Читать книгу The Betrayed - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9

1

It was a horrific sight.

And, bizarrely enough, one that might be missed, at least in Sleepy Hollow. Here, and in the surrounding villages and towns, images and effigies of headless horsemen were common.

A pole had been stuck into a man’s likeness created from wood and stuffing and plaster and cotton—a likeness that ended at the neckline. Right where the Revolutionary-era jacket and shirt left off.

And Richard Highsmith’s severed head had been stuck onto the pole.

It was bloody, and the midlength, salt-and-pepper hair was matted and dark. The face might once have held character and dignity.

Maureen Deauville stood with her enormous wolfhound, Rollo, and stared at it. For a moment, she felt as if she’d been teleported back to medieval times. The breeze rustled through the trees and the sounds of traffic from the road seemed to fade. She might have been standing in distant woods, viewing the results of a gruesome execution carried out by some long-ago government.

In reality, she was on the street that bordered a cemetery to the west. There were houses here—some very old, some not so old—and a few businesses, including Tommy Jensen’s Headless Horseman Hideaway Restaurant and Bar. His effigy of the headless horseman, a good seven or so feet high, lurked on the roadside to attract clientele.

And it had been used to display the head.

The parking lot was filled with cars, mainly cop cars. It was barely 7:00 a.m. At least seven uniformed officers were there, ready to handle crowd control and keep the few cars on the street moving along. A crime scene unit van had just arrived and jerked to a halt, followed seconds later by the ambulance from the morgue.

They’d begun the search for the missing man that morning, just half an hour earlier.

“You’ve done it. You and Rollo have done your jobs,” Lieutenant Purbeck said with a sigh. “Not what we expected to find, or hoped to find, but...” He paused. “But that’s part of Richard Highsmith, anyway.”

The blood was congealing. It had dripped over the crisp collar and seeped onto the shoulders of the white cotton shirt and blue jacket on the should-have-been-headless mannequin. The eyes were open in death, and crows and blackbirds lurked, waiting to attack. Even as Maureen stared up at the atrocity before her, a crow zeroed in, aiming for the soft tissue.

“We’ve got to get that down!” One of the cops, a young man, new to the force—Bobby Magill, Maureen thought—groaned, sounding ill.

“Anyone who’s going to puke, get the hell away from the crime scene! Let’s get it covered!” Lieutenant Purbeck shouted.

At Maureen’s side, Rollo gave one of his deep, bone-jarring barks. Maureen quickly soothed the large wolfhound. “Good job, Rollo,” she murmured. Men scrambled, as Lieutenant Purbeck said, “I want a step...a block...something. We need an investigator up there. And crowd control! Someone arrange detours until we’ve got all this out of here. And I sure as hell don’t want anyone around gaping and snapping shots for Twitter and Facebook!”

Gina Mason, head of the forensics unit, stepped forward and yelled at them. “Get the birds away! And then get some kind of screening set up. We have to preserve the scene! Can we get rigging and tarps around the—the— Around it! Everyone will be breathing down my neck for trace evidence and I’ll have to say we were defeated by a crow!”

Dr. Aaron Mortenson from the coroner’s office had arrived, as well. He got out of his car and walked over to Gina.

“Let the photographer up there first, and then I’ll take a quick look. I won’t disturb anything until you’ve had a chance to get what you need,” he told her.

Mortenson was middle-aged, trim in appearance and always reserved. He saw Mo and Rollo. To her surprise, he nodded to her with something that was almost a smile. A silent acknowledgment that said, Work well done. He sighed loudly. “Since it’s so early, thankfully no four-year-old saw this and realized the head was real. God knows— Halloween. It might well have taken hours even in broad daylight before anyone saw that it wasn’t just part of some grisly display.”

She nodded solemnly back at him.

Lieutenant Purbeck came to stand near Mo, allowing the technicians and the medical examiner the space they needed.

He set a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m okay,” she assured him.

Then she turned away, grasping Rollo’s collar and taking him with her. He’d done his job well. Too well. This was one search she wished she could’ve sat out. Sooner or later, someone would have really looked at the headless horseman that stood outside the entrance to Tommy’s place. The police hadn’t really needed her services. She actually wished that they hadn’t called her; this one was a little too close to home.

“Why my horseman?” Mo heard. She turned.

