Читать книгу Dark Rites - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9
ОглавлениеGriffin Pryce leaped over the fence that connected the houses and yards along the Hyde Park neighborhood. He’d been running hard, chasing a man in a red cape. A woman had just been attacked—the fourth victim of the thugs terrorizing the area. This time, the attacker hadn’t gone unseen; a neighbor had called it in right when it had happened.
Miraculously, Griffin had been about to have dinner with friends and was being dropped off by another friend—Detective Barnes—at a restaurant on Hyde Park Avenue when they had both heard the call for help come over the police radio.
He’d reached the scene just as the attacker—down on his knees to leave the rhyme about Satan in red marker on his victim’s chest—had seen him.
And run.
Griffin had taken thirty seconds to assure himself that the woman was alive; the neighbor’s call to 9-1-1 meant that an ambulance and police cars were on the way. He could already hear the sirens.
And so he ran after the attacker, who was wearing a red cape.
Stupid, Griffin thought. You want to wear a cape and attack people? Makes it harder to run and leap fences—and stands out like a...a red light!
But the young man was fast and agile.
Griffin leaped fences, tore down alleys, ducked beneath drying sheets and leaped another fence.
At one point, he could nearly touch the young man. When he turned to glance at Griffin, his face was clearly visible. He couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-five tops. He was clean-shaven with green eyes and a clear complexion, long nose, good mouth.
Then he was gone. This time he ran into an alley that led to a seven-foot fence—no Dumpster to use to leap over it...nothing at all.
The man threw himself against the dead end.
“Stop!” Griffin demanded, pulling out his Glock and aiming at the young man. “Stop. Put your hands behind your head. Get over here, and get down on your knees.”
The young man stared back at him.
“Throw down your weapon.”
The man did; he tossed the club he’d used—it resembled one of the billy clubs used by British police—and shouted, “I’m not armed.”
He started to open his cape.
“Stop—I’ll fire,” Griffin warned.
“Hey, just showing you... I’m not armed! So shoot me. Come on, shoot me.”
“I’m not going to shoot you. I am going to arrest you. Do as I say, get down on your knees, hands behind your head.”
The man ignored Griffin. He reached for something in his cape; Griffin rushed the twenty or so feet that stood between them.
The man stuck something in his mouth. Griffin shoved him to the ground, reaching into his mouth, trying to find what he’d taken.
Too late.
Even as Griffin sought whatever it was, the man began to tremble—and to foam at the mouth.
Griffin swore, trying to support him as he began to thrash and foam. As he did so, Detective David Barnes—who had been close behind him all the way—came running down the alley.
“Ambulance, med techs! He took something,” Griffin shouted.
The man stared up at Griffin with wild eyes—terrified eyes.
Maybe he’d never really imagined what dying might be like.
But he was defiant.
“Long live Satan!” he choked out.
Then he twitched again, and again—and went still.
Barnes hunkered down by Griffin and the young man. “He’s gone. What a fool. He must have taken a suicide capsule!”
“He wanted me to shoot him,” Griffin said, shaking his head. What a waste of life.
“Anyway, it’s over. People in Boston will be safer,” Barnes said. “You caught the guy, Griffin. Bastard killed himself. Sad as anything, but it’s over at least.”
“Ah, hell, Barnes, come on!” Griffin said. He liked Barnes, didn’t mind working with the detective, and they had a pretty good rapport. But Barnes was way off base with this one.
“It’s not over,” Griffin said quietly. “Why do you think he killed himself? They’ve got some kind of a pact. There’s a cult working here.”
“Well, yeah, obviously, this kid is some kind of Satanist. But, Griffin, you were right on top of this one. And we’re looking at one man. One man who smashed the skull of a young woman—and ran. This has been too hard for us because the attacks have been so random. But it’s got to have been the act of one crazy man. All he had to do was find someone alone on a dark street, strike fast, leave his message and run. It just took one person, Griffin.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t know if it’s been the same one person. I’m telling you, Barnes, we’ve got a real problem here. The violence isn’t going to stop.”
“Griffin, you’re concerned because you thought you’d be heading back to Virginia by now. You chose to stay because of the attack on Alex Maple—Vickie’s friend,” Barnes told him.
It was true; after the Undertaker case, he’d planned on going back to Krewe headquarters in northern Virginia.
But it wasn’t just that Alex had been involved.
The writing on the victims had been disturbing. His instincts told him there was more to it.
