A place of history, secrets…and witchcraft.

Devin Lyle has recently returned to the Salem area, but her timing couldn’t be worse. Soon after she moved into the eighteenth-century cabin she inherited from her great-aunt Mina—her “crazy” great-aunt, who spoke to the dead—a woman was murdered nearby.

Craig Rockwell—known as Rocky—is a new member of the Krewe of Hunters, the FBI’s team of paranormal investigators. He never got over finding a friend dead in the woods. Now another body’s been found in those same woods, not far from the home of Devin Lyle. And Devin’s been led to a third body—by…a ghost?

Her discovery draws them both deeper into the case and Salem’s rich and disturbing history. Even as the danger mounts, Devin and Rocky begin to fall for each other, something the ghosts of Mina and past witches seem to approve of. But the two of them need every skill they possess to learn the truth—or Devin’s might be the next body in the woods.…

www.eHeatherGraham.com

Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Graham does an amazing job of bringing real-life elements into her fiction worlds… [The] messages are subtle, expertly woven through a story that focuses on solving mysterious crimes using the Krewe members’ unique talents.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Night Is Forever (Top Pick)

“Bestseller Graham launches the third arc in her paranormal romantic suspense Krewe of Hunters series (The Unseen, etc.) with a rousing tale of the intriguing haunted town of Lily, Arizona…. Readers will enjoy Sloan and Jane’s interactions as romantic partners and competent professionals, aided by Lily’s ghosts.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Night is Watching

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“I’ve long admired Heather Graham’s storytelling ability and this book hit the mark. I couldn’t put The Unholy down.”

—Fresh Fiction

“The main characters are a great team, both professionally and romantically.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Unspoken

“Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“Graham’s narrative never lags for even a single paragraph, and her setting...is a fascinating and compelling one. The ending is a heart-stopping surprise that her fan base and reading groups will be discussing for months.”

—Bookreporter.com on The Dead Room

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

—Publishers Weekly on Phantom Evil

The Hexed

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Pearl Riley and Kelly Riley

with lots of love and thanks.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Extract

Prologue

“Help me, Rocky! Help me!”

Craig Rockwell—Rocky to family and friends—was seventeen, a high school senior. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Melissa Wilson; he just wasn’t interested the way she was interested.

He rolled over restlessly on the bed, her voice—frantic as always—pushed to the background as his half-sleeping mind returned to the thoughts that had occupied him earlier as he’d drifted off over homework.

He’d been waiting to leave here as long as he could remember. He wanted to head to Boston or New York. Not that there was anything wrong with Peabody, Massachusetts. It was fine. It was filled with old houses, history and die-hard Yankees, though sometimes the people around him seemed uptight. He’d been drilled in the history of Pilgrims and Massachusetts all his life, so maybe—since many of the people in the area were descendants of the Puritans who had first settled in the state—it was natural that people here took a wicked long time to progress.

He played football, and he was good. Six-one, strong and sleek and quick, he had set his mind on being the best quarterback possible, and it looked as if he was going to have his choice of scholarships. But that meant hanging in and hanging tough with football and his grades. He was lucky, too. Well, lucky in a way. He had leading-man looks, and when the school drama club was doing The Crucible, he was cast as John Proctor. He would give all of it up, though, to have his dad back.

On Friday nights when training was over, he met up with friends and they went to a movie or sat around a coffeehouse, or occasionally went into Boston for a concert. It was the same group of friends he’d hung out with forever. Haley Marshall, who he’d more or less gone out with until they’d recently called it quits; Jack Grail, lineman; Vince Steward, guard; Renee Radcliff, captain of the cheerleading squad—and Melissa.

They’d known one another since they were kids.

Peabody was fairly small. Population just about fifty thousand, give or take a thousand or two. The town had once been part of Salem, but it had become a separate entity as time went by and the world grew. But there was more out there, and he intended to see it.

He was good, and he wanted to make the pros. If he didn’t make the pros, he wanted to join the FBI. While his mother could trace her family back to the damned Mayflower, his father had hailed from Texas, where he’d been a sheriff. Late in life he’d fallen in love with Rocky’s mom, so he’d been almost seventy a year ago when he’d died of a heart attack. The pain still assailed Rocky often, but he was grateful for his father. It had been better to have him for sixteen years than anyone else for a lifetime.

And he was definitely going to be a lawman, with or without a football career first. FBI. An agent had come to town when he’d been ten and spoken to an assembly, and he’d known since then that was what he wanted to be.

The sound of Melissa’s voice rose, interrupting his restless thoughts.

“Rocky!”

There was a sudden banging at his bedroom window. He started and sat up, staring. Melissa was there, her face white. He couldn’t hear her anymore, but when her lips formed a word he knew what she was saying.

Rocky.

His name, nothing more.

He heard more banging and realized it was coming from the front door. He leaped out of bed and checked the clock. It was still early, just after 8:00 p.m.

He looked back to his bedroom window, but no one was there.

Too many teen slasher movies, he decided. They were fun, though. The girls crawled all over you after a slasher movie, and Haley, completely at home with her sexuality, had been no exception, for which his raging hormones would be eternally grateful. But she had realized he was really planning on leaving, while she just wanted to get married and have babies, so now when the movie ended she was all over Vince or Jack as she tried to figure out who was the best candidate for marriage and settling down.

He didn’t care—he knew he wasn’t what Haley wanted. He just didn’t like it that now Melissa Wilson, apparently with Haley’s blessing, was yearning after him all the time.

It was odd, he thought. If it was slasher movies that unnerved him, it should have been some kind of a homicidal monster at his window. A killer in a human skin mask or something. Instead, he saw the face of Melissa Wilson. She was five-three and a hundred pounds, tops. Not too scary.

Whatever. She was gone. And the banging at the front door continued. He got up and went to see what was going on.

It was Vince. “Hey, man,” his friend demanded, “your mom’s working late?”

His mother was a “vice president” at a small ad agency. In reality she was a glorified assistant with a title instead of a decent salary.

“Yeah,” he told Vince. “They’re shooting that Welcome to Salem ad tonight—in Peabody.”

“Close enough, I guess. I got a couple of beers. Come on out—we’ll hang in the truck, and that way we can toss ’em quick if she shows up,” Vince said.

Rocky shook his head. “My mom can smell beer a mile away.”

“Chicken!”

“Yeah, well, that and our English test is tomorrow, and I have to ace it,” Rocky said.

“Wow. Some wild and crazy hotshot you are,” Vince said.

Rocky shrugged. “You said you’re going to community college until you figure out what you want to do. Well, I know what I want.”

“NYU or Harvard,” Vince said, grinning. “Maybe Yale.”

“Notre Dame. But, hey, I’ll sit in the back of the truck and watch you down a few.”

Vince shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Vince was huge. Six-four, close to three hundred pounds. He was great to have on the football field. He might have taken it somewhere—he just didn’t have the ambition.

“I don’t get you, buddy,” Vince said, opening the back of his Ford pickup and crawling into the bed.

As he did so, another car drove up. It was an ancient Toyota. Best Jack could buy, and then only with his dad’s help.

“Hey!” Jack called. He wasn’t as big as Vince; he was lean, with wiry muscles.

“Come and join us—back of the pickup,” Vince said as Jack got out and greeted them with a grin. “Haley hasn’t got you cornered?”

“Don’t know what’s up. I think the girls were going shopping. Now hand me a beer.”

“See, Rocky? That’s what boys do when the girls aren’t around—they drink beer and watch football,” Vince said.

“There aren’t any games on,” Rocky reminded him.

“Okay, so we settle for drinking beer,” Vince said.

“School night,” Rocky said. “And I have plans to get out of this town.”

Vince looked at Jack and Rocky, grinning. “Rocky, you got it all wrong. Peabody is a great place. Close to the action in Boston when you want action. Away from people when you don’t want a crowd.”

Jack laughed. “I think you’re talking about the wheat fields of Kansas or something. We have neighbors almost on top of us.”

Vince popped a beer and lay back on one of the plastic cushions he kept in the truck for “entertaining,” as he called it, looking up at the sky. “Yeah, in some places you got old Victorian on top of old Victorian. But there’s still some wooded land available. And reasonably priced, too. I get some trust money when I graduate, and I’m buying land.”

“To do what?” Rocky asked.

“I don’t know yet—I just know I’m buying it.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have any trust money coming,” Rocky told him. He crawled up into the bed of the truck, but he didn’t lie back.

“Witch’s moon,” Jack said.

It was huge and full, Rocky noticed. The local Wiccans were probably all out forming circles or whatever it was they did.

“Werewolves a-howling,” Vince said, laughing.

Rocky frowned, listening intently. Just as Vince had spoken, he could have sworn that he did hear something. Not a howl, exactly. More like a sob.

“What was that?” he murmured.

“You hear a werewolf?” Vince laughed.

“No,” Rocky said, glancing at Vince and rolling his eyes. “But something. Shut up and listen.”

Melissa. Melissa Wilson. She was calling his name again. She was trying to tell him something.

Help me, Rocky. Help me!

“Don’t you hear her?” he demanded, looking around. His next-door neighbor’s house was close—not fifty feet away. The sound, however, seemed to be coming from farther than that. He gazed toward the playground across the street and beyond...where a small forest of pines led down to the pond.

“Hear what?” Vince demanded.

“Melissa,” Rocky said. “I could swear I hear Melissa—and she’s calling for help.”

Vince laughed. “Melissa? What the hell are you talking about? I’m the one doing the drinking and you’re hearing things? You hear anything, Jack?”

Jack shook his head. He looked worriedly at Rocky. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Rocky said. “I’m fine. I’m not hearing things. It’s Melissa, and she’s asking for help.”

“You’re crazy, man. The pressure is getting to you. Hell, you’d help yourself out if you’d have a beer,” Vince offered.

“He may be right,” Jack noted.

Rocky jumped off the bed of the truck and listened. He couldn’t really tell, but the voice seemed to be coming from across the street and...

From inside his mind.

He walked across the street, so intent he forgot to even look for traffic. Thankfully, it was a quiet neighborhood.

“Rocky, what the hell?”

Vince hurried after him, with Jack following behind.

Rocky sprinted across the grass and into the pines.

“Rocky, wait!” Vince gasped. He was bigger, but it was hard for him to run as fast. Jack was quickly catching up.

But Rocky kept going until he finally stopped in the maze of pines, holding his breath, listening.

Rocky!

Melissa’s voice again.

He walked through the trees, grateful for the full moon, whose light filtered through the branches. Branches reaching toward him like skeletal arms.

Yup. Too many slasher movies.

Fallen pine needles were brittle beneath his footsteps as he moved through the trees. Something brushed his face, and he almost gasped aloud before he realized it was just a spiderweb.

“Rockwell, where the hell are you going?” Vince yelled from somewhere behind him.

“Come on, man. What are you doing?” Jack demanded as the other two caught up to him. “You’re scaring me.”

Rocky didn’t know. He kept walking through the woods until he came to a barren circle surrounded by pines. A little area of dust and rock and bracken, and...

Melissa. Melissa Wilson.

She was lying on her back, arms and legs stretched straight out. She was staring up at the night sky, at the full moon. Her eyes, he realized, were frozen open.

A red line extended around her throat and dripped to the forest floor.

Melissa Wilson was dead.

* * *

“Mr. Rockwell?”

Rocky started. He’d been sitting in the front office of the Virginia office of the FBI special division called the Krewe of Hunters, waiting for his appointment with Jackson Crow. He was the assistant director of this branch of “special” investigations. The titular head of all the Krewe units was a man named Adam Harrison, but he was seldom seen. He seemed to “direct” from some kind of lofty haven.

The events that had filled his mind—as fresh as if they’d just happened, although they had been almost thirteen years in the past—faded with the sound of the receptionist’s voice. Until recently, he’d buried the memories of Melissa Wilson deep in the darkest recesses of his mind.

He’d forgotten about football after finding her. He’d concentrated on law enforcement in college and gone to work first with the Boston police, and then he’d made it into the FBI Academy and taken a position in L.A. after graduation. Since his mother had remarried—a great guy, a retired fireman—he didn’t suffer from the only-child guilt that would have made him feel he needed to be near her.

Over the past ten years, he’d learned that Hollywood really was a world of illusion, and that only made the area a hotbed for mayhem and murder.

And now...

And now here he was, seeking a new position with a vengeance. He’d followed the Krewe of Hunters for the past few years. His curiosity had been piqued from the first time he’d read about their cases—and heard the rumors in the field offices. No matter how the members of the special unit were mocked, they were also respected, because they had a batting average that was off the charts.

And that was what he needed now.

Because it had happened again. A murder so much like Melissa’s that it gave him chills—and practically in his hometown.

“Special Agent Crow will see you now.”

As Rocky walked into Crow’s office, the man rose to greet him. He’d known Crow was Native American, and he wasn’t surprised the man was tall and fit. He hadn’t expected him to be quite so striking, though. He studied the man he hoped would be his boss, and he knew that Crow was studying him in return.

