“That wasn’t...that wasn’t June in there, was it? With the older gentleman?” Vickie asked him.
“June?” Hank asked her, startled.
“June Jensen, the woman you were dating. I’m sorry—I could be way off, but I thought someone mentioned to me the fact you two had broken it off,” Vickie said.
“Dear, I’m so sorry!” Chrissy murmured.
Hank studied Vickie speculatively. “We did break up. Well, I don’t know if you can call it a breakup. She just...she just disappeared out of my life. Funny thing, she was never on Facebook or any other social media. I had her phone number. I guess she was just done with me. The number she gave me is disconnected.”
Was he watching her to see if she was suspicious? Or because he was really curious as to how she knew what was going on in his life?
He smiled at her. “But it’s okay,” he told her. “It’s really okay. Somehow, I know I’m going to be okay.”
Baugh was there with the car. Hank moved in to give her a hug goodbye. She pretended she didn’t see; she hopped into the car.
Chrissy Ballantine stepped into his arms for a big hug.
They both waved from the car and started the drive back to the Ballantine house.
“Too bad that young man didn’t seem to have it together before, when you were young,” Chrissy said. “Seems like he’s coming along. But...”
“But?” Vickie asked.
Chrissy grinned. “I always liked that cop-turned-agent,” she said softly. “Griffin Pryce. You could see it in his eyes—he really cared what happened to people. He cared about you, and he cared about Noah. And I admit, well, I guess you know—I wanted to blame this on you somehow. I needed to blame someone. I’d had a perfect world—it was completely destroyed when Dylan died. Then, somehow, God gave us Noah. And I had a perfect world again. Then you and Noah were nearly killed, and it was as if we went through this period of waiting, almost as if we were underground. It wasn’t terrible—I wasn’t aware of it all the time. We had Noah. Nursery school and kindergarten and grade school. Christmas shows and Easter dramas—he made the best carrot ever, once! But you know how cicadas go to sleep for years and years and they’re suddenly up and flooding the region again? It’s as if we were asleep. As if we hid from the danger for years—but it was always there, underground, waiting. Anyway, thank God for you—and Special Agent Pryce and that lovely therapist, Lenore. I am strong, and I am going to make it. But the evil has been there all this time—and if the evil is George, then damn him to hell, and if it’s not, then God forgive me. Odd, though, I have this strange sense that it really is coming full circle—and that, for whatever it might cost, we are reaching the end.”
Vickie looked at her. She’d never heard such a long speech from Chrissy Ballantine; she’d never imagined what was going on in the woman’s mind.
But then, it was always so hard. Knowing what someone else was really thinking.
She squeezed Chrissy’s hand. “You’re very special, Chrissy. Noah is lucky to have such a great mom. So was Dylan.”
Chrissy nodded. “Sometimes...”
“Yes?”
“I just wish I could see him one more time. Dylan, that is. Just one more time so that I could tell him what a great kid he was—what a wonderful, caring, giving adult he would have proven to be. Is there a Heaven, Vickie, do you think?”
“I’m sure of it,” Vickie said. She lowered her head, wondering why it was she could see Dylan so clearly—that Noah could see him, had even seen him when he’d been an infant—and Chrissy, who longed to do so with all her heart, could not.
When they reached the house, Vickie saw that Griffin and Jackson Crow were seated on the porch; they quickly rose as Baugh drove the car into the porte cochere, waving and walking around to meet them at the kitchen door.
Chrissy Ballantine was quickly out of the car, rushing up to the agents before opening the door.
“Did you talk to him? Oh, God, is George a killer? What’s going on? You did find him, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Shall we go inside?” Griffin asked her, glancing over at Vickie as she got out of the car, and nodding to Baugh.
“Inside? Yes, sure, but...is he a killer?”
“Chrissy, we don’t believe George is a killer,” Griffin said.
“No?” Chrissy asked, fumbling with the lock.
“No,” Jackson said as Griffin took the keys from her to open the lock.
Chrissy fumbled to put in the alarm code. “Come in, come in—I lock up and put the code in right away. He’s not a killer. He’s just a...a louse? I love George. If he were a killer, though, I’d help see him fried or locked away forever, I promise. But...okay, yes, let’s sit. The parlor. Far more comfortable there, less awkward. Can I get you something? We just ate. Vickie’s old flame was there...he was very nice, had a lovely time with him. But have you all eaten? What can I get you? I’m doing all the talking. I want you to be talking.”
“We’ll go sit. Come on,” Griffin smiled at her, such a gentle smile. She loved the way he could be so hard when necessary—but so kind to those in distress.
He looked at her curiously, arching a brow.
He wasn’t the jealous type, she didn’t think. He was more curious.
Hank Fremont—showed up at your lunch? he seemed to be wondering.
She shrugged, and they all headed into the parlor.
Chrissy looked at her watch. “Two o’clock,” she said. “We have a bit of time before picking up Noah. I’ve tried really hard to keep my thoughts and feelings from him, but...”