“I wish I felt like celebrating, Barnes. I’m sorry. I’m worried. I’m afraid that we have a Charles Manson, David Koresh or Jim Jones–type active here. I believe you’ve got someone out there who has been preaching witchcraft or paganism or—from what we’ve seen—the rise of Satan. If that’s true, you’ve got a group of people running around assaulting random but easy targets—and this won’t be the last attack.”
* * *
“He’s never stood me up—I’m worried,” Vickie Preston said to her longtime friend, Roxanne Greeley, looking at her phone again as she did so.
She’d been looking forward to the evening; she had become good friends with Alex Maple. She really liked him. He was boyish and enthusiastic, smart as a whip—and it was wonderful to know someone who loved history as much as she did. Alex was a professor; Vickie wrote guidebooks, and she was known for making the history within those books readable and relatable. She’d called on Alex for help in the recent Undertaker case and they’d quickly become good friends. And Alex had a great time talking to Griffin, as well. Ever since she and Griffin had come together during the horror and solving of the recent murders in the city, Vickie couldn’t imagine having friends who didn’t get along with Griffin. She was very much in love with him. As far as he and Alex went, they had similar taste in music and sports—Alex might be quite the intellectual, but he loved the Patriots. While others might scoff at the home team’s arrogance, in Alex’s mind they deserved to be a bit arrogant.
Griffin had gone to dinner with old friends, members of his unit who were passing through Boston on their way to their home a bit north, in Salem; Vickie hadn’t gone with him only because she’d already made plans with Alex this evening, and she’d invited Roxanne—she had it all set up. She already regretted the fact that she’d made previous plans. She really wanted to get to know Griffin’s friends—Devin Lyle and Craig Rockwell. Craig was known as Rocky, she had learned, and he’d grown up in Peabody, Massachusetts, while Devin had grown up in Salem. Now they were a married couple, and though Devin was still a children’s book author, she had also gone through the academy and become part of the Krewe of Hunters unit down in Virginia.
But Vickie had never ditched one friend for another, or ignored a promise of a dinner date with one person to go out with someone else. She had thought of switching dates with Alex. That hadn’t worked, however, because she hadn’t been able to reach him.
And she couldn’t just not show up—Alex had been so excited. He’d made what he thought was a pretty amazing discovery about something that had to do with Massachusetts. He was enjoying lording it over her—though he said he couldn’t wait to tell her about it.
Even though their friendship was pretty new, Vickie felt she knew Alex. He was often crazy busy, and still, like her, if he’d made a date, he’d be there. He didn’t seem to be the kind of man who would simply forget a friend, under any circumstance. Not that unexpected things didn’t happen, but he did have a cell phone, and he should have called.
Naturally, Roxanne was aware that Vickie had been entertaining ulterior motives in insisting that she come with them to dinner at the café.
They were both great people, and Vickie wanted them to get together. She wasn’t matchmaking; if they happened to like each other, that would be great. If not, it was just a dinner with friends.
Vickie’s pretense to have Roxanne join them at dinner was that she was worried; Alex had taken quite a beating when he’d gone down. Vickie had said that she was afraid that she’d be ridiculously emotional, embarrassing everyone, if they were alone.
Dumb excuse, yes. And Roxanne had finally accused her point-blank of trying to set her up.
“You are playing matchmaker,” Roxanne said. “Never a good thing.”
“No, not usually a good thing,” Vickie had corrected.
But Roxanne had laughed. “Let’s do it. My last affair fell apart quickly enough. Hot and heavy—and over in the two seconds we realized I love a good art show and he loves watching sports in his boxers and guzzling beer. I mean, lots of guys do that, but not twenty-four hours a day or every single second out of work! I don’t seem to choose well—maybe you choosing for me will be the right thing. How could meeting this guy be anything worse than what happened before?”
Roxanne had been—for a brief time—growing heavily involved with an old boyfriend of Vickie’s, but in the rising intensity of the case just solved, she’d not only been seriously injured, but forced to rethink where she wanted to be in a relationship.
And yes, Vickie wanted to set her up with Alex.
But now, of course, the guy wasn’t there.
Vickie dialed his number again. No answer.
“Maybe he knew I was coming,” Roxanne said. “That could scare a guy away.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Vickie said. “You’re beautiful.” Her friend was beautiful: blonde, trim, with a great smile. She just didn’t have luck with men. Vickie continued. “I know he wants to see me. I’ve been working on all kinds of things having to do with his assault. I was tracing that rhyme that was left written on his chest—and now, the same rhyme that was left on the other victims of this attacker, as well.”
“Of course you have,” Roxanne murmured. She was a visual artist, filled with all kinds of insight and art appreciation, but she was nowhere near as fond of history as either Vickie or Alex.
