Buried alive...

As a teenager, Vickie Preston survived an attack by a serial killer. That was the first time she saw a ghost. Now the city of Boston is being terrorized—someone is kidnapping women and burying them alive, but cruelly leaving a glimmer of hope for the authorities by sending a clue about their location. Vickie is pulled into the investigation when her name is mentioned in one of the notes. And as a historian, she has the knowledge to help uncover the graves the killer known as the Undertaker is choosing. But she also has another, unique lead: the spirit of one of the victims is appearing to her in dreams.

Special Agent Griffin Price is on the case for the Krewe of Hunters, the FBI’s special unit for paranormal investigators. He feels particularly protective of Vickie, since their shared past is connected to the threat that currently surrounds them. With the killer accelerating his plans, time is running out for more victims hidden around the city. Vickie is becoming closer with Griffin, but she’s getting too close to the danger, and every breath could be her last.

Praise for the novels of

New York Times bestselling author

Heather Graham

“Each new book involving the Krewe of Hunters takes the reader on a dark adventure where speaking to the dead is an everyday occurrence, the past and present collide and compelling characters find a sense of belonging. Graham’s skill for rendering her world in such vivid detail makes readers want to know more about the real-life locations she draws from.”

—RT Book Reviews

“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

“Riveting mystery...interesting history, sweet romance with a second chance at love.”

—Fresh Fiction on Darkest Journey

“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

“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

“Graham is the queen of romantic suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews

Dying Breath

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To the great and amazing state of Massachusetts

and my family there.

Some people marry for money...

When I was eighteen and madly in love, I could have married

to acquire my in-law family, the most wonderful group of

people one could imagine, stemming from the Miro and

Pozzessere tribes. All in all now, that is well over a hundred

people—and every one of them is wonderful!

This book, though, is especially in memory of Uncle George,

my whist partner, cribbage instructor and so much more.

He taught about decency, kindness, generosity and

compassion in the best possible way—

simply by very quietly maintaining all those qualities himself.

For Auntie Dee, the best aunt anyone could imagine,

who has always called me her niece, and never her in-law.

For Kenny, Doreen, John, Bill, Ashley, Eric, Anna and Alex—

I am privileged to have you all in my life.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Victoria (Vickie) Preston—historian, author

and youth-group leader

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

Jackson Crow—field director, Krewe of Hunters

Bertram Aldridge—serial killer, in prison

Chrissy and George Ballantine—family friends of Vickie’s

Dylan Ballantine—Chrissy and George’s teenaged son,

now a ghost

Noah Ballantine—Chrissy and George’s young son,

nine years old

Friends and family

Lucy and Dr. Philip Preston—Vickie’s parents

Roxanne Greeley—Vickie’s best friend

Hank Fremont—Vickie’s high school boyfriend

Mario Caro—runs local family restaurant Pasta Fagioli

Local law enforcement

Detective David Barnes—Boston PD

Lenora Connor—hypnotist

Carl Lumley—private security

Donald Baugh—private security

Students in Vickie’s youth group

Art Groton, Hardy Richardson, Cheryl Taylor,

Cathy MacDonald, Jan, Frank, Ivan, Gio, Cindy and Sasha

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

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

The side door was open just a hair, but that little bit brought a hint of wintry air that sent a chill racing down Vickie Preston’s spine. She shivered. She moved closer to the door and found herself looking out at the day through the double-paned window.

It was gray. Turning darker quickly as the day waned into the late afternoon.

Nothing unexpected, since it was winter, and still...

She felt unnerved. The wind seemed to have a keening sound about it—a sound that made her think of her granny O’Malley talking about banshees wailing.

Or maybe it was the fact that the door was open—even though she didn’t know why it would be. But she knew it was all right. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine hadn’t even left for their night out yet. She would just ask him about the door—maybe he’d been taking something out to the car.

Still, oddly trembling, she closed the door and locked it. As she did so, Chrissy Ballantine came sailing into the kitchen, adjusting her gloves.

“Choose any of those little packets of food you’d like,” Mrs. Ballantine said. “You know where they all are. Noah will probably need to eat about 8:30 tonight and there’s a six-ounce bottle he can have after he eats his food. He’ll most likely fall asleep after that. The baby monitor is next to the crib, of course. The diapers are next to the crib...and well, you know the drill. You have my number, and you have George’s number, and...”

“Chrissy, can we go, please!” George Ballantine said, coming up behind his wife, slipping an arm around her waist. “My dear, as we know, Vickie is the most amazing babysitter in the world and if you torture her to death with commonsense details, she’ll leave us!”

Vickie Preston smiled at them both.

God bless the Ballantines!

They were both in their midforties; Noah was, truly, a miracle child for them.

It had never been easy for her, Chrissy had once told Vickie. It seemed like a gift from above that she had finally gotten pregnant again. Fertility drugs before—and now? Just a miracle.

Yes, Noah was a miracle.

And before...

Even though they had little Noah, tears often sprang to Chrissy’s eyes when she referred to an earlier time—and the son they had lost. After all their first efforts twenty years ago, they had finally had a child: Dylan. Dylan had been great, a son any parent could adore. Good in school, good in sports, but more—a great sport himself, happy when he won, able to shrug it off and smile when he or his team lost.

A year shy of his eighteenth birthday, Dylan had been killed by a drunk driver. His death had nearly killed his parents as well; it had devastated a community. George Ballantine had left his high-tech job in New York City—too many memories—and relocated in Boston. And while his wife had still been in mourning, she’d suddenly found out that she would have the second child she had always wanted.

Vickie knew all about the Ballantines because the families knew each other through church. Chrissy Ballantine had called Vickie’s mom, and Vickie had been interviewed. She had been in awe when she’d heard how much she could make, just babysitting a sweet child. And while she was very happy about Noah, she also felt terrible for the couple, and she thought about the young man she saw in pictures about the house—Dylan Ballantine—often enough. She was now just about the age he had been when he died, almost eighteen. She found herself wondering what his life had been like—he’d been popular, certainly. Had he dreamed about college, being on his own, the places he might go, the things he might do in life?

Dylan was gone, but it was just sixteen months and three days ago that Noah Ballantine had made his stunning and miraculous arrival into the world.

For the first six months of his life, Chrissy had refused to leave his side. Her psychiatrist had finally convinced her she would smother her poor child, herself and her marriage if she didn’t learn to trust someone. Vickie was always grateful they had chosen her.

“Yes, yes, of course, we can go,” Chrissy said. “I’ll just look in on the baby one more time, though, I know, of course Vickie will be fine.”

“Vickie will be fine—whether you go stare at Noah again or not!” George said firmly.

Vickie could easily understand how precious the child was to both Chrissy and George. She loved the baby herself, as well as both of the Ballantines—and loved babysitting for them. They had a great old historic house that was one of the few listed on the National Historic Register and still a private residence in the midst of the explosion of Boston as a city. When she babysat in the afternoon, she would walk part of the Freedom Trail and, despite the fact she was a city native, still marvel at the Old South Meeting House, the Granary Burial Ground and other local wonders.

Her own house was old, but not nearly so old—or distinguished—as the Ballantine house. It had been built in 1790, combining the Georgian and Federal styles, and the architecture itself was amazing. The house was on most walking tours of the city. It had hosted Samuel Adams at one time, along with John Hancock and a number of other Revolutionary notables. Her home was nice—mid-1800s—but it had been built as apartments and was an apartment building to this day. Nothing like this.

“Oh, but his clothes!” Chrissy said. “I need to show Vickie where everything he might need can be found.”

“Vickie knows where everything Noah has can be found. Details—you’re going to drive the poor girl crazy!” George said.

“Darling, I don’t get crazy on details,” Chrissy protested. “Okay, I do,” she admitted, looking at Vickie. “But—”

“I’m fine. I don’t mind details,” Vickie assured her.

From his play area in the living room, Noah suddenly let out a demanding cry. Chrissy Ballantine immediately jumped and turned to go to him.

Her husband caught her arm. “Vickie is here now. She’ll get Noah. And we’ll head out to our dinner with my boss, huh?”

“Yes, of course, of course.” Chrissy smiled at Vickie, hugged her impetuously and allowed her husband to steer her to the kitchen door.

A blast of cold air swept in; the house didn’t have a garage, but rather a porte cochere, or covered drive, once a carriage entry. It was small and tight to the house, allowing for one car. But then they didn’t need more than one car where they were in Boston. Public transportation on the T was great.

George Ballantine looked back at Vickie and winked. She smiled and waved and headed to the door to close and lock it behind them.

But Chrissy was suddenly back, rapping on the window. “The alarm!” she said.

“I’ve got it!” Vickie assured her. And she keyed in the alarm.

As she did so, she remembered that she had forgotten to ask George Ballantine why the side door had been open. She rekeyed the alarm to Off and threw open the door.

But their silver Mercedes had already driven into the night.

She heard Noah let out another wail and she quickly locked the door and keyed in the alarm again before hurrying back to the grand parlor.

She wasn’t really sure why any kid would be crying or wanting to leave this play space. His “playpen” was constructed to cover an area that was a good fifteen-by-fifteen feet long and wide. He could crawl onto his scooter, play with his toddler walker—or any number of the amazing toys in the carefully constructed play box in the play area.

Despite being spoiled rotten, Noah Ballantine was a sweet and affectionate baby. He had taken to Vickie right away, which had helped her earn the position. She adored him in turn.

He wasn’t screaming or crying out with his few words when she reached the parlor; he was staring into what appeared to be blank space. And then he began to laugh—the way he did when they watched Little Baby Bum videos and clapped and played.

His interaction with blank space made Vickie curious—and uncomfortable. She told herself that she was just spooked. She silently cursed herself for not asking George Ballantine about the open door—he would have said something to reassure her.

“What ya doing, my little love?” Vickie said, stepping over the playpen gate and hunkering down by the baby. He truly was a sweetheart. He looked at her and gave her a brilliant smile and clapped his hands.

He was blessed with huge hazel eyes and a thatch of rich sandy hair and couldn’t possibly have been a cuter boy.

He clapped his hands again.

“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker man! Bake me a cake as fast as you can!” she said. “Roll it, and poke it, and mark it with a B, and then put it in the oven for my baby and me!”

He responded with more laughter and smiles, and then looked aside again—as if someone else was there.

“Okay, okay, creeping me out there, kid!” Vickie said. “And, by the way—P.U.! You stink-um, dink-um!” she told him. “You need a diaper change.”

She swept him up, climbed over the playpen gate and headed for the stairs.

She stopped halfway there, hearing a tapping at the window. It seemed that her heart caught in her throat.

Just branches in the wind, branches in the wind...

But if she didn’t check it out, she’d scare herself all night. Cuddling Noah to her, she headed to the window and held her breath as she drew back the drapery.

