Dark Rites

  * * *

  “I wish we were just at headquarters with this one—with Angela Hawkins and all her wonderful boards,” Rocky said.

  They had left the morgue, and were traveling back to Barre.

  “We have dead people. We have missing people,” he said. “We have massive acreage where someone could be hiding. Why are they hiding? Cults are usually out in the open. They have great big compounds.”

  “And then, they sent people into Boston to attack others,” Griffin noted.

  “Think that was to keep us away from this area?”

  “If that’s the case, it wasn’t really a bright move—not if you consider the fact that most historians know the quotation links to Ezekiel Martin, and that Jehovah was out here somewhere.”

  “Say that our killer—and I use that term whether he or she wielded the knife themselves or not—is a bright person. Extremely bright. Sometimes, those who are superintelligent don’t really have a lot of street smarts,” Rocky pointed out.

  “Theory?” Griffin said.

  “Sure, let’s hear your theory.”

  “Our killer may or may not really believe that he can bring Satan in the flesh to the world. But he’s been working this cult for a long time—authorities didn’t notice at first, because there were day-to-day problems in Massachusetts and, of course, the Undertaker case. Our killer liked it that way. He didn’t want people realizing what was going on out here in the more westerly area of the state—so send people on suicide missions to keep authorities thinking that if something was going on, it was going on in the big city of Boston. But, as you pointed out, he might not have been quite as bright as he thinks. Using the saying from old Ezekiel Martin sent us out here,” Griffin said.

  “Okay, why was the blood of Helena Matthews thrown at Vickie?” Rocky asked.

  “The killer knows about Vickie. He knows she’s friends with Alex Maple. He has taken Alex because Alex is so very knowledgeable, and if you didn’t have Alex, you might well want to have Vickie.”

  “And what about Helena Matthews?” Rocky asked. “And, for that matter, Sheena Petrie.”

  “Sheena Petrie is the hardest to connect, I think. But it is possible that she was our killer’s first victim.”

  “And Helena Matthews?”

  “Well,” Griffin said, “we don’t yet know if we might have just found her or not.”

  “And Carly Sanderson,” Rocky said.

  “I think that Carly is one of the number of followers,” Griffin said. “Just like Darryl Hillford and Gloria. In fact, I haven’t heard from Barnes in a while. I’ll call in and see if they’ve gotten anything more from Gloria.”

  “How would you do that, Griffin?” Rocky asked, shaking his head. “How would you get people so caught up in something so ridiculous that they’d kill themselves? Young people, with everything to live for?”

  Griffin was quiet for a minute. “Where do you find terrorists? Among the poor and the disenfranchised—those who have nothing and feel powerless. Our killer staked out his converts—he chose young people who were searching for something to believe in.”

  “But Carly Sanderson has a father who loves her,” Rocky pointed out.

  “She was socially awkward. She was lured somehow. Then I believe that our killer is working with a number of drugs—drugs known to have an effect on memory, drugs that can cause hallucinations, as well.”

  “Where would you get all those drugs?” Rocky mused, and then he looked at Griffin and answered himself. “What’s the matter with me—after all these years, I should know that just about anything is available on the street anywhere.”

  “True,” Griffin agreed. “But I think there’s something else we should look into that might help. Okay, so we don’t know this for fact yet, but I do believe that our killer is keeping his little cult under control by ensuring they are obedient and docile. I mean, give someone a hallucinogenic, and you can make them panicked enough to kill themselves. I’m willing to bet that a few pharmacies have been held up—that they’ve been cleaned out so that certain prescription drugs can be mixed with street drugs. You don’t have to be a chemist to discover what properties can destroy memory and stability, or make someone susceptible to suggestion.”

  “There are many—and far too available on the street and in a store,” Rocky noted.

  Griffin started to put through a call to David Barnes.

  His timing was pretty amazing; he never made the call. Barnes was calling him.

  “Hey, Barnes,” Griffin said, answering the phone and glancing over at Rocky with a nod. “We were just about to call you.”

  “Did you get something out there?” Barnes asked.

  “This morning? No. Not yet. We’ve been at the morgue. Our only chance on an ID is going to be DNA, and if we don’t have DNA to compare it to, well...we’ll have a Jane Doe. Anything there?”

  “Gloria seems to be doing well. I’ve gone by to see her each afternoon, of course. She hasn’t remembered anything else as yet—not for certain. It might not be a bad idea to drive back in for a morning or an afternoon. The drive, even with traffic, shouldn’t take you more than a few hours. I keep thinking that it doesn’t hurt for Vickie to talk to her. She was supposed to attack Vickie, so that means she had to know something about her. If we could just jar that somewhat, you never know.”

  “You’re right. I’ll see about driving back in for a bit and let you know. I’m not with Vickie right now. She and Devin were going to have breakfast with a fellow here—Frank Sanderson. His daughter is missing. I remembered seeing her name in some of the reports I’d pulled.”

  “Ah, well! I do have something for you—hot off the press—or email, I should say. I believe it’s coming straight from Officer Tracy.”

  “We have a likeness? A sketch?” Griffin asked.