“Bear with me,” Vickie said. “That saying that was written on him—it goes back—way back. I don’t believe there were really any kind of Satanists running around when the whole thing started. I found reference to a man named Ezekiel Martin, who had studied to be a Puritan minister. He was never ordained, but he practiced his own brand of religion and managed to take a slew of people with him west into the woods to form a new colony and sect—one that he ruled through preaching a different higher power—that, apparently, being Satan.
“In truth, he seemingly followed a young woman named Missy Prior, who had left of her own accord, being against the repression of the society. Anyway, Ezekiel had a thing for Missy—but she didn’t have a thing for him. He managed to blame her for every ill that befell his community. He claimed to have found those words written in the ground near where Missy Prior lived, and that Missy was trying to conjure Satan, and that Satan came to him at night and claimed that Ezekiel would have Missy Prior. Naturally, he saw himself as Satan’s representative. Satan in the flesh until Satan should appear... His personal religion afforded him lots of benefits.”
“Wow—and yuck! Even way back, people were going on icky ‘I’m close to God so I get to have all the sex’ trips, huh?”
“I’m still trying to find more on Ezekiel Martin,” Vickie said.
“Isn’t Alex a history professor?”
“Exactly. He’s in a guest position, or whatever they call it right now—and he loves Harvard, so he’s hoping to stay on.”
“And I’m sure he’s researching all this himself.”
“He is, but that’s also why he’s anxious to meet with me. Compare notes.”
Their waitress came by, a pretty, gamine-faced young woman with dark brown hair.
“You still waiting for your friend?” she asked.
“We’re going to give him a few more minutes,” Vickie said.
“Is it that fellow you’ve met here before?”
Vickie looked at her with surprise, and then realized that the young woman usually wore her hair down, and that—yes, of course—she’d had her several times as a server at the coffee shop.
“Yes, I’m waiting on Alex,” she said.
The girl smiled cheerfully. “He was here last night. I’m sure he’ll be along.”
“There—she’s sure Alex will be along,” Roxanne said.
“He was here last night?” Vickie asked.
“Yes, he’s always in when the Dearborn duo are playing. He loves them,” the waitress said. “I’ll keep my eye out!” she promised as she moved on.
“Thanks,” Vickie said. She’d been with Alex when he’d come to see the Dearborn brother-and-sister performers before. They were talented guitarists and played folk music, ballads and covers of Simon and Garfunkel tunes, John Denver, Carole King and more.
She’d heard that the pair were twins; if so, they were fraternal. He was blond with soft brown eyes; she had extremely dark hair and smoke-gray eyes. They were an attractive pair, and they definitely seemed to have a casual, easy way with a crowd.
“I just wish that he’d answer his phone,” Vickie said.
“Vickie!”
For a moment, her heart jumped. But it wasn’t Alex calling her. She looked through the milling guests in the coffee shop and saw Professor Milton Hanson, one of Alex’s closest associates. He knew Vickie’s father, though was more of an associate than a friend.
Actually, her dad didn’t like him very much.
“Who is that? Cool-looking guy, distinguished...dignified.”
He was “smarmy,” according to her dad. A little too good-looking. A little too close to some of his students.
“Hello, young lady. How are you?” he asked, stopping by the table. He had an attractive woman on his arm; she offered Vickie a big smile.
“Professor Hanson,” she said, introducing him to Roxanne. He, in turn, introduced his lady friend.
“I wanted to come by to check out this café,” Hanson said. “Our mutual friend, Alex Maple, loves this place. But there’s no music.”
“Yes, Alex loves it,” Vickie agreed. “But the music is on Saturday nights.”
Roxanne opened her mouth; she was clearly about to say that they were waiting for Alex.
Vickie kicked her under the table. A little tiny squeak escaped her.
“Saturday night. I’ll have to come then. Well, nice to see you!” Hanson said, and he moved on.
“Hey! That hurt,” Roxanne said.
“Sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell him we were waiting for Alex now?” Roxanne asked.
“I don’t know.”
“He’s still here somewhere,” Roxanne said. “We could find him.”
“No, I just don’t feel comfortable asking him about Alex.”
“Okay. But Alex isn’t here. So, seriously, maybe something just came up,” Roxanne said. “Let’s face it. Not that I blame you—I mean, you were kidnapped and nearly killed recently—but you’re overly suspicious of the world. I’m overly suspicious, too, since that wasn’t such a great time for me, either. And I’m your basic coward, so that adds to me doubting everything. But honestly—aren’t you getting a little carried away, being so worried just because Alex didn’t show up for dinner? Maybe his sister was sick, or maybe he had to rush his dog to the emergency vet or something. Things do happen.”
