“You were found. We’re very grateful,” Griffin said.
“And you saved the next two women. But there may be more,” Anthony said.
“We will find whoever did this,” Jackson told them firmly.
“I believe you,” Angelina said softly. She flushed and looked away for a minute. “I am so glad that they brought you in. The police...the police are good, but...”
“But they thought I was crazy when I told them Mama D’Onofrio said to dig,” Anthony said.
“Yes, Anthony saw my dear mother. He saw her in a dream. I wish that I could see her. I feel her, often. I think she feels me, maybe,” Angelina said. She shook her head. “But enough to do with dreams of those long dead—I have been trying to remember, but...it’s so hard. I was down at the Italian meat market, I was coming home. It was dark, but there were people on the streets. I was just walking and then...then it hit me. I didn’t know I had been hit, of course. I don’t even remember the pain. It was as if I was walking, and then I wasn’t. And when I woke up in panic, trying to scream...”
“Angie, don’t upset yourself!” Anthony pleaded.
She shook her head. “I am remembering bits and pieces. I am remembering something that smells like the woods—you told me to remember scents, right, Agent Pryce?”
“Yes, Mrs. Gianni.”
“So, I remember something like the woods. But what’s important, I think, is that I remember voices.”
“Voices? Male—female?” Griffin asked.
“Male, I think. I’m not sure—they were hushed, they were whispers. I think now—especially knowing they entered the old inn by an outside coal drop—they were in a hurry. They had to make sure I was confined and couldn’t move and that I would smother in a few hours, but they were worried about being caught. Two, Agent Pryce, Agent Crow. I know that there were two people there who were involved. There is not an Undertaker. There are two.”
Griffin glanced over at Jackson.
Jackson nodded. “Mrs. Gianni, we’re going to let that information out to the press, with your permission. We won’t mention dreams or your mother’s words or anything else. But I do believe it’s important for people to be aware that a victim heard two voices.”
“Of course,” Angelina and Anthony said in unison.
Anthony wanted to get the agents coffee and food. They thanked him, but said that they had to move on. When they were outside the apartment and on the streets of Little Italy, Jackson asked, “Well?”
Griffin shook his head. “Nothing. You?”
“Nothing,” Jackson said. “If the ghost of Mama D’Onofrio is in that house, I didn’t get a feel for her in any way.”
“Think they can just live in dreams?” Griffin asked.
“I gave up thinking about the power of life and death years ago,” Jackson told him. “Any time I have an opinion or think I know something, it changes. You?”
“I just leave my eyes open, and my mind open,” Griffin said, “and I’m very grateful for any clue, physical or from the mouths of the dead, however they may speak.”
“I wish Mama D’Onofrio would pop into one of my dreams,” Jackson said.
“Me, too. I’d like to ask her how she knew her daughter was buried,” Griffin agreed.
They’d been heading for the car. Jackson stopped walking. He looked at Griffin for a moment and then said, “I hate to say this, but I don’t think there’s any way out of it. Victoria Preston is somehow on the killers’ radar.”
“Asking her to help is dangerous—to her.”
“Not asking her to help might be more dangerous—for her,” Jackson said quietly. “Honestly, for her sake, we need to keep her close.”
* * *
“There was a home on this lot before the Paul Revere house was built, and—as is often true—that home connected to an earlier history. Increase Mather had a parsonage here for the Second Church—he lived here with his family from about 1670 until it was destroyed in the great fire of 1676,” Vickie told her students.
Cheryl Taylor started waving her hand. “I know!”
“Okay?” Vickie said.
“Increase Mather, big Puritan dude. And his son, Cotton Mather, was the creepy bastard who said that they had to hang George Burroughs in Salem anyway, even after he could say the Lord’s Prayer. Right?”
“Burroughs had been the minister in Salem from 1680 to 1683—and he was the only minister to be executed during the Salem witch incident, yes,” Vickie said, smiling. “I’m working on a book about the Mather family now, and sometimes it’s hard to be unbiased. But it’s always a great lesson in being careful. Burroughs was in trouble with the Putnam family because he’d borrowed money he couldn’t return. He wasn’t even in Salem—he’d headed up to Maine, but he was found there and arrested.”
“And,” Cheryl said, “it goes to support the theory that much of what went on had to do with the social climate—and those who didn’t agree with one another managing to kill a whole pack of people. Those wretched girls were the evil ones.”
“And they knew Paul Revere?” Hardy asked, looking quizzical.
“No, it’s just an interesting piece of history. This house was built after the parsonage burned down. The first owner was a wealthy merchant named Robert Howard. Paul Revere bought the house in 1770,” Vickie said.
“And it’s been like this since?” Art asked her, grinning.
“No, the Revere family owned the house until about 1800. Then it became all kinds of things, including tenement housing, a cigar store... Well, I’ll leave it to the guides to explain while you go through. The important thing, to me, is that one of Revere’s descendants, John P. Reynolds Jr., bought the house when it was going to be demolished right around 1900 to keep it from being destroyed. He started the Paul Revere Memorial Association to preserve the home from which Revere made his historic ride. It’s the oldest house in Boston. And thanks to Revere’s descendant, it’s been meticulously restored over the years—and we all get to see what it was like when Paul Revere made his famous ride,” Vickie told them.