  “Yes, Officer Tracy and Vickie’s friend, the artist Roxanne Greeley, just finished with the two characters from the gas station in Fall River. They had something, though how good it is, we don’t know, of course. But better than nothing.”

  “Roxanne went with him to Fall River?”

  “You asked for him, and he asked for her. She’s apparently a really talented artist—with a nice ability to draw a face from memory or someone’s description. She could have a nice career with the BPD, if she were interested. Anyway, we’ve got the sketch.”

  “Great. I’ll find it on my phone,” Griffin said. “Anyone you know?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t someone that one of you might recognize. We can also distribute it widely, which has been not perfect, but helpful for us thus far. Check it out and see what you think. And let me know when you’re coming in. Gloria’s doctor has been slacking off. He doesn’t believe she’s ever going to get back all of her memory, and he isn’t sure how much longer she should be in a hospital.”

  “Will do. We might be able to drive in this afternoon. Though...”

  Though he felt that they needed to stay out where they were.

  Why?

  Because Jehovah was out here somewhere.

  “Whatever you need done, we’ll be out here,” Rocky told him quietly.

  Griffin nodded. “Thanks. I’d like Brenda Noonan disinterred.”

  “I’ll get going on the paperwork, and I’ll stay out at the Quabbin waterfront with Wendell and his officers,” Rocky promised him. “We need to move in every direction,” he added.

  Yes, they did!

  “Okay, Barnes, I’ll let you know about timing this afternoon. Other than that, we’d like you to do what you can to find out if drugstores—pharmacies of any kind—have been robbed in this area. We’re pretty sure this guy has to be dealing with a lot of drugs. Cyanide is one thing—getting people to take it rather than face the law is another.”

  “I’ll get
on it right away.”

  Griffin rang off from Barnes and went to his email, finding the message that had been sent to him from Officer Jim Tracy.

  He opened the attachment and stared at the picture.

  And he was stunned.

  He knew the man.

  Yes, it was a good likeness.

  An uncanny likeness.

  He definitely knew the man.

  And so did Vickie.

  13

  “Lie there. Just lie there. Let it go. Even if you feel that you have strength, that you know what you’re doing, just lie there.”

  Alex Maple blinked.

  It was the blonde woman. An angel? Was she angel? Or was she a ghost?

  Or maybe a real live woman, just trying to help him!

  “What did they do to me?” he asked her. “Why do I feel this way?”

  “They took your blood.”

  “They took my blood? Why?”

  “They will use some in the ceremony tonight. They will drink it, to gain your knowledge, to gain your strength. Don’t worry, they don’t expect you at this ceremony. They expect us both to be in and out of consciousness.”

  In and out of consciousness—that meant that the blonde woman was not a ghost or an angel. She was alive. She was real; she was flesh and blood.

  He wasn’t on a table; he was on a bed. The bandage was still on his arm, but there were no needles or anything else attached to him. He was in a ward of some kind, he thought. Maybe, when it had been a mental institute, this had been where the sick patients had been brought. It had been the infirmary.

  Sick patients!

  Sicker than usual...

  “They took blood from you?” he asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “To drink?”

  “I’m not that kind of worthy,” she said, a bitter amusement in her voice. “I don’t even know. But he’s done it before. He’ll do it again. You can’t fight...you’re very pliable when you have no blood.”

  “But we need to fight!”

  “Those who fight, die.”

  Alex was quiet for a minute, afraid.

  “Do they die just because they fight?” he asked.

  “They die at the full moon. The full moon is closest, you see. Go figure—it makes the darkness lighter, but it’s when the power of hell is supposed to be the strongest. He wants to bring Satan to earth—or, perhaps, make all his followers believe that he is Satan.”

  “Why?”

  “Power? Money? All the good things.”

  Alex was thoughtful. Blood! They’d bled him. Yes, that would make him weak. He wouldn’t be able to fight. But the person who had attacked him and the others in Boston had not been weak.

  She must have been reading his mind.

  “Hallucinogenics and other drugs. He makes people forget where they came from. He shows them what will happen to them if they don’t obey. Death is not evil, you see, not in his world. Those who die in the service of the master are rewarded.”

  “How...how do you know all this?” he asked her.

  “Because I pretend all the time,” she said, and again she laughed softly, and it was a bitter and pained laugh. “Because I have been here...waiting my turn. I’m the sacrifice for what he sees as his high holy day—as soon as he’s exactly in Jehovah.”

  “He can’t do that...he doesn’t know where it is. I don’t know where it is!”

  “Make him think that you do—or he will kill you. He already doubts you. He has talked about taking your friend. Victoria Preston. She is, you must see, in his mind, perfect. Because she could be the messenger—and the sacrifice!”

  “But...” Alex was stunned. He thought about Vickie constantly. He was holding on to the irrational belief that he could communicate with her, that she could somehow hear him when he shouted with his mind. He’d wanted her to find him—and he’d wanted her to stay far away. Both. And now...

  “She’s not a virgin!” he said triumphantly. “Not meaning to be rude here or anything, but she sure as hell isn’t a virgin, so she wouldn’t be a good sacrifice!”