“Sit down. I’ve been reading your file and the clippings that you sent about the case,” Crow said.

Rocky sat. “And?”

“I see that another woman has been discovered in circumstances exactly like the girl you found.”

“Swampscott this time,” Rocky said. “Practically next door.”

Crow looked gravely at Rocky. “You were personally involved with the original case as a teenager.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that will affect your work?”

Rocky hesitated.

One wasn’t supposed to be emotionally involved in the field; it could jeopardize the ability to make the best decision possible in a tough situation.

He let out his breath. “Yes,” he admitted.

Crow looked back down at the file before him.

“This woman was left just as your friend Melissa was. Arranged in a very specific position—almost as if her body was meant to create a pentagram.”

“Five points,” Rocky agreed. “And there was a silver medallion lying on her chest—the same as in Melissa Wilson’s case.”

Crow leaned back, stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“I’m assuming you’ve studied up on the Krewe of Hunters and that’s why you wrote to me.”

“Yes.”

“And of course, we’ve studied up on you, too.”

“I’m damned glad. I’m sure I wouldn’t have a chance here if you hadn’t.”

Crow actually smiled. He leaned forward and said, “My boss—our director, Adam Harrison—is like a magician. It will still take me about twenty-four hours to get you transferred over. But,” he said, looking up, “feel free to head on up to Massachusetts right away. I’ll inform you when the transfer goes through.”

He stood. Rocky did the same, and Crow held out his hand.

“Welcome to the Krewe of Hunters, Agent Rockwell.”

1

Every once in a while Devin Lyle couldn’t help herself. People did such outrageous things sometimes that she just had to step in.

She stepped forward, positioning herself a little closer to the group standing by the memorial so she could hear what they were saying.

“Burn, witch! Burn!” a young man said. Despite his words, he was actually reverently placing a flower on the bench dedicated to one of the victims of the witch trials.

“How horrible. I can’t even imagine burning to death,” an older woman said.

“Excuse me,” Devin said. “None of the condemned in Salem were burned. Nineteen were hanged, and one man, Giles Corey, was pressed to death.”

“Really?” The older woman sounded relieved. “Not that hanging must have been less than horrible, but to burn...” She shuddered.

“Almost any tour you take in Salem is going to tell you about the victims—and tell you that no one was burned,” Devin said. They were all staring at her, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. She wasn’t a tour guide, after all. She wrote sweet, fun children’s books about a slightly crazy “witch.”

But Salem was her home. And she hated the misinformation about it that spread far too frequently.

“I saw it in a movie,” a kid said, nodding sagely. “They burned them in the movie.”

“That movie took license with history, I promise you,” Devin assured him.

“And men were called witches, too? Not warlocks?” the older woman asked.

“Yes, they were all accused of being witches. And at the time, witchcraft was punishable by death,” Devin said. “So, if you ‘hexed’ a neighbor—just cursed him, or say you had a voodoo doll, whether there was any real magic there or not—you were considered a practicing witch and subject to execution.”

“So they were all guilty?” someone else asked.

“No, not all of them―you have to remember, even just saying that you had cursed someone was considered to be witchcraft. Kids would read their futures in broken eggs, and that was witchcraft, by the standards of the time. Those who were condemned and hanged refused to plead guilty, because they were innocent and feared for their souls if they did. During the hysteria, all kinds of crazy things happened. You really need to take a tour—or just start at the Witch Dungeon and get a good overview of the entire situation.

“People were at odds politically, creating an atmosphere ripe for petty arguments. It was winter, it was bitter cold and it was, frankly, miserable. Most scholars believe that the tales Tituba—a slave from the Caribbean—told to a group of girls started them making up their own stories. And since people not only believed fiercely in the devil but that he also lived in the woods, they...” Devin’s voice trailed off, and she smiled as she saw an old friend, Brent Corbin, standing nearby. He owned an occult and souvenir store on Essex Street, and led one of the best night tours of the city.

She could see that he was grinning at her, with a teasing light in his eyes. Brent was a little stout, but he had a cute thatch of blond hair, beautiful bright blue eyes and a great smile. He was clearly as bemused as she was by the conversation.

Ten years ago Brent had graduated with her from Salem High. They’d fought like crazy when they’d been kids, teased and tormented each other over dating as they’d gotten older, and now—especially with her living back in Salem—they laughed over their old squabbles. It had been great to spend time with him now that she was back to town, and no way was she letting him get away without an introduction.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “We’ve got one of the city’s best tour guides right here. This is Brent Corbin. He owns Which Witch Is Which just over on the mall and no one—seriously, no one—knows Salem’s history better than Brent. I’ll leave you in his capable hands.”

She waved to him, laughing when the smile disappeared from his face. But then it was back, and he shook his head in amusement as he watched her go.

A few minutes later he sent her a text message. I’d throw you in the stocks for that—except half of them signed on for the tour tonight. Thx. See ya later.

Devin laughed and continued on to Essex Street, where one of her best friends carried Devin’s books in her shop, the Haunted Dragon. She not only carried books, but toys and Salem T-shirts, as well as finely made cloaks, clothing and jewelry. Beth Fullway was a practicing Wiccan. She had graduated a few years before Devin, then stayed in the area and, like Brent, opened a shop. She was open from 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. daily, with two employees to help her cover all the days of the week. When seven at night rolled around, she was done. Unless, of course, it was October and they were in the middle of Haunted Happenings. In Salem, Haunted Happenings was one of the year’s biggest events—a money event. People came in droves, and all the rules changed. Stores stayed open later, and there were more special tours, historical events, haunted houses and whatever other manner of “spooky” entertainment an up-and-coming entrepreneur could imagine.

A little bell tinkled when Devin went in; the store was about a thousand square feet, with curtained rooms in the rear where Beth and her employees sometimes did readings.

“Hey!” Beth said, rising to greet Devin with a hug. Beth was about five-eight but so slim she appeared small. Even with Devin being an inch taller at five-nine, they had to stretch over the counter to greet each other.

“Glad to see you,” Beth said. “I mean...now. I’m always glad to see you.” Her verbal confusion was a frequent result of her effervescent sincerity. “I have to tell you—I sold out of the last batch of your books in two days. Of course, it’s summer and this town is teeming with kids. But still....”

“That’s great,” Devin said. “I’m impressed—and flattered.”

“Anyway, if you happen to have any extras, can you bring them by?” Beth asked her. “I’ve ordered more, but I could use a few to tide me over.”

“I’ll bring my author’s copies.”

“Great, thanks.”

Devin looked in the display case by the counter as they talked. She wasn’t really much for costly jewelry—diamonds, platinum, elegant pieces—but she loved artistic costume jewelry. Silver. And, okay, sometimes silver with stones.

“Wow!” she said, and looked up at Beth.

“You’re looking at the Sheena Marston series, right?” Beth asked.

“They’re gorgeous pieces, aren’t they?” came another voice.

Devin looked up. Theo Hastings, one of Beth’s employees and mediums, had come from the back. He waved at the young women to whom he’d been giving a reading and smiled at Devin. He was about forty, devilishly handsome and great at his work. He was a practicing Wiccan—though Devin suspected that he was “practicing” more because it was good for his image and his work than because he believed the way Beth did. He had the right look, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders and was highlighted with just a touch of gray, dark eyes and perfectly sculpted features. And of course, he always wore black suits that hinted at the 1800s without being costume pieces. He was always nice, but she hadn’t known him all that long, and he wasn’t an open book like Beth, so Devin always kept a little distance.

“Take that one,” he said, pointing to a gorgeous silver medallion hanging from a delicate chain, a pentagram entwined with enamel glass-green leaves and tiny stones. “Beautiful—truly beautiful. So many people come in here thinking that the pentagram is evil, but it isn’t. It even symbolizes the Freemasons, who do a lot of good things and fall under suspicion, too. Pentagrams were important religious symbols for the Babylonians, and they were also used in ancient Greece. Christians have even used the pentagram to represent the five wounds of Christ. It’s no different than the cross or the Star of David or any religious symbol. How do people get these things in their minds...?”

His voice trailed off as he shook his head.

“Hey, you’re asking that question in a place where ‘spectral’ evidence was considered proof of guilt,” Devin reminded him.

“Amazing, right?” Beth asked. “A kid said she was being pinched by the astral projection of some poor old woman, and people believed her.”

“Different times,” Devin murmured. “And sometimes I’m not so sure we’ve evolved very far. Look at the prejudices we still practice.”

“Hey, not me,” Beth protested. “I love everyone.”

Devin laughed. “And everyone loves you. I mean, as a species, we can still be pretty wretched. You can make prosecuting witches illegal, and we can enact laws against discrimination, but that doesn’t mean we can change the human mind.”

“Well said,” Theo told her. “But to get back to what’s important, you should buy that piece. Your hair is so dark, a perfect contrast to the silver, and your eyes are such a deep blue—like the sapphires. It practically screams your name, Devin.”

“It is gorgeous,” she agreed. “I may.”

“It really does scream your name,” Beth agreed. “You have the perfect creamy skin for it, too. I’ll wrap it up.”

“Hey, thanks for the compliments, but I don’t even know what it costs,” Devin said, laughing.

“Not that much, really. Just bring me your books—if you have a box, we’ll wind up about even.”

Devin laughed again. “Okay, done deal.”

Beth took out the medallion and put it in a small box.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to writing. I just came out to buy birdseed—which I still have to do—and wound up walking around,” Devin said. “Seems like every time I look, something’s closed and something new has opened.”

“And we grow more commercial every year,” Theo said sadly.

“It’s a commercial world,” Devin said lightly. “They want you to pay your power bill no matter what.”

Beth put the box in a decorative bag and handed it to Devin. “So how are you doing with that wretched old bird?”

“Poe?” Devin asked.

“Other people are left cats and dogs—and your great-aunt left you a raven!” Beth said, shaking her head. “You know, I watched him until you came home after your aunt Mina died.”

“I do, and I’m grateful,” Devin assured her. “He’s doing just fine.”

“How the hell long do those birds live?” Beth asked.

“I think they can get to be about twenty in captivity. Aunt Mina rescued him when he was a baby, so I’d say he’s about twelve now,” Devin said. “He’s a very cool bird. I like having company. I mean, it’s not that the cottage is so far out of town, but it seems like there are a lot of woods out there.”

“You need a cat,” Beth said.

“Or a dog,” Theo suggested.

“For the moment, I have Poe,” Devin said.

Theo set a hand on hers. “It’s been nice to see you. We’ll all have to go to dinner one night.”

“Sure,” Devin said, smiling and quickly extracting her hand. “See you all later.”

Her car was in the public garage off Essex, and she hurried to it. It wasn’t a long drive down Broad and out to her cottage, but it did involve avoiding crowds of jaywalking tourists.

Parking, she studied her “cottage in the woods.” Technically, it was an old house, but it did have the white-walled, thatched-roof look of a cottage, and she was surrounded by a small forest of trees. When she had the fire going and smoke was drifting out of the chimney, it did look as if she lived in a home that belonged in a fairy tale.

As she opened the door and stepped in, Devin found herself smiling. Poe immediately let out a loud squawk. Unlike Poe’s raven, this bird didn’t say “nevermore.” He only squawked. But he liked to sit on his perch and watch her. Sometimes—though he was nowhere near as attached to her as he had been to Aunt Mina—he would even sit on her shoulder. She didn’t mind; Aunt Mina had trained him. He kept his droppings discreetly deposited in his cage onto newspaper that was easy to replace.

“Hey, buddy,” she said, putting down her packages and walking over to the bird. She stroked his head through the bars the way he liked. “Got your birdseed. All is well.”

His cage was near the mantel, so she set the bag of birdseed on top while she fed him. When she was finished, she stepped back and smiled, thinking that it was time to make some changes. But it was hard. She’d spent so much of her childhood here in the cottage. Her parents had traveled frequently for work, and since Devin had loved Aunt Mina and her aunt had loved her, it had made sense for her to stay here.

She’d loved how different Aunt Mina was from her own parents and everybody else’s—that she collected unusual and beautiful things. Once, in school, Brent Corbin had told her that if she’d just add a few more wacky family members she could join the cast of The Addams Family.

That was okay. She’d grown up with love, both here in Auntie Mina’s cottage and in the house her parents had owned—and still owned, actually—an old Victorian near the wharf and the House of the Seven Gables. It had been rented out for years now, and it was completely different from the way she remembered it. While the cottage...

Despite the years, little had changed here.

Devin opened the box holding her beautiful new silver medallion and hung it around the neck of a marble bust of Madame Tussaud that sat on a pedestal near the fireplace. The bust had been made from a life mask of the tiny woman who had created so many wax images, including death masks of some of the victims of the guillotine. Aunt Mina had loved the woman because she had been so talented—and such a survivor. The pentagram suited her marble neck.