“As I expected!” she said, keeping her voice filled with fun—she wasn’t about to scare the baby. “Branches! Rude! How rude of them to tap at the window like that.”

Noah thought it was all great.

“Up the stairs we go!”

Noah’s room was a fantasy playland. His crib and dressing table, changing table, floor mat and toy chest were all done up in a jungle motif in pastel blues with an elephant theme. She grabbed a diaper and the wipes and made quick work of the change.

She felt her cell phone buzzing and answered it quickly, balancing Noah in the crook of her left arm. Her mom always called to make sure she was okay. Vickie was always afraid if she didn’t answer quickly, her mom would have cops at the door. But it wasn’t her mom, it was Roxanne Greeley, one of her best friends.

“So, the cats are gone, eh? Party, party?” Roxanne asked her.

“No parties. I’m earning my money for college.”

Roxanne giggled. “I know you—just teasing. If I were to head over for a wild and wicked party, that would be the two of us doing our toenails once the little guy fell asleep. But...”

“But what?” Vickie asked.

“Hank Fremont does think you should spend more time with him. I overheard him talking about his brother getting him some beer and then him heading over to surprise you,” Roxanne said. “Some of the guys he hangs with were egging him on. Telling him he’s the coolest dude in the school and if he’s dating you, well, you should be cool, too.”

“Not to worry. I informed Hank this is serious work for me. College is serious for me.”

“Ah, well, one day maybe you’ll be president of the country! And then I’ll have wild, wicked parties doing my toenails with the president! Anyway, I warned you.”

“I told him not to come. He won’t. So I’ll see you tomorrow? Shopping, right? We’re going to the mall. Sushi at the ridiculously good place in the food court?”

“We’re on.”

Her phone was ringing again as she finished with Roxanne; it was Hank. She shook her head, smiled at the baby, and answered.

“I’m on my way, my love,” Hank said, trying to make his voice husky—deeply, manly rich. Vickie shook her head at the baby with exasperation. He loved it.

“Don’t be. I told you—I won’t let you in,” Vickie said. “Hank, this is serious for me. You need to be more serious. If you don’t hit a few books instead of beer bottles, not even your athletics will get you into college.”

“Hey, we’re only young once! I already have beer and a pizza. Come on, that’s a super-cool house. I’ll be there—”

“Come, and I’ll call the cops,” she threatened.

“Bitch!”

“I mean it, Hank.”

“Well, you know, we could be over.”

“We will be eventually. Maybe now is a good enough time.”

Vickie hung up, aggravated, and set her phone on the baby’s dresser.

They’d been through this before. He’d apologize tomorrow. He’d beg her to stay with him. But everything she had said was true.

“Maybe this is the right time to end it, huh, Noah?”

Noah laughed and clapped.

And then they both heard a thump. Noah’s eyes widened; Vickie jumped.

It had come from the attic—she was certain.

Now she did freeze. For a moment, she couldn’t even remember to shake it off quickly for the baby.

She waited. Nothing more.

Had a branch fallen on the house?

Or had Hank Fremont not taken her refusal seriously? Could he possibly be there already, up in the attic, or outside? Maybe, like in the movies, he’d actually called her from inside the house or right outside the house!

No, he’d been a jerk tonight, but usually he kind of listened to her. But he was a high school senior surrounded by a few guys who were taking a long time to reach anything that resembled maturity.

No. Hank would not be that big a jerk. But the house was closely surrounded by big trees.

“That’s it—a branch,” she managed to say at last, realizing that her hold on Noah was tight—and right when he looked at her, his little face puckered into what might have turned into a cry.

He smiled instead. “Bick-bick!” he said. It was his name for her. He was beginning to talk—sometimes his words made sense. He was good with mama, dada, bye-bye, and kit-kat. The Ballantines didn’t have pets, but Noah had a great stuffed kitten that sang songs and told nursery rhymes and he knew to ask for his kit-kat when he wanted the toy.

“Let’s go back downstairs,” she murmured. “Maybe we’ll look at your food packs and you can point at one and we’ll choose your late-night snack that way!”

Noah clapped his hands. He was, however, looking past Vickie—toward the door. There was something about the way that he was looking that caused her to spin around and stare.

But no one stood in the doorway.

“You know, Noah, Bick-bick is going to have to stop this. There are a lot of horror stories about babysitters. The phone rings, and there’s no one there. Just breathing, or something like that. We, however, have a great alarm on this house!”

Except the door had been ajar. Before the alarm had been set.

She was really doing it: scaring herself. If she went off the deep end, the Ballantines would never ask her back.

“Television! We will turn the television on. It will talk and be...well, it will be fine,” she said.

Once downstairs, she couldn’t find the remote control for the mammoth television screen that was just the right distance from the play area to make certain Noah wasn’t too close.

She looked all over the room—in Noah’s toy box, everywhere.

Shaking her head, she took the baby with her and headed for the kitchen.

The door remained locked. She couldn’t help but check.

The phone rang and she nearly jumped a mile high. It was the house phone.

This was it—where the babysitter answered the home phone and someone just breathed into her ear.

She let it ring. And ring.

She heard the message machine kick in out in the parlor. And then her mother’s voice.

“Victoria? Victoria, are you there, sweetheart?”

She picked the phone up. “Mom?”

“Yes, it’s your mom—remember me?” Her mother asked dryly.

Her muscles were so tense she had to pray the baby didn’t feel her fear.

She forced herself to breathe. “Mom, why didn’t you call my cell?”

“I did. You didn’t answer,” her mother said.

Vickie felt in her pockets. Nope, her phone wasn’t on her. Where the heck had she left it? Oh, yeah, she’d set it down upstairs after talking to Roxanne.

“Sorry. It’s here somewhere. Anyway, what’s up?”

“You were supposed to call and tell me that you got there okay.”

“Mom, I thought you were planning on calling me. Also, I graduate in June. And I’m going to college. You just won’t be able to check on me every minute.”

“I know, I know. But that’s June. I’ll get a grip by then. It’s just...well, when you go to the Ballantine house, I can’t help but think about their son...their older son.”

“Well, I’m here, I’m fine, baby is as well. I haven’t bounced him off the roof yet or anything.”

Her mother laughed softly. “You’re a great babysitter, Vickie. And dog-walker and student and daughter. You’ve worked very hard. You’re going to love going to NYU. Mrs. Ballantine will be almost as heartbroken as me when you head off.”

“Mom, I’ll be in New York. It’s only a four or five hour drive. Look, I promise I’ll bring home lots of laundry and come home for food and the whole bit, okay?”

Noah let out a squeal of delight. He was looking over Vickie’s shoulder again.

“I hear the little darling. Okay, sweetie. Go and take care of him!” her mother said.

“Love you, Mom.”

“Okay, take care of the little one!”

Noah let out a delighted laugh once again.

Vickie barely managed to hang up the phone. She spun around. There was nothing there.

Nothing.

No one.

She almost picked up the phone to call her mom and ask her to come over. Or maybe she could call Roxanne back. Nope. She had assured Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine she did nothing but babysit. She didn’t have friends over.

Including male friends?

Not to worry—she especially didn’t have male friends over!

She took a deep breath and headed back into the parlor.

There, on the footstool in front of one of the antique rockers, sat the remote control.

And her cell phone.

She hadn’t put them there!

This time, fear shot through her with electric sparks. She set Noah down quickly in his play area, afraid she would startle, scare or hurt him.

She made herself breathe—and breathe again.

“Okay, I just didn’t see it before,” she murmured to herself. “Right there—right on the footstool, but somehow, I’ve gone blind. What do you think, Noah? I didn’t set the phone down upstairs, I did that down here. And I just didn’t really look for the remote control. I’m too into you!”

He was such a delightful baby. He looked at her and clapped his hands together. She forced a smile and looked at her watch.

Six o’clock. Full dark on a wintry Boston night. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine wouldn’t come home for hours.

And now, because she’d seen too many horror movies, she was allowing herself to let her imagination run wild.

George and Chrissy Ballantine had been there when she arrived. There was no one else in the house.

“Breathe, kid, breathe,” she told herself. “Ah! Well, it’s here.” She grabbed the remote control as if it were a lifeline. “Why didn’t your parents get one of those remotes that just lets you talk to the TV and turn it on, huh? You know, like, ‘TV! Go on. Bring me to a really cute little kids’ show!’”

Noah clapped and made a few oohing noises.

Vickie turned on the television. From the corner of her eye, she felt as if someone passed by her. She spun around, looking everywhere; there was no one there.

“Crazy. Your Bick-bick is going crazy, Noah!” she said.

She didn’t know why, but she found herself looking at the family portraits that flanked the massive granite mantle.

Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine to the right.

Dylan and Noah to the left.

She swallowed hard and turned her attention to the flat-screen television.

It was tuned to a news channel. A reporter stood before a huge building in Suffolk County, warning listeners that two prisoners had escaped that morning from the South Bay House of Correction.

They had feigned illness in a planned escape; they had taken the guns used in their escape from guards they had left critically wounded.

One, Reginald Mason, had already been captured after a shootout with police at a convenience store. Two civilians had been wounded in the gunfire.

Residents of the Greater Boston area were warned to be extremely careful. Mug shots of the men were shown, with the footage then zooming in on the face of one Bertram Aldridge. Six years ago, he’d terrorized the area, becoming known as the Southside Slasher for the horrible way he’d murdered his seven known victims. He’d liked to tease law enforcement with letters to the newspapers, telling them FBI stood for Fat-Butt Intelligence and BPD stood for Billie-Prick-Dicks.

Police were out in force, and they expected to find the second man quickly, since he was local and had ties to the area. Past associates of the man were under investigation.

She realized she and the baby were staring at the screen as the reporter continued to numerate the violent crimes committed by the men. Bertram Aldridge, still on the loose, was known for butchering his victims with a knife, but he was familiar with firearms and had shot several officers during his original arrest.

“No, no!” she said aloud, and she began to flick the button to change the channel.

There were tons of news channels. Every one of them seemed to be covering the escape.

At last, she found a Disney cartoon, one that she loved herself—The Little Mermaid.

Singing crustaceans—yep. They were good for now.

Then the air in the room seemed changed, and again she felt as though someone else was there. Right there with her in the room.

The baby was clapping and laughing.

That was good, of course. Because, inwardly, she was freaking out.

The door was locked; she’d checked.

But it hadn’t been before. She’d heard a bump. And her phone...

She could remember—at least she thought she could remember—putting it down upstairs.

“It’s because I’m scared silly, little one—freaking here. I’m about to call my mommy!” she said to Noah, trying to smile all the time.

He laughed at her.

And then turned and laughed and clapped again, seemingly seeing someone else there.

“Okay, I’ve had it!” she said. “Kid, we’re going to head into the kitchen. Nice and cozy there, and we have a door—”

Her words broke off. She heard something. For sure this time. From upstairs.

