Its because Im scared silly, little onefreaking here. Im about to call my mommy! she said to Noah, trying to smile all the time.
He laughed at her.
And then turned and laughed and clapped again, seemingly seeing someone else there.
Okay, Ive had it! she said. Kid, were going to head into the kitchen. Nice and cozy there, and we have a door
Her words broke off. She heard something. For sure this time. From upstairs.
Then suddenly she screamed. There was something right in front of her. Whatshe didnt know. At first, it just seemed like clouds forming in air. Then there seemed to be a face, and then a form, and a full figure. Her mouth opened; she felt like fire and ice in one. Terror ripped through her with a painful vengeance.
And she heard the sound again. Something up the stairs. As if someone was moving, as if they were close to the stairs, perhaps to come down them...
And in front of her...
The figure and face had formed. Her gaze jerked up to the pictures above the mantle. She looked at the portrait of Dylan Ballantine.
And she looked at the strange thing that had formed out of the air before her.
Go! she heard. It was a rustle; it might have been leaves.
It might have been the terror that ruled her brain.
And it might have been the ghostly image of Dylan Ballantine standing before her now.
And still, she heard that sound...someone moving furtively, taking a step on the staircase, moving in a way she could sense...
And then...
She felt as if she was suddenly slapped hard by an icy hand.
Get Noah and get out!
Like a whisper, like a whisper, like a sound that played only in her mind...
Move! Movenow!
At that point, she acted. She grabbed the baby. She forgot about his ultrawarm knit hat and his mittens and his outside shoes.
She held him to her chest, raced to the front door, threw it open and raced out into the street.
It was dark and it was cold and no tourists were traveling the Freedom Trail. She heard a pounding behind her.
She was terrified to look back.
She did.
A man was there, behind her, coming after her. A man with a gun.
She turned and ran againtoward the Paul Revere House.
There were still people there! A group milling, talking about where to go to dinner.
Help, help! she cried.
Someone heard her! A tall Boston policeman had suddenly appeared on the sidewalk.
Down, miss, down! he shouted.
She gripped Noah even more tightly to her and ducked low.
She heard an explosion and a scream at the same time. Turning back, she saw the man with the gun on the ground.
He had fired, but he had apparently tripped over his own two feet. His gun had gone off... But his bullet had aimed into the sky. He was struggling up, taking aim again...
But hed been shot.
The young policeman had fired at almost the same time.
Standing next to the collapsed man was the image of the boy she had seen in the house. Dylan Ballantine, dead nearly three years, dead before his baby brother had been born.
The policeman rushed by Vickie and the baby, his own weapon aimed at the manthe convict!who had evidently tripped...
The man on the ground screamed as the cops bullet exploded again; his gun went flying from his hand. He was disarmed, bleeding.
But only because he had tripped over the leg of a dead boy! Over Dylan Ballantine.
And as she continued to stare back in terror, the image of Dylan Ballantine began to fade.
And then he was gone.
The icy darkness of the wintry night began to settle in, and Noah began to cry at last.
1
Boston, Massachusetts
The North End
Summer
Griffin Pryce ran hard and as fast as he could, ahead of Jackson Crow by maybe ten feet. Not that it mattered. The clue had led them to the historic old cemetery, but once there, theyd have to look.
Thankfully it was summer. There was no abundance of multicolored autumn leaves to cover the ground; they would hopefully find an area that had been disturbed easily enough.
This was the first time the kidnapper/killer known as the Undertaker had actually left his victim in a cemetery. At least, so Griffin believed.
He was known to box his victims, nail them into wooden coffin-like crates.
Now, the box might well be a coffin.
Therebehind dozens of slate stone markers, few really over the bodies they memorialized anymore and even fewer that had been rechiseled so that the words honoring the dead were legiblehe saw where the ground had been ripped up.
He raced to the areathen swore when he hit a soft spot in the ground and went downstraight downa good four feet.
Here! he shouted, though, of course, shouting was rather inane since Jackson surely recognized that Griffin had fallen into some kind of a pit.