“But someone like Alex, Roxanne, he would let me know. You know, maybe I am being ridiculous. I just can’t believe he’d be so rude.”
“I’m sorry, Vickie. I love you—you really are the best friend and most courteous human being—but maybe his emergency was just more important than you.”
“I hope that’s true,” Vickie murmured.
Just as Roxanne spoke, Vickie’s phone rang. It was Griffin.
“Hey! How’s it going? I wish I could have joined you,” Vickie said.
“Dinner didn’t happen. Barnes was dropping me off at the restaurant when someone called in an attack down the street from where we were—we heard it on the scanner. Anyway, to make a long story short, I gave chase, caught the guy—and he took some kind of a suicide pill,” Griffin told her.
“So, he’s dead?”
“Who’s dead?” Roxanne demanded, looking at Vickie with alarm.
“An attacker,” Vickie murmured quickly.
“That’s great!” Roxanne said. “No, I mean, not the dead part. He’s been caught, right? But... Griffin killed him? I mean, we shouldn’t want anyone dead. Except this guy really hurt a lot of people, so—”
“He killed himself,” Vickie said quickly.
“How, what, why?” Roxanne asked.
“I don’t know! Let me listen,” Vickie pleaded. “Griffin? The attacker is dead?”
Griffin didn’t seem to have noted her absence from the conversation to whisper to Roxanne; whatever had happened that evening, it was still consuming his mind.
“Yes. Strange, he was trying for suicide by cop. I told him I wouldn’t shoot him. He took a pill before I could stop him.”
“But it was the man who attacked Alex, right? I mean, was it? You just said that it was an attack. It was the same kind of attack—with the same words written?”
Griffin hesitated on the other end of the phone line.
“A guy is dead. A guy who was seen leaving the same note that was found on Alex and the other two victims. I’m sure Alex will be glad to hear that. Tell him for me, and that I’ll give him details in the morning. Except...”
“Except what?”
Griffin seemed to hesitate a long time.
“What is it?” Vickie persisted.
“I don’t think the man who killed himself tonight is the only one in on this,” Griffin said. “But hey, that’s for later. Anyway, I’m at the station. Devin and Rocky are going to stay at my place tonight. I told them I seldom use it and they kind of figured that. Salem is only forty minutes away—well, forty minutes or two hours, depending on traffic! They were actually taking a little personal time to check on their homes up there, see some family and friends. I’m glad they’re here, though. I can toss around what’s going on with them. You can give Alex the news that we’ve stopped one of them, anyway.”
“I can’t tell Alex anything. He didn’t show,” Vickie said. “We’re still here—we’re having the café’s Sunday night special and hoping that he will make it eventually.”
“He didn’t show? You know him better than I do, but that’s not like Alex, is it?”
“No, it’s not like Alex at all.”
“Did you call him?”
“At least a dozen times. And I’ve left just as many messages,” Vickie said.
Griffin was silent for a minute. “How long have you been trying to reach him?” he asked her.
“Um, let’s see... I started calling him this morning, when you got the call from Devin telling you that she and Rocky were going to be heading up to Salem, and did you want to meet for dinner. So, I’ve called and texted all day.”
“I can come and join you. Well, in a while. A woman was attacked—she’s on her way to the hospital. And a man died. I’ve still got things to do and, you know, paperwork.”
Paperwork.
She’d learned all about police paperwork during the Undertaker case.
“Roxie and I will go ahead and have dinner and then head to my place,” Vickie said. “We’ll wait for you there. In the meantime, I’ll hope that Alex calls me with some kind of an apology!”
“Is his family near?”
“He grew up in Massachusetts, but his folks are living on an island off Georgia now—his dad started getting asthma,” Vickie said. “He has a little sister, but she’s studying in Europe somewhere.”
“Okay.” Griffin was quiet for a minute. “I just have to report to the local office, get my statement in. And Barnes has to do the same, but he can kick this over to one of the task force members. Finish eating. I’ll get to you as soon as possible.”
“I’ll head home,” she said.
“I’ll see you soon.”
She hung up and looked around the room again with frustration, hoping—perhaps ridiculously—that Alex might have appeared. No Alex.
She frowned, though. A young blonde woman was standing at the end of the counter bar, as if waiting for a coffee creation.
But she was staring at Vickie intently, with unusual intensity.
“Why is that woman looking at me like that?” Vickie murmured aloud.
