looked at them one by one, ending with Griffin. “I just have this strong feeling that he’s been kidnapped. They want to use him, use what he knows about history, about old cults, about ancient religions, about Massachusetts,” she added.

“About Jehovah?” Devin asked.

“He definitely knows about Jehovah—he is a veritable encyclopedia on the state,” Griffin said.

“So, should we head for Jehovah to look for Alex?” Vickie asked.

Griffin looked back at her thoughtfully. “You know that, officially, at the moment, the powers that be believe that a single person was responsible for the attacks and leaving the message, and that one person committed suicide tonight.”

“I don’t believe it and you don’t believe it,” Vickie told him.

“Jehovah doesn’t exist anymore,” Griffin said.

“But we can find out where it was!” Vickie argued.

Griffin’s phone rang and he excused himself but didn’t move away to answer it. He looked at them and nodded.

Yes, the call had to do with the case.

He listened, gave brief answers and then hung up.

“Our young attacker-turned-suicide from tonight has been identified. He was Darryl Hillford of Framingham, twenty-five.”

“What a waste of life!” Rocky said.

“Sad,” Vickie agreed softly.

“Tragic,” Devin agreed.

“Except, of course, that he was willing to hurt other people. Possibly kill,” Rocky said flatly.

“Barnes did some checking on the guy, and I think we are looking at a ‘type’ that is easily maneuvered,” Griffin said. “He dropped out of college—too much debt, too many drugs and a few arrests. His past didn’t look so great. Alcoholic father, mother not in the picture. They’re doing a toxicology screen, of course, and we’ll know everything that was in his system tonight.” He paused for a minute, casting his head thoughtfully to the side. “I don’t think they will find that he was on drugs. He was doing what lots of people do...trying to find some kind of meaning for himself in the jumble of the world. He strayed onto a bad path. His last known address was a fraternity house, but he hasn’t lived there in over three years.”

“Well, then, he was living somewhere. If we can find out where...” Vickie murmured.

“Maybe we’ll find Alex!” Griffin said.

* * *

Alex was provided with an outfit to go over his jeans and T-shirt; it was a red cloak, conical hat and attached scarf-type mask, just like that worn by the man who’d called himself a high priest.

While other people were with him, none of them identified themselves—even by a fake name.

Not one of them seemed to even notice the headless corpse in the corner!

He tried to still his shaking hands. He didn’t know what the others thought, but he was pretty sure that the so-called “high priest” had left the rotting corpse there with calculated intention.

And now...

They led him out of the surgery room.

They didn’t speak much. There were four of them with him, two about his height, two a little shorter. He wasn’t even sure if they were men or women, young or old.

They brought him to a little cubicle. It had a heavy wooden door with a little panel that opened in so that he could be seen from outside. He was pretty sure that, once upon a time, such a space had held dangerous patients, the criminally insane.

Or perhaps those made dangerously insane by the crude treatment of the disabled in years gone by. Actually, he’d seen a few places where things hadn’t changed so much.

The small room had a cot. With a blanket. And a bedpan. That was it.

The blanket gave him hope.

He wasn’t going to die. The high priest seemed to want him. He had to play this right.

And pray that he wasn’t going to be asked to stick a knife into a living sacrifice!

He wasn’t shut up in the locked room for long. They came for him again—the four red-clad figures. They chanted as they led him out beneath the moonlight. Once, there had been something of a courtyard—a place where patients might have precious moments in the sun.

When there was sun, of course. It was, after all, Massachusetts. His mom used to joke that everyone should come for summer in Massachusetts—it happened every July 27.

He almost laughed aloud; he was so terrified, and grasping at strange, old memories.

He wondered if he was supposed to chant. He didn’t know what they were chanting, so he probably couldn’t chant with them.

Others joined.

He saw that an old tiled garden table had been stripped and set with inverted crucifixes. There was a large empty space on the table...

Room for the sacrifice!

Maybe there was no sacrifice. Maybe...

There would be a sacrifice. There was a large knife on the tiled surface. Its clean blade glinted in the dim light.

The chanting continued. They began to form a circle—twelve, all in all, including him. And then, as the chanting increased, another figure stepped into the center. He raised his arms, and he began to speak. At first, it was some other language—what, Alex just couldn’t be sure.

And then his words were in English.

“Do what thou wilt! For the day is coming, the day that is his! He will embrace his followers, those who bring him to flesh, to the pleasures of the flesh. For those who bring him to blood...oh, yes, the sweetness of the blood!”

As he spoke, a tall blonde woman was led into the group. She seemed to come willingly, but she walked as if she was in a trance.

She wore white where the others wore red.

Alex began to tremble.

Sacrifice...this beautiful young woman!

The high priest raised his hands. He reached down for the knife on the altar. He lifted it high.

Alex’s knees were giving; he was going to fall. They were going to sacrifice the young woman!

But the high priest continued to talk. “The time comes for the ultimate, as we prepare this world for he who is coming—he who will touch you all, and give you life and freedom. We prepare, we come closer and closer!”

Someone stepped forward, touching the young woman by the shoulders. The white gown fell to her feet.

No! He had to protest; Alex had to do something, had to stop this...

Alex heard a noise. A horrible bleating, a protest.

He turned.

It was a goat.

And as Alex watched, the poor creature was trussed up by a pair of the figures and stretched, screaming and terrified, over the altar.

And the knife went down on the creature’s belly and then its throat.

Blood sprayed across the table and down onto the cobblestones. The bleating stopped.

“All hail Satan!”

The cry went up. The gushing blood was caught in a chalice. The cup was passed around.

It was brought before the girl; she was marked in blood over her breasts—what the markings meant, Alex didn’t know.

But she was alive!

The chalice was passed again. It came to him.

He was supposed to drink.

He did.

It was amazing what terror and the will to survive could do for a man.

* * *

He didn’t vomit until he was back in his little cell.

He fell on his little cot, shivering and sick.

“Vickie, please, please, find me!” he said softly. “Please, please!”

He thought he might cry; he felt he should, but didn’t. He was too bewildered, too weary, after the night.

He just lay there. He tried to assure himself that help would come.

“One thing for sure, Vickie, if I make it out of here alive. This fellow is going to be a vegetarian! Maybe I’ll even be vegan!”

His cell had no windows, but he thought that it was late in the night when he finally slept.

He might be an agnostic, but he drifted off whispering the Lord’s Prayer.

And he couldn’t forget the woman, the beautiful, blonde woman standing there, obviously drugged, smeared in the blood as if...

As if she was being prepared for a time when it was her blood that would be spilled.

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