Tommy Jensen, an old friend—and owner of the Headless Horseman Hideaway Restaurant and Bar—had been allowed through. The restaurant didn’t open until eleven; his staff didn’t even arrive until nine or nine-thirty. But, she realized, looking at his grim face as he stared at the scene, it was his horseman and his parking lot. She figured he’d been called in.

He looked at her bleakly and tried to smile. “Of all the horsemen in all the world...”

Mo touched his arm. He was her senior by a few years; she’d known him since she was ten or so. She recalled that the older girls had often teased him because he’d been a big, awkward kid. He still liked to moan about his dating life. But now that they were all older and presumably more mature, the group she’d hung out with growing up now frequented his restaurant. It was her favorite hangout when friends met up at night for dinner, coffee or drinks. He always took care of them.

He’d been born and bred in the area and was a true lover of the Hudson Valley. He’d owned the restaurant for about two years and it was charming, offering pool tables, dart boards and an “enchanted forest” for young children when their families came for lunch.

Purbeck turned to him. “What time did you leave last night, Tommy?”

Tommy was startled—as if he’d just realized he might be a suspect. “About 2:30 a.m. And I didn’t leave alone. I left with Abby Cole. We cleaned up, locked the place and were together the whole time. I drove her home.”

“And you didn’t see anything? Anything at all unusual?” Purbeck demanded.

Tommy shook his head. “Sir, I’m telling you, we were worn-out. Halloween’s coming, you know? We’re busy. We had to announce last call and practically shove people out of their chairs. When we finally took off, my car was the only one in the lot and...”

“And?”

“I didn’t even glance at the horseman, to be honest. But, like I said, we’d been busy. We had a lot of visitors and people were talking at their cars before leaving. They’d been to the attractions, the haunted houses, the storytelling, all that. So...I’m not a cop, but I don’t see how this could have been done until the wee hours of the morning.”

Purbeck released a sigh. “Call your people. We’re going to have this area closed off for the next five hours or so.”

“The poor guy! I feel really bad about this.” Tommy frowned. “But why did it have to be in front of my place? Oh, Lord, will anyone ever come here again?” he asked, his tone dismayed.

“They’ll flock in—to see where the head of Richard Highsmith was found,” Purbeck said dryly. “You can open, but not until dinner.” He paused, glancing at the scene. “I’m giving my crime scene techs a good five hours. Until then, the crime scene tape stays up. Oh, and, make sure I can get hold of you.”

Tommy looked at Mo. “Don’t leave town, huh?” he said. Then he looked back at Purbeck. “I don’t leave town often, sir, so no worries there. Can I go home?”

“For now. Tell Abby we’ll be talking to her and the staff,” Purbeck added.

Tommy waved as he turned to leave. Then he stopped. “Mo, can you come by later? He could be right about business being okay—or people could be so creeped out, they won’t come anymore.”

“I’ll come by, Tommy,” Mo promised. “I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

She wished she believed her own words. But talking to him, encouraging him, was at least keeping him from seeing the head spiked on his effigy of the headless horseman.

Lieutenant Robert Purbeck walked over to her. “Mo, you can go, if you like. We’ll take it from here.” He sounded gruff and uncomfortable. “You and Rollo were dead-on, as usual.” He paused, rolling his eyes at his unfortunate choice of words. “That came out wrong, but this whole thing is just...bad. Very bad. Are you all right?”

Was she all right?

No one there was all right. But she wasn’t a cop or a forensic expert; she was Rollo’s owner. She was an “expert consultant.” And, sadly, she’d seen the very bad before.

Sometimes, more often than not, she and Rollo found those who were still living. She could proudly say that many a time they had helped save lives.

Not today.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she assured Purbeck. “But it’s not a picture I’ll forget.”

“None of us will,” he murmured.

She squared her shoulders and patted Rollo’s massive head. “We’ve found terrible and tragic things before, Lieutenant. And we’ve survived them.”

Purbeck was a tall, muscled man in his late fifties. He could be a tough cop, but he was also a sort of father figure to her, and his expression was one of parental concern. “We just discovered a head on a pole, Maureen. Here. In Sleepy Hollow. That’s damned...scary and disturbing.”

All she could do was agree. “I’m worried about you,” he said next. “You live alone.”

“I have Rollo.”