“Guess I should get to work, huh?” Devin asked the bird.

He was too busy eating to reply.

She booted up the computer. The world seemed silent. Too silent. She turned on iTunes and set the music to play randomly.

For long minutes she actually concentrated.

Then she heard the crying.

It was soft and heart-wrenching—so soft, she wasn’t sure at first that she was really hearing anything at all. Next she thought it might have been part of the song that was playing.

But then a Bon Jovi hit came on, and she knew there was no soft sobbing in that hard-hitting rock song.

She muted the volume and listened. She was certain she heard it again. Very strange, since her nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away.

She walked to the door and opened it—and thought she saw a woman in white disappearing into the trees.

“Hello?” she called out. “Can I help you?”

There was no answer. The leaves rustled as the breeze picked up, nothing more.

“Please, do you need help?” She stepped out onto the stone path that led from her house to the road.

No answer.

Because no one was out there, she told herself.

She turned and looked back at the bird. Poe was still playing with his seed, unconcerned.

And of course, the idea that there was anyone out there had almost certainly come from the fact that she’d spent half her childhood, her most impressionable years, growing up with Aunt Mina. Not that her aunt had been crazy—unless being delightfully full of fun and life could be called crazy. But Aunt Mina had been forever telling stories—stories about leprechauns and banshees and forest folk, and the arguments that went on between the tooth fairy and Santa’s elves.

Devin walked back in the house, trying to forget the sound of sobbing and give her attention back to Auntie Pim and the Belligerent Gnome.

It was wonderful that her books had sold out, she thought.

Thanks to her aunt, she not only had a wonderful place to live but she’d found her true vocation. She’d done her duty as a junior reporter, but when Aunt Mina had suggested she try children’s stories, she had sat down and written one. She’d set her sights on reaching ten-year-olds—the age she’d been when Aunt Mina had first enchanted her.

Auntie Mina had been a practicing Wiccan. Her garden—while now in need of a woeful amount of care—was filled with a wide selection of herbs. Long before it had been popular to be Wiccan in Salem, Auntie Mina had been a healer and devotee of the old religion. While some in town mocked her, others came to her for advice, and with their aches and pains.

Devin’s parents were good Anglicans, but they were also a pair of hippies and were all for everyone believing as they felt they should, so they’d respected Aunt Mina’s religion. According to Devin’s father, “There are real Wiccans, and they’re just as decent as everyone else—or not. And then there are commercial Wiccans. You know—those people who come to Salem and open shops and claim to be Wiccans for a living. Hey, who’s to judge? Your aunt helps everyone, whatever their beliefs. In my opinion, like she says, it doesn’t much matter what we call the path or the light at the end of that path as long as we’re good people while we walk it, doing our best to help our fellow travelers.”

Devin loved her parents. When she’d left for school, they’d rented out their old home off Front Street and moved west to enjoy the mountains and sunshine of Boulder, Colorado.

Her own cottage was small but charming. It dated back to the early 1700s. There were just six rooms, all on the ground floor, with the parlor having a grand stone fireplace and old, unfinished woodwork all around. The room was decorated with Aunt Mina’s various treasures: crystal balls, elf-shaped incense holders, gargoyles, raven bookends, a pair of medieval mirrors—the bust of Madame Tussaud, of course—and all sorts of other items suited to a slightly crazy but very sweet Wiccan.

Devin’s first book, Auntie Pim and the Gregarious Ghost, sat nicely in the shelf alongside her second book, Auntie Pim and Marvelous Martian, contained between the raven bookends.

Looking at the books, she was glad that Aunt Mina had lived to see the first one published. She’d been so proud. Thinking of her aunt made Devin smile. She couldn’t be too sad—Aunt Mina had died at the grand old age of one hundred and one. She’d enjoyed great health until the night she’d said she was tired, sat in the old maple rocker before the fire and simply died. Devin had still been working for the paper at the time, but her mom had come for a visit because Aunt Mina had called her. Aunt Mina hadn’t been alone. Devin was glad about that, too.

Sometimes Devin thought she saw her aunt peeking out at her from around a corner with a mischievous smile.

But then, thanks to Aunt Mina, she’d thought she’d seen the dead before. That was because she really did owe everything to Auntie Mina, who’d been the best storyteller ever. When she had taken Devin to the Howard Street Cemetery where old Giles Corey had been pressed to death and told his story, Devin could have sworn that she saw the old man standing among the tombs, leaning on a cane, his expression thoughtful as the breeze rushed through his thin gray hair.

Auntie Mina had often told her with a wink that it was possible to speak with the dead—but only when the dead wished to speak. And of course, she’d added, with another wink, only special people received the talent to see through time and space, and hear the dead when they spoke.

“The books are doing so well, Auntie Mina,” she said aloud. “They’re really your books, you know.”

It helped, of course, that she worked with a wonderful artist, Drew Wicker, who lived in nearby Marblehead.

She sat back down at her computer, but just as she got comfortable, the sound came again. It was a woman crying. Definitely.

“Poe, is that you?” she demanded aloud, even though she knew the crying was coming from somewhere farther away.

The bird, as if indignant, looked up, cocked his head and squawked in protest.

“Okay, that’s it—no way I can concentrate now,” she murmured to herself.

She started out of the house again and then remembered that while she considered her neighborhood safe, bad things did happen. They’d found a murdered woman just two weeks ago in Swampscott.

Most of the details had been kept out of the paper, but she knew the woman had been young. Maybe in her early twenties.

Something itched at her memory. And then she recalled the incident that had been nagging at her.

It had taken place a little more than a decade ago. And it hadn’t been in Salem; it had been in Peabody or Marblehead or somewhere. A high school girl had been found murdered in the woods.

The details had been kept out of the paper then just as they had been now—the newest victim’s name hadn’t been revealed yet—but she knew one factor both women had in common.

Both women’s throats had been slit.

Surely, it was impossible that the two incidents could be related, not with so many years in between.

“Okay, Poe, freaking myself out here, huh?” she said aloud.

It was only about nine at night, and since they were on daylight savings time, there was still a little glow of light in the sky.

“It’s still light out, for heaven’s sake,” she said.

Poe squawked.

“Maybe I do need a dog. A large one,” she murmured.

Poe protested again.

“Okay...”

She looked around and then headed into the bedroom and grabbed one of her old hockey sticks out of the closet and started out. “No sense in being stupid. I can wield a wicked hockey stick.”

She heard the sobbing again. It was coming from the trees to the west of her house, from the little stand of trees that separated her from her neighbor.

“Please, I’m trying to help you,” she said softly. “Hello? Are you lost? Are you hurt? If you’ll just let me help you...”

She walked into the trees, then began to question her own wisdom.

The sky was darkening. Beneath the trees the light was all but gone.

She tightened her grip on her hockey stick.

And then she saw her.

She was young, a slight blond woman, wearing a black dress and a shawl that looked to be of the Puritan period. She was peeking out from between two trees.

There was nothing unusual about her outfit. This was, after all, Salem.

“Hey, there you are. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you can come in and we can call someone—someone to come get you. Someone who can help,” Devin said.

The young woman looked at her with enormous brown eyes. She shook her head and began to sob again.

And then she disappeared into the trees.

The woman might have been twenty or twenty-one—or she might have been a teenager—but she certainly didn’t look dangerous. Determined to help her, Devin headed back to her cottage and swept the electric lantern off the mantel. She hurried back out, turning the light on as she went.

“I’m not leaving you out here!” she called. “Come on, speak to me, please.”

She headed toward the spot where she had first seen the woman. She didn’t hear sobbing anymore, but the woman couldn’t have gone far.

Maybe she was a foreign tourist who didn’t speak any English and had gotten lost.

Maybe she’d been on a date or gone out with friends who had decided it would be fun to explore the old cemetery down the road from Devin’s cottage, and she had gotten lost and ended up terrified.

Maybe some jerk had just driven her out here and dumped her.

Or maybe...

Devin let out a shocked, ear-piercing scream.

The woman lay in a tiny open area between several large trees with gnarled branches. She was faceup, arms and legs outstretched, so her body resembled the design of a pentagram.

Her sightless eyes stared up into the darkness of the night. On her chest was a silver chain with a medallion.

Much like the silver pentagram she herself had just purchased.

But that seemed like nothing.

Because...

Around her throat...

There was a ribbon of blood.

2

The road was dark. The day had been long, but when it had finally ended the night had gone almost stygian. There was a moon, but it was hidden behind billowing clouds that promised summer rain for the northeast.

Rocky nearly hit the woman who ran out into the middle of the road.

His lights caught her, and for a moment he thought he’d entered some kind of nightmare region in his mind. She stood like an ancient icon in the glare, but was she goddess or demon? No matter what, she was beautiful, like an elemental force emerging from the darkness. She wielded something in her hands as she forced him to stop. A scepter?

No. A hockey stick.

Rocky quickly turned the car off, leaving the lights on, and stepped out. He was never unarmed, but he didn’t pull his Glock from the holster at his side. He lifted his hands to show her he meant no harm.

She was tall, and the dress swirling around her in the rain-scented breeze made her appear especially regal and elegant. She had long black hair that whipped around her face. It was almost like seeing the perfectly fashioned heroine of a video game come to life. There was no way any healthy male could ignore her presence. She aroused every fantasy his mind had ever come up with, and she drew on every ounce of lust that coursed through his body.

He quashed the wanderings of his mind, reminding himself that she was clearly in trouble. This was no fantasy. They were standing in the middle of the road in the dark, with a storm on the way.

“Are you all right?” he demanded.

“I’m fine, but...phone. Do you have a phone? Call 9-1-1, please!”

“What’s your emergency? I can help you if you’ll just tell—”

“Dammit, are you stupid? I don’t need help! Dial 9-1-1—there’s a dead woman in the woods!”

He dialed. Then, slowly and precisely, he identified himself and their location—and the situation.

“Did you discover the body, sir?” the operator asked.

“No—I was stopped on the road by the woman who did.” He looked at Devin. “Who are you?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your name. They need to know who discovered the body.”

“Devin. Devin Lyle.”

“Devin Lyle found her,” he said into the phone. “Please send someone.” He knew the operator would keep him talking while the police were dispatched and he needed to find out what was going on, so he hung up.

“Where?” he asked Devin Lyle.

She pointed toward the woods. “But...but don’t go in there. The cops...they’ll want the crime scene intact, right?”

“Ma’am, I’m an FBI agent. Are you sure she’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“Did you try CPR or just take her pulse?”

“Sir, she’s dead.”

“Agent,” Rocky said by rote. “Agent Rockwell. Do you have any kind of medical training? Are you certain that she’s dead?”

“No,” she said. “And yes, I’m sure.”

“Where is she?”

Devin Lyle’s finger rose, and she pointed.

Rocky hurried through the trees.

And found the victim.

She wasn’t far from the road; there was a break in the trees, and there she was.

For a moment he forgot his years of training and fieldwork. He simply froze. Body...and soul.

It was déjà vu.

She was lying just like Melissa had lain, limbs and head creating the five points of a star.

And on her breast lay...

A silver medallion. A pentagram.

Around her throat...

A red ribbon of blood.

He didn’t move to her side, only stood rigidly and stared.

Devin Lyle came up behind him. He suspected she thought he was being respectful of the dead woman.

That wasn’t it, though. He was simply frozen by his memories.

“Are you going to try to revive her?” she asked quietly, only a small note of irony in her tone.

He could hear sirens; the police were on the way.

He turned to face the dark-haired woman who had stopped him. “When did you find her?”

“Seconds before I stopped you.”

“How did you find her?”

She pointed. “My home is just there—on the other side of the trees.”

“How did you know to look for her here in the dark? Did you hear something? Did she cry out?”

“Yes, I—I don’t know what exactly. I heard something. Sobbing—a cry. Something.”

He broke his paralysis and moved forward carefully, hunkering down to set two fingers on the flesh of the woman’s wrist. She was cold. She’d been here awhile.

No attempt at resuscitation would have helped.

Her eyes had been green, her hair a soft brunette. She was clad in a simple halter dress and light sweater. At least the dress was pulled down decently, almost tucked between her outstretched legs.

He heard car doors slamming. The cops had arrived.

“Hey!” he said loudly, so he could be heard. “In here!”

A moment later two uniformed officers came through the trees and into the little clearing. They were competent and compassionate at the same time, the first checking the victim and securing the scene, the second speaking with Rocky and Devin Lyle. It was while they were in the midst of the conversation that more sirens sounded, and Rocky was surprised to look up and see that a third officer, this one in plain clothes, was coming his way.

He was even more surprised to realize that he knew the man.

“Hell, Rocky—you’re back in town?” the newcomer demanded.

“Jack Grail,” Rocky said, shaking Jack’s hand. “And you’re still here.” He grinned; it had been a good ten years since he’d seen Jack.

“Come on, I moved a bit. This is Salem, not Peabody.”