Then suddenly she screamed. There was something right in front of her. What—she didn’t know. At first, it just seemed like clouds forming in air. Then there seemed to be a face, and then a form, and a full figure. Her mouth opened; she felt like fire and ice in one. Terror ripped through her with a painful vengeance.

And she heard the sound again. Something up the stairs. As if someone was moving, as if they were close to the stairs, perhaps to come down them...

And in front of her...

The figure and face had formed. Her gaze jerked up to the pictures above the mantle. She looked at the portrait of Dylan Ballantine.

And she looked at the strange thing that had formed out of the air before her.

“Go!” she heard. It was a rustle; it might have been leaves.

It might have been the terror that ruled her brain.

And it might have been the ghostly image of Dylan Ballantine standing before her now.

And still, she heard that sound...someone moving furtively, taking a step on the staircase, moving in a way she could sense...

And then...

She felt as if she was suddenly slapped hard by an icy hand.

“Get Noah and get out!”

Like a whisper, like a whisper, like a sound that played only in her mind...

“Move! Move—now!”

At that point, she acted. She grabbed the baby. She forgot about his ultrawarm knit hat and his mittens and his outside shoes.

She held him to her chest, raced to the front door, threw it open and raced out into the street.

It was dark and it was cold and no tourists were traveling the Freedom Trail. She heard a pounding behind her.

She was terrified to look back.

She did.

A man was there, behind her, coming after her. A man with a gun.

She turned and ran again—toward the Paul Revere House.

There were still people there! A group milling, talking about where to go to dinner.

“Help, help!” she cried.

Someone heard her! A tall Boston policeman had suddenly appeared on the sidewalk.

“Down, miss, down!” he shouted.

She gripped Noah even more tightly to her and ducked low.

She heard an explosion and a scream at the same time. Turning back, she saw the man with the gun on the ground.

He had fired, but he had apparently tripped over his own two feet. His gun had gone off... But his bullet had aimed into the sky. He was struggling up, taking aim again...

But he’d been shot.

The young policeman had fired at almost the same time.

Standing next to the collapsed man was the image of the boy she had seen in the house. Dylan Ballantine, dead nearly three years, dead before his baby brother had been born.

The policeman rushed by Vickie and the baby, his own weapon aimed at the man—the convict!—who had evidently tripped...

The man on the ground screamed as the cop’s bullet exploded again; his gun went flying from his hand. He was disarmed, bleeding.

But only because he had tripped over the leg of a dead boy! Over Dylan Ballantine.

And as she continued to stare back in terror, the image of Dylan Ballantine began to fade.

And then he was gone.

The icy darkness of the wintry night began to settle in, and Noah began to cry at last.

1

Boston, Massachusetts

The North End

Summer

Griffin Pryce ran hard and as fast as he could, ahead of Jackson Crow by maybe ten feet. Not that it mattered. The clue had led them to the historic old cemetery, but once there, they’d have to look.

Thankfully it was summer. There was no abundance of multicolored autumn leaves to cover the ground; they would hopefully find an area that had been disturbed easily enough.

This was the first time the kidnapper/killer known as the Undertaker had actually left his victim in a cemetery. At least, so Griffin believed.

He was known to box his victims, nail them into wooden coffin-like crates.

Now, the box might well be a coffin.

There—behind dozens of slate stone markers, few really over the bodies they memorialized anymore and even fewer that had been rechiseled so that the words honoring the dead were legible—he saw where the ground had been ripped up.

He raced to the area—then swore when he hit a soft spot in the ground and went down—straight down—a good four feet.

“Here!” he shouted, though, of course, shouting was rather inane since Jackson surely recognized that Griffin had fallen into some kind of a pit.

Not so strange, he knew. In 2009, a woman had fallen into the stairway of a long forgotten tomb at the Granary cemetery. Time had a way with slate seals and old granite and the earth. Thousands had been buried here throughout time; all kinds of vaults lay beneath the surface.

He just prayed that they had found the right place, right now; that they were in time.

He heard Jackson coming up behind him as he frantically worked to dislodge more dirt from underneath himself. He doubted that the kidnapper would have had enough time to dig too deeply.

Thank God, he hadn’t. He found the poor wooden coffin in which the victim had been buried alive. As he worked to remove heavy clods of dirt and bracken, Jackson was already on the phone calling for backup and an ambulance.

Backup wasn’t far behind them. But before others arrived, Jackson joined him in the hole. They pried open the coffin lid.

And found Barbara Marshall.

She was pale beyond death; her lips were blue.

For a split second, Griffin and Jackson stared at one another. Then Jackson braced the coffin as Griffin pulled the woman from it, crawled from the hole with her in his arms, eased her gently to the ground and began resuscitation. He counted, he prayed, applied pressure and tried to breathe life into the woman.

Even in the midst of his efforts, a med tech arrived; Griffin gave way to the trained man who moved in to take his place.

“We may have been too late!” he said, the words a whisper, yet fierce even in their quiet tone.

“Maybe not,” Jackson said.

The emergency crew worked quickly. Griffin stood there, almost numb, as Barbara Marshall was moved, as a gurney was brought, as lifesaving techniques went into play with a rush of medical equipment.

Then she was whisked away, and he and Jackson were left gasping for breath as their counterpart from the police department arrived, while uniformed officers held back the suddenly growing crowd—and the press.

At last, with enough breath, Griffin looked at Jackson. “Think she’ll make it?”

“She may.”

“Think he’s watching?” Griffin asked.

“Hard to tell. Whoever is doing this is also leading the semblance of a normal life,” Jackson said.

“So he—or they—could be at work, picking kids up from school, or so on,” Griffin murmured.

“But I think that, yes, watching will be part of the pleasure, whenever they can watch,” Jackson said.

Griffin stood, fighting anger and disgust, and looked around at the buildings that surrounded them.

Boston was, to him, one of the most amazing cities in America. Modern finance and massive skyscrapers dominated the downtown area—along with precious gems of history. Boston Common, King’s Chapel, Faneuil Hall, the Paul Revere House, the Old North Church and more were within easy walking distance. Centuries of history within blocks. Colonial architecture, Gothic churches, Victorian; Boston was a visual display of American eras.

But the multitude of what was newer and contemporary in building might well afford the kidnapper a fine vantage point for watching as the police and FBI agents ran around like ants on the ground following the clues he so relished sending to the media.

This time, the clue had been, “James II, sadly not long for the throne. Still, a thief. Ah, Old Boston!”

A crew had been sent to King’s Chapel, as well. But Griffin had been convinced that their kidnapping victim would be found in the cemetery. This Undertaker liked drama.

And history and dirt, so it seemed.

Barbara Marshall was his fourth victim. Griffin prayed she survived.

The first victim, Beverly Tatum of Revere, had not.

But then, no one had heard of the Undertaker when she’d been taken.

When they had so desperately searched.

And searched.

Beverly Tatum had been found by police two weeks later, locked in an old freezer in a dump.

Jennifer Hudgins of Lynn had also died. The family had notified the police, who’d suspected her husband was responsible for her disappearance. They’d tailed him, questioned his coworkers...and then they’d run out of leads. The husband’s alibi had been proven true.

Jennifer had eventually been found inside a locker at an abandoned school in Brookline.

Then, Angelina Gianni of Boston had been taken.

The FBI had been called in for help—the Krewe, specifically, because Angelina’s husband, Anthony, had been certain that his wife’s mother had been speaking to him from the grave, telling him that he must dig to find her.

By then, the major television and internet news agency that had received the first two clues—and had originally considered them to be nothing but odd statements from a kook—had determined that they might be from the real criminal.

The clues had been received in plain white envelopes—mailed from Boston’s largest post office, no matter what other towns, cities or suburbs had been involved. No fingerprints of course. They contained a simple line or two lines giving a clue as to the whereabouts of the victims. The first clue had been “Where the old is discarded, where one may find what was once cold.” The second clue had read “No longer may one learn; is all learning but kept locked away?”

They’d found the third victim, Angelina, before it was too late. Griffin could be grateful that his knowledge of his Massachusetts home had helped. The clue had read “Fire away, and so it begins!”

He’d focused on Lexington and an old house that had served as a bed-and-breakfast near the first famous battle site. Of course, even then, he might not have found her if it hadn’t been for a dream. Or rather, the ghost who had entered his dream. The ghost of the missing woman’s mother. Eva, her name had been. Even in his dream, she’d switched to Italian now and then.

Though Griffin had known since he’d been a child that the dead could sometimes speak, it was sometimes difficult to admit. Even now—even belonging to the Krewe of Hunters. Even working with Jackson Crow, who seemed to think their strange and very often useful “gifts” were nothing unusual.

And so Angelina had lived. Her family had been grateful and they would have done anything to help the police. But Angelina had no memory of what had happened to her.

All she remembered was the darkness of being locked away.

This time, no ghost had come to him. The kidnapper or kidnappers—while the press had decreed one man and dubbed him the Undertaker, Griffin couldn’t rule out there wasn’t more than one person involved—had come straight to Boston. Having grown up on Beacon Hill, and walked these streets on his beat as a Boston cop before joining the FBI, Griffin had been certain about the message.

He was grateful that he and Jackson and the Krewe, as representatives of the FBI, had helped. He was incredibly grateful that one victim had lived; maybe Barbara Marshall would make it as well.

But they were no closer to the kidnapper—or kidnappers, as he suspected. Jackson knew that Griffin believed it had to be more than one person executing the crimes, but since the press had gone with “Undertaker,” they referred to the kidnapper themselves.

A shout suddenly went up from the street and echoed back to them. An officer in uniform came running back to them as they heard the sirens from the ambulance moving away through the city.

“She breathed on her own!” the officer said, his face alight. “They think she’s going to make it.”

Griffin looked over at Jackson and nodded his appreciation. Then he looked up at the buildings again, certain they were, indeed, being watched. Jackson leaped up and offered Griffin a hand; Griffin realized he was still somewhat in a hole. Accepting Jackson’s hand, he stepped out.

“We’ll find him,” Jackson said quietly. He had a right to be confident. The Krewe solved their cases. Griffin knew that; he was extremely grateful to be a part of the unique and special unit.

“Sure,” he said. He knew their minds were on similar tracks.

They would find the sick criminal doing this. But would they find him, and stop him, before someone else died?

As he joined Jackson, walking toward the street entrance of the cemetery, he saw Detective David Barnes, Boston Police, on his phone, looking ashen and tense.

Griffin had only just met Barnes on this case. The man had been with the BPD over fifteen years, but when Griffin had been a cop, Barnes had been Southie, working patrol out of South Boston. The man had studied him intently when they had first met—he’d obviously heard Griffin had once been with the BPD, and that he’d been the patrolman to bring down escaped convict Bertram Aldridge. The dramatic takedown had been all over the news at the time, and had made Griffin’s reputation.