Rollo was huge. Standing on his hind legs, he was nearly six feet tall and dwarfed most men. He was one of the largest of his breed she had ever seen.

“Rollo, yes. He might well scare the common car thief,” Purbeck said. “And, yeah, he’s great at what he does. He’s not a bloodhound, not even a scent hound, he’s a sight hound, but he’s always right on the money. I guess dogs have it over us.” He shrugged. “And he’s one hell of a companion. But, Mo, whoever did this is sick. Really sick. I’m no expert on nutcases—and I don’t think I have to be. This is—” He paused, searching for a better word. Apparently, he didn’t find one. “Sick,” he repeated.

Maureen nodded again. “I...I would hope that someone suffering from a serious mental problem, an illness, would be the only person who could do something so horrible,” she said. She gestured around her. “Most people come here because of Washington Irving and his short story ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.’ They’re intrigued by it, they love history—and, well, they just want to see the place. But with this... Someone’s turning it into an obscene joke.”

“Yeah. Some whacked bastard out there has taken the work of the first American man of letters and twisted it into something tragic. I’m going to stop it. I refuse to let any more of this happen in our town. I’m going to track down whoever committed such a...such a dreadful crime, such a travesty—” Purbeck broke off. “I will get this bastard!” he vowed.

Maureen placed one hand on his arm. People here were extremely proud of Washington Irving, and of course the tourist trade that sustained many businesses in the village of Sleepy Hollow and in Tarrytown was due to Irving’s time-tested stories. She knew that herself. Like many who found their way to Sleepy Hollow, her parents were Irish New Yorkers who had fallen in love with the Hudson Valley. They hadn’t purchased property in the area, though. Instead, they’d rented every time they’d come for the summer or other holidays. She’d been the one to set down permanent roots here, buying a cottage down the Hudson from Irving’s Sunnyside. It had belonged to an older couple, friends of her parents, who’d gone to Arizona because of the husband’s severe asthma; they and Maureen had made a deal that was amenable to both parties, and she’d become a full-time resident. Her parents, too, had decided to retire to Scottsdale, joking that they’d never again have to shovel snow.

While she still loved the city—there was, truly, nothing like New York in the world—she’d needed to get away from the nonstop energy, the frequent chaos. And while she loved many places around the country, she’d never seen anything quite as beautiful as the Hudson Valley. Yes, areas off a few of the main roads seemed remote and very dark. But she’d bought what she considered the perfect home in Sleepy Hollow.

“And Richard Highsmith,” Purbeck said. “Lord, why?”

Neither of them had an answer for that.

Mo was hardly an expert on politics, but she’d admired Highsmith. He was that rare politician willing to stand and fight alone. He hadn’t adhered to any political party; he was an independent. He seemed to have taken the best policies and beliefs from everyone else out there. People loved him. He had plans for fiscal responsibility and he also had plans that focused on making equality part of the fabric of America.

Yes, he was loved.

But he was also hated.

And yet...

Hated this much?

“Was someone after Mr. Highsmith specifically?” Mo murmured. “Or...”

As she’d told Lieutenant Purbeck, she had to hope that only someone truly ill could have done this. Even worse—if such a thing was possible—was the chance that Richard’s murder had been random, that he’d just been taken and that...

If that were true, there could be more heads on top of horsemen who should have remained headless.

She knew Purbeck was thinking along the same lines.

“While this is going on, you might want to stay with a friend or move into a hotel,” Purbeck said to her.

“Lieutenant, we have no idea what’s going on yet,” Mo reminded him. “Highsmith was a politician. He was very likely to be voted in as New York’s next mayor. He was an independent, which means that most people loved him but that he also had enemies in the major political camps. I know—I followed him and his politics. He also had plans to run for governor at some point in the future, and a lot of people here still have homes in the city and use the Valley for escape. So...it makes sense that he was speaking here.”

Purbeck nodded. “Yep. He was special and he was different. But getting back to you... You’re in a remote area. I don’t know if Rollo, big as he is, can protect you from this kind of insanity.”

“His size scares people all the time,” Mo commented.

“Normal people,” Purbeck agreed. He stood awkwardly for a moment, watching his officers and the crime scene technicians working. “But if you actually know the dog, he’s one friendly guy.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Lieutenant—Rollo can be fierce!” Maureen bent down to hug the dog. He didn’t exactly prove her point when he rewarded her with a sloppy kiss. One of her mom’s best friends had bred Irish wolfhounds; the dogs had been special to her from the first time she’d seen them. She and Rollo were family.