Roxanne turned to look toward the counter, but at that moment, several young men walked by—all of them a fine size to serve as tackles for the Boston Patriots, should they choose.
“There—she was right there. Really pretty blonde. Young, long hair—white summer halter dress with a flowy white wrap...”
“I don’t see her.”
“She’s gone. She was staring at me, weirdly.”
“Maybe she got a bad shot of coffee, Vickie. Hey, not trying to be insulting or anything here, but it’s not always about you, Vick!” Roxanne said lightly.
Vickie laughed. “Yeah, yeah, honestly, I know!”
“So! Back to earth here. Griffin is on his way?” Roxanne asked.
“In a roundabout way,” Vickie said. “We’ll just have dinner and go to my place.”
“You’ll go to your place,” Roxanne said. She shivered. “I want to stay a mile away from whatever it is you have going on!”
Vickie didn’t blame her friend; Roxanne had gotten a concussion when she’d been dragged into the investigation during the Undertaker case. She might have been killed.
“Oh! What I said—it sounded absolutely horrible!” Roxanne said, wide-eyed. “I mean, I’d like to think that I’m a good friend, that I’d be with you through thick and thin, but—”
“It’s okay!” Vickie assured her.
“You two will want to talk. Do you think that Griffin caught the person who attacked Alex? Do you think that Alex is safe now?”
“I don’t know. Griffin seems to think that there’s more than one person involved.”
“Oh! Then...maybe Alex isn’t just rude, or forgetful, or having an emergency with his dog,” Roxanne said.
“He doesn’t have a dog, Roxanne, and I am getting more and more worried.”
Vickie managed a smile for her friend. “It’s okay. Go home. I do understand. And Griffin will be tired and we will need to talk. So, we’ll finish dinner...and hope that Alex is okay. That he’s just being rude—and the danger facing him is going to be from me!” Vickie said. She tried to speak lightly.
She just didn’t believe that Alex was rude. He was too good a guy.
And that meant...
She tried to keep her worry at bay as they ordered and made small talk as they waited. She didn’t do so very well. She picked at her food. And finally, Roxanne said, “Hey, let’s go. I have to wrap up my latest painting to bring to a gallery at Copley Square tomorrow. And you’re not enjoying your time with me. And I’m enjoyable. So let’s just cut it short. I know you’re worried.”
They left the restaurant, walking together as far as they could to their apartments, and then warning each other to keep their eyes out for trouble.
Both women carried whistles and mace—something Griffin had insisted on after all the trouble during the Undertaker situation.
But Vickie reached her apartment with no one doing anything other than giving her a nod in acknowledgment as they passed—that was Boston’s method of a smile, she thought. A nod!
Entering her apartment, she called Griffin’s name, but she didn’t believe that he’d returned yet, and he hadn’t.
Her apartment, however, wasn’t exactly empty.
It appeared that a young couple was seated on her sofa.
They were both just teenagers, and attractive. He had been a high school football hero, well-built, charming, quick to smile. She had been a light-haired, light-eyed beauty, incredibly sweet, tragically naive. They were really adorable—completely absorbed with one another...
And dead.
Of all things, they seemed to be watching a marathon showing of The Walking Dead on Netflix.
The boy was Dylan Ballantine. He’d saved Vickie’s life when she’d been a teenager—and he’d haunted her ever since. A good thing, since he’d helped incredibly in the recent Undertaker situation. His family had been involved, and Dylan dearly loved his family.
The young lady...
She was newer at being a ghost.
Tragically, she’d been a victim of the Undertaker.
Vickie saw the remote on the coffee table and picked it up to turn the volume down.
“Hey,” she said to the two.
“Hey, Vickie! We didn’t expect you back yet!” Dylan jumped up, looking as guilty as a teen caught petting in the back seat of an old Chevy. “We thought you’d be late, that you and Alex would go on forever and ever over all you’d dug up!” Dylan added. “We aren’t really TV hogs, you know.”
“It’s okay. You know you’re welcome to the television. I’m happy that you guys are enjoying your...”
She almost said “lives”!
“Enjoying each other, being together. Enjoying...”
“The Walking Dead?” Dylan asked, amused.
“You’re ghosts, not zombies,” she reminded him. Dylan did have a wicked sense of humor—he’d spent years totally enjoying tormenting her, trying to make her speak to him in public and, in short, look entirely crazy.