  “While I don’t know your friend, I doubt it matters if she’s a virgin. That really doesn’t mean anything anymore. He creates his religion as he goes along. He is like any fanatic—he can twist anything into his way of seeing it.”

  “We have to escape. That’s all there is to it. Somehow, we have to escape.”

  “When you’ve figured out how,” she told him softly, “you let me know. Shush! Someone is coming.”

  Someone was coming.

  Hooded figures.

  “Come along, come along now!” one of them told the woman.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she said, leaning heavily upon the one who spoke.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  “Yes, of course. I am always okay. I am so honored! It is my time to see the master.”

  Then they were all gone. And Alex tried to rise and he fell back; he didn’t have the strength.

  He began to weep.

  He wanted to fight so badly.

  He could only fight with his mind.

  But then again, throughout his life, his greatest strength had been his mind.

  Now, he just needed to figure out how to wage the battle.

  * * *

  Vickie was still sitting at the table with Devin, Isaac Sherman, Charlie Oakley and Frank Sanderson when the email came through from Roxanne.

  She stared at the picture.

  It could only be one man, and that one man was someone she knew—and someone Roxanne had met, as well.

  Professor Milton Hanson.

  Barnes, she reckoned, hadn’t recognized the man in the picture because he really had no reason to know the professor.

  And, Vickie reckoned, Roxanne hadn’t said anything, because of course she and Officer Jim Tracy had worked together to create the likeness.

  She must have just been staring at her phone in shock because, this time, Devin kicked her beneath the table. She managed not to cry out, startled.

  She was sure that Devin had the same email and just hadn’t seen it yet.

  “I think,” she murmured, looking around the table, “that Devin and I have to get back. I’m not sure what our plan is for the day.”

  “I hope it’s to find Brenda’s killer,” Isaac said.

  “And maybe, in that, Sheena Petrie’s killer, too,” Charlie added.

  Frank waved a hand in the air. “Inch by inch—every last acre in the forest by the Quabbin must be searched. My Carly might still be alive.”

  They all rose, leaving the table.

  Charlie asked, “You’re going to keep me apprised of what’s going on? I may be retired for a long time, but I worked security. I know my way around trouble.”

  “Of course!” Devin assured him.

  She was looking at her phone, frowning.

  Devin had never met Milton Hanson.

  Vickie wasn’t going to speak to her until they were alone.

  She realized she didn’t trust anyone.

  Not even Charlie Oakley.

  “Oh, my God!” Vickie said when they were in the car. “The picture—the likeness!”

  “Who is it?”

  “Milton Hanson. Brilliant professor. Political science, theology and history. He works with Alex, Devin. And the night I was supposed to meet up with Alex at the coffee shop, he was there!”

  “Okay...if he was there, how did he have Alex?”

  “Because he kidnapped him the night before, and spirited him away somewhere. Smarmy! That’s what my dad always called him. And he wanted to borrow a book. A book I took and hid. I have to get into that book, Devin—”

  She br
oke off.

  Her phone was ringing.

  And it was Griffin.

  “The sketch!” she said.

  “Yes, it’s Milton Hanson. I’m trying to stay sane here. Is it possible that Roxanne got the description from the brothers, and twisted it to look like Hanson because she knows him?”

  “No. Roxanne is an artist. She would have listened to every word said. She was with Jim, too, and Jim doesn’t know Hanson. Griffin! It’s him. I told you—he’s a smarmy bastard!”

  “Smarmy still doesn’t mean murderer.”

  “But it could!” Vickie insisted.

  “Anyway, we’ve got to head back to Boston,” Griffin said.

  “But we just got here. We just found a body in the Quabbin. And, Griffin, when we were at breakfast, we ran into Charlie Oakley—he’s out here.”

  “We’re just going so you can talk to Gloria again, to try to stir something. We’ll drive in and drive back. Rocky and Devin will stay here. They can start searching the area. And Wendell Harper is on everything. Plus the state police will still be working while we’re gone.”

  “All right. Why do you think that Charlie Oakley is out here, Griffin?” she asked.

  “Because the death of Sheena Petrie ruined his life,” Griffin suggested.

  “You think...”

  “What?”

  “You think that there’s any possibility he killed her himself?”

  “We have no reason to suspect that,” Griffin said.

  “But you don’t think that it’s suspicious that he’s here?”

  “Sure. It’s suspicious. Rocky and I are going to meet up with Wendell Harper, then we’ll come back to the bed-and-breakfast for you.”

  Vickie hung up and told Devin about her conversation.

  “Something has to crack somewhere,” Devin said. “Maybe Gloria will remember something. She’s really the only lead we’ve got—the only living person we now have in custody who might know what’s going on, somewhere in the far reaches of her mind.”

  * * *

  Barnes had brought in a police hypnotist, but that had availed them little.

  Gloria had certainly had a family at some time, and she was sure that she’d had a puppy. The puppy had seemed to have been the best thing in her life. He’d gotten big, he’d become a great dog and his name had been Wolfen. Then, Barnes told them, Gloria had begun to cry, and they’d had to end the session.