“And Richard Highsmith—” She started to turn back to the head on the mannequin but stopped herself. “He was a politician, in from the city. I do have to wonder whether someone decided to kill him and to use the legend to get away with it. Let’s face it, no one can look at this without thinking that a maniac is at work. That could throw an investigation in the wrong direction.”

“I almost hope you’re right.” Purbeck glanced at the effigy and the head—now covered with blue canvas in case the gawkers arrived. And in case media cameras showed up. Given media presence at the convention center last night, Mo was surprised that no members of the press were here this morning—and equally relieved. That was obviously because not many people knew there was a severed head here or that it had belonged to Richard Highsmith. They would soon enough. Police were trying to protect the scene of the crime and, she felt, Richard Highsmith’s dignity. No one wanted the grotesque and heartbreaking image of Highsmith’s severed head appearing on TV or the internet or the papers. “I hope this is a political thing. Because if it’s not...”

“You think there really might be someone here...who’s crazy and going after heads?” Maureen asked. “But we have the head.”

Purbeck nodded grimly. “What we don’t have is the rest of the body, and that’s the next order of business. But you—”

Detective Lee Van Camp, a lean man with a thin face and a haggard appearance, stepped over to them, interrupting whatever the lieutenant was about to say. Mo knew he’d be lead man on the case. He worked with Jimmy Voorhaven, a younger detective, and they were probably the two best men in the county. Purbeck was a good commander and usually directed his detectives from his office. Purbeck was here himself because Richard Highsmith’s disappearance—and now confirmed murder—was about as high-profile as it got.

He would remain involved. The media had already gone crazy but news people were being kept at a distance.

She’d worked with Detective Van Camp before. In fact, of all the local cops, she’d worked with him the most. They’d met when she was just a teenager. She hadn’t had Rollo then; she’d had his mom, Heidi. Working with the wolfhounds had been a godsend for her. When she was in her teens, her parents had discovered how effective she and Heidi were at search and rescue, and she remembered hearing them argue about whether they should allow her to continue. They’d decided that yes, if she could help, they were morally bound to let her do so.

She’d never really known what Van Camp thought about her and her almost foolproof ability to find the missing. He simply watched her with his dark, unblinking eyes. And he was always courteous.

“Well?” Purbeck asked softly.

“Political execution taken to a dramatic extreme?” Van Camp asked Purbeck. “Or mental case?” He turned to Mo. “What do you think?”

Maureen wasn’t taken aback by the question. And it wasn’t because she and Van Camp knew each other or that they’d worked together before. He’d told her once that he just listened and tested everything he heard; he listened to everyone, taking in what worked for him and ignoring what didn’t. But he didn’t brush off anyone or discount any opinion. Mo liked him a lot. He was an exceptional detective for that very reason.

She took a deep breath. “It’s certainly dramatic. But in the legend, the headless horseman is looking for heads. He takes the heads and leaves the bodies behind.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Van Camp said.

Purbeck narrowed his eyes. “People say there are really no new stories, just new ways to tell them. The headless horseman was an old legend in the area—Washington Irving just wrote it up with literary talent. Whoever this is, they’re putting a new twist on it.”

“If you go by the legend, the horseman is searching for a head,” Van Camp continued. “And he killed old Ichabod Crane with a pumpkin head he’d been carting around. But if you read between the lines, either Bram Bones did in his rival or Ichabod went off to live happily ever after somewhere else. But if you think this is a political assassination, the drama’s an attempt to throw off suspicion. Hard to be sure at this point.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll know more, I’m sure, after autopsy. I mean— Well, we’ll need to know how the head was removed from the body.”

“Whatever the answer may be, I really don’t think we’re looking for a long-dead Hessian soldier still fighting the Revolution!” Purbeck said.

“No, but these days, politics can be close to war,” Van Camp said with distaste. “Poor guy. He sure as hell didn’t deserve anything like this. I hope, I really hope that—” He paused again. “I hope it was quick.”

“I want to send Mo and Rollo home. No reason they have to watch all this,” Purbeck said.

Van Camp shook his head. “Mo can’t go yet. We still need her and Rollo.”