Barnes seemed to be a decent man and a good detective; he’d welcomed their assistance and had been glad to have them on the team. Griffin figured he was about forty-five—with the wear and tear of someone a few years older.

“Victory—and yet short-lived,” Barnes said, deep furrows lining his brow. “We’ve gotten a call from a nearby resident, George Ballantine. His wife didn’t show up after their son’s Little League practice—then he found out she never even made it to her garden club meeting earlier in the day.” He stared at Griffin, nodding, and added, “Yeah. Ballantine.”

Something inside clicked hard against Griffin’s chest.

Ballantine.

He could remember too clearly when the killer, Bertram Aldridge, had made an attempt on the life of the Ballantine’s toddler son and their young babysitter. He could remember seeing the terrified girl, running, and the killer in the street, raising his weapon...

“Aldridge is still incarcerated—maximum security,” Griffin said.

“Yeah. And Aldridge liked to play with knives. This guy likes to let his victims smother slowly. Apparently, he’s not even that worried when we find them still alive—he just heads out for another victim. Aldridge liked to write taunting notes to the police, too, though. But...this tone is different. Can’t be Aldridge—absolutely impossible.”

“If we know he’s locked up,” Griffin said.

“First thing I checked—couldn’t help myself,” Barnes said.

“How long has Mrs. Ballantine been missing?” Jackson asked.

“Her meeting was at noon. She wasn’t there when George arrived home at 3:30 p.m.,” Barnes told them.

“That’s not a very long time,” Jackson said.

It was barely four-something, Griffin thought. In any other circumstances, the situation wouldn’t cause much alarm. Yet. There were a dozen explanations. Mrs. Ballantine’s phone might not be working. She’d stopped to see a friend and hadn’t even realized her ringer wasn’t on. She’d had a flat tire and a friendly driver had stopped and called roadside assistance for her—and she was still waiting. The police wouldn’t have even taken a report.

Ballantine. The family targeted again?

“It’s him,” Griffin said quietly. “It’s the Undertaker. We need to get over to the Ballantine house as quickly as possible. Get ahold of the media; find out about a note—a clue.”

Jackson studied him and nodded.

“Detective Barnes?” Jackson said.

Barnes didn’t argue. “I’ll get my car.”

“No need. It’s a short sprint from here,” Griffin said.

“You remember the house?” Barnes asked him.

“I remember it well,” Griffin said.

* * *

“Step light, my friend, for here I lie

Just steps away from a place to die

Boston Neck, and about the neck,

A rope I was forced to wear,

Years later was I found and cleared

By children bright and oh so dear

So now I rest in hallowed ground,

My story to be found.

No witch was I, no cause to die.”

Vickie Preston read the words from the monument aloud to her group of older teens, glad her dramatics—and simple, sad history—seemed to have them enthralled.

She had a group of ten with her: teens who had nearly been lost in the system. She had case files on all of them—if they hadn’t been neglected or abused by their own parents, they had fallen prey to the evil vices of others.

Most had bounced about in foster care. They would all turn eighteen soon and enter the world on their own, where statistically they didn’t seem to have much of a chance. Vickie had come home to Boston after college to work with a private charity called Grown Ups that was trying very hard to give such young people a better chance at survival in the real world as adults.

It had also just been a good move on her part. She’d split ways with her boyfriend, Jared Norton, several months ago; he’d liked to surprise her by waiting on the doorstep of her brownstone apartment in New York, convinced that she wanted him back in her life.

It wasn’t going to happen, and he needed to move on.

It was still nice to have a home with an address he didn’t know—and where he wouldn’t show up.

“Miss Preston!”

“Yes,” she said quickly.

“I thought they only killed witches in Salem!” One of the boys, Hardy Richardson, said, shaking his head in disbelief. He was a handsome kid, dark-haired, tall and broad-shouldered, with a quick and boyish smile. It was nice that he had maintained his smile; without it, he appeared to be years older than his true chronological age.

“Ah, no. The ‘craze,’ as we consider it, happened in Salem. Salem was part of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. And, sadly, while the Puritans came to the New World in search of religious freedom, they were the least tolerant people one could imagine. Quakers and members of other religious groups were banished or punished severely—several were hanged at Boston Neck. Also, there were a number of people who lived here who were hanged for witchcraft—even before the horrific events began in Salem,” Vickie said. “A woman named Anne Hibbins was hanged in 1656—long before the trials began in Salem. We don’t know the name of the woman buried here, honored by this tombstone. That’s because she wasn’t legally buried here.”

“Right. So, how can she be buried here?” Hardy asked. “I thought they dumped the bodies right by the hanging tree or in some marshy plot nearby?”

“Sometimes, a brave and intrepid family member went out and found the body. If you study this stone, you’ll see there is a date carved into the stone—1733. She was probably found and buried here secretly by the family—and they marked her grave when they dared,” Vickie said. “But that doesn’t mean she’s down there—progress and decades and then centuries mean that stones get moved around sometimes. Still, I love this memorial.”

“Vicious people,” Cheryl Taylor, a petite—but very pretty and well-built—brunette murmured, before looking over at Vickie. “Do you think that’s why we have such a bad reputation now?” she asked Vickie. “I mean, Bostonians, we do have a reputation for being snobby. Think that dates back to the Puritans?”

Vickie grinned. “Maybe—who knows? It was an extremely repressive society. In fact, when King James II ordered that an Anglican chapel be built in Boston, he had a hard time getting land. The cemetery was here first—he took part of the cemetery to build the chapel. We’re standing in the oldest cemetery in the city. You can actually learn a tremendous amount about people and society by visiting graveyards. Of course, remember, a lot of original old grave markers would have been wood—long gone now. Time and the elements take their toll. But you can see on some of the oldest stones that the art is severe—a skeletal head with wings, rather scary-looking. The stones, for such a serious people, could be expensive to buy and carve. Over time, the appearance becomes more that of a cherub or angel—life itself becoming more valuable, the terrors of death less extreme.”

“Whoa, those Puritans!” Cheryl said, shaking her head. “Still I don’t get it—when did they begin to die out? I mean, if everyone was banished or hanged for not being a Puritan...”

“All legal machinations, as well as religious. Charters came and went. James II of England was forced to abdicate his throne; William and Mary became King and Queen of England. They opened the colonies to others. Actually, it’s complicated, but—as in many cases—it had to do with politics and government,” Vickie said. “But in my mind, William and Mary made the greatest changes when they came to the throne of England in 1689 after the Glorious Revolution.”

“The Salem witch trials were 1692! So, William and Mary let that happen.”

Vickie nodded. “True. A large part of the world believed in the evil of witchcraft back then. Communications were very slow. William and Mary turned it over to their royal governor, William Phips. Phips set up the trials of oyer and terminer—which meant to see and to hear. When the dregs of society were being accused, William Stoughton, a tough old buzzard who wholeheartedly believed in Satan and witchcraft, allowed spectral evidence. Then suddenly everyone was being accused—including the governor’s wife. So, in a way, public opinion turned the tide. And Phips—when his wife was accused. Rather than going out with a bang, it rather all ended with a whimper. In the years following, there were many changes in the entire colony, by law, by religion and by people. Like most things, change came about slowly. And the land for King’s Chapel was actually taken during the rule of James II. Like I said, it had a lot to do with charters and laws and who was running what when. What’s actually good here is that execution for witchcraft was far less frequent in the colonies than in Europe. And, when we did create our American Constitution, we set forth a separation of church and state. That guaranteed freedom of religion when we became our own country.”

“Right. Now we just have weirdo cults!” Hardy said.

“True, but they don’t run the country,” Vickie said.

“Thank God, have you seen some of the stuff on some cults? Scary!” Cheryl said.

“Really scary,” Hardy said. “If spectral evidence was allowed in court and the dregs of society were killed first, we’d be goners,” he said. “I mean, heck, the right person just had to accuse you and your ass was in jail.”

“Pretty much—but you’re not the dregs of society. You’re about to be adults and choose your own course,” Vickie said. “There will always be room to improve, but laws do protect us now.”

“Speaking of us as a country, though, is Paul Revere here?”

The question was voiced by Art Groton. Like Hardy, he was nearly eighteen. He was tall, blond and wiry strong. In Vickie’s mind, he was just beginning to come out of his shell.

Art still seldom spoke. He had a truly sad personal history. Both parents had died in a blaze they’d created themselves while freebasing heroin. The uncle who had taken him in had beaten him; his psychiatrist suspected sexual abuse as well, but Art wouldn’t say. According to Art’s records, the uncle was also long dead due to drug abuse. Art seemed to have bounced around the system through several counties, but he now lived with the kindest couple Vickie knew working with foster children. And she was glad when they told her Art’s excursions with her were something that seemed to awaken him. He talked about them constantly; he said he wanted to make his way through college and work with the system as well.

Who better to understand an abused and neglected kid than an abused and neglected kid?

“Paul Revere,” Vickie told them, “is buried in the Granary cemetery along with Samuel Adams and John Hancock and many other notable people. Not far, of course. Boston is a small city—an old city! The three oldest burial grounds are King’s Chapel, where we are now, Copp’s Hill, and the Granary. All are on the Freedom Trail.”

“Yah, Boston!” Hardy said. “And we have the oldest college, right? Harvard?”

“Yes, Harvard is the oldest university,” Vickie agreed, “1636.”

“And then Yale, right?” Hardy asked.

Vickie shook her head and smiled. “Nope. Harvard was followed by the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, St. John’s College, Annapolis—and then Yale, 1701.”

Cheryl laughed and said, “Man, you are a walking encyclopedia, Miss Preston!”

“I just like history,” Vickie told her. She glanced at her watch, knowing it was time to break for the day. Her students returned to their various foster homes on their own after their meetings. It was part of their agreements with the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. She was careful, always, to make sure she finished up in time for them to make their way home.

“Next week,” she told them, “we’re touring the Paul Revere house, and I’ve arranged for dinner after at a great restaurant in Little Italy. Courtesy of an anonymous benefactor, I’ll have you know. Maybe someone who made it well in life—after having a rough start like many of you.”

“Cool!” Art called.

“Go! See you next week—meet right in front of the Paul Revere house.”

Her charges scattered, waving. Vickie watched them go. She liked each and every one of them, and deeply hoped she could make a positive change for their future.

As she made her own way to the street, she tried to keep focused on the entrance ahead.

There were days when the old cemetery was quiet—very quiet.

There were also days when she saw the dead walking. Mostly they just eyed her curiously—and suspiciously. Sometimes, someone would smile. She would smile in return, but hurry on. She wasn’t fond of seeing the dead—at least, not so many dead.

Dylan Ballantine—or the ghost of Dylan Ballantine—suddenly fell into step beside her. She glanced at him, arched a brow, shook her head, and hurried on.

“Hey! That was great,” he told her.