“Right. You working these murders?” Rocky asked.

“This one, anyway,” Jack said. They looked at each other for a long moment, both of them remembering a long ago day.

When they’d stared at the same scene that was before them now.

Rocky arched a brow. “Just like Swampscott, right?”

“Don’t go talking that way, Rocky. People will think we have a serial killer on our hands, and the last thing we need is mass panic. Kind of suspicious, though, isn’t it? You leave town not long after Melissa Wilson dies, and now you’re back and we’ve got two more dead women.”

Rocky stared at him and realized Jack wasn’t serious—not about that, anyway. He was serious that he didn’t want anyone yelling “serial killer” right now.

No, he didn’t seriously suspect Rocky.

But they knew. They both knew. They had been there. They had seen Melissa’s body, and they couldn’t deny the eerie similarity of the newest murders.

“So you grew up to be a detective with the county?” Rocky asked Jack. “Good going.”

Forget the past. They both had to shake off this feeling of déjà vu. They’d been boys back then. Now they were men—and the men assigned to work these newest killings.

Jack nodded. “And you just happened to discover this body, too?”

Rocky shook his head. “I just got back into town. Jack Grail, this is Devin Lyle.” He nodded toward her. “She found the body. She flagged me down in the road.”

“My house is over there,” Devin said, pointing through the trees. “I heard a noise and ran out without my phone, and when I...when I saw her, I ran for the road to get help. I guess I should have gone back in and called, but...I just ran for the road,” she finished lamely.

Jack turned his attention to Devin. As he spoke to her, the crime scene techs got to work and the night seemed to come alive with flashes as pictures were taken.

Rocky waited while Jack talked to Devin and let his mind wander.

Jack looked good. Funny, Rocky had always thought that he’d wind up flipping burgers by day and smoking pot by night.

Finally Devin’s interview was finished and an officer escorted her back through the woods to her house.

“So I heard you’re a fed, like you planned,” Jack said.

“Yeah. And it’s good to see you, Jack. Bad circumstances, but it really is good to see you.”

Jack grinned. “You, too, Rocky. Last I heard, though, you were working the mean streets of L.A.”

“I just transferred to a new unit.”

“We have a unit here?” Jack said, frowning.

Rocky smiled. There were field offices all over the country, with the one in New York City being the largest. “I was assigned to a behavioral unit out of Boston, but we go all over.”

“And you were sent here?” Jack asked him. “To work this case?”

Rocky wasn’t sure the assignment was official yet—whether Adam Harrison had cleared the way for FBI involvement—but he decided to be honest.

“I read about the woman in Swampscott,” he said.

Jack looked grave as he lowered his head and nodded. “Yeah. Freaked me out,” he admitted quietly. He looked at Rocky again. “None of us ever got closure, did we?” he asked.

“Not me, that’s for sure,” Rocky said. He studied Jack. “That why you became a cop?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah—worked my way up from the streets to make detective.” He hesitated. “I study the old case sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time.”

He looked at Rocky with an odd mixture of emotions, shrugged and started toward the crime scene. He turned back. “You coming?”

Rocky followed him. They hunkered down by the body and the medical examiner.

“Dead about four hours—give or take thirty minutes. Not too cold tonight, but not hot, either, so I think we’re looking at just about five o’clock,” the M.E. said.

“Broad daylight,” Jack muttered. “Sexual assault?”

“No. Probably pretty quick—merciful, under the circumstances. Looks as if she was standing here when her killer came from behind and slashed right across her throat. See the pattern of the blood spray—almost a straightforward gush. Then he just laid her down and arranged the body.”

Jack looked at Rocky. Neither of them spoke. Everyone knew how Melissa had died. She’d had her throat slashed. That much had leaked out; though, as far as he knew, only he, Jack and Vince, along with the cops and medical personnel who had worked the case, ever knew the details of the killing. With law enforcement and the powers that be afraid of both repercussions on the Wiccan community and that the investigation could be compromised, all the specifics had been kept quiet by the police, rather than let out for any would-be copycats to act on.

At the time, they’d all been so stunned and devastated, they’d never even spoken of it among themselves. They’d prayed and they’d waited for the murderer to be found....

And waited.

The killer eluded all efforts by the police to discover his—or her—identity.

Back then, the cops had talked about cults. Maybe they’d do the same now.

Within the hour, the body was on the way to the morgue. The crime scene unit continued to comb the woods, and Rocky stood with Jack by the side of the road.

“Shit,” Jack muttered, looking at Rocky. “I don’t study this kind of stuff—you know, the psychology of a killer. I guess you do. But my wife watches those shows all the time.” He paused and looked at Rocky a little sheepishly. “My wife—Haley.”

Rocky smiled. “Congratulations. I’m sorry I missed it. I guess I should have come home more.”

“We sent you an invitation to the wedding.”

“I never saw it. I was probably working out west and it never reached me.”

“Yeah, well, anyway, Haley is hooked on all the crime shows. She’s relentless—trying to tell me how to be a better cop all the time. I guess it doesn’t hurt. But how could this be the same guy? Melissa was killed, what? Almost thirteen years ago? I thought serial killers escalated, getting more violent and killing more frequently.”

“Usually. But there have been cases where a killer starts, stops, then picks up years later. Sometimes it turns out he was in prison for something else, but sometimes he just loses the urge until something happens to trigger it again. No one has ever really cracked the puzzle of the human mind. We can look for patterns, we can base our investigations on what we’ve learned, but we’re surprised all the time. This looks like the same killer, but we don’t know yet that it is.”

“Copycat?”

“Possibly. Are you lead on the case in Swampscott?” Rocky asked him.

Jack nodded. “They’ve taken everything else off my plate. They want this one solved.” He shook his head. “Nothing to do with Melissa. It’s just my job.”

“So,” Rocky said, “tell me about her.”

“Carly Henderson,” Jack said. “She was a redhead. We found her in the same kind of situation, small patch of woods in a semiurban area. She was a local. I don’t know who this woman was, but I’m willing to bet she’ll prove to be local, too.”

“Like Melissa,” Rocky said.

“Like Melissa,” Jack agreed.

* * *

“I definitely need a dog,” Devin said, leaning back against the door. It was locked and bolted. She’d checked the back door and the windows, too. She still felt on edge. “A giant dog. Or maybe an attack cat—like a tiger.”

I just found a woman with her throat slashed!

She suddenly wondered at her own courage—or stupidity—in running into the road. She might have flagged down the killer instead of an FBI agent. A normal person would have run back to the cottage, locked the door and called the police.

But what if the killer had hidden in her house?

At least she knew the killer wasn’t inside with her now. The young officer who had walked her back had made a thorough search. He’d gone into her closets and looked under the beds. And the cops would be nearby, searching the scene, for a while, she knew.

Poe squawked.

Her hands, she realized, were still shaking.

She could still see the woman all too clearly in her mind’s eyes. Lying there. Dead.

Poe let out another cry.

“I’m sorry. You’re a great bird. You just don’t have fangs and claws,” she told him.

It was all right. She was locked in, and she wasn’t opening her door to anyone.

Devin walked to the entertainment center—artfully hidden behind lattice doors—and turned on the television, wanting company.

She sat down at her computer, thinking that if she went back to work she would concentrate on the wonderful magic of her aunt—both her real aunt and her fictional Auntie Pim—and get lost in the joy of writing.

Except she didn’t.

Work? Was she kidding herself? She wasn’t going to get any work done now.

She looked up the murder in Swampscott.

The first site she opened, the local paper, gave her as much information as was available to the public.

The police have identified the victim found dead in the Swampscott woods on Saturday as Carly Jane Henderson. Ms. Henderson ran a local beauty salon and was a longtime resident of Essex County, though she was born and raised in Danvers. She was last seen leaving the O Club in Salem at eleven o’clock on Friday night, after enjoying dinner and cocktails with friends. Her car was parked at the local garage, where it remained until found by police. Police are seeking help to solve her murder. Anyone with any information regarding her whereabouts after she left the O Club is asked to please call the county sheriff’s department.

While police are closely guarding information regarding the murder itself due to the ongoing investigation, some local residents remember the murder of Melissa Wilson thirteen years ago. Melissa had left a friend’s house at around five o’clock, after a study date. She was later found the same evening in Peabody Woods. However, while Miss Wilson was seventeen, Carly Henderson was thirty-two.

The clock on the mantel struck twelve. Devin jumped, then stared at the softly chiming clock.

The two men had talked about...both murders. Or two murders. Or...

They’d known each other, she thought. The cop and the man she’d flagged down. Agent Rockwell...and Detective Grail. The two knew each other and...

She turned back to the computer screen.

Melissa Wilson.

She remembered the murder herself. She’d been about thirteen. Her parents had gone crazy with worry, of course. She’d barely been allowed out for weeks. But then events in the rest of the world had overshadowed one murder in little Peabody, and Melissa’s death had faded from the collective memory.

She’d jumped when the clock chimed; when her phone rang, she nearly flew off her chair.

Who could be calling at midnight?

She stared at the caller ID. She didn’t know the number. She didn’t even know the area code.

For some reason, though, she answered it.

“Hello?”

Images from books and movies swept through her mind. It was the killer. He was going to tell her that he was watching her....

“Miss Lyle?”

For a moment she didn’t reply. She couldn’t.

“This is Agent Rockwell.”

Sometimes the handsome cop was the killer, she reminded herself.

“I asked Detective Grail to make sure that an officer was posted outside your house tonight.”

She found her voice. It was a squeak. “You think—you think he’s still out there?”

“Frankly, no. Whoever this is, he carefully stalks and kills his victims. It’s very possible he gets to know them, one reason why Carly Henderson might have left willingly with him, and why the victim you discovered may have stood unsuspectingly with her back to him.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything, just waited for him to go on.

“I think you’re fine—I promise. But I thought you might be nervous, and that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a patrol car in front of your house.”

“Thank you.”

She walked to the window, pulled the drapes and looked out. There was a patrol car, bearing Salem’s famous witch logo on the door.

“Thank you,” she repeated.

“Have the best night you can,” he told her, and hung up.

There was something she liked about his words, she realized. He hadn’t said anything inane like Have a good night.

No. He’d said, Have the best night you can.

She’d barely noticed anything about him earlier, but now memory kicked in.

The man was tall and well built, though it was hard to really tell what lay beneath the suit. He’d looked strong. A good man to have around when a murderer might still be lurking in the woods nearby.

Unless he was the murderer.

Oh, God, her imagination was making her crazy.

She hovered by the computer a while longer and then rose at last. She was too nervous to undress for bed. She turned out her bedroom light but left the other lights in the cottage on.

Sensible, she thought. She could see out, no one could see into her room.

She was finally beginning to drift off to sleep when her half-closed eyes turned toward the bedroom door.

Maybe she was asleep already. Dreaming. She could swear she saw Aunt Mina there with her delightfully rosy cheeks and her long white hair rolled into a bun.

“Sleep, my little darling, I’m here,” her aunt said.

And Devin managed to fall into a real sleep at last.

* * *

“Are you two ever calling it quits and going to sleep?”

Rocky looked up. He and Jack had spent the past several hours poring over everything they knew about Melissa’s murder, and the murders of Carly Henderson and the as-yet-unidentified woman whose body had been found that night.

The question had come from Haley—Haley Grail, Jack’s wife.

Haley, too, had aged well. She’d gone from being a cheerleader to a dance instructor. She and Jack had married five years ago. They had one child, a toddler son named Jack, after his father, and called Jackie.

Haley had been pleased to see him, genuinely pleased. Not surprising. They’d parted as friends. Tonight she had her pretty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and was wearing sweats.

“Wow, I didn’t realize how late it was. Sorry,” Rocky said, rising. “My fault. I drove back into town and into a murder. And with the similarities to Melissa’s death, well...”

“It’s not all your fault,” Haley said. “Jack has been obsessed, as well.” She looked at her husband affectionately. “And I understand. You have to remember, Melissa was my good friend back then.” She straightened and went into parental mode. “But you two, if you’re going to be worth anything to anyone tomorrow, should get some sleep.” She smiled at them even as she nodded firmly. But then her smile faded. “He’s back, isn’t he?”

“Haley, we really don’t know—” Jack said.

“He’s back. The Pentagram Killer is back,” she said.

Rocky looked at Jack. He hadn’t known they’d given a nickname to the man who’d killed Melissa.

Jack shrugged. “You never heard that?”

“I never knew the news about the pentagram was out there,” Rocky said.

“It’s not. That’s just between us. Those of us who were there.” He stopped, flushing. “Of course, Haley and Vince and Renee and I have talked over the years. I guess we didn’t start using the nickname until after you went to college. It’s just between us. You never heard the term because...you were gone, and once your mom moved...you never came back. The kids growing up around here just call him the Backwoods Slasher. I think I heard it first at Salem College, where I wound up going. You know how urban legends start. In the dorm hallways people would see the ghost of Melissa, her throat red and bleeding, and she’d say, ‘Help me.’ When kids went parking out by the woods, they were warned to beware of the Backwoods Slasher.”