“Oh?” Purbeck asked.

“Boss man, hey,” Van Camp said. “We’ve got...part of Mr. Highsmith. We need to find the rest of him.”

“Yeah, but I was hoping to give Mo a break. She and Rollo have already found Richard— Well, his head. I thought we’d search for the rest of the remains ourselves....but, Mo, it probably does make more sense if you and Rollo do your thing, get a head start.” He winced. “Sorry. You okay with doing that?”

“Of course,” Mo said, crouching down by Rollo. “Good job, my friend. But we need more. Are you ready?”

The question was just as much for her. She studied the site. Van Camp had left them. He was speaking with Voorhaven, requesting help to get up on a makeshift hoist for a better look at the head in situ. Gina Mason was beside him, accepting a camera from one of her assistants.

“Mo?” Purbeck asked. “Are you sure you can handle this?”

She nodded, closing her eyes. She envisioned the man in the picture she’d been given hours before.

When she opened her eyes, she looked across the road to the cemetery.

Most people thought the old burying grounds were part of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, which included hills and covered a lot of space. The Old Winchester Burying Grounds was actually a separate entity. At one time, St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church had stood somewhere in the center, although it had burned down during the Revolution. So, officially, this had been a burying ground rather than a cemetery. Traditionally, unlike a cemetery, a burying ground was attached to a church, although over the years the terms had become interchangeable.

Now—be it cemetery or burying ground—the place beckoned to her.

“Rollo,” she said to the dog. “We’re on.”

* * *

Aidan knew this area very well.

Nestled in the Hudson Valley, surrounded by mountains and bordered by the Hudson River, Sleepy Hollow was simply charming. Carved out of Tarrytown and once known geographically and locally by the unimaginative name of North Tarrytown, the village had become Sleepy Hollow in 1996 in honor of its most famous resident, Washington Irving. The entire area was ripe with Revolutionary history, along with tales of the Old Dutch community and legends from the Native Americans who’d once called it home.

The Woman in White appeared now and then, and Major Andre’s ghost was said to roam the area. The dashing gentleman had been hanged as a spy by the patriots. Of course, he was a spy, but he’d been handsome and charismatic, and many had lamented his death.

The woods were dense. Creeks and streams danced over rocks and down slopes. At night, when fog wandered in these woods, it was easy to imagine how frightening it might be to roam what would’ve been an eerie landscape in the dark, with only the light of the moon filtering through the trees.

The Old Dutch Burying Grounds by the Old Dutch Church were filled with worn old stones and vaults that had been dug into the cliffs, and it was spooky by moonlight.

Of course, there was also much that was warm and welcoming in Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown.

There were hotels and motels, bed-and-breakfasts and inns, as well as shops that offered the usual T-shirts, souvenirs, handmade arts and crafts, and one-of-a-kind clothing.

And there were headless horsemen.

There were headless horsemen everywhere.

They were on signs that advertised stores and restaurants.

They were on village welcome posts along the roadside—some made of wrought iron and some of wood etchings, and others were done using a variety of other artistic media and techniques.

As a child, Aidan had scrambled up and down the hills and leaped over the many lilting brooks and streams. He and his friends had created their own stories about the patriots and redcoats and traitors, the Indians who had once claimed the land and, needless to say, Irving’s headless horseman.

It had been a great place to grow up. The entire Hudson Valley was, in his opinion, one of the most beautiful places on earth. And, for a boy, it had been filled with adventure. Hiking, fishing, boating, walking with his friends...learning their world and its history.

Richard Highsmith had been one of those friends.

Aidan hadn’t gone to the local station yet. Neither had he headed over to the center where Richard would be speaking. Jackson Crow had called Aidan with specifics about the last time Richard had been seen. In fact, Highsmith’s assistant, Taylor Branch, had feared that he’d just walked out—that he’d suddenly had an epiphany regarding politics and its negative, nasty side. Branch was sure that Richard would realize he was a different kind of politician, one who could bring about change, and that he’d come back. So he’d waited, entertaining the crowd with musicians hired for the event.

Richard had been missing for three hours before Branch had called the police. Then there’d been confusion. Next the place had been shut down and those who’d come to see him speak had been held and questioned, but finally they’d all been allowed to leave.