“I hope so. The plan is that I get them really interested in history or something useful,” she murmured.

An old couple, following the Freedom Trail, most probably, paused and looked at her, frowning. Of course. It appeared to them that she was talking to herself.

“Please, Dylan, let me get out of here, huh?” she asked.

“Of course, of course,” he said.

But he wasn’t going away.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t accustomed to seeing Dylan now.

They were old friends.

They’d established rules.

He’d terrified her when he continued to appear to her years before—even when she realized that she and little Noah might well have been murdered if it hadn’t been for Dylan’s spiritual presence. He’d saved them; he’d gotten her and the baby out of the house when a serial killer had been watching them, biding his time, playing with them as he waited, amused, before showing himself to torture and kill them—as he had other victims before.

She could still feel a cold shiver of fear grip her heart when she thought back to that night.

But she’d had to put that behind her. Despite Dylan appearing here and there—startling and scaring her terribly at first, then begging for her recognition and friendship, and then actually seeming to take up residence with her when she’d headed down to NYU—she’d gotten dual degrees in history and literature. She’d published her first book on the tombstones of New England and was happily writing one on the decline of Puritanism in New England. She was making herself be very fair—she tended to hate the codes by which they had lived and their absolute lack of tolerance for others.

They were, on the one side, her ancestors. Her mother’s grandmother had come over from Ireland, and her great-grandfather had been a fresh-off-the boat Norwegian actor. But her father’s family could trace roots back to the mid-1600s; they’d arrived on a ship just a few decades after the arrival of the Mayflower. Dylan loved to tease her about that.

His family had actually been New Yorkers. Sane.

“Don’t you have someone better to haunt?” she asked him.

He shook his head gravely. “Not today. Followed you to the cemetery, thinking I might find someone to chat up. Other ghosts, you know. People who lived in different decades and centuries can be really interesting. But whoa! Those people. Straight-laced to the core. They don’t seem to want to talk to strangers.”

“Don’t go blaming it all on the Puritans,” Vickie told him. “This cemetery also houses those who died well after the Puritan days.”

“Yeah, well, it’s no fun to hang around a cemetery anyway. Unless you’re you, of course, looking up the lives of all those who came before!”

“I’m ignoring you!” Vickie said, hurrying on ahead.

Naturally, he caught up to her.

On the street, she looked around, and then turned to him, speaking firmly. “Hey! I’m going to my parents’ place. If you come, you behave. You understand.”

He grinned. Dylan was still not quite eighteen. Charming, boyish and handsome. If she was going to have a continual haunt—or a crazed personality—she could have been plagued by a far worse ghost, she was certain. But some days, he was truly and mischievously out to make her appear to have gone daft.

“Sure,” he said.

A cop car went by, sirens blazing. And then another. Dylan looked after the cop cars.

“Hey, something is going down—over by the Granary cemetery. Want to check it out?”

“No,” she said flatly. “You feel free to do so.”

“I will,” he told her.

“See you then,” she said.

He laughed. “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry. I know where your parents live.”

“Yes, of course, you do,” she said.

It wasn’t much of a walk to her parents’ home in Little Italy. They’d moved when she’d gone to college, but they hadn’t moved far. They were now in a refurbished building that dated back to the 1820s but had been meticulously updated and turned into state-of-the-art condos.

They loved it; her father was now retired after thirty years as a history professor at Harvard, and her mom had left her position as first-grade teacher just last year. Their apartment had everything they could desire and they were close to all the restaurants they loved—especially a certain cannoli shop.

When Vickie arrived, the two were studying a travel website.

“Italy! The real thing,” Lucy Preston said, her smile wide and her words excited as she opened the door. “Dad and I are really doing it! Rome, Florence, Venice...we’re going! Doing the booking right now.”

“Great!” Vickie told her mother, giving her a hug.

“Want to come?” Lucy asked.

“No,” Vickie said with a laugh. “Join you two lovebirds on a romantic trip? Nope, thank you, but no thank you. Besides, you two kids are retired now. You can come and go as you like.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” her dad, Philip, said. “It would really get you away from Jared.”

“That terrible man!” her mother said.

“Mom, he isn’t a terrible man. He’s just—not right for me.”

“Well, you could come to Italy for a few days. I mean, you’re writing now. You can write anywhere.”

“Ah, but I can’t find those persnickety Puritans just anywhere, can I? My research is here, in this area, Mom, you know that.”

“We’ve created a monster, Lucy,” her dad said, coming up behind her mom. “She has a work ethic, dear Lord!” he teased, kissing her cheek. “Seriously, though? You’d love this trip, Vickie. I know. You would absolutely love it! You could do research in Italy.”

“Dad, the Puritans came from England, not Italy.”

“Ahha! But later, Italians flocked in and now, we’re living in what they call Little Italy!” her father said triumphantly.

“That’s not the point. You two need to go on alone and have a wonderful and really romantic trip!”

Vickie smiled. She loved her parents deeply. They were so savvy in many ways, and just a little bit clueless in others. They sometimes reminded her of a pair of children—incredibly responsible children, but in their enthusiasm, they frequently appeared on fire. As parents went, they were comparatively young and in excellent health. The trip they were planning was to celebrate the fact that they’d both turn sixty that year. In her mind, her dad—the esteemed Dr. Philip Preston—was as handsome and cool-looking as a rogue pirate—he kept his head clean-shaven and wore a tiny gold stud in one ear. He was well over six feet tall, lean and wiry. Her mom, on the other hand, was about five-two with a froth of blond curls and cat’s eyes—a hazel color that changed constantly. Her parents were attractive and energetic and she could just see the two of them cuddling in the back of a gondola.

Nope—she definitely didn’t want to go with them!

“I’m excited for you two,” she said.

“Coffee is on—want some?” her dad asked.

“Love it!”

“Come see what we’re planning,” her mother told her, urging her over to the dining room table where they’d set up their computer.

“Venice!” her mom said. “We’ll stay right on St. Mark’s Square. And in Rome, well you won’t believe this, but one of dad’s old students works as a tour guide and he’s going to take us on a special tour of the Forum and the Coliseum, and we’re meeting friends at a little restaurant near the Vatican... You know, you could meet us for just part of the trip, if you wanted.”

“My darling parents, I’m delighted that your health is great and that you’re off on an adventure,” Vickie said. “It will be wonderful. How long are you going for?”

“Twenty-one days,” her dad said. “I know you love Italy. It was all you talked about after that college trip you took. But,” he said, smiling at his wife, “I think you’re right to stay home. We both love that you’re working with young people now. It’s great for them.”

“I do love Italy. And I’ll go back with you one day,” she promised them.

“You staying here...does it have anything to do with Jared Norton?” he mother asked.

Vickie was surprised by the question.

“Mom, no—I’m just busy right now. And you guys need time to enjoy each other. Italy, so romantic! You two need to go. I need to stay and work.”

Her mother sighed deeply, and then accepted her words.

“Come on, then! Coffee. And, of course, I’ve got a pie,” her mom said. “Oh, wait—we should have dinner first. You’re here! Oh, and don’t make faces at me. I know I can’t really cook, but I do make the best clam chowder to be found anywhere, even you say that!”

Lucy grinned at her daughter. And Vickie laughed. “Yep, your clam chowder is to die for, it is, Mom. I’m totally wiped out, though.”

Naturally, her mom served up the clam chowder anyway. Vickie had a spoonful almost to her mouth when the ghost of Dylan Ballantine came streaking through the walls with a trail of mist, not unlike a dust storm in a cartoon.

Vickie dropped her spoon, startled. Clam chowder hopped out of the bowl in little droplets.

Her mother and father stared at her; then her mother shivered and frowned and looked uneasily about the room.

“Sorry! Clumsy me,” Vickie said.

Dylan paid no mind to her words or her parents. He was intent on her attention.

“Vickie, Vickie, you’ve got to help, you’ve got to do something. Dammit, Vickie!”

She kept smiling at her confused parents, refusing to look in his direction.

“Vickie, that killer, that Undertaker. He’s taken my mother, Vickie. You’ve got to do something!”

She couldn’t help herself. She jerked around to stare at him, horrified.

“Yes! They found the last woman who’d gone missing and right after, my dad called in about my mom. We have to find her fast, Vickie. Somehow, we have to find her. Now. Before he kills her, too! Please, Vickie, don’t let this happen to my mother!”

He was still speaking when there was a knock at the door. A heavy knock, pounding and insistent.

“FBI! Folks, please open up!” came a voice.

“What in the world?”

Philip Preston rose and strode to the door; he looked through the peephole before frowning and opening it.

Two men stepped in.

The first was tall and dark and had the high cheekbones and golden skin tone of a Native American, along with striking blue eyes.

The second man...

Vickie had started to rise. She froze by the table.

She knew him.

He had aged nine years, of course. His features were still striking, but they seemed cleaner cut, leaner, more rugged. His shoulders were broader. He’d been wearing the blue uniform of the Boston Police Department that day; now he was in a blue suit he wore with casual ease.

Yet she remembered him so clearly. He’d seen her...and he’d warned her to get down. He’d taken a shot, and he’d disarmed the man who had been after her and little Noah on that fateful day. He’d been tall and strong and ridiculously macho and beautiful to her. Detectives had interviewed her, but he’d been there with coffee and a blanket, and he’d held her when she started to shake and had nearly fallen because she was so nervous. He’d been called to be there when she brokenly described everything that had happened that day.

She had thanked him for saving her.

“But it wasn’t really me, was it?” he’d asked her.

She hadn’t answered; she’d never known what to say, how much he knew, how much he had seen...if maybe he actually spoke to the dead himself.

She’d watched him interviewed on the news. He’d stopped a stone-cold killer. He had done nothing any man on the beat wouldn’t have done, he had told reporters. He’d just been there when escaped convict Bertram Aldridge had burst out of the Ballantine house.

She could have been brutally murdered that day. Bertram Aldridge had come after her with a gun. That wasn’t his customary means of murder. He liked to slice up his victims and write messages in their blood. He liked to write notes to the police and smear them with blood.

She had been lucky; so damned lucky. Time had allowed her to walk and talk normally again. To head down to NYC for college, to take work there as a researcher, but now...

She’d come home. And there he was. Griffin Pryce. He was standing next to the tall dark-haired man who was explaining that Chrissy Ballantine had been taken and they’d like to speak with Victoria for just a few minutes.

As Vickie continued to stare while her father explained that she hadn’t worked for the Ballantine family since she’d been in college, she saw that Dylan had gone to the men, that he was speaking a blue streak at the same time.

“You have to find my mother. This isn’t fair. My family has lost too much. Whatever the hell it takes, you have to find my mother.”

It was almost as if Griffin Pryce had heard him. Because he spoke next, almost interrupting Philip Preston.

“We will find Chrissy Ballantine. We will,” he said with conviction.