Rocky knew all about urban legends and ghost stories.

It was just different when you’d been there. When you’d really seen a woman lying dead in the dirt, a necklace of red around her throat.

When you’d really heard the words from somewhere in your mind.

Help me!

And when you’d completely failed to do so.

“Haley, that was thirteen years ago,” Rocky said. “We don’t know what’s going on here yet. We will find out this time, though.”

She smiled at him. “I know you will,” she said. “Meanwhile, you know you’re welcome to stay here. We have a little room behind Jackie’s. It’s yours, so long as you don’t mind tripping over Legos now and then.”

“That’s nice of you, Haley,” he said. “Thank you. But I’m at the new hotel on Derby Street. I’m okay. And now it’s time for me to go.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Jack told him.

As they headed to the car, Jack said, “Hell, you even look like a fed. Black suit, perfect tie.”

Rocky laughed. “And you look like a detective.”

“Oh, yeah, how’s that?”

“Nondescript,” Rocky teased. “I’m joking, of course. You look good. I’m sure you can still ‘go long.’”

“It’s softball for me these days,” Jack told him. “I’m a damned good first baseman.” He hesitated. “Vince is on the team, too. You can imagine what that’s like. When he hits the ball...well, if he gets a piece of it, we’re all rounding the bases.”

“I have no problem believing that. How’s the rest of our old gang?” he asked, then added softly, “You and Haley are married. What about Renee?”

“Renee is the eternal cheerleader—she’s coaching now. Obviously Vince is still in town, too. Believe it or not, he’s running for city council. He became an attorney,” Jack told him.

Rocky laughed. “Well, hell—Vince is going to show us both up. Good for him.”

Jack was thoughtful for a moment. “It changed us, you know? Melissa changed us. We were all cutups—except for you. But...maybe we realized how short life could be. I don’t know. But after the night she was found...after the grief counselors came to school...and after watching...waiting... for something horrible to happen again. I don’t know. We changed. Actually, I thought about you a lot. You could have done anything. With your grades, you had it all made. But all you wanted was to be a cop. Like your dad.”

“Did it have anything to do with wanting to solve Melissa’s case?” Rocky asked. “You deciding to become a cop?”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Rocky admitted.

“And you walked right into another murder.”

“Technically, I was driving. Miss Lyle walked into the murder—or sort of, anyway.”

“How do you figure that?” Jack asked him.

“That she sort of walked into a murder?”

“Yeah.”

“She said she heard something. But according to the medical examiner, the woman was killed around five, and Miss Lyle didn’t even get home until it was at least six. By then...who knows what she heard. I’m going to talk to her again tomorrow—with your permission, of course.”

Jack grinned. “You have my permission, though I have a feeling you’re not going to need it. Someone on high is going to tell the sheriff to invite the FBI—and you’re going to be it.”

“I doubt I’ll be alone,” Rocky said. After his meeting with Jackson Crow, he’d met the other members of the local Krewe. Crow’s wife was also one of his agents; her name was Angela Hawkins, and her main job was to assess reports and determine which agents should work each situation, according to their talents as well as their availability. She would undoubtedly be sending someone else to work the case with him.

Jack nodded. “Autopsy tomorrow, if you want to observe. Carly Henderson was released to her family a few days ago for burial. You’ve seen all the records and reports, though.”

“Thanks. And good night, Jack. Good to see you. I just wish...”

“I know. You should have shown up for the reunion,” Jack said. “Except even then...”

“Melissa was on everyone’s mind.”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed.

Rocky slid into the driver’s seat.

Jack called out to him one last time. “I’m glad you’re here, Rocky. I’m, uh, ready to go long.”

Rocky waved to him. “Takes a team,” he replied.

A little while later, in his room at the hotel, Rocky laid his Glock in its small holster on the bedside table, stripped down to his shorts and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Three. Now there were three.

That they knew of.

Why one all those years ago—and two more now, so many years later?

He could ask himself the question all night and it wouldn’t matter. He didn’t have the answer.

Yet.

Finally he slept.

And he dreamed. He was a kid again, following a voice. A voice that said, “Help me.”

He ran—ran hard and fast. This time, he had to save the victim. He came to a graveyard and hopped over and around stones, trying to reach the summit of a little hill right in the middle of the graves. Because he could see her there.

It was Devin Lyle.

She was facing him. The wind had caught her raven-black hair and swept it around her face. She was tall and sleek, and her dress was caught by the whipping breeze, as well. The night sky was a deep blue, with black shadows. He could hear her calling to him, asking for help, and he couldn’t reach her.

There was a presence behind her, but she didn’t know. She didn’t see.

It was the killer.

For a moment something glittered in the starlight.

A knife.

Rocky jerked awake drenched with sweat. He looked at the bedside clock. It wasn’t quite 6:00 a.m.

Screw it. He got up and showered. He thought of the different investigative paths he might take.

By the time he was dressed, he knew exactly where he was going.

* * *

The old saying was right. Daylight did make everything better.

Devin rose, showered and dressed, then brewed coffee. Looking out, she saw that there was still a patrol car in front of her house, just as she had been told there would be.

She poured a cup and went outside. Unbidden, an image came to her mind. She was going to get there and find out that the officer was dead. There would be a bullet hole through his forehead or a knife stuck through his throat.

Her imagination playing tricks again, of course.

He wasn’t dead. And he was young, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, tops.

“Thought you might like some coffee,” she told him.

“That’s wicked cool of you, thanks,” he said, smiling.

She nodded and dropped her estimation. Maybe twenty-one and fresh out of the academy.

She handed him the cup. “It’s black, but I have sugar and creamer inside.”

“Black is great.”

“Are you hungry?”

He didn’t get to answer the question, because a black SUV drove up behind him and parked.

Agent Rockwell got out, and she noticed details she’d missed the night before. His eyes were direct and green, and he kept his dark auburn hair short and well groomed. And he was impeccably dressed in a dark suit that fit him perfectly.

He walked over to them, displaying his badge for the officer in the car.

“I’m Officer Fitzpatrick,” the young man in the car said. “Glad to see you, sir. I’ve been told I could head home at nine, but I don’t know if I’m getting a replacement or not.”

“I don’t believe so,” Rockwell said, and looked at Devin. “Not enough manpower, and we don’t believe that Miss Lyle is in any danger—especially now that the night is over.” He smiled reassuringly at Devin. “We don’t actually believe you were ever in any danger, but I thought that after the trauma you went through, the reassurance of an officer out front might be welcome.” He stared at her assessingly. “It looks like you made it through the night quite well.”

Fitzpatrick handed back her mug with a thank-you, then turned his key in the ignition and drove off.

“Thank you for sending him.”

“Sure. May I ask you some questions?”

“I guess,” she said.

He was staring at her house curiously. Suddenly he looked at her and smiled. “I just realized...this is the Witch of the Woods House.”

Devin felt her muscles tightening at the reminder of the way some locals had mocked her aunt and the cottage.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said coldly.

“Sorry, just growing up so close—in Peabody—there were rumors about this place, that’s all. It was owned by an older lady, by all accounts a lovely woman, who was a Wiccan and grew herbs and...every girl I went to high school with wanted a love potion from her. I guess she passed away—she was quite elderly even then. Did you know her?”

“Yes. She was my great-aunt, Mina Lyle,” Devin said. She couldn’t help the chill in her tone.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. About those questions...?”

She shrugged. “Come in. The house doesn’t bite.”

“I didn’t think it did.”

She led the way in and offered him coffee, then went to get it, leaving him in the parlor, studying all her treasures.

When she returned, Poe was sitting on his shoulder.

She looked at the bird. Wretched traitor! she told him silently.

And yet...

She didn’t know what it was. She’d been so terrified after her discovery in the woods that she’d thought he was an idiot when he hadn’t immediately dialed 9-1-1.

Now...

Now she couldn’t help but note that he was extremely good-looking in a masculine but rather...federal way. He could have walked onto the set of a new Men in Black movie and fit right in.

“He’s great,” Rockwell said of the bird. “What’s his name?”

“Poe.”

“Of course. Well, let’s set you on your perch, Poe,” he said, and easily urged the bird back onto the white pine perch in his large cage. He looked over at Devin. “And thank you. For seeing me, speaking with me—and for the coffee.”

As he sipped, his eyes wandered, then lit on the marble bust of Madame Tussaud.

He walked over to it, and she realized that he was staring at the pentagram medallion.

He turned to her. He was tense. Hard. Everything about him had changed.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded.

And she realized that the icy stare that he was aiming her way was filled with...

Suspicion.

3

None of the pentagrams were the same. No one of the three was like either of the other two. Rocky had seen all three medallions, and they were firmly etched in his memory.

The first, the one he’d seen on Melissa Wilson’s body, had been a very clean design, with only a thin line of silver vines winding around the angles at each point of the star.

On the second—found on Carly Henderson—the points of the star were themselves formed by green-tinted vines.

The third—found on Jane Doe last night—had intricate little flowers at each point.

And now this...

It was probably one of the nicest pieces of jewelry he had ever seen. Enamel delicately decorated the silver to create slender elegant leaves around the points of the star, and there was a tiny stone at each point—a sapphire. There was something so fragile and beautiful about the piece that it was instantly arresting. In a city where there were probably thousands of similar pieces for sale, this one was exquisite.

And enough like the others that they all just might have been created by the same artist.

He stared at Devin Lyle, and she stared back at him. Maybe she thought he’d lost it. She hadn’t trusted him much from the get-go, he thought, even though she had flagged him down.

“Who are you—really?” she asked him.

“Agent Rockford. Really.” By rote, he produced his badge.

She looked at it, then at him, and said, “You do realize that badge doesn’t mean much these days. We—the innocent public—are conditioned to accept any kind of forgery because we’re accustomed to seeing official badges everywhere.”

“It’s real,” he told her, smiling.

“So I really flagged down an FBI agent—by accident—after stumbling across a body?”

He nodded, but he wasn’t about to get distracted from what really interested him. “Where did you get this piece?” he asked her again.

“My friend’s shop. She has a number of them. I’m not much for diamonds, but I do love colored stones.”

“Like rubies, emeralds and sapphires?” he queried. It wasn’t an attack, though he could tell from the way she looked at him that she had taken it as one. She seemed to believe that he suspected her—or her friends—to be guilty of something.

“Citrine, aquamarine, opals—fire opals are my favorite,” she said. She set his coffee on the natural-wood coffee table that stood between what Rocky was pretty sure was a grouping of eighteenth-century carved chairs and a love seat.

“Your questions can’t be about my likes and dislikes when it comes to jewelry,” she said, sitting down. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. I heard a noise outside. I grabbed my hockey stick and went out into the woods, and there she was. My first instinct was to get help—to get the police. I was closer to the road than I was to my house. Okay, I was panicked and afraid the killer might be around and follow me home, so maybe that’s why I ran to the road. I saw her, but I didn’t know her,” she added quietly.

He took a seat across from her.

“What did you hear?” he asked her. “The M.E. reckoned that the time of death was around five o’clock. You found her hours later. That’s why I’m asking.”

She shook her head. She was evading him, he thought. “I don’t know exactly. I just thought that someone might be hurt or something, so I went out.”

He could press it, but he could tell she wasn’t going to say more. So far he’d called her beloved deceased great-aunt a crazy witch and jumped down her throat over a medallion. Not good. He wanted her help.

She turned the tables. “So you’re from here?” she asked him. “You said something about Peabody.”

“Born there. My mother could trace her family back to the Mayflower. She’s proud of it. I have more of a tendency to think the ship was filled with hypocrites. They wanted freedom, so they came here and persecuted others, and, as we both know, their descendants tangled themselves up with the witchcraft trials. My father was from Texas, but he loved my mom, so I was born here. What about you?”

“I grew up in an old Victorian right here in Salem. I could see the House of the Seven Gables whenever I went outside.”

“And you never left?” he asked.

“No, I left. I was a reporter in Boston for a while, then I came back. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to chitchat about growing up in New England.”

She had blue eyes—deep, direct blue eyes. The color of the sapphires on her pentagram. He lowered his head for a minute, hiding a dry smile. She was the perfect image of a witch, or of the Hollywood version, at least. Her hair was as dark as the wings of her pet raven. She was tall and slender, with elegant curves and perfect posture. She was in jeans today, and a soft sweater that hugged her form nicely, but—given a cloak and a scepter—she could have stood on a hill in the wind and, with an evil chant, lifted her face to the heavens and demanded that the lightning strike and the thunder roar.

And there was something she wasn’t telling him.

“I wish there was more I could tell you. I so wish I could have done something to help that poor woman. If I knew anything that might help assist you, I would be writing it down to make sure you had it right,” she told him.