A search had actually begun last night around midnight. From Jackson Crow’s last call, Aidan knew that more people had been called out at the crack of dawn.

The police had searched through the night. Many of the tourist attractions in Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow—like Washington Irving’s Sunnyside and the old Philips Manor—had acres of farmland, surrounded by forest.

The police had called in all kinds of assistance. Officers from the county and state. Bloodhounds and other canine search-and-rescue units, including an Irish wolfhound and his keeper who seemed to have an extraordinary rate of success. Anything and everyone was out there—and now the information had hit the airwaves.

Aidan had decided to go on instinct. On the voices he heard in his head. He hated when that happened, loathed it. But the voices still came now and then. And today...

He’d heard Richard. Heard him when it was too late.

They got me, my old friend. They got me.

He wished he’d heard something different. Like, I’m in danger, old friend.

Cursing, he began to walk. First he climbed uphill, by the Old Dutch Church. But somehow he knew that was wrong, so he changed course, got back in his car and drove beside the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Finally, he reached the end and parked again.

It was fall; mid-October had just arrived. The day had been beautiful when he’d started driving and even when he’d first parked. The leaves were turning, offering brilliant touches of color here and there. The temperature was cool but not cold.

Suddenly a chilly breeze was whipping around him, and when he looked up he saw that the sky was gray and ominous.

A brook trickled between the boundaries of the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and Saint Andrew’s burying ground. He hopped over the brook, studying the expanse of trees that flourished everywhere—the plan when the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery was designed had been to make it a serene and beautiful place, a place where families might come to picnic and find peace while they honored their lost loved ones. And it was beautiful here. The dead rested between the graceful trees and gurgling water. Nature at its best.

The one land of the dead blended into the next. There hadn’t been a burial at the old grounds for a century while Sleepy Hollow Cemetery still accepted new denizens. But the old burying ground was just as beautiful, though not actually planned that way. Nature, on her own, had stepped in. The grounds were somewhat overgrown, yet that made them more forlorn and more poignant. Crosses rose in high grass; cherubs appeared by tombstones.

Angels wept.

There were vaults dug into the hill where the church had once stood, surrounded by trees and bushes. Tombs had been built above the ground, and these old mausoleums endured within a fairy-tale land where the dead rested and the living might contemplate the beauty of life—and the inevitability of death.

He passed one of the old vaults and crawled high atop it to survey the area. A stone angel knelt in prayer to his left, an obelisk rose to his right. He hurried by them and clambered down an overgrown path to the rise of a second hill. For a moment, he paused. He could hear the tinkle of water and saw where a tree had broken several stones.

The day was darkening; it was going to rain.

The breeze quickened and Aidan felt an urge to hurry. He walked across the hill, looking around. So many graves. So many years of men living in this region—and dying here.

He noticed that a new flag marked the grave of a Revolutionary soldier. He passed a general on horseback—a tribute to the men of the valley who had fought in the Civil War.

He walked over graves and by monuments, past mausoleums and vaults, and then he peered into the distance.

And saw a man. Or the shape of a man. The area suddenly seemed very dark, even though it was almost seven-thirty and the sun had surely risen. The breeze was now a wind; the sky roiled.

“Hey!” he called. There was no answer.

Was he imagining the man? The figure leaned against a free-standing vault with great pillars before it.

The wind seemed to be against him as he hurried over. He was fighting to get there.

The man didn’t disappear.

As he struggled forward, he paused at the sound of a dog barking. He turned.

A massive animal was racing toward the other figure, straining at his leash, which was held by a young woman in a black trench coat. He had the rather irrelevant thought that she resembled Cousin Itt from The Addams Family, since the wind had covered her face with her long brown hair. She and the dog—the wolfhound, obviously—were threading their way through crooked tombstones and monuments listing at different angles.

He heard voices. The dog and the woman were being followed.

He ran forward, too. The dog was in a rush—not after him, but intent on something else. Or someone else.

The figure leaning by the vault. The young woman tripped on a broken headstone but found her footing.

He continued forward himself, realizing that dog and woman were headed for the man—and at the rate the dog was going, they might well knock him over.

“Rollo! Slow down!” the young woman commanded.

Rollo passed Aidan and skidded to a halt within ten feet of the figure.

Running, Aidan barely managed to stop himself from toppling over onto the woman.