“But what makes you think that Vickie could help?” her father asked, frustrated.

And then Griffin Pryce looked at her. His eyes were older, harder than she remembered, though still determined and macho and beautiful and...

“Because her name is part of the clue that was sent to the media,” he said softly.

2

Taker—as he had determined his code name to be—stood watching the commotion. Cops, reporters, medics—you name it.

It was good. So good. The woman, it seemed, was alive. People everywhere were talking. A tall blonde next to him smiled at him radiantly. “Can you believe it? They saved her! Dug her right out of the ground—and saved her!”

“Hallelujah,” he said, nodding seriously. “Thank God!”

The blonde moved on.

He became aware that Under was coming to stand next to him. Under thought that being Under meant being the leader—and that Taker had agreed with that, since, in the name the press had given them—Undertaker—Under came first. Taker knew that Under was a lackey; he was the smart one. He was the one with the plan. And—though he refrained from saying it—being a Taker was far better than being Under.

No matter. His accomplice was good—and loyal. Loyal, he knew, mattered most.

“So, they saved her ass!” Under said.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Taker asked.

“Not when we’ve got a big one all boxed up!” Under said, and laughed.

Taker started moving down the street. Under followed in his footsteps.

“Think we’ll get to see what happens with that one? I got to admit, I’m hoping your clue doesn’t work. That’s one I’d love to see go bad.”

“Yeah,” Taker agreed. “But hey, not the prize we’re really looking for, right?”

“But a thread to the prize,” Under said, and paused in the street, smiling as they watched the growing throng of reporters in the area. “Love this, love it, love it...and best of all...”

“Best of all, what?” Taker asked.

Under grinned. “We’ve got the dough to keeping going and going.” Under paused, frowning. “Hey, what happens when we’ve taken down the prize, huh? I mean, this is cool, really cool. But I mean, you have an objective. And that’s okay. But...”

“You change. You change your direction. Your style, your signature. And start all over again. You become someone else.”

“So, this never has to end?”

“No, it never has to end,” Taker said.

It would end, of course. He did have an objective. And as to his good friend Under...

Well, friendships often—and tragically—came to an end.

But for now...

His eye was on the prize. And as for Under...at the moment, Under was loyal, like a lapdog, and had assets and abilities Taker did not. Under could, upon occasion, behave in a superior manner, but...

Really. It was all just a matter of time.

* * *

“Where Preston ran and good old Paul rode.”

Vickie sat frozen in her chair as Griffin Pryce read the words.

The two men had declined to take seats; therefore, her parents had refused to sit again. They were like a pair of puppies, blindsided by a couple of whacks to the head.

Not that Vickie felt any different. Or, perhaps, she did. She felt frozen.

“This is wrong, just wrong,” Philip Preston said. “I mean, Preston is not an uncommon name. This clue may not refer to Vickie in any way. You’re asking my daughter to become involved with a killer. A killer who might target her. You can’t mean—”

“Yes, Mr. Preston,” Jackson Crow said.

Vickie’s father was not ready to give in. “Victoria was almost killed once. That man, that awful man—it’s him? Aldridge! Bertram Aldridge. She won’t be involved. I’ll get her out of the country, I’ll—”

“Bertram Aldridge is sitting in prison,” Griffin said. “He will be there for life.”

“This is someone who likes to taunt the police with notes,” Jackson Crow said. “Most probably, they simply remembered and took her name from the newspapers or media at the time.”

“They can’t mean Vickie,” her mother murmured.

“They mean Vickie,” Griffin added quietly.

“Oh, no, no, no, no...” the ghost of Dylan Ballantine said, hands pressed to his temples. “My mom, they’re talking about my mom.”

“I know you!” Vickie’s mother gasped suddenly. “You—you’re Officer Pryce. You were the cop who was there the day that...”

“The day I was nearly killed, Mom,” Vickie said.

“Yes, yes, you’ve been at our home before, and we’re grateful, but...no, not again. My husband is right. You’ll get Vickie targeted by this sick person,” Lucy replied.

“She may help save a woman’s life. We don’t like bringing anyone into harm’s way, Mrs. Preston,” Griffin said. “But I’m afraid that whoever is responsible, they know about the attempt by Bertram Aldridge on Vickie’s life. The Ballantine house is near the Paul Revere house. And Vickie ran from that house.”

“Look!” Philip Preston said angrily, “I won’t have it! I won’t have you use her.”

“Dad!” she said, standing up suddenly. “Dad, please. I know you’re talking out of love for me. But I’m an adult. I can make my own choices. And if there’s anything I can do, I’m willing to do it.”

“No!” her mother said, her face going as pale as ash.

“Mom, Dad, it will be all right. These men are FBI. There are cops everywhere. I’m going to go with them and see if I can do anything.”

“Then you’re going to Italy with us!” her father said firmly.

“Dad, we’ll talk later. But time may be of the essence here. Please. I’m going to go with them,” Vickie said firmly. She rose and looked at Griffin and said, “Shall we? I mean, I will be with the two of you at all times, right?”

“Absolutely,” Griffin said, looking at her. He had, she thought, the darkest eyes she had ever seen. Dark eyes, dark hair, bronzed, rugged face. For a moment, their gazes seemed to be locked. He didn’t like this, she knew. He wasn’t happy to be drawing her in.

She realized that he and the other agent, Jackson Crow, were here because they were desperate to save a woman’s life.

And she could help.

“You’ll call me, you’ll call us, the minute... I mean, you’ll keep in touch, you’ll let us know where you are every step of the way,” her father said.

“We’re wasting time,” Dylan’s ghost said urgently.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Vickie assured her parents. She looked from Griffin Pryce to Jackson Crow and said, “We need to go.”

“Go where? Vickie—”

“Where Preston ran and Paul rode,” Vickie said. “The corner where the Ballantine house is—down the street from the Paul Revere house. They have her there somewhere. If I see the site, I might know what the clue means.”

* * *

It had been some time since Griffin had seen Victoria Preston.

Over eight years.

He had never forgotten her.

She had matured well.

When he had first met her—terrified at the scene when he had shot and wounded Bertram Aldridge—she had still been a kid. At least basically. She’d already been about five-eight back then, willowy, with long black hair and tremendous green eyes and fine, slim features. She’d been a beautiful girl—but beautiful girls like her abounded, and he might have seen dozens like her at any sorority party or teen gathering.

He’d immediately felt an affinity for her.

And she’d needed to talk. Which was good, because there was paperwork. Lots of it. She’d explained about the door being slightly open, but Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine had been home. She’d made sure it was locked and the alarm on after they had gone.

He hadn’t been a detective back then; he’d been on the force three years, gathering experience, and had already started the application process with the FBI.

Detectives had taken over along with the FBI. Bertram Aldridge had gone back to being incarcerated with another trial in his future. He’d killed two guards during his escape.

Griffin shouldn’t have had anything else to do with Victoria Preston. But he hadn’t been able to leave it alone. He’d had to check on her.

Because he wouldn’t have been on time—he wouldn’t have saved her life—if Bertram Aldridge hadn’t gone down. His shot might have killed Bertram instead of wounding him, but Victoria Preston would have been shot as well if Bertram Aldridge’s shot hadn’t gone wild...

He hadn’t liked to think about it back then. He didn’t like to think about it now.

But he’d seen the kid who had been with Vickie.

The ghost.

Seen him, and then he’d been gone. Griffin never knew if Vickie had seen what he’d seen that day, if she hadn’t been saved to a far greater degree by a dead boy than she had been saved by his own actions.

He’d never point-blank asked her if she’d seen the boy; he hadn’t been sure of what he’d seen himself, despite his own past.

Now, of course, he knew. Yes, she saw the boy.

And the boy was still with her.

Chrissy Ballantine’s older son.

Griffin was doing the driving; he was the Bostonian, who knew where he was going, which streets were open, which were closed, which only went in one direction. They could have easily walked. But under the circumstances, the car was quicker—and more official.

And, thankfully, due to government tags, could be left anywhere, even in the narrow streets of Old Boston.

He’d suggested that they head to the corner street of the Ballantine house. Naturally, police were still in the house. George Ballantine was there with his son, and crime scene techs and detectives were going over the house and the grounds and trying to ascertain how the kidnapper/killer got in—and how he or she got out.

Jackson Crow was fast to get out of the car, but Vickie Preston was already out the back door. She stood for a moment, looking around. Griffin hurried around to her side, looking around as well.

The Paul Revere house was just down the street. They were on the Freedom Trail. When Griffin had been growing up, he’d had lots of friends who lived in other areas and the suburbs who came here just to shop for their Italian sausages and cannoli.

It was Old Boston. Centuries of history unfolded in a number of fairly centralized streets; giant skyscrapers stood among cemeteries where founding fathers had long lain at rest. Great Gothic houses of worship stood among the modern, built in defiance of restrictions long before the Constitution affording a separation of church and state had been penned. Boston was, in Griffin’s mind, a perfect example of the making of a country—and, in this particular area, there were treasures to be found.

It was also a mammoth haystack. How to find a woman among the new and the old—and the many giant buildings that rested here and there between those crafted at a time when a skyscraper had yet to be imagined?

“You think that she’s here—somewhere near the house?” Jackson asked Vickie.

She stood looking up, thoughtful, distraught. Then she glanced Griffin’s way.

“I’m a writer and researcher,” she murmured. “I don’t know much about the mind of a killer, I’m afraid. But...”

“But what?” Griffin heard himself ask, a little too sharply.

“Yeah, what, what?”

The ghost of Dylan Ballantine was with them, anxious. Griffin hadn’t felt his presence in the car—Dylan must have come on foot. Or through the air—or however the dead managed to travel.

None of them actually responded to the boy.

Griffin glanced at Jackson.

Apparently, none of them were going to acknowledge the fact that the others also saw Dylan.

“The clue is, ‘Where Preston ran and old Paul rode.’ I mean, he might have ridden on any of the streets around here, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything. The reference to ‘Preston’ could also mean anything, but ‘where old Paul rode’ might suggest that she’s somewhere Paul Revere might have been.”

Griffin looked around the street. He tried to judge the age of the buildings they saw. The apartments across from them had 1830 chiseled into the stone. They were near Boston Common, and they were near a few of the very old churches, and, of course, burial grounds.

But he didn’t think they’d find her in a cemetery or vault. Their last victim had been found so. Maybe the killer thought that they’d start digging, with such a clue.

“The Ballantine house,” Vickie said. “It was here before the Revolution.”

“The Ballantine house is crawling with cops,” Jackson pointed out.

“The basement?” Dylan said.

“They haven’t found anything to explain how the killer might have spirited her out,” Jackson said to Griffin. “It’s easy enough for a determined criminal to watch people coming and going—and to notice they might have forgotten to lock a door or haven’t found time to lock it and set an alarm. No one saw or heard anything. It wouldn’t be surprising if a criminal had just slipped in and even out. But it’d be more surprising if someone came out carrying something the size of a woman, even if Chrissy Ballantine is a small woman.”