Not so strange, he knew. In 2009, a woman had fallen into the stairway of a long forgotten tomb at the Granary cemetery. Time had a way with slate seals and old granite and the earth. Thousands had been buried here throughout time; all kinds of vaults lay beneath the surface.
He just prayed that they had found the right place, right now; that they were in time.
He heard Jackson coming up behind him as he frantically worked to dislodge more dirt from underneath himself. He doubted that the kidnapper would have had enough time to dig too deeply.
Thank God, he hadnt. He found the poor wooden coffin in which the victim had been buried alive. As he worked to remove heavy clods of dirt and bracken, Jackson was already on the phone calling for backup and an ambulance.
Backup wasnt far behind them. But before others arrived, Jackson joined him in the hole. They pried open the coffin lid.
And found Barbara Marshall.
She was pale beyond death; her lips were blue.
For a split second, Griffin and Jackson stared at one another. Then Jackson braced the coffin as Griffin pulled the woman from it, crawled from the hole with her in his arms, eased her gently to the ground and began resuscitation. He counted, he prayed, applied pressure and tried to breathe life into the woman.
Even in the midst of his efforts, a med tech arrived; Griffin gave way to the trained man who moved in to take his place.
We may have been too late! he said, the words a whisper, yet fierce even in their quiet tone.
Maybe not, Jackson said.
The emergency crew worked quickly. Griffin stood there, almost numb, as Barbara Marshall was moved, as a gurney was brought, as lifesaving techniques went into play with a rush of medical equipment.
Then she was whisked away, and he and Jackson were left gasping for breath as their counterpart from the police department arrived, while uniformed officers held back the suddenly growing crowdand the press.
At last, with enough breath, Griffin looked at Jackson. Think shell make it?
She may.
Think hes watching? Griffin asked.
Hard to tell. Whoever is doing this is also leading the semblance of a normal life, Jackson said.
So heor theycould be at work, picking kids up from school, or so on, Griffin murmured.
But I think that, yes, watching will be part of the pleasure, whenever they can watch, Jackson said.
But I think that, yes, watching will be part of the pleasure, whenever they can watch, Jackson said.
Griffin stood, fighting anger and disgust, and looked around at the buildings that surrounded them.
Boston was, to him, one of the most amazing cities in America. Modern finance and massive skyscrapers dominated the downtown areaalong with precious gems of history. Boston Common, Kings Chapel, Faneuil Hall, the Paul Revere House, the Old North Church and more were within easy walking distance. Centuries of history within blocks. Colonial architecture, Gothic churches, Victorian; Boston was a visual display of American eras.
But the multitude of what was newer and contemporary in building might well afford the kidnapper a fine vantage point for watching as the police and FBI agents ran around like ants on the ground following the clues he so relished sending to the media.
This time, the clue had been, James II, sadly not long for the throne. Still, a thief. Ah, Old Boston!
A crew had been sent to Kings Chapel, as well. But Griffin had been convinced that their kidnapping victim would be found in the cemetery. This Undertaker liked drama.
And history and dirt, so it seemed.
Barbara Marshall was his fourth victim. Griffin prayed she survived.
The first victim, Beverly Tatum of Revere, had not.
But then, no one had heard of the Undertaker when shed been taken.
When they had so desperately searched.
And searched.
Beverly Tatum had been found by police two weeks later, locked in an old freezer in a dump.
Jennifer Hudgins of Lynn had also died. The family had notified the police, whod suspected her husband was responsible for her disappearance. Theyd tailed him, questioned his coworkers...and then theyd run out of leads. The husbands alibi had been proven true.
Jennifer had eventually been found inside a locker at an abandoned school in Brookline.
Then, Angelina Gianni of Boston had been taken.
The FBI had been called in for helpthe Krewe, specifically, because Angelinas husband, Anthony, had been certain that his wifes mother had been speaking to him from the grave, telling him that he must dig to find her.
By then, the major television and internet news agency that had received the first two cluesand had originally considered them to be nothing but odd statements from a kookhad determined that they might be from the real criminal.
The clues had been received in plain white envelopesmailed from Bostons largest post office, no matter what other towns, cities or suburbs had been involved. No fingerprints of course. They contained a simple line or two lines giving a clue as to the whereabouts of the victims. The first clue had been Where the old is discarded, where one may find what was once cold. The second clue had read No longer may one learn; is all learning but kept locked away?