Then she came to a standstill so quickly that she lost her balance and fell back.

Into Aidan’s arms.

She gasped and he righted her.

She turned to apologize, pulling strands of hair away from her eyes. They were like crystals, gray-green and shimmering with flecks of both colors.

She didn’t speak but her beautiful eyes widened, as if wondering what she’d seen just before she’d fallen backward—into his arms.

Their eyes met briefly in that confusion.

Rollo, the giant wolfhound, kept barking.

And as they both turned to look at the man—the figure by the tomb—a horde of people came panting up behind them.

They were mostly men in uniform.

Aidan ignored them. So did the young woman and the dog.

They were still staring at the man who’d been propped against the vault. He wore a long billowing coat and black boots, and might have been casually waiting there.

He just didn’t have a head.

But something else about the scene didn’t seem right.

“Oh, my God!” someone shrieked behind him.

Aidan noticed that the headless man stood as if he were about to enter the vault—or perhaps ask someone to join him.

It was staged. It was staged to be horrific.

One of the newcomers stopped about three feet from the young woman.

“Well, I believe you’ve found the rest of Mr. Highsmith, Mo.” He stopped speaking. Perhaps, under the circumstances, all their minds were working a little slowly. The man frowned, then gave Aidan a thorough look and said, “This is a crime scene, sir.” He paused, his expression grim. “But...”

Aidan was in a suit and trench coat, certainly not clothing worn by any of the others here. He guessed—hoped—that he wore it with a certain authority.

“You’re with the federal government?”

Aidan nodded and presented his credentials. The older man studied him again. “Took them long enough to get you here,” he said. “I called last night.”

“Sir, I got the word about an hour and a half ago,” Aidan said.

The older man didn’t offer his hand; he seemed to be an old-time lawman. “Lieutenant Robert Purbeck, Agent Mahoney,” he said. “Glad you made it. Things like this don’t happen in Tarrytown. Except in stories, of course.”

Someone next to him was on a radio, telling someone else to get the M.E. and crime scene techs up the hill.

The wolfhound barked.

“Shh, Rollo,” the young woman said.

“Agent Mahoney, meet my lead men on the case—Detectives Lee Van Camp and Jimmy Voorhaven. And—” he gestured to the young woman and the dog “—Maureen Deauville. Mo...we have a Fed here. Agent Mahoney of the FBI. Oh, and that’s our wonder dog, Rollo.”

Aidan nodded in acknowledgment. The other cops, a weary-looking lean guy and his younger partner, watched him curiously as they shook hands but they didn’t appear to resent his presence.

“God help me,” Purbeck muttered. “I hope that’s the rest of Richard Highsmith. If not...”

He didn’t finish his sentence.

But Aidan knew what he meant.

They’d found Richard’s head.

And if this wasn’t the body that went with the head...

Well, there might be headless bodies and bodiless heads all over the Hudson Valley.

But, as he stood there, staring at the form, Aidan saw that the loose coat had fluttered open—and he understood what was wrong with the scene.

And he knew their worst fears were realized.

“I’m sorry to say this,” Aidan announced, “but that’s not Richard Highsmith.”

“What?” Purbeck demanded. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Take a closer look,” Aidan said. “That’s not a man’s body. It’s a woman’s.”

“What?” Purbeck demanded again. “Rollo found a body, a woman’s body? But...he was on Richard Highsmith’s scent!”

“He sure as hell found something,” Aidan said.

The young woman, Maureen Deauville, spoke quietly then.

“Rollo is— Well, he’s really a sight hound, but—” She paused, glancing around. “He’s never wrong. Richard Highsmith is nearby,” she said. “The, um, rest of him.”

Aidan looked at her, then at the headless body by the tomb. Ms. Deauville seemed very certain. In a second, he’d pulled on a pair of neoprene gloves.

Then he stepped forward.

There was an iron gate that guarded the tomb. Beyond that was some kind of heavy metal door.

Aidan pulled at the gate; it creaked, but gave.

He pushed at the iron door. It groaned on its hinges but opened.

Taking a penlight from his pocket, he flashed it over the inside of the vault. He saw a stone sarcophagus or tomb in the center.

And on the stone tomb, a body. In a suit.

“This, I think,” Aidan said, rigidly controlling the emotion that ripped through him, “is Richard Highsmith.”