Dylan was already running across the street.

“Vickie?” Griffin asked.

“They have a basement. Only part of it has been finished. The foundation is really big—so, as you can imagine, there’s a lot to the basement.”

Griffin studied Vickie. He was pretty sure that she had something of a “gift.” Intuition, or something stronger that helped her. Like her ability to see the dead.

A gift...that some people might consider a curse or a sickness! Whichever. At the moment, he had to think that they were working with a gift—one that could save lives.

The three of them headed toward the house. Men in uniform stood outside, blocking entrance to it, but Griffin and Jackson quickly showed their credentials. They were allowed through.

George Ballantine was seated on the couch in the grand parlor of the house; it was a large room, tastefully furnished with antiques. He had a cup of coffee in front of him that he hadn’t touched. When they entered, he was talking aloud, rambling, just to talk and try to figure out why this would have happened to him.

“Chrissy is smart, she doesn’t just open the door. I mean, my God, we had a maniac in here once. She’s careful. ” He paused, breaking off in pain. “We lost my older son—we nearly lost Noah. And now Chrissy...”

He broke off, staring across the room.

“Vickie?”

“Mr. Ballantine,” she said, hurrying forward.

George stood, a distinguished man in his tailored suit, and reached out for Vickie. She hurried forward and he enveloped her in a trembling hug.

“Mr. Ballantine, we think that Vickie can help,” Jackson said.

George Ballantine looked at Jackson and then at Griffin.

They’d met at the house, briefly, before heading over to pick up Vickie. George Ballantine hadn’t really seemed to recognize Griffin from the past, but then, they hadn’t had much interaction. The detectives and FBI agents on the case had dealt with the family. He’d looked at Griffin strangely, but hadn’t seemed to have grasped the connection.

Vickie—he knew.

“Vickie, dear, so good of you to come...it’s been so long. Noah... Noah is in his room. I’m trying to keep him from everything going on. Of course, I haven’t managed that at all. He’s nine now, still a kid, but... I’m going to have to explain. He just knows that his mom is missing. He had baseball today, Little League, you know? They called me because Chrissy wasn’t there to get him, and then I came home, and she wasn’t here, but she had a cup of tea out... Chrissy doesn’t leave things out like that. Her purse is here, her keys...it’s as if she’s vanished into the thin air. And that clue, Vickie, I mean, thank you. No one can know that ‘Preston’ means you, but...oh, God! I can’t believe this. My family, Chrissy, she’s amazing...you know Chrissy. Oh, God.”

Vickie Preston drew gently away from him. “Mr. Ballantine, we need to search the basement.”

“The basement? The cops have been down there—they’ve been everywhere,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Ballantine, but we need to look, please,” Griffin told him.

The man still looked dazed. “Of course. Whatever. But shouldn’t you be out there looking for her?”

“We’re working on it, Mr. Ballantine. Please,” Jackson said quietly.

“What about the other woman—the other woman who was just saved? It’s all over the news—you just saved her. Can’t she tell you anything—tell you who did this? She could help, she could give us something!” George said.

“We keep checking in,” Griffin assured him. “I’m afraid she’s still unconscious. We need your help, sir.”

Ballantine nodded. “Sure.” He frowned as he stared at Griffin. “I know you,” he said.

“I used to be a Boston police officer,” Griffin said.

“Yeah, yeah, you were here...” George Ballantine seemed confused, and then angry. “Are you the reason this madman took my Chrissy?”

“I don’t believe so, sir. I haven’t worked here in years,” Griffin said.

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Mr. Ballantine demanded. Then he looked at Vickie as if it all might somehow be her fault. “Both of you...maybe it’s because of you.”

Vickie was visibly shaken; Griffin fought his anger. The man was in no condition to be rational.

“I’m with the FBI now, Mr. Ballantine,” Griffin said. “Excuse us. We’re hoping that something in the basement will help.”

He turned; he didn’t know the Ballantine house, but Vickie did. She took his cue and walked away from Ballantine, heading to the kitchen.

Vickie opened the door that led to the basement. Griffin and Jackson followed her down. It was evident the police and techs had been down there already. Shelves that lined the brick walls had been gone through; the door to a half bath stood open.

One door led to the water heater and cooling system, another to other mechanics. The first room held a pool table and old comfortable chairs. There was a half bar that had been built to one side.

Structural components blocked off various areas.

They walked through the different rooms in the basement, between giant brick columns, leaving behind the finished section and moving into a raw work area. They all searched.

Vickie stood in the middle of the floor, baffled.

Dylan Ballantine appeared at her side.

“Vickie, please, please, think!”

She was thinking; that was painfully evident.

“I’m not sure what else...where else. The clue seems so evident. Where Paul rode...this house would have stood then. I’m not sure what else...there’s the Paul Revere house down the street, but too many people are in and out. And the churches...there are so many tourists around.”

“And we just found a woman in one of the cemeteries,” Jackson said quietly, encouraging her train of thought.

“She’s here. She’s here—I’m sure she’s here,” Vickie murmured.

Griffin looked around. A pile of wood was neatly stacked against a far wall. He closed his eyes and tried to see with his mind’s eye. Yes, there could be someone beneath it. But with just the wood piled on top?

Had the killer changed his ways, and strangled or stabbed her first?

He strode firmly over to the woodpile and began to toss the large and small logs to the side. He became more frantic, and then he was joined by Jackson and Vickie.

But as they neared the bottom of the pile, he felt his frustration grow. There was no woman there.

“Beneath, beneath!” Vickie cried. “There’s a door to a deeper pit...they used to store way more wood down here before, decades ago, long before modern heating systems came in.”

And there was a door. Griffin saw a little metal ring in the middle of it. He jerked so hard on it that he almost ripped the thin wood portal out of its sockets.

And there she lay. Chrissy Ballantine, covered in the minutiae of dust and chips and dirt that had fallen upon the place where she’d been entombed...

“Get her out,” Jackson said.

“Mom, Mom!” the ghost of Dylan sobbed.

Griffin dropped low on his knees and lifted Chrissy Ballantine from the little pit in her own home. He was prepared to resuscitate; Jackson was shouting to the cops upstairs to get a paramedic down to him.

Vickie stood by, silent, watching, as if she were frozen.

Chrissy Ballantine took a deep breath and coughed and sputtered on her own.

Resuscitation wasn’t necessary.

Chrissy Ballantine was alive and breathing on her own.

And her eyes opened. She looked up and smiled.

“Vickie... Dylan.” Her eyes closed. She was alive.

And the paramedics were hurrying down to tend to her.

Griffin closed his own eyes for a minute, silently thankful that they’d found a second woman alive—on the same day.

Then he realized that Dylan’s mother had said his name.

He looked up where Vickie was standing. She stood alone, staring at him with enormous green eyes. He tried to smile and rose and moved away from the paramedics and Chrissy Ballantine. They could hear George Ballantine above, fighting with the cops to get to his wife. They could hear a policeman urging him to let the paramedics work.

“She’ll be okay, Mr. Ballantine. She’ll be okay. You can come along. They’re going to get her to the hospital now,” one of the officers assured him.

“We’ve got to go to the hospital, too,” Jackson told him.

“Yeah,” he said. “But first, we have to get Miss Preston home.”

Vickie shook her head. “I should go back to my parents’ house, Agent Pryce. They need to know—I mean, I can call them, but they’re parents and need to see me, to know that I’m just fine and that Chrissy Ballantine has been found. Alive.”

“Of course,” Jackson told her. “But we’ll get an officer to escort you.”

“And,” Griffin added, “please assure them that we’ll have officers outside their building.”

“Do you think Chrissy Ballantine will know what happened?”

“Two victims were found alive today, Miss Preston,” Jackson said. “We can certainly hope that one of them is able to give us something. Mrs. Ballantine owes her life to you, and we got lucky with the other victim. We’re working to find real answers soon.”

The med techs were getting Chrissy onto a stretcher. Boston med techs were among the finest in the country, Griffin was certain. Chrissy Ballantine already had an IV in her arm and an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Her color was already better; she was going to make it just fine, he believed.

When they had cleared the room, Vickie headed toward the stairs.

Detective David Barnes was on his way down.

He almost ran straight into Vickie.

“Miss Preston?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective Barnes. You found her—you found her already?”

Griffin wasn’t sure if the note in Barnes’s voice was amazement—or skepticism.

“Logical, Detective,” Jackson said, stepping forward. “And thank God for Miss Preston. She went the historical and reasonable route. No one saw anything. Hard to slip the woman out in a neighborhood like this without someone seeing something. And as for the clue—where old Paul rode. This house was here. Victoria Preston was pretty amazing.”

“Of course—and still, wow. Amazing—that’s the word,” Barnes said. “Thank you for your help, Miss Preston. Naturally, there’s paperwork.”

“There always is,” Vickie said.

“Miss Preston would like to get to her parents’ home and let them know that she’s fine and that Mrs. Ballantine is alive as well,” Griffin said.

“Yes, of course. But...” Barnes said.

“I’ll go with Miss Preston and take her statement,” Jackson said. “You and Griffin can head to the hospital and speak with Mrs. Ballantine as soon as it’s possible without endangering her health.”

“All right,” Barnes said. Griffin was sure the man was still looking at the three of them suspiciously, as if they shared something that he wasn’t in on.

And they did.

“Let’s go then,” he said to Barnes. He paused and turned to Vickie.

She looked tired, covered in sawdust and damp from exertion. Her dark hair was disarrayed and her eyes seemed incredibly large and green in the garish light of the unfinished area of the basement.

“Thank you,” he told her.

“Of course,” she said. “Of course.”

That should have been it. He should have moved instantly.

He didn’t. He stood there a few seconds longer. There was more to say.

He didn’t know how to say it.

When he finally turned to head out, he knew that he’d see her again.

He had to. He had to because...

He simply had to.

* * *

“Bick-bick! Vickie, Victoria!”

Vickie was almost out the door, escorted by a nice big cop on one side and the rock of a man who was Jackson Crow on the other, when she heard Noah Ballantine calling to her.

She turned, and it felt as if her heart melted in her chest. Though the families had stayed friends since the night of the traumatic events—they’d seen each other now and then at church or other social events—it had now been years since she had seen Noah.

She would have recognized Noah Ballantine, now a nine-year-old, anywhere. He hadn’t changed much. His dad was a truly dignified-looking man, and somehow, Noah was just as dignified. His mother was beautiful, and Noah was still a beautiful kid.

He remembered her. And that was truly amazing. He’d been so young the last time they’d seen one another.

He was tall for his age, lean, with a thatch of sandy hair and hazel eyes. He stared at Vickie gravely, and yet with a look of hope that was humbling. He wasn’t a particularly big kid, but something about his face and eyes seemed way older than his years.