“Thank you. I do need the name of your friend—the one you bought that medallion from—and her store.”

She nodded. “You know, there was another woman killed in Swampscott two weeks ago,” she said.

“Yes.”

“The police aren’t giving out much information. And they aren’t saying much about the woman I found, either,” she said. “It was the same killer, wasn’t it?”

“They aren’t giving out information because they’re trying to weed out all the crackpots who want to confess to murders they didn’t commit. They’re also trying to avoid—” He stopped abruptly.

“To avoid?”

“Copycats.”

“The officer last night asked me not to give out any information about the body,” she said.

“And that’s important. Luckily, we managed to have the scene sealed off and most of the work done before the press showed up last night. They don’t know that you’re involved, so hopefully there won’t be anyone trying to get information out of you.”

“I can keep quiet,” she assured him. She hesitated. “But...this is also like that other murder...the one that happened thirteen years ago.” She looked at him with that direct blue stare of hers. “In Peabody,” she said.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“You...were there?”

“I was a senior in high school at the time.”

She rose and walked over to the mantel. “Were the other women found with medallions like mine lying on their breasts, as well?”

He hesitated, then realized that having seen one victim, she was smart enough to draw conclusions.

“Yes. But that’s something else I hope you’ll keep to yourself.”

She turned and looked at him. “Are you thinking they’re some kind of Wiccan sacrifice? I ask because I know that might be a lot of people’s first impression. But you’d be really wrong. Half my friends are Wiccans. They’re...like flower children. They believe in good things. People have a tendency to think that Wiccans follow Aleister Crowley’s tenets, but you grew up around here, so you must know that’s not true. Crowley was a hedonist who used whatever suited him to create his own brand of religion. He even homed in on Masonic principles, and the Masons I know are great people. My dad is a Mason, and he and his friends bowled a lot and raised money for children’s charities. Trust me, no real Wiccan committed these murders.”

She was passionate and clearly convinced of the truth of what she was saying. And of course, he hadn’t grown up in the area for nothing.

“Do no harm to others lest it be returned to you threefold,” he said.

She seemed a little startled. “Yes.”

“No true Wiccan did anything like this, no,” he said. “But there are still other people out there who could have, and could have made it look like Wiccans were involved. Satanists, or plain old nutcases. We don’t know yet. But hunting down the source of the medallions will be important, and with three of them, we finally have a shot.”

“Well, I can assure you that my friend Beth Fullway, who owns the shop where I bought my medallion, isn’t involved. She and I were thirteen when the first murder occurred. We went to school together.”

“But did she create the piece?” he asked.

“No,” Devin admitted.

“What’s the name of her shop?”

“The Haunted Dragon. It’s right on Essex.”

He picked up his cup and finished his coffee. It was excellent. Black and strong, with no bite or aftertaste. He set the cup down regretfully.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, Agent Rockwell.”

“Rocky,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Please, just call me Rocky.”

“Your name is Rocky Rockwell?”

“Craig Rockwell. But I’ve always gone by Rocky.” He turned toward the door, then stopped and extracted a card from his wallet. “Please, call me if you think of anything.”

She accepted the card and slid it into the pocket of her jeans. “I will.”

“And keep your doors locked.”

“Of course,” she said again, stepping forward and opening the door for him.

He had started toward his car when she called him back.

“Agent Rockwell. Um, Rocky?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe I could come with you. I’ve known Beth all my life. I’m afraid if you just go in and start questioning her...”

“You think I come on too tough?” he asked her.

“Well, when you first asked me about the necklace—the medallion—I thought you were going to arrest me.”

He was thoughtful for a moment, not sure how much he wanted to involve this woman.

“I really can help,” she said. “You’ll find out more if you let me introduce you and play it cool.”

Maybe she could help him. Like Jack Grail, she was a lot more closely tied to the area than he was.

He let out a breath.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

“Wait, give me a second,” she told him.

She ran into another room and came out with a large box. He reached to take it from her.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I have it.”

“Please.”

She let him carry it. “Crown jewels?” he asked her.

“Books.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t elaborate.

“Of what?”

“You mean you don’t just assume that because I live in Salem, I must write about ghosts or monsters?”

“You could write anything. Fiction? Nonfiction?”

She blushed. “Witches—for children.”

He grinned knowingly, and her blush deepened.

“They’re based on my great-aunt.”

“The good witch.”

“The Wiccan. As you know.”

Once they were in his car, she turned to him curiously. “Don’t you think it’s awfully coincidental that you came back to town just in time to be on the road when I ran out?”

“Not really. I’m here because of the murder in Swampscott.”

“Ah,” she said, looking at him. She was waiting for more.

“And because of the murder thirteen years ago. Because of the similarities.”

“You must be pretty high up—to be able to pick your assignments, I mean.”

“I got lucky,” he said simply. He should have added that he wasn’t sure he was even official yet, he just happened to be friends with the lead detective on the case.

They headed to the pedestrian mall on Essex and he parked in the public garage. As they walked out to the street Rocky looked at the old Civil War building that was now the National Park Visitors’ Center. When he’d been growing up, it had been under reconstruction. As they reached Essex Street he reflected that while specifics changed, the town didn’t. Shops had different owners and offered different delights, but the overall effect was still the same. He paused, allowing himself a small moment of pride. Yes, the town was commercialized. But even so, most places—even the shoddy museums with less than stellar mannequins—made a point of getting the history right. They offered theories on what had caused the mass hysteria that led to the witch trials, but they didn’t profess to have the definitive answer. They reported history.

He listened to the chatter on the street. Some of the tourists were talking about the news—about the fact that a second woman had been murdered in just two weeks.

“Young women,” one man said. “Out alone.” He looked at the teenage daughter walking next to him. “You won’t be going anywhere alone.”

“Dad!” she protested.

“How dreadful,” a woman passing by said to her friends.

“Yes, but we’ll all stay together and be safe,” offered one of them.

Devin undoubtedly heard them, too, but she just watched him instead.

“Beth’s shop is this way,” she finally told him, taking the box from his arms and starting to walk away.

He followed her. When they entered the shop, a little bell rang and a pretty petite woman behind the counter looked up.

“Devin! You have my books. Thank you,” she said. “I had a mom in here a while ago asking about the new Auntie Pim. I have her number. Now I’ll be able to call her back and— Oh, hello.” She was clearly surprised to notice that Devin wasn’t alone.

“Devin! Who is this?” she asked.

“Rocky. Um, Rocky Rockwell,” Devin said.

She’d probably already forgotten the “Craig” part, he thought.

Rocky took Beth’s hand in a firm grip and said it was a pleasure to meet her.

“A friend from Boston?” Beth asked.

Before Devin could answer, Rocky seized on the opportunity.

“Yes. And Devin has told me that you have the best shop in town.”

Beth flushed, while Devin stood silent.

“Thank you, and welcome to Salem,” Beth said. “I hope you enjoy our city.”

“Thank you. Your store looks to be as wonderful as Devin said.”

“Thank you again. And where are you from, Rocky?” Beth asked him.

He grinned—charmingly, he hoped. “Peabody.”

Beth laughed. “Of course you are. No one who isn’t ever says it right.”

While the rest of the world pronounced all the syllables, locals said it more like Peab’dy.

“Small world,” Beth went on, delighted. “I wonder if we ever met at a concert or something, somewhere along the line.”

“He’s older than we are,” Devin said. “And he’s been gone a long time. He and I never knew each other locally, either. Until now.” She blushed. “I mean, he’s here now.”

“Oh,” Beth said. “Ohh.”

Clearly she had heard an implication of intimacy that Devin had never intended. Rocky was amused. Devin wasn’t. But Beth quickly went on to other matters.

“Devin, you have to be careful. Have you seen the news? Another young woman has been killed. They haven’t identified her yet, but...it sounded as if she was found not far from your house.”

“Yes, I know,” Devin said.

“Want to come and stay with me?” Beth asked her. “I mean, I live right here in the middle of the city. A lot safer, don’t you think?”

“I’m okay right now. But thank you for the invitation.”

“I guess you need to be home in the cottage to write. I mean, Auntie Pim is Mina. Did you ever meet her, Rocky?”

“No, I’m sorry to say that I didn’t,” Rocky said.

“That’s too bad. She was a remarkable woman.” She turned back to her friend. “Devin, please be careful,” Beth urged.

“I will be. I promise.”

“Buy some pepper spray or something.”

“I’ll think about it.”

They were interrupted as two women, one noticeably tall and the other much shorter, walked toward them from the back of the store. The tall woman appeared to be about fifty. She had shoulder-length snow-white hair that curved around an attractive face and wore a black dress that fell to the ground. The other woman was clutching a number of shopping bags. She thanked her companion, waved cheerfully to them at the counter and left the shop.

“Hello,” the white-haired woman said as she walked over to Devin and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Delighted to see you. Did you bring books?”

“Yes, I brought the box,” Devin said.

She didn’t get a chance to introduce Rocky, because Beth stepped in.

“Gayle Alden, this is Rocky Rockwell, a friend of Devin’s. Rocky, Gayle is one of the two best mediums in the city. The other, of course, is my other employee, Theo Hastings, but Theo is off today.”

“How do you do?” Gayle said politely, then turned to Beth with a twinkle in her eye. “I don’t suppose he’s here for a reading, is he?”

“Actually, I’m here about a piece of jewelry Devin bought from you,” Rocky said.

“The silver pentagram. Or pentacle—whatever you choose to call it,” Beth said. “Technically, it’s a pentagram when it’s just the symbol and a pentacle when the star has the circle around it, but people mostly just say pentagram these days.”

Rocky smiled. “Whatever you call it, it’s a beautiful piece.”

“I’m sold out for the moment. They go as quickly as Devin’s Auntie Pim books,” Beth said. “But they’re done by a local artist. Sheena Marston. I can order one for you. In fact, if I special order it, you can have input on the design, if you want. She only works with silver, but she can add enamel, and precious or semiprecious stones. I had one with black onyx that was spectacular.”

“Is it possible to meet with Ms. Marston?” he asked. “It would be easier for me to explain my ideas in person.”

There was a slight pause. Gayle and Beth exchanged a long look filled with something he couldn’t decipher.

“She doesn’t actually see people,” Beth said.

“She’s something of a hermit,” Gayle added.

Gayle Alden was Sheena Marston, Rocky thought.

“Are the pieces exclusive through you?” he asked Beth.

“They are now. In previous years, a number of shops carried her work, but I convinced her that being exclusive would be to her advantage,” Beth said.

“I’m sure Beth and the Haunted Dragon will have more soon,” Gayle said.

“Are you a Wiccan, Rocky?” Beth asked.

“No, but I think the pieces are beautiful,” he said.

“I’m so glad you like them,” Gayle said. “I’m guessing you’re thinking of getting one as a gift for someone. So many people think that only Wiccans should wear them. And a lot of others think they’re associated with devil worship, or that they’re just plain evil. In fact, there’s nothing evil about them.” She pointed to a pentagram-shaped paperweight on the counter. “From the top and moving clockwise, the points represent spirit, water, fire, earth and air.”

She met his eyes and continued. “There’s nothing evil about the pentagram or the modern practice of Wicca, which was established by a man named Gerald Gardner in 1954, with practices based on ancient pagan traditions. Laurie Cabot, arguably the most famous Wiccan high priestess, came to Salem in the 1970s and popularized Wicca here. And just as Christianity has many sects, so does Wicca. Some are traditional, others revere figures a lot like Christian saints. But none of them are evil.”

“Are you a Wiccan?” Rocky asked her.

She flushed. “No. Congregational church. But people here in Salem respect everyone’s beliefs. Or those of us you’d want to know do, anyway.”

He smiled. “Gotcha.”

The little bell rang as a group of tourists came into the shop. Gayle excused herself, and then Beth went to help a couple who were interested in the jewelry under the counter.

“Did that help you any?” Devin asked Rocky as they left.

He didn’t get a chance to answer her, because she’d been looking at him as she spoke, and now she plowed straight into another man.

“Devin! Hey, sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, backing away.

The man was almost Rocky’s height; he had slightly silvered hair, which somehow added to an impression of being debonair—or a lecher, one or the other.

“Completely my fault,” the man said. He looked at Rocky with raised brows.

Was that jealousy? Rocky wondered.

“Theo, meet Rocky Rockwell. Rocky, Theo Hastings. Theo works for Beth, too.”

They shook hands.

“Old friends?” Theo asked lightly.

“From Boston,” Rocky said, avoiding a direct answer.

“Oh, well, pleased to meet you,” Theo said. “Devin, always wonderful to see you.”

He smiled and moved on.

“Interesting character,” Rocky said.

“I think pretty much everything about him—including his claim to be Wiccan—might be an act,” Devin said. “His way of making it here. Anyway, I should get back.”

“Of course.”

“If you’re looking for a restaurant later, I can suggest a new one for you. It’s at the old jail. The place is apartments now, with the restaurant on the ground floor.”