“He’s a smart kid. So, here’s our suggestion,” Griffin said. “Talk to your husband. He went through a few bad times of his own. We’re going to be investigating George’s friends and business associates, but one instinct you’ve had has been right all along—George would never hurt Noah. He would never willingly do anything that would hurt Noah.”
Chrissy swallowed nervously and looked down at her hands. “But he was cheating. You can’t say that, because you’re agents.”
“We can’t say things your husband needs to say to you because it wouldn’t be right,” Griffin said quietly.
“George needs to speak with you. He will. In fact, I believe he’ll be here soon,” Jackson told her. “I think you’re both good people. I hope you figure things out.”
He had barely spoken before they heard the kitchen door open and close. They heard the little pings the alarm gave off when it was being reset.
“Chrissy? It’s okay,” George called. “It’s me!”
“In here, George,” Chrissy told him.
George Ballantine walked on into the room. The man looked as if he’d been crying.
He glanced at Jackson and Griffin and then Vickie, and he nodded an acknowledgment to them.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Then he walked over to where his wife was seated and he went straight down on his knees, burying his head in her lap.
“Forgive me. If you can’t forgive me, I beg you find a way to go on and be happy. Oh, Chrissy, I am so, so sorry.”
Chrissy set her hands on her husband’s head. She looked across the room at the three of them, baffled, grateful.
“I forgive you, George,” she said softly.
“Chrissy, you don’t even know what I did!”
“You didn’t kill anyone, George. I forgive you.”
“But...I...”
“I always wondered what I’d feel, if and when something like this happened,” Chrissy said. “I know now. I still love you. We’ve both hurt. We’ve both managed different ways. You can tell me everything, but you don’t have to. Truth can hurt.”
“Chrissy, yes, there was a young woman. When I was with her, I could forget... I could pretend. But not really. So help
me God, I could never forget that I love you.”
Griffin rose and Jackson and Vickie followed suit.
If there had ever been an exit line, it seemed George Ballantine had just uttered it.
“We’ll see ourselves out,” Jackson said.
Chrissy nodded. “One moment—just one moment,” she said.
Griffin, Jackson and Vickie headed to the kitchen.
“Give them that minute,” Jackson suggested.
They waited in the kitchen. Shortly, Chrissy came in, smiling. “Ah! The Justice League!” she teased. Then she hugged Vickie and then Griffin and Jackson. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”
“None of this is over. Please take extreme care,” Griffin said.
“Yes,” Chrissy whispered.
They went out.
Chrissy locked the door. They heard her set the alarm.
They headed to the car. Vickie went to the back seat immediately. She could look through the bucket seats that way, listen to and speak with both of the men.
“So?” she demanded, as Griffin geared up the car. “George is innocent. You’ve proven him innocent? But you’re watching him. So what is going on?”
“George had an affair,” Jackson said.
“Not a good thing, but not something I believe the FBI would usually find to be earth-shattering?” Vickie asked.
“We think he might have an affair with the wrong woman,” Griffin said.
“Oh. You mean...?”
“We think she might have been one of the Undertakers,” Jackson said.
“Ah. But...how? Why? Oh, okay, so this woman is one of the Undertakers. And you think she got close to George and learned about his house and how to get in? I guess that’s possible, but what about the women who were kidnapped before? Do you think she had affairs with other husbands, too? Barbara Marshall isn’t married. Her guy is in the military.”
“I think the Undertakers are ice-cold killers,” Griffin said. “I think they used whatever machination would work for them in any situation. But this woman he was seeing doesn’t seem to exist. We ran the name, but eliminated everyone we found. She didn’t have email, or an address other than a hotel—the hotel where she met up with George. Oh, and where she got him to make the arrangements and use his credit card. Her phone was pay-as-you-go with no way to trace it. She was seeing him...and then she disappeared. He’d told her it was over, so he hadn’t thought anything about it. He said she understood. And then she disappeared. A godsend for George. But we can’t find her—or a trace of her—either,” Griffin said.
“Police and home office are still trying every angle,” Jackson told her.
“What was her name? Or what name did she use?” Vickie asked.
“June. June Jensen,” Griffin said.
Mario’s wonderful eggplant parmesan seemed to erupt in Vickie’s stomach.
“June Jensen?” she repeated.
“Yes.” They’d reached her complex. Griffin pulled the car to a halt, turned off the ignition, and it seemed his head nearly spun as he turned to look at her.
“You know her? You know this woman?” he asked incredulously.
“No. But I know someone who does.”
14
They made it to Vickie’s apartment, inside, doors locked.
And then they talked.
Vickie paced as she told Griffin and Jackson about her afternoon with Chrissy.
“You know Roxanne Greeley,” she said, looking at Griffin.
“Of course. Your best friend. You’ve known her since you were kids,” he replied.
“So, I’m driving with Chrissy and I look out the window and there—right in front of the Paul Revere house—is a couple, and they turn out to be Roxanne and Hank Fremont,” Vickie said.
“Vickie’s old high school flame,” Griffin said to Jackson, who just nodded.
“But they knew each other all through high school. Why was it unusual that they were on the street together?” Griffin asked.