“I love being a Bostonian. We are so cool,” Cheryl said.
Vickie realized Dylan Ballantine was with her when she heard him sniff by her side.
“So cool—are you kidding me? Boston comes from the Puritans. Those Puritans! Self-righteous idiots and bastards, I say!” Dylan muttered.
Vickie made a point of ignoring him and smiling at her students. “Tours are usually self-guided, but we have a friend of Grown Ups taking you through. Here’s your guide through the house,” Vickie told them. She waved at the colleague who also worked with Grown Ups. He was actually a visiting professor over at Harvard, specializing in military history, but like Vickie, he enjoyed donating hours each week to Grown Ups. He knew details down to belt buckles and shoe sizes of many historic persons—he also knew how to tell stories with passion and drama Their young heads would be reeling by the time the tour was finished.
“See you all at Pasta Fagioli!” she said to the group, indicating that she’d meet them after their tour.
The kids traipsed off after their guide. Vickie turned to Dylan—carefully.
She knew she was still being watched by a cop. It was only a few days since Chrissy Ballantine had been kidnapped.
“Your mom doing well?” she asked as she started down the street.
“Yeah, Mom is great. And they’re feeling terrible. Of course, they don’t know how you know they were offensive. And, of course, you know because of me, but... Wow, I do have a big mouth. Vickie, I swear...”
“I told you. It’s all right.”
“Yeah, but my mom has been calling you. And you haven’t answered her messages.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Sure.”
“Dylan, you forget my m
om is in this town.”
“Maybe she thinks the FBI agents said something to you,” Dylan said hopefully.
“They didn’t.”
“Yes, but... Oh! She may think you’re psychic.”
“It doesn’t matter, Dylan. She’s doing well, right?”
“Yes, she’s fine. But she’s still scared. Do you think my mom was targeted for some reason? I mean, why? Yeah, they have money, but not like Trump or Rockefeller or anyone like that. And my dad is a good guy. There couldn’t be any reason. The things that have happened to us can’t be related. I mean, that creepy evil Bertram Aldridge just found any house to sneak into... Now Dad has hired private security. There’s a guy watching the house twenty-four seven.”
“That’s good.”
“Maybe you should go live at my house,” Dylan said.
“Hey! I don’t want to live with my own parents, Dylan,” Vickie said, exasperated.
“Please, don’t be enemies with mine.”
“Dylan, I’m not enemies with anyone.”
Looking across the street, she could see that the cop who had been carefully following her was now frowning.
He thinks he’s been assigned to eight hours of watching over a lunatic!
She pulled out her phone and pretended to be talking on it.
“Dylan, I don’t want to be enemies with anyone. Don’t worry—I will call your mom. You might have noticed I’m a little busy today.”
“Yeah. With those ballbusters.”
“Underprivileged kids.”
Dylan shook his head, looking at the sidewalk.
“Some cause their own problems.”
“Like dope-addict parents?”
Dylan shrugged. “Sorry—I know most of your kids are really decent. I’m just being a dickwad because I want you to make it up with my folks, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, really. It’s not just them. It’s Noah.”
“Noah. You know, Dylan, he was sixteen months old when I was with him.”
“And you took him home with you—he trusted and knew you.”
“Because you must talk about the way you love to haunt me and tease me.”
“He’s a special kid, Vickie.”
“I promise to call your mom!”
“Good!” Dylan said, and he headed off down the street, hands in his pockets, whistling.
She watched him go and remembered she was pretending to have a phone conversation. Swearing softly beneath her breath, she “pretended” to hang up and started down the street herself.
When she arrived at the restaurant, she greeted the owner, Mario, with a hug and a kiss. Mario Caro had been in her high school graduating class and was now managing the family restaurant, Pasta Fagioli. He had a little side room reserved for her group, and he told her he didn’t mind if she sat around reading with a cappuccino while she waited for her students to finish at the Paul Revere house. The room was already set and ready for whenever the kids arrived. As they walked back, she saw the cop who had been assigned to her entering the restaurant.
She smiled at Mario. “Will you give him your best cappuccino and a cannoli—and tell him it’s on me.”
“Guardian angel?” he asked.
“Yep.”
Mario frowned. “So, you were involved in everything that went on.”
“Involved with...?”
“There was a whole article in the paper about the Ballantine family—and what happened eight years ago,” Mario told her. “Everyone knows about the clues the kidnapper gives out. And everyone around here knew your name, and figured you were involved somehow. I mean, the cops and the FBI reported that Chrissy Ballantine was found, but—understandably, in my mind—they’re not saying more. They’re asking the public to remember that it’s an ongoing investigation. And, you know, they’re warning people to be careful. But from what has been reported, these poor women don’t know what’s hit them until it’s hit them.”
“I guess my name was in the paper—although Preston is a common enough name.”