His father, Vickie knew, had just headed for the hospital. Griffin and Detective Barnes would be following. She hoped that everyone hadn’t just forgotten Noah in their anxiety for his mother and determination to talk to her.

“Noah!” she said, and she walked back to him as he raced into her arms.

She hugged him tightly for a minute. When he pulled away at last, he looked at her and said, “I knew you would come. I knew you would save my mother. The way you saved me.”

Vickie flushed, humbled. “Noah, it wasn’t just me, lots of people were involved.”

He smiled at her. “But I knew you would come.” There was suddenly an oddly mischievous look about him. “And, of course, I know there are others involved. But Bick-bick...wow, gotta quit calling you Bick-bick.” He laughed. “I mean I’m older now. And so are you.”

“Thanks.”

“Not that old!” Noah said quickly.

“Thanks again. And, well, I’m not so sure you’re so grown-up they need to throw you out on the streets with the work force,” she told him. “And you may call me anything you like. Noah, it’s so good to see you.”

“My mom...she’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”

“I believe so, Noah. And, hopefully, she’ll be able to tell the officers what happened, and all this will be over,” Vickie said.

Griffin Pryce and Detective Barnes came up behind Noah, waiting patiently before heading out to follow the ambulance to the hospital.

Noah swung around and headed to Griffin to shake his hand.

“Thank you. Thank you. Twice now. You’re really good, I figure. You knew to bring Victoria in. Somehow, sir, I think all this must be that awful man from before,” he said.

Vickie liked the way Griffin smiled down at Noah. He apparently had a nice soft spot for kids.

“We’re just super grateful, Noah, that your mom is going to be okay. And the man before—we made certain—he is in prison. So. What are we going to do about you right now? I think your dad was pretty eager to go be with your mom. Do you have any other family here?”

“No, sir. My parents were kind of old when they had me. Late-life kid, I’ve heard people say. My grandparents are dead. I think I have cousins in Baltimore. But I’ll be okay. This house has an alarm system—and I watch cop shows, even though I’m really not supposed to,” Noah said. “I know as soon as he can, my dad will come back and get me so I can see my mom.”

“You know what, Noah? If you want, Detective Barnes and I are on our way to the hospital—we’ll take you with us,” Griffin told him.

“Really? That would be great.”

Barnes looked at Griffin and frowned.

“We’ll have someone from social services sit with you until you can see her,” Griffin said.

“I can do better than that—just let me see my parents and I’ll head to the hospital and sit with Noah,” Vickie offered. She could have called them, of course. Under the circumstances, it seemed best to actually see them and speak with them in person.

“Miss Preston, you’ve been invaluable,” Detective Barnes said. “I’m sure that—”

“Noah and I are old friends,” Vickie said. “It will be my pleasure.”

“It is set then,” Jackson Crow said firmly. “I’ll see to it that Miss Preston visits her parents, and then gets to the hospital. Vickie, if you will?” he asked, indicating the door.

Vickie smiled at the others and spun around to head out the door. The big cop was patiently waiting for them. A crowd had gathered; traffic was snarled.

News, it seemed, traveled fast. Maybe people just gathered any time an ambulance and cop cars appeared. “Duck your head—we’ll keep your involvement out of the press,” Jackson Crow told her.

She ducked her head.

The cop drove; Vickie was next to him, aware of Jackson Crow behind her.

The cop stayed with the car, Jackson politely thanking him.

Up in her parents’ apartment, Vickie was nearly crushed to death by her mom and dad. She told them happily that Mrs. Ballantine was going to be fine, they were fairly certain. She would spend at least one night in the hospital.

“We should really visit when we can, Phil,” her mother told her father. “It is sad—we were close with George and Chrissy for so long. And then the thing happened with that maniac Bertram Aldridge. We just... I guess we just drifted apart lately. Anytime we saw one another... I guess all we could think about was that our children might have...died.”

“Of course we’ll visit!” Phil said. He still had an arm around Vickie’s shoulders. He stared at Jackson as if daring the man to take her away from him.

“Actually, Dad, I’m going to the hospital now. I’m going to stay with Noah Ballantine,” Vickie told them.

“No,” her mother said. “No, no, Vickie.”

“Mom, it will be okay,” she said firmly. “Noah is nine and he doesn’t have any family here and he might wind up hanging with child services.”

“Which isn’t terrible!” her dad said.

“Which isn’t happening,” she said firmly. “I came right here so we could tell you what happened and so you could see I was okay. Hey, you know how to work the Skype on your phones. I’ll keep in touch—visually!—okay? I know you’re scared, too. But we’re talking about a little boy who has to be in some real trauma right now.”

She kissed her dad’s cheek and then her mom’s.

Her dad stared at Jackson Crow. “Don’t you let anything happen to her!”

“Sir, we will not,” Crow promised.

“This is all too much. Vickie isn’t a cop or an agent or—”

“Dad, I’m just going to hang with Noah. It will be fine,” Vickie said, determined. “Love you both. We have a cop double-parked downstairs. We have to go.”

Her parents kissed her again. She glanced at Jackson Crow, flushing slightly. She was surprised at how overprotective her folks were behaving.

“I’ll be in touch,” she promised.

They managed to escape to the hallway. In the elevator, she looked over at Jackson. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’ve been away from home a long time. I’ve just moved back and...”

“Never be sorry that you have people who love you so much,” he told her, indicating that the elevator door had opened.

She smiled uneasily and headed out.

They didn’t speak in the cop car; Jackson Crow received a call. When they reached the hospital, Jackson knew just which way to go after receiving clearance from the hospital’s security. Chrissy was already out of the emergency room and on a floor above.

There was a waiting room; Griffin Pryce was there with Noah Ballantine. He rose when they arrived, nodding at them all. “Jackson, I’ll head back in. Chrissy has been in and out of consciousness. Detective Barnes is there. We haven’t pressed her yet.”

“Great. Noah, how are you doing?” Jackson asked.

“I’m fine, sir. Griffin talked to the doctors—my mom is really going to be okay. Whoever did this to her gave her a really good conk on the head. They want her to stay here tonight and probably tomorrow night. But she’s going to be okay.”

Griffin looked at Vickie. She had no idea what he was thinking; he seemed to have acquired the ability to look as stoic as Jackson Crow. Maybe it was FBI training, not to give anything away.

“So, Noah, here we are,” Vickie said. “I’m so glad—so grateful about your mom.”

“Bick-bick,” he said, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re with me.”

“Okay, we have some time to kill,” she said. “Tell me what’s up with you.”

They sat in the waiting room. Jackson Crow took up a position by the door. Griffin went out.

Noah told her about school and Little League and everything that he was doing. She, in turn, told him about school in New York and coming back and working with some of the older kids in the system. They managed to pass time—until Noah fell asleep with his head on her lap.

A police officer in uniform came in and Jackson Crow went out. When she looked down at her lap, Vickie saw that Noah had woken up and was staring at her.

“You see Dylan,” he said softly.

She didn’t mean to jerk with her surprise at his words, but she did.

He smiled. “We haven’t seen a lot of each other since you went to New York, but I know that you see Dylan! I mean, he told me that he hangs with you a lot. He comes home now and then, too. Did he help you find Mom? He wasn’t at the house.”

“No, he wasn’t at the house when it happened. But...” She hesitated. She had certainly agreed that she saw him. “I’m sure he’s in with her now,” she said simply.

Noah nodded and began to whisper quickly. “I don’t tell anybody—they’d think that I was crazy. And we never got a chance to talk about it. Or, I guess we just didn’t talk about it.”

“You were so young. And I thought that I was crazy,” Vickie said.

“I tried to tell my dad once and then I heard him talking to my mom and they were both worried that I was still troubled subconsciously by all the stuff that happened when I was a toddler. They wanted to have me like picked apart at some institute—and I was never a dumb kid, Vickie. They meant a loony bin. I never told anybody after that. Not my friends, not my teachers...not the priest. I didn’t tell anybody. I didn’t want to get locked up. And I knew that nobody else saw what I saw. But I did know that you saw him, too, because Dylan told me that he had a good time ‘haunting’ you, though he hitched a ride back up here on the train a lot.”

Vickie looked at him and nodded and actually managed a slight smile. She’d gotten Dylan to knock—mind over matter, he’d told her. He hadn’t been so good at first, but he’d learned to make noise rapping at the door. She’d always had a bad time when he thought that she was dating the wrong guy. He had no problem telling her, and—she was quick to discover—Dylan tended to be right in his character assessments.

“I see Dylan, yes, and he’s still my friend, and way back when, you really can’t possibly remember, but... Dylan kept us both from being killed.”

“I do remember,” he said. “Odd, huh? They say you can’t possibly remember when you were so little. But I guess, maybe... I always saw Dylan.”

“I didn’t, until that day. And then...after a while of seeing him, I realized that sometimes, I saw other ghosts as well. I think I realized it first when I was walking by a cemetery. Not that I’ve found that the dead really want to hang out in graveyards all the time.”

Noah looked at her somberly.

“Right—like, I mean, really, who would? I’m sure there are more fun places to be. But, you know, Agent Pryce sees him, too,” he said. “I know Griffin sees Dylan. He just can’t say anything. Maybe Agent Crow sees him, too. But I know for sure that Griffin does. And you know what?”

“What?”

“You need to ask him about it. Because it’s important. I know I’m a kid, and people don’t listen to kids, but... I think it’s going to matter. I think Dylan is going to help again. And I think you’re going to have to tell Griffin that you see Dylan. Because I know...”

“You know what?”

“I know this isn’t over.”

“Noah, your mom is fine, she’s going to be fine, and—”

“My mom will be fine. That’s not it, Vickie.”

“What is it, then?”

“Vickie, I’m afraid that it’s not over for you.”

* * *

Taker watched the news. He really hadn’t given a damn that a few of the women had been found alive. Why bother taunting the police and sending the clues if they didn’t want them to have some hope?

But this...

They’d found Chrissy Ballantine so damned quickly. How the hell...?

For a moment, he felt a rush of unease—almost bordering on fear.

Had he really learned his lessons well? Yes, always be on the lookout. Take care of cameras, know the lay of the land, know the victim, know timing, always wear gloves, never let the thrill—the rush of pleasure over a kill—get in the way of a controlled crime scene.

His unease suddenly turned to anger; his anger to raw fury.

He stared at the television screen.

Control. Care. Organization.

He waited until the rush of fury was gone, and then he dialed Under.

“The party is alive and swinging,” Under said.

“Yep, so... I think we need to find another cool party, huh? Have you checked out any?” he asked.

“I know just the place. You ready?”

“Hell, yeah. Time to dance!” Taker said.

Was he ready?

Absolutely. Oh, yes, absolutely. And this time...

This time, well, he’d just have to tighten up his “party” package.

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