Theyd found the third victim, Angelina, before it was too late. Griffin could be grateful that his knowledge of his Massachusetts home had helped. The clue had read Fire away, and so it begins!
Hed focused on Lexington and an old house that had served as a bed-and-breakfast near the first famous battle site. Of course, even then, he might not have found her if it hadnt been for a dream. Or rather, the ghost who had entered his dream. The ghost of the missing womans mother. Eva, her name had been. Even in his dream, shed switched to Italian now and then.
Though Griffin had known since hed been a child that the dead could sometimes speak, it was sometimes difficult to admit. Even noweven belonging to the Krewe of Hunters. Even working with Jackson Crow, who seemed to think their strange and very often useful gifts were nothing unusual.
And so Angelina had lived. Her family had been grateful and they would have done anything to help the police. But Angelina had no memory of what had happened to her.
All she remembered was the darkness of being locked away.
This time, no ghost had come to him. The kidnapper or kidnapperswhile the press had decreed one man and dubbed him the Undertaker, Griffin couldnt rule out there wasnt more than one person involvedhad come straight to Boston. Having grown up on Beacon Hill, and walked these streets on his beat as a Boston cop before joining the FBI, Griffin had been certain about the message.
He was grateful that he and Jackson and the Krewe, as representatives of the FBI, had helped. He was incredibly grateful that one victim had lived; maybe Barbara Marshall would make it as well.
But they were no closer to the kidnapperor kidnappers, as he suspected. Jackson knew that Griffin believed it had to be more than one person executing the crimes, but since the press had gone with Undertaker, they referred to the kidnapper themselves.
A shout suddenly went up from the street and echoed back to them. An officer in uniform came running back to them as they heard the sirens from the ambulance moving away through the city.
She breathed on her own! the officer said, his face alight. They think shes going to make it.
Griffin looked over at Jackson and nodded his appreciation. Then he looked up at the buildings again, certain they were, indeed, being watched. Jackson leaped up and offered Griffin a hand; Griffin realized he was still somewhat in a hole. Accepting Jacksons hand, he stepped out.
Well find him, Jackson said quietly. He had a right to be confident. The Krewe solved their cases. Griffin knew that; he was extremely grateful to be a part of the unique and special unit.
Sure, he said. He knew their minds were on similar tracks.
They would find the sick criminal doing this. But would they find him, and stop him, before someone else died?
As he joined Jackson, walking toward the street entrance of the cemetery, he saw Detective David Barnes, Boston Police, on his phone, looking ashen and tense.
Griffin had only just met Barnes on this case. The man had been with the BPD over fifteen years, but when Griffin had been a cop, Barnes had been Southie, working patrol out of South Boston. The man had studied him intently when they had first methed obviously heard Griffin had once been with the BPD, and that hed been the patrolman to bring down escaped convict Bertram Aldridge. The dramatic takedown had been all over the news at the time, and had made Griffins reputation.
Barnes seemed to be a decent man and a good detective; hed welcomed their assistance and had been glad to have them on the team. Griffin figured he was about forty-fivewith the wear and tear of someone a few years older.
Victoryand yet short-lived, Barnes said, deep furrows lining his brow. Weve gotten a call from a nearby resident, George Ballantine. His wife didnt show up after their sons Little League practicethen he found out she never even made it to her garden club meeting earlier in the day. He stared at Griffin, nodding, and added, Yeah. Ballantine.
Something inside clicked hard against Griffins chest.
Ballantine.
He could remember too clearly when the killer, Bertram Aldridge, had made an attempt on the life of the Ballantines toddler son and their young babysitter. He could remember seeing the terrified girl, running, and the killer in the street, raising his weapon...
Aldridge is still incarceratedmaximum security, Griffin said.
Yeah. And Aldridge liked to play with knives. This guy likes to let his victims smother slowly. Apparently, hes not even that worried when we find them still alivehe just heads out for another victim. Aldridge liked to write taunting notes to the police, too, though. But...this tone is different. Cant be Aldridgeabsolutely impossible.