“Thanks.”

They headed to the car, and he drove the short distance to her house. He got out and went around to open her door, but she’d already opened it by the time he got there.

“You’ve got my card, right?” he asked her.

“Yes, of course. And I’ll call you if I think of anything that might help,” she promised.

Still, he hesitated. “How well do you know Gayle Alden?” he asked her.

She arched her brows. “I’ve known her forever. She was one of my teachers in high school. She retired last year and went to work for Beth.”

“What did she teach?”

“History.” Devin was silent, a smile playing across her lips. “You don’t think that Gayle could possibly—”

“I think that Gayle Alden is Sheena Marston.”

That genuinely surprised Devin, who shrugged after a minute. “I have to say, that’s possible. We did a lot of reenactments in class, and she made a lot of the jewelry and things for the costumes.”

He nodded. “What about the old guy?”

“The old guy?” she asked.

“The one you crashed into.”

Devin laughed. “Oh, Theo. He would be devastated that you called him an old guy.”

“How long have you known him?”

“A year or so. I think he’s from Ohio.” Her smile faded and she frowned thoughtfully. “Do you really think...I mean...is it possible that the person who killed thirteen years ago is back?”

“I don’t know, and that makes me nervous. I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about, but even so, be careful. If something seems suspicious, call the cops. Or call me. Do you have anything you can use for protection?”

“I really do wield a wicked hockey stick.”

He smiled. “I’m going to get you some pepper spray. I’ll call you before I bring it over so you’ll know it’s me.”

“Sure. Thanks,” she told him. “Well...” She smiled again and headed toward her door. He followed her up the little stone path.

“I just want to make sure—” He began.

“That I lock the door.”

“Yes.”

“I will,” she promised.

They both hesitated.

“Want me to walk through the house—just check it out?” he asked her.

“Um, sure. That’s not a bad idea. Ever. I guess.”

She moved to one side so he could enter first, then followed him as he went from room to room, and looked in closets and under the beds. He checked all her windows and the back door. At last he was satisfied.

“You’re alone—well, except for Poe, of course,” he told her.

“Thank you.”

He could tell that she was waiting for him to leave, so he did, but he waited outside the door until he heard the bolt slide into place.

As he walked back to his car, his cell phone rang.

It was Jackson Crow. He was official. And several other agents would be joining him shortly.

* * *

Devin finished cutting up bits of fruit for Poe and walked back into the parlor. “Hey, boy, you know what? I’m not so fond of Mr. FBI. I was living this nice happy life, just getting back into something approaching a social life with old friends, and now he has me doubting all of them.”

Poe had no answer. He was interested only in the fruit she was offering him.

“Meanwhile, I need to get back to the computer. My publisher wants a new Auntie Pim adventure out there every six months.”

There were a number of places in the house where she might have chosen to work. Auntie Mina might have been an herbalist and a Wiccan and slightly crazy, but she had also loved technology. There was cable television, and a wireless network. Auntie Mina had loved her little tablet that had let her watch her shows in any room.

After giving it some thought, Devin had chosen the parlor as her office. She loved the old mantel and the way the fire burned when the nights turned chill. She liked to look out at the stone path that led to the house and the gardens—now in need of work—that grew on either side of it.

Last night, though... She hoped never to go through anything like that again. She had discovered a murder victim.

A sight she would never get out of her mind.

But she wasn’t a cop. She wasn’t even a reporter anymore.

She made her living writing children’s books, and she needed to get back to Auntie Pim and the Belligerent Gnome.

She started to work. The gnome was angry with one of the dwarfs who lived in the woods and wanted a potion from Auntie Pim to make the dwarf grow a giant nose. He begged at first and pleaded—but Auntie Pim told him that magic must never be used to hurt people. The gnome threatened her next, telling Auntie Pim that he would send a plague of locusts to eat all the herbs in her garden and then she wouldn’t be able to do anything. So Auntie Pim told the gnome that she would make a potion that could cause a nose to grow. But she warned the gnome that any harm he caused would come back at him threefold.

Devin had read her initial draft to children at the library, and they had actually been on pins and needles—horrified that Auntie Pim would use her magic for evil. But Devin had assured them that they shouldn’t be afraid, because Auntie Pim always had a plan. What would happen, of course, was that the dwarf’s nose would grow by a fraction of a fraction of an inch, while the angry gnome’s nose would blossom out like a double-size volleyball. At the end, of course, the gnome, having learned his lesson, would beg for forgiveness. And after Auntie Pim returned his nose to a normal size, he would help her in her garden.

Devin looked out at the garden, wishing that she had a belligerent gnome to help her now. She’d intended to get outside today, but that didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.

Her phone rang, and she jumped.

It was Beth, who skipped right past hello and said, “You’ve been holding out on me!”

“What?”

“Rocky Rockwell. Wow. You sure can keep a secret. I can’t believe you’ve had that man in your pocket all this time and haven’t said a word. Now I know why you don’t want me fixing you up with anyone. He looks like he walked off the cover of GQ. I have to admit, I couldn’t have found you someone like him anywhere around here.”

Why the hell hadn’t she introduced him as an FBI agent, here to investigate the recent murders? She massaged her temples with her thumb and forefingers.

The last “GQ” man she’d dated had worked with her at the paper. He’d been stunned—shocked—but not emotionally devastated when she’d broken it off with him. He’d scooped her story, and people who cared about other people didn’t do that. In his mind, it had been his right. She was just a woman, while he was a serious reporter.

But this man...

Yes. He was a sharp dresser, tall and well built and...okay, gorgeous. Neatly clipped auburn hair, searing green eyes. Of course, it was easy for Beth to think...

“We’re friends,” Devin said.

“With benefits?” Beth teased.

“Friends,” Devin repeated firmly.

“Well, if you’re not interested in the benefits part, bring that boy back around!”

“Oh, Beth...”

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t call to tease you. Okay, yes, I partly did. But I really called because I wish you’d come stay with me. I just had lunch over at Rockafella’s—I love their food—but they had the televisions on, and there was a police spokesman telling young women to be careful, not to go out alone. You really should think about staying with me. Please?”

“I will, Beth. I promise I’ll think about it.”

“Okay. Hey, the new Brad Pitt is playing at the mall. A few of us are going tomorrow night. Why don’t you join us? Bring tall, auburn and handsome if you want. I promise—no more teasing. And I won’t drool on him or anything.”

“Let me call you?”

“Sure.”

Devin hung up and went into the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten anything all day, and Beth’s mention of lunch made her hungry.

She had just pulled out the bread and sandwich meat and was standing by the refrigerator, a bottle of mayonnaise in her hand, when she had the uneasy feeling that she was being watched.

She looked toward the kitchen doorway.

Her heart seemed to stand still.

There was Auntie Mina. She was wearing one of her pretty black dresses that came just below her knees; her white hair was swept into a bun, and her spectacles were in place. Her cheeks were rosy; her lips were pursed into a smile.

Devin blinked. Aunt Mina didn’t go away.

Instead, she spoke.

“Yes, I’m here, child. Now please put that mayonnaise down before you drop it.”

4

The drive to Boston wasn’t a long one, but Rocky, sitting in the passenger seat beside Jack Grail, found that he resented the time the trip would take. Still, when Jack had called him over lunch, he knew it only made sense to go.

He didn’t like being away from the active investigation, because this case was a confounding one. The murderer had struck once and stopped, and then again almost thirteen years later, when he had struck twice in two weeks.

Either that, or they had a copycat on their hands.

But how could a copycat mimic Melissa’s murder so precisely, when many of the details had never been made public?

Now he and Jack stood in a sterile room that smelled of antiseptic and death, and listened to the report being given by Dr. Samuels. Dr. Samuels hadn’t performed the autopsy on Carly Henderson; that had been Dr. Smith, who was currently on vacation. His report was in Carly’s file, and she had been buried in Salem just three days ago.

Their Jane Doe lay on the table. If she weren’t such a strange color and didn’t feel like ice—and didn’t have the Y incision that was the most obvious sign of autopsy—she might have been any young woman catching a few rays. Dr. Samuels droned through the necessary information. Female, between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three, five feet six inches, one hundred and fifteen pounds. There were no signs of rape or sexual molestation; she hadn’t even been sexually active in the days before her death. She had no tattoos or identifying scars, and she had nearly perfect teeth.

In fact, other than the slice across the throat—performed, according to Dr. Samuels, by a double-edged blade of about six or seven inches and made from left to right—she had been unharmed. No one had beat her, strangled her, dragged her or done anything else to her. Her stomach contents were being tested. However, Dr. Samuels had read the report on Carly Henderson and believed that the two women had consumed identical meals—clam chowder and fish and chips—before they had met their demise. If that turned out to be true, Rocky thought, it could be a clue as valuable as the pentagram medallions.

“So,” Rocky said, moving to use Jack as his mock victim, “the killer came up directly behind her, placed the weapon so—and slashed?”

“Yes, that appears to be what happened,” Samuels agreed.

“The same as Carly Henderson?” Jack asked.

“From what I’ve read, yes.”

“And what about Melissa Wilson?” Rocky asked.

Samuels frowned. “I don’t think I know that name.”

“She was killed thirteen years ago—she was found the same way.”

“I’ll have to look up that report. I was working in San Francisco thirteen years ago,” Samuels told them.

They thanked him for his time and headed back to their car.

“None of them was molested,” Jack said. “I guess there’s a small comfort in that.”

Small comfort? Rocky thought. Maybe. They were all still dead.

“Yeah,” Rocky muttered. “I guess. I don’t think they had any idea they were going to die. It must have been quick.”

“I don’t understand how he pulls it off. This guy has to be covered with blood once he’s done,” Jack said.

“Not that much. He’s behind the victim, and the spray would go forward.”

“But then he’s lowering his victim to the ground—laying her out. And placing the medallion on her,” Jack said.

“Yes, some blood, but not so much that he couldn’t cover it if he’d stashed a jacket nearby. Soon as he’s done he goes home and cleans up. And since we don’t know where home is...”

“Gotta be Wiccans,” Jack said.

“I don’t think we can automatically suspect an entire community. It might just as well be someone who wants to cast blame on the local Wicca community. Maybe some nut job who believes that they’re Satanists and it’s up to him to get rid of them.”

He might have been away from the area for a long time, but he knew enough to know that Wiccans didn’t practice human or animal sacrifice, and did not in any way, shape or form condone murder.

“Yeah, I guess. Everything about this case is one thing or the opposite, isn’t it?” Jack asked. “Either it’s the same killer or a copycat. Either it’s a misguided follower of a nontraditional religion or it’s someone trying to pin it on them. Thank God the witch trials are over, that’s all I can say. All we need is another witch scare.”

“That alone makes it imperative that we keep a lid on the details,” Rocky said.

“Some of them have gotten out, you know,” Jack told him.

Rocky looked at Jack and waited.

“The boy who found Carly Henderson. Luckily the kid was terrified—he saw her and ran. But people know she was splayed out and covered in blood.”

“I have it on my list to talk to the kid, anyway,” Rocky said.

“No problem. Whenever you want to go.”

“How about now?”

Their timing was good. School was out, and Manny Driscoll, the fourteen-year-old boy who had discovered Carly Henderson when he was out on his after-school job delivering Chinese food, was home.

“I’m not letting him work right now,” Manny’s mother, Martha, told them. “Chow Chang, his boss, understands. When this is all over, maybe. Manny can just mow the yard for allowance,” she said firmly. She sat with Rocky and Jack while they questioned her son.

“Did you see anyone leaving the woods or hanging around anywhere nearby?” Rocky asked him.

Manny was a sober boy. He looked at Rocky seriously. “No. I fell off my bike onto the road and...and that’s when I saw her through the trees. Man, I fell down when I got a look at her. I...” He paused and looked around, as if he wanted to make really certain none of his friends were there. “I screamed like a girl—like a little girl,” he said, sounding disgusted with himself.

“That’s all right, Manny. I’ve screamed like a girl, too,” Rocky said.

“Really?” Manny asked him.

“Really,” Rocky echoed.

“You fell, though, because a car almost sideswiped you, right?” Rocky asked.

“Yeah.”

“What kind of car?”

Manny stared at him blankly. “Um, I don’t remember.”

“Was it dark, light? Old, new?”

“Not too old, I don’t think,” Manny said. He perked up. “It was dark—maybe a truck, but maybe not that big.”

“A big SUV?” Jack asked him.

“Yeah, maybe,” Manny said.

“Did you see who was driving?” Rocky asked.

“No. I just saw how close it was coming.”

“My boy is lucky to be alive,” Martha said, setting a protective arm around his shoulders.

“Of course, and we’re very grateful,” Rocky told her. “What then, Manny?”

“Well, I fell. And the orders fell, too. Mr. Chang is really nice, and I didn’t want all that food to end up on the ground, so I was picking it all up—and then I saw her. I just threw it all away and grabbed my bike and got out of there. Fast.”