“Sure. Unless it involves Chrissy Ballantine. I hear, though—get a lot of cops in here—that they’re trying to keep a protective eye on the victims who survived. Wonder how long they’ll be able to do that.” He grimaced. “Citywide cutbacks, but...hey. I guess the Feds are involved. Better budgets, maybe. However, whatever, you know you’ve got friends in this city. And, hey, a lot of us are Italian, and while most of us just manage restaurants and make pasta, some of us are pretty tough.”
He was teasing, of course. His mom was a librarian. His dad was the gentlest soul she’d ever known.
“Wise guy?” she asked him.
He grinned. “Hey, okay, so we’re tough as overcooked ziti. Some people still think that if you’re Italian, you’re a hit man. Let’s go with that—if it will work!”
She grinned and left him and wandered on in to the private side room he’d reserved for her. She took a seat at the end of the table and pulled out one of the books an antique dealer had found for her on Cotton Mather. It had been written in the 1700s and she’d spent a small fortune on it—even at a dealer discount, the book had been hundreds of dollars. And then she’d had a cover made for it.
Books were a passion for her. She had collector’s editions of many. Her mother had bought her a first printing of a Daniel Defoe novel for graduation, and, of course, her dad had laughed but been very happy. Most kids wanted help with a car, or maybe a nice watch. Not Vickie.
She couldn’t have been more thrilled than she had been with her copy of Robinson Crusoe.
She’d also begun to learn that she could combine her love for old things—history and research—and make a living doing it.
She carefully opened her copy of Cotton Mather—Saint or Ultimate Evil. Having been born when she had been, the idea that people across half the world believed in and burned or hanged witches was absolutely ludicrous from the get-go. But she had to force herself to head back to that time.
Still didn’t work for her. How did you leave one country for religious freedom—and then be totally intolerant of all others?
She was deep into her reading when she either sensed another presence—or simply realized that she could see the bottom half of a man below the book. She looked up, startled.
Griffin Pryce was there. She stared at him, surprised.
He’d called her once to check up on her. She’d assured him she was fine. He’d told her there was nothing new in the investigation. They’d said goodbye.
And now...
Now he was here.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“You were so involved... I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“It’s fine. I’m killing time. My kids are due here in a bit. They’re seeing the Paul Revere house.”
“Nice.” He drew up a chair in front of her. “I loved that old place growing up.”
“Anything new?” she asked.
“Yes and no. Mainly yes.”
“What’s yes, and what’s no?”
He leaned toward her. The intensity in his eyes was something she remembered from years before, when he had come to take her out for coffee and ask her if she was really doing okay.
“Anything I say, is, of course, confidential,” he said.
She nodded.
“Barbara Marshall is out of the hospital and home. We’re watching over her right now, of course. She manages a flower stall and she’s single, so...no boyfriend in the picture, and her family is out in Warwick. Naturally, the police are watching over you.”
Vickie smiled and said dryly, “I’m hoping that my currently assigned officer is enjoying his cappuccino and whatever else Mario decided to give him.”
“We have to be careful,” he sai
d quietly.
“Oh, I’m not protesting. I’m grateful to have him.”
“Good.”
He didn’t speak for a minute. Then he continued. “Chrissy Ballantine is also out of the hospital. Of course, they’re quite comfortable, so George Ballantine has hired a full-time security service.”
“That’s good,” Vickie murmured, looking downward and playing with her now empty cappuccino cup.
“She couldn’t remember anything at all. She was in the kitchen. Then she was in the basement in the floor, semiconscious and too weak to be heard.”
“I’m glad she’s doing well, and that she’s protected.”
“We also spoke with Angelina Gianni, the first of the victims we found in time.”
“And?”
“She doesn’t believe there is one Undertaker. She believes there are two.”
“Oh. Does that make it harder—or easier?”
“It makes it two,” he said.
“I see,” Vickie murmured. She didn’t really see anything—and she wasn’t sure why he was sitting there, or why she was remembering all of her friends teasing her about the cop who had saved her, macho, cute as could be...sexy.
He was a very attractive man. She hadn’t seen him in so long. And when she had seen him, it had been in the emotional aftermath of a traumatic experience.
Is that why she felt a ridiculous bond with him? As if they should be much more than occasional acquaintances. Was it Noah’s absolute certainty that Griffin shared her odd talent—that he was totally aware that Dylan was still with them—at least, Dylan’s ghost or his spirit?
“How did you know I was here?” she asked him, and then she laughed. “Of course, never mind. I have my escort in the next room, and if I didn’t...well. I guess you’d know anyway. You all seem to know everything.”
He didn’t answer that for a moment. Then he said softly, “If only...if we knew everything, I’d have a handle on what’s going on here.” He sounded frustrated at the end. “The killer—or killers, if Angelina is right—seem to be playing at this, almost. They’re giving us a chance to find the women they’re kidnapping—as if they don’t really care if they live or die. The thing is, we’ve been lucky in the last three cases. If we don’t stop them, they will keep going.”