“They weren’t just together. They were together,” Vickie explained.
Griffin and Jackson glanced at one another. “Maybe...maybe something is going on between them,” Jackson said. “Is there a reason there shouldn’t be?”
“Yes. No. Oh, God, don’t look at me that way!” Vickie exclaimed. “Trust me, it has nothing to do with me being jealous. I knew years ago Hank Fremont was welcome to the best life he could have—as long as it was without me. But the thing is, I don’t know why they lied to me. The last time I was with Roxanne, we were commiserating over her lack of talent in picking good guys.”
“Maybe Roxanne is worried you would be upset,” Griffin suggested.
“No, no, you’re missing the whole thing here. Sure, that’s possible, even though Roxanne seems delighted you’re in my life, Griffin, which, one would think, would make her ready to spill the truth immediately. It isn’t Roxanne who actually lied to me or—I should say—gave me a totally different story. It was Hank. He came to see me—you know that, Griffin. You saw Hank.”
“Yes, so...” Griffin said.
“He told me his life was going great. He’d met the right woman. She brought out all the best in him. He was happy—moving forward,” Vickie said.
“Roxanne is your best friend,” Jackson reminded her.
“No, no—Hank told me the name of the woman who had brought out the best in him. He told me that her name was June Jensen.”
“We need to speak with Hank,” Griffin said. “Now. Do you have a phone number for him? An address?”
“No. But we can call Roxanne,” Vickie said. “I’m assuming she knows where to find him.”
“You’re certain they’re actually seeing one another?” Jackson asked her.
“Their tongues were down in each other’s toes—yes, there’s something more than a friendship going on. Oh! I took Chrissy to Mario’s restaurant. Hank walked in while we were there. I didn’t ask him point-blank then—I went to talk to Mario because he’s worked with Hank through his business. He’s working for something called Great Organics. Mario buys produce from the company through Hank.”
Griffin glanced at Jackson. “It’s a real company.”
“If a restaurant has gotten produce, yes,” Jackson agreed.
“Anyway, I asked Mario about Hank, and—as far as Mario knew—Hank was still with that woman, June Jensen.”
“Let’s find Roxanne, and then we’ll find Hank,” Griffin said. “Call her, please.”
“And what do I tell her?”
“That you need to speak with her. Find out where she is,” Griffin said.
He felt his phone buzzing in his pocket; he saw Jackson was reaching into his pocket for his phone as well.
It was a message from Detective Barnes.
“‘New clue to papers—we’ve got another victim,’” Jackson read aloud.
He started dialing Barnes.
Griffin read the text that followed.
1721, Puritans slipping, but hanging around.
The dead are quickly filling the ground.
The talkers are a mix. Oh!
Doctor, doctor, give me a fix. Let not the church prevail.
Bumps here and there, pustules everywhere.
Like a bell you’ll hear me wail.
“Vickie?” he said, handing her his phone so that she could read the message.
She glanced at him, and then glanced at the text, her features tense.
“In 1721, there was a horrific smallpox epidemic here, right?” he asked her.
She nodded. “Yes, and it was the first use of vaccinations—different from today, of course. They made a cut on the person to be vaccinated. Then they smeared it with—or kind of inserted—the pus from someone
infected...sometimes right from the bodies of the dead. I was actually just reading something about this because of the Puritans in Boston. Ben Franklin was actually a kid back then, working for his brother’s paper. He was right around fifteen, I think. He made up a name when he was writing. There were some people who thought that inoculating people was like murdering them. Others, desperate, thought they had to try anything. It was pretty amazing—led to a lot of what we do today.”
“Okay,” Jackson said, returning his phone to his pocket and looking at the two of them. “I’m going to head to the station and meet up with Barnes.”
“Obviously, we have to get on this immediately,” Griffin said. “But we need to find June Jensen, too.”
“Barnes is sending a sketch artist out to the Ballantine house, then we’ll have something to go on. Still, it would help to locate Hank Fremont and find out what he can tell us,” Jackson said.
“All right—Vickie has her books and computer and everything here,” Griffin said. “She can call Roxanne, and see if she can get her over here. Then, while we’re waiting, we can work on the latest clue, while you connect with Barnes and see what you can find out about the most recent victim. We need to confirm we even have one, because if the clue is in...”
“Then a woman has been taken,” Jackson said. “Let’s do it.”
He headed for the door and was gone.
Griffin looked at Vickie. She pulled out her phone and called Roxanne.
“Hey,” Vickie said.
He watched as she listened, spoke and listened again.
“No, I kind of need your help with something. No. No, I’m at home. You’re close? That’s great.” Vickie looked over at Griffin; he could hear Roxanne speaking, and then she stopped. “Okay, seems we’re on the same track today, huh. Anyway, thanks so much—see you when you get here.”
She hung up and looked at Griffin. “She’s with a group of kids. They just finished up for the day. She had them sketching on the Common. She’ll be here as soon as possible.” She shrugged. “Roxanne said she wanted to talk to me, too.”
“Tell you about her and Hank?”