“As soon as he got home, we called the police,” his mother said. “We didn’t believe him at first,” she admitted. “I thought he’d maybe been playing too many video games. But...she was real.”

“Thank you, Manny, you really helped us,” Rocky said. He left the boy with a card—which, of course, his mother took. But Rocky thought it was important to make kids know they were respected and believed. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

“I can’t believe you got something,” Jack muttered as soon as they were outside.

“The car?” Rocky asked.

Jack nodded. “When my men questioned him, they never asked about it. It’s not a lot, but it’s something. Or could be. It might just have been some idiot speeding home. Asshole might not even have realized he almost ran down a kid.”

“True. Can you take me by the scene?”

“At your command,” Jack told him.

The crime scene tape was down, the fact that Carly Henderson had died here only a memory for many. Two weeks ago she had been planning her future.

Now...

Now she was underground and the soggy tape that had fallen from the trees was all that was left to mark the place where she had passed, a sign of nature regaining control.

Jack led him the ten feet off the road to the spot where Carly had been found. He stooped down over the faint depression that told him where the body had once been. He could see the point of the star that had been marked by her head, the indentations made by her arms and legs, and was grateful the ground had been soft and muddy from a recent rain the day of her murder.

What the hell did the position and the pentagram mean, though? A killer who was pretending to a belief he didn’t share? A killer who was sending a message, or one who was pointing a finger?

He closed his eyes in thought.

Help me.

He thought he heard the words in his head.

The victims knew, he realized with a sudden certainty, despite the absence of proof. They knew that something was wrong, there in the woods. But the killer was there with them—hiding. Either he brought them there or lured them there. Then left them. And he would wait—and watch. He wanted them to realize something was wrong, and only then did he slip up behind them.

“What is it?” Jack asked. “You’ve figured something out, haven’t you?”

Careful not to sound too certain and raise suspicion, Rocky said, “Here’s how I think it plays out. Most likely the killer gets there first, then he hides and watches his victim arrive.”

“We found Carly’s car in town,” Jack said. “It was right where she’d left it, in a garage.”

“Then she got a ride here somehow. Maybe even with the killer, and then he left her here on some pretext. Or maybe he has an accomplice.” He looked at Jack. “He picks his victims carefully. He convinces them that he has something unique to show them or give them. Or maybe he romances them or comes up with some other reason for them to come to the place he’s chosen. But he’s already there, and he watches. Maybe he takes them when they’re still calm and just waiting—or perhaps he waits until they get impatient, maybe even angry, and finally afraid. Then he attacks.”

Rocky looked around and noticed one of the trees where the bark had peeled away.

“He waited there,” he told Jack quietly, pointing.

“What makes you think so?”

“The way the bark is worn in places and plucked at. I believe that’s where he was.”

“I can get a crime scene unit back out.”

Rocky shook his head. “No, you won’t get any physical evidence. Not now. I’ve got to get into his head, Jack.”

“Or her head,” Jack said.

“Or her head,” Rocky agreed.

He was pensive when they returned to the car.

“Want to come home with me for dinner?” Jack asked after a while. “Haley would be delighted.”

“Not tonight. Thanks,” Rocky said. “I’m going to go over everything one more time. I’m expecting some more members of my team soon, too. So...”

“You going to want a room at the station?” Jack asked him.

“Thank you. That would be perfect.”

Jack drove to Rocky’s hotel. There was a group of men in business suits standing out front, finishing up a discussion.

“Hey, an old friend!” Jack said.

Rocky studied the group and recognized Vince Steward easily. He had to be six-four, at least, and he was still built like a brick wall.

He stood out in any crowd.

“I’ll park,” Jack said. “Vince is going to want to say hello to you.”

Vince saw Jack before he saw Rocky. He grinned and waved. He’d come a long way from the kid who drank beer in the back of a pickup truck.

His suit was custom cut; his hair was neatly clipped. His eyes flashed with good humor when he saw Rocky.

Vince strode over to throw his arms around Rocky. “The prodigal son returns. No, wait, can’t use that. You were never a prodigal anything. Good to see you, buddy. What brings you back to town?”

“He’s working the murder,” Jack said.

“Oh,” Vince said, and his grin faded. “Yeah, sad thing, huh? So, you still a fed, huh? That’s the last I heard, anyway. You know, old friends can keep up. They have this new thing called Facebook. Oh, yeah, there’s also a great invention called email.”

“I guess I spend too much time working,” Rocky said. “But hell, if I’d known you were going to go to law school, I’d have come back just to see it,” Rocky said with a laugh.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, anyway. Let’s get together before you leave town again.” He called out to his group. “Hey! Got an old friend in town. Craig Rockwell. Rocky, come meet the boys.”

“The boys” were a group of maritime attorneys, as it turned out, and they met once a week at Rocky’s hotel.

There was conversation all around for a few minutes. The men asked Jack about the murders, but he was an experienced cop and said very little.

“It’s good to see you,” Vince told Rocky when the conversation wound down. “We should all get together soon. No one can work around the clock.”

Actually, Rocky thought, he often did.

“Has Haley seen our old shining star?” Vince asked Jack.

“She has,” Jack told him.

“Renee will want to see him, too. We have to get together.”

“We’ll make a plan,” Rocky promised.

“Yes, but for now, I’d better be going,” Vince said. “Court bright and early tomorrow—I’m defending Harwell Marine. Meanwhile, if you need me, buddy, for anything, don’t hesitate,” Vince said sincerely.

Rocky thanked him, and the three of them said their goodbyes.

As Rocky headed into the hotel, he was glad that they’d run into Vince.

The rest of his old crowd was doing great. Even Vince had developed ambition and made a real success of his life.

Melissa.

She had changed them all.

He went to his room and set his briefcase on his desk. He liked the hotel. It was near the waterfront and offered inexpensive mini-suites with all the necessary conveniences. He had a coffeemaker, a wet bar and a large dining room table that allowed him to spread out the reports for all three cases.

It had been good to see Jack, but he was obsessed and he knew it.

Back to work.

The women and the circumstances were all similar.

The women were all young. They were all of similar height and weight, but with different coloring. All Caucasian, though. They had all been fully clothed, no sign of molestation.

They had all been found with a silver pentagram on a silver chain lying on their breasts. Cause of death appeared to be the same: throat slit by a double-edged blade that was six or seven inches long. The crime scenes had yielded no clues. No footprints, not even near Carly’s body. The killer must have taken the time to obscure them. No gum wrappers, beer cans, condoms or wrappers, not even any cigarette butts. No evidence that anyone had used any of the crime scenes for anything at all.

Frustrated, he picked up the photographs of the medallions. They were similar—and very much like the one Devin had—but from the photos, he couldn’t even prove that they’d been made by the same designer.

He stood. He wanted to see the medallions again. It was time for a trip to the evidence lockup.

* * *

Somehow Devin managed not to drop the mayonnaise. She groped toward the counter and set it down, never taking her eyes off the apparition still standing just inside the kitchen doorway.

“Come on now, Devin, dear,” Aunt Mina’s ghost said. “You didn’t think that a loving aunt would leave you so easily, did you, child?”

Aunt Mina sounded both sincere and worried.

A thousand responses ran through her mind. They ranged from, “You almost made me waste good mayonnaise” to a scream of pure astonishment. Or terror.

No, not terror. How could she ever be afraid of Auntie Mina?

Maybe she was just hallucinating, she told herself. After all, she’d recently discovered a dead woman. She was still not herself.

“Auntie Mina.”

The words came out like a croak.

“Make some tea, dear. That always helps everything.” Aunt Mina smiled broadly. “I’d be delighted to help you, but frankly, I’m just learning this ghost stuff. Manifestation isn’t easy. And I did die when I was over one hundred. But the good thing is that nothing hurts. Nothing at all.” Her smile faded. “I think I’m here for a reason, Devin. I think I’m here to help you.”

Devin was shaking. She walked forward and reached out to touch her aunt. She felt a slight chill in the air but nothing more.

“You can’t touch me, child,” Aunt Mina said sadly. “Don’t you think I wished I could stroke your hair last night? Try to soothe you?”

“You know what happened?” Devin asked.

“I saw the face at the window,” Aunt Mina said.

“A face at the window?”

“You weren’t looking or you might have seen her, too. You heard her, though—and then you found her. I haven’t managed to leave the house yet, but I did try to stop you from going out, but...well, you are the child I helped raise. Kind and compassionate. So you went in search of her. And when you came back with that officer, I figured out what had happened.” She shrugged. “And you did turn on the television and your computer.”

She might have died at a hundred and one, but Aunt Mina had known her electronics.

Devin’s knees felt wobbly. She wasn’t sure she could make tea without breaking something. She swept past the great-aunt she couldn’t touch and made her way to the parlor, sinking down on the sofa.

She was imagining things.

No, Aunt Mina had followed her.

Poe squawked. He flew over and tried to light on Mina’s shoulder, then ended up fluttering to the ground in confusion.

“Poe, my poor Poe,” Aunt Mina said.

“I’ll get him,” Devin muttered. She rose and scooped up the bird, who flapped agitatedly for a second and then settled into her hold.

The damned bird was seeing the same apparition!

“I can’t stay long, my dear. I haven’t mastered the skill yet, though I’m getting better and stronger every day. I practiced speaking when you were out, but...I had to pray that you would hear me when I finally showed myself. Not that I doubted you for a minute. Not really. After all, last night you heard the dead. And once you hear them...well, dear, I’m afraid you can’t just turn them off.”

Devin stood stroking the bird and staring at her aunt. Suddenly tears welled in her eyes.

“I loved you so much,” she said. “Still love you, of course.”

“Love lasts forever,” Aunt Mina told her. “And I love you, too. So very much. Since I never had children of my own, you are, in spirit, my child. Not to take anything away from your lovely mother, you’re just my child in a different way. And your books! They’re getting better and better. I’m so proud of you. What are you working on now?”

Devin told her, and Aunt Mina clapped her astral hands. Then she looked down and sighed. “The house is locked up tight?”

“It is.”

“Good. Oh dear, I’m fading already. Well, at least now you know I’m here.”

“Auntie Mina...?”

Too late. Aunt Mina was gone. And, Devin realized, darkness was falling quickly and she was still standing by the love seat, stroking the raven.

* * *

The night shift was on; the evidence room was quiet.

An Officer Buckley was manning the desk while Rocky sat at another desk in the back, studying the three medallions.

It had taken some doing to find the first. While Jack had been looking into the old case, he hadn’t gone so far as to request the medallion, which had been misfiled and hard to locate. After half an hour of studying the three pentagrams on their silver chains, Rocky shook his head.

Having them right there in front of him didn’t tell him anything that the photographs hadn’t. None of them carried an artist’s mark, which was what he’d been hoping to find.

Had they been designed by the same person or not?

He couldn’t tell. But he did know that he was going to have to get to know Gayle Alden and find out if she really was Sheena Marston, not to mention whether she’d created these pentagrams as well as Devin’s.

At nine o’clock he locked up the medallions in their boxes and got ready to head back to his hotel.

Since he knew he would be plagued all night if he didn’t, he called Devin Lyle.

“I’m just checking on you,” he admitted immediately. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not a bit, thank you. And I’m fine,” she told him.

He hesitated. He should just hang up. He’d checked; she was fine. But he took a chance.

“I’d like to get to know your friends at the shop better,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I need to learn more.”

“About pentagrams?”

“Yes, and Wiccan traditions and—”

“Wiccans didn’t do this!” she snapped.

“And Christians aren’t bad people, either—until they take religion and turn it into the excuse for an inquisition,” he told her. “I’m sorry—I’m not trying to fight. And I’ll defend this nation’s Wiccans just as I would her Christians, Jews, Buddhists and Muslims. It’s possible that someone is trying to make these deaths appear to be part of a Wiccan ritual of some kind. The more I understand today’s Wiccans in this city, the better I can figure out what’s happening.”

She was silent for a moment and then told him, “We’re going to a movie tomorrow night. You can pick me up around six-thirty.”

He was stunned. And appreciative.

“Thank you,” he managed.

“I’d ditch the suit, though,” she muttered.

And she hung up.

Rocky headed back to the hotel. Luckily, the bar there served food until eleven. He ate and went up to bed.

That night when he slept, it was Melissa Wilson who entered his dreams.

He was standing by her graveside in Peabody when she came up behind him, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“You couldn’t hear me,” she told him. “I kept crying out for you, but you didn’t hear me.”

“I did hear you,” he told her. “I just didn’t understand.”

“You have to listen,” she told him.

“I’m listening. Who did this?”

“He comes in the dark, he comes from behind,” she said.

He turned to her.

But she was gone.

He awoke sweating. He found a bottle of water and drained it, and looked at the clock. It was only four in the morning. He lay back and prayed for dreamless sleep.

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