Years ago, Vickie had been babysitting when an escaped serial killer had targeted her. Her charge—Noah Ballantine—had been born after the death of his older brother, Dylan, who’d been struck by a drunk driver at seventeen. And when the psycho had been in the house, Dylan had materialized before Vickie, warning her to grab Noah and get the hell out.
Terrified, she had done so. At that time, Griffin Pryce had been a cop and was out on the street, and he’d been the one to bring down the man who had been about to kill her and Noah.
While she’d felt an instant connection to Griffin, she hadn’t seen him again until he had returned to Boston as an FBI agent, looking into the Undertaker kidnappings and killings.
But while the ghost of Dylan Ballantine spent much of his time in his parents’ home, which wasn’t far from Vickie’s, he’d apparently made it his vocation in death to haunt Vickie, down in New York City when she had been at the university, and again here, in Massachusetts, since she had moved back. He’d actually become an amazing friend—although one who still liked to taunt her in public and make her appear to be insane when she forgot herself and responded to him.
And now, Dylan had a friend of his own—a ghost friend.
Darlene Dutton was a couple years older than Dylan, but she was equally sweet and innocent. She had been the first victim of the Undertaker murders. And while she had seen justice done, it appeared that she liked learning about the spirit-world-on-earth—and being with Dylan. So it seemed she was sticking around.
Dylan was now an experienced ghost. He was quite capable of manipulating items, like moving a can of pop a few inches or using a remote control. And he had no problem making himself seen to those with the special gift of seeing the dead. Vickie had noticed that while most of the population didn’t see Dylan or Darlene, they did often stop and frown when the ghosts passed, or shiver, as if aware that they’d been brushed by someone or something that they hadn’t seen.
“Alex didn’t show,” Vickie told them.
Dylan immediately looked perplexed. Alex couldn’t see Dylan—he didn’t see ghosts. But Dylan had tagged along with Vickie to a couple meetings with Alex.
He liked the nerdy historian. And he admired him.
“Alex didn’t show? I think he lives for his time with you and other friends with whom he can actually talk a lot of history. I don’t mean that in a bad way, but... It’s weird he flaked.”
“I’ve told Griffin that Alex didn’t show up. We’ll figure out something when he gets here. By the way—since I doubt you guys watched the news at any point—Griffin stopped one of the attackers tonight. A head-smasher, just like Alex’s assault. And the guy killed himself rather than be taken.”
“Wow, heavy,” Dylan said, very serious despite his words.
“That’s extremely scary,” Darlene agreed. She hopped up off the sofa. “Vickie is worried, and Griffin is headed home. Let’s go, Dylan. We need to leave them with some privacy. We’ll go see how Noah and your folks are doing.”
“Sure, yeah, sure, we should get out of here,” Dylan said. He looked worried, though. “Darlene is right. Griffin is going to be wrecked after a night like that. He’ll want to talk.”
“He’ll want to be alone,” Darlene said softly.
“That’s fine,” Vickie said.
“No, you’re in a relationship now. Can’t let it grow ho-hum,” Dylan said, grinning at Vickie.
“Thank you. I’ll remember that!” Vickie said.
“Dylan, really,” Darlene murmured.
“It’s fine. Dylan has enjoyed tormenting me for years, Darlene. And I’m sure it will all be okay.”
“No, none of it sounds okay,” Dylan said. “Alex is a cool guy—it won’t be okay until you know that he’s all right. Don’t forget, we’re always here when you need us.”
“But you don’t need us tonight,” Darlene said firmly.
“Not to worry, Vick—we always come back to haunt you!” Dylan told her, trying for a light grin.
“Haunt me—and help out,” she reminded him. “Remember, I’m quite accustomed to you and that we both—Griffin and I—appreciate the two of you very much.”
“I just wish my parents watched The Walking Dead,” Dylan said, shaking his head in puzzlement that anyone wouldn’t want to watch the series from beginning to end. “And Noah, well, he’s great, he’ll put on anything we want, but...he’s only nine.”
“Maybe in a few years we can do a marathon viewing with Noah,” Darlene said.
“That will be fun!” Dylan agreed, grinning at Darlene. But then his grin faded and he turned back to Vickie. “I will see you tomorrow. We need to know everything that went on with Griffin—and, most importantly, with Alex.”
“Absolutely,” Vickie said.
She watched them go. They both simply disappeared through the wall. When Dylan came to visit when she was home, he made a point of knocking. Only emergencies caused him to do anything less thoughtful or proper.
When they were gone, Vickie tried Alex’s number again. No answer.
Maybe he’d lost his phone. No—he would have called her from another phone. Actually, he’d have been at a store in two seconds to get another—he had a Facebook group that talked about all kinds of history, travel, weird places and such similar things, and she was pretty sure that Alex went into withdrawal if he couldn’t catch up on the latest at every possible opportunity.
She opened the app and checked Alex’s Facebook page.
He hadn’t been on the site in over twenty-four hours.
She called Griffin quickly then. He didn’t answer at first. Frustrated, she plopped down on the sofa in her parlor.
Her phone rang right back.
Griffin.
“You all right?” he asked.
She smiled; she could tell he was trying to keep any touch of anxiety out of his voice. She knew that he’d always be concerned about her—it was part of what he did for a living, and by vocation. He saw too much that was bad.
“Fine. I’m home. In the apartment. I had an idea. Can you trace Alex’s phone?”
“Well, there are a lot of legal ramifications,” Griffin said.
“I’ll report him missing—how about that?” she asked.
“You know, unless we have good reason, twenty-four hours is—”
“We have good reason! He was clunked on the head. He had a police guard for a couple of weeks after. Go figure—he disappears after that guard is taken off.”
“The attacks appeared to be random,” Griffin reminded her. “No community has the manpower to watch victims endlessly, especially when it appears the danger has moved on.”
“I know that.”
“He could be fine.”
“No. I don’t believe that even as a ray of hope anymore,” she said.
“Okay, we’ll take the angle that something is wrong. We’ll get a missing-person report going, and...we’ll get into his phone records,” Griffin said. “I’m in a paper tangle right now as it is—I’ll get Barnes to have a man from the right department get everything started for Alex. Lord, if he’s just off doing...doing whatever scholars do...well, I guess that’s the best-case scenario. But we’ll treat him as a missing person and work on finding him with all possible resources, okay?”
“Much better. Are you coming home soon?” she asked.
“Well,” he told her, his tone ironic, “I’ll be a little longer now.”
“Don’t be too long.”
“You going to make it worth my while?”
“Hmm. You bet,” she told him.
“Aha.”
“I can be full of surprises,” she assured him before hanging up.
Restless, she headed into the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea and then settled down at her computer with the pad of scribbled notes she’d made from research sites and her own library.
Ever since seeing the scrawled quotation on Alex, she’d been looking up Satanism and witchcraft in Massachusetts.
Most of what she could find on witchcraft had to do with the travesty of justice that had occurred during the Salem witchcraft trials of 1692. She’d recently turned in a nonfiction book for a university press that had dealt with the Puritan rule in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, with a special focus on Puritan ministers. While Cotton Mather had “saved” a few witches, by caring for them himself, he’d also been instrumental in the executions that had occurred in Salem. There had been a few other trials and executions of so-called witches in the colony, as well. It seemed so appalling now and, in her mind, so ridiculous she couldn’t believe anyone had abided it—even in the devil-fearing darkness of the early days of the colony.
Of course, Salem—and surrounding areas—also had a nice population of modern-day real witches: wiccans. They were an acknowledged religion and Vickie had friends among them. They didn’t cast evil spells—they lived by a threefold rule, where any evil done to another comes back on one threefold. It was a pretty good framework for not hurting people!
But there were instances of Satanism rather than witchcraft that had taken place in Massachusetts. According to the Puritan fathers, there would be little difference. In the Puritan world, witches danced naked in the moonlight, signed the devil’s book and frolicked with all manner of decadence and enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh—in return for being wicked, of course.
The first accusations of witchcraft had occurred in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1645. Hugh and Mary Parsons had accused one another. Hugh was eventually acquitted; Mary was set to hang for the crime of killing her child—by witchcraft, or so the records implied. Between 1645 and 1663, eighty more people were accused and thirteen women and two men were put to death.
The fear of the devil had begun in Europe in the 1500s—thousands were put to death, burned at the stake or hanged, or through some other even more painful means. In comparison, what went on in the colony was pretty tame.
But even then, there were dissenters, and there were those who were ready and eager to take a faith and twist it around and give it a few new guidelines.
At the same time—circa 1665—Ezekiel Martin was growing stronger in influence among the young people swayed to his sect.
Missy Prior was a stunning young Puritan woman, an orphan who survived through selling produce from her small garden and from doing handcrafts—mending and sewing. Ezekiel Martin wooed the girl.
She turned him down. Sweetly. She talked about her youth—and mourning for her parents.
Ezekiel was hurt—deeply offended.
Since he’d never made it to being ordained—suspected of not being a learned or good man himself—his orations weren’t sanctioned by the church. But according to the diary of an ordained minister of the time, Ezekiel was capable of talking the good talk; he could preach convincingly and sway people, and he had a following that terrified the others before they even began to become aware of just what kind of a danger he could be.
He lured many people away from Boston, taking them west. There, he created the village of Jehovah.
Jehovah was no longer in existence, but it had once been situated between present-day Barre, Massachusetts, and what was now the Quabbin, the massive water reservoir created in the Swift River Valley.
Missy Prior, along with some of her friends, had been ahead of Ezekiel; she’d left Boston in order to escape Ezekiel’s attention, and she’d had a cottage in the woods, right in the area that Ezekiel would soon name Jehovah. It seemed that no matter how far she went, she couldn’t outrun Ezekiel, a man who had become obsessed with her.
There was nowhere else to run, and Missy’s friends were forced from her side as Ezekiel gained power and determination. But she still wanted nothing to do with Ezekiel.
He, in turn, woke one night screaming and shouting words of warning about Missy—and he woke the population of Jehovah and rounded them all up in front of Missy Prior’s cottage.
And he’d showed them all the words that had been written in the earth.
Hell’s afire and Satan rules, the witches, they are real. The time has come, the rites to read, the flesh, ’twas born to heal. Yes, Satan is coming!
According to the diary and journals from others who had lived during the time, Ezekiel then proceeded to convince a number of people that he was their salvation. They could not stop the arrival of the devil; they could only embrace him when he arrived. He would reward them, of course, if they were to come to him through his vessel on earth—Ezekiel Martin.
Missy Prior was terrified; she had turned down a madman one time too many.
She feared for her life.
She didn’t die; not then. She was taken in to be “healed” by Ezekiel.
Missy Prior, however, wasn’t enough for Ezekiel.
Ezekiel did what those who were both charming and evil at heart had a talent for doing—he seduced his followers into his House of Fire and Truth, a cult in which, of course, they followed a Mighty Power, pretending to still be Puritans to those around them, since those who were not Puritans in the colony at the time were killed or banished. What he was really doing, ministers and public officials became certain, was practicing out-and-out witchcraft or Satanism. He, Ezekiel, as Satan’s disciple on earth, was absolute ruler with absolute power, demanding the sweet fruit of the innocent and beautiful among the maidens, bestowing those he had used and deflowered upon those of the men of his congregation, those who had earned his admiration and devotion.
Missy Prior tried to flee. She was caught. By then, of course, Ezekiel had many women. She was to meet the fate reserved for one who betrayed her master. Death.
How that death came about, Vickie could not ascertain with certainty. She tried a number of her resources. Some suggested she was burned, not as a witch, but as a heretic. Some said that she might have actually been drawn and quartered, and others suggested that her throat was slit and that her blood was passed about to imbue the rest of the congregation with strength.
But while the Massachusetts Bay Colony was, at that time, still working under the charter that allowed for Puritan rule, the Crown did have a decided interest in the county. Cromwell had died in 1658 and Charles II had been asked back to rule in England—a good majority of the population had grown weary of Cromwell’s very strict ways. Charles happened to have men in the colony, soldiers under Captain Magnus Grayson. Grayson eventually got wind of Ezekiel’s activities. Heading into the village, he hadn’t the least problem demanding the immediate arrest of Ezekiel and his little pack of cronies. The small would-be self-governing colony was dispersed. Ezekiel found himself deserted when his men were faced with the armor and arms of the king’s men, and he slit his own throat—swearing that Satan would embrace him in his fiery power, and he would live again.
Captain Grayson had found skeletons and an altar stained with blood. It was believed that one of the skeletons found belonged to poor Missy Prior.
It seemed a heartbreaking story to Vickie.
Poor Missy.
She had been relentlessly pursued by Ezekiel Martin in life.
Perhaps her only escape from him had been in death.
Jehovah had been quickly begun—and even more quickly ended.
Captain Grayson had loathed and been sickened by the entire place, and he’d had all of what had been Jehovah burned to the ground. The settlement disappeared into the landscape, and where it had been, no one now knew.
Erased from memory.
But not all memory.
Because someone was violently attacking people and leaving behind the words Ezekiel Martin had once written into the earth in order to have Missy Prior.
Vickie couldn’t wait to tell Alex the depths of what she had discovered.
She looked at her phone and tried Alex’s number again.
No answer...
“Alex! Where are you?” she murmured aloud.
And she wished that she wasn’t alone. She wished that Griffin would come soon.
It seemed that the wind suddenly began to howl outside.
Summer was waning and fall was on the way.
And it sounded as if the earth itself was moaning...
Crying out a warning.
