Dark Rites by Heather Graham
“And, for Helena, life!” she said.
“For Helena, life!”
* * *
Back at the bed-and-breakfast, they had to spend at least an hour calming down Mrs. McFall.
She was grateful, of course, to know that Isaac Sherman was going to be fine.
And that it was over.
The ghosts of Dylan Ballantine and Darlene Dutton were there for all the explanations, so Vickie didn’t have to repeat herself.
Eventually, Vickie and Griffin were alone together in their bedroom. Griffin stood before Vickie, his eyes enigmatic as he looked at her. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips and said, “Griffin, I know what you said. I mean, what you said about staying in the car...”
“Yeah, I noticed. Getting out of the car and hiding after the crash—yes, that made sense. Let me see...putting on a red robe, taking over the altar in the middle of a group of cultists—not so sure about that one.”
“I had to,” she said softly. “I had to. They might have died, Griffin. Helena and Alex, not to mention others.”
“I know.”
“Please understand. I mean, I’m sure I have to pass some tests, but I am young, healthy, fairly bright—”
“Some of the time.”
“Amusing! Griffin, I need to go to the academy.”
“You’re damned right.”
“What?”
“Well, let’s face it. I’ve figured out that it is truly a thankless job, trying to keep you out of trouble. If you’re going to keep on getting into trouble, it’s going to make a hell of a lot of sense for you to go through the academy and work with other agents, especially other Krewe agents.”
She laughed and kissed him.
And kissed him...
And they began to work at each other’s clothing.
“Quiet...” Vickie murmured.
“Thin walls...”
Clothing fell away. It had seldom seemed quite as incredible just to feel her naked flesh against the heat and vitality of Griffin’s body, Vickie thought.
Making love...
Such an affirmation of life!
A sound of sheer pleasure escaped her.
She gasped and admonished herself. “Quiet!”
And he came to her and whispered softly, “Whatever!”
They laughed, and the night went on.
* * *
They found the treasure—Ezekiel Martin’s family trove—the following day. The amount of jewels, jeweled crosses, bracelets, necklaces and more that were found in a chest couldn’t even be given an approximate value until they were studied.
A number of the plundered relics were clearly from Catholic churches.
So much for Satan.
Riches had been worshipped, and nothing more.
A week later, they talked about it—back at the coffee shop where Audrey was no longer working, and where the Dearborn duo would no longer play.
It was a charming group—they’d met there before heading to dinner.
Rocky and Devin were there, of course. And Alex—with Helena. They were now a couple, one with an exceptional bond that probably would never be broken.
And Roxanne was there—with Officer Jim Tracy.
She and Alex thought that it was tremendously funny that Vickie had never intended to fix up the two of them.
“What really happened?” Alex asked Vickie. “I mean...you heard me calling to you, didn’t you? You knew right away I was in trouble.”
“I heard something, yes,” Vickie said. “Some of it was intuition. And logic. You’re just not rude enough to stand a girl up.”
Alex laughed. “Thank you for that.” He looked over at Helena. “I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
“And it was me!” Helena said. She shivered. “And I was so close to being a ghost!”
“But one thing is still confusing. You were seen with Milton Hanson,” Devin said. “The Milner brothers saw you with him.”
“It was Hanson, right?” Roxanne said. “Our sketches are good!” She squeezed Jim Tracy’s hand.
“I never knew his name. We were both just pumping gas. He was making conversation. He said he was there looking into the cult murders. I didn’t even really know about them. I think that Milton Hanson is a jerk—a bit of a lecher—but I do believe now he was trying to find Alex, and maybe have the prestige of finding Jehovah, too. But he was no killer.”
Griffin glanced at Vickie. She shrugged and smiled.
“Well, it’s over,” she said. “Oh! Except who took you, Helena? You were kidnapped by the cult, right? I mean, we’d all assumed that, but who, when, how?”
“She was indeed kidnapped,” Griffin said, answering for Helena, who didn’t look ready to talk about it. “By Cathy Dearborn—who is, naturally, swearing that Helena came with her willingly after the Dearborns had been playing at the park.” Turning his attention to Helena, he continued. “None of law enforcement believes that—you are truly an amazing and solid citizen. We firmly believe that, from the beginning, you were drugged, and kept on drugs. The good thing is that you are alive—and with some good friends who are here to help, you have a full life ahead of you.”
“For sure!” Vickie said.
Helena smiled hopefully and leaned into Alex.
“Definitely. Barnes is dealing with the press, and we’ll be heading out soon,” Griffin said.
“You’re really going to Virginia?” Alex asked Vickie.
“It’s not that far. We can all Skype—stay friends!” Vickie said.
“To staying friends!”
They all raised their cups and toasted friendship.
Vickie saw that, just a table away, Dylan and Darlene had taken up pretend cups, as well.
“To friendship!” her ghost told her.
She smiled back at him, and nodded.
“We really are amazing creatures,” Alex said. He looked at Vickie. “We are capable of so much that is horrible, and so much that is so good. I am alive because of you.”
“Well, no, really, because—”
Devin broke in, laughing. “Hey! To the Krewe of Hunters!” she said, lifting her cup again. “And to Vickie! May she soon be among our number!”
Vickie smiled at that.
It was a good night. A very good night.
And when it was over, they went home. For a moment, she paused in the parlor she would soon be leaving. They were going to keep Griffin’s apartment in Boston, but not hers. They just didn’t need two places, especially since her parents still had a room for her, as well.
Griffin came up behind her; his arms went around her waist. “Goodbye to this place,” he said softly. He turned her to face him. “We really should give it a fitting farewell!”
She laughed and kissed him.
“Yes, and loudly...” she said.
Leaving the apartment didn’t really matter.
She was leaving with him, and that did.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from A PERFECT OBSESSION by Heather Graham.
Acknowledgments
I’ve always loved New England. I married into a large and incredible Italian family, all of whom first found New England to be their home. I thank them so much for the love I have for the region, and much of what I came to know about it as well. So, of course, anything that has to do with New England goes out to everyone in the now massive Pozzessere/Mero clans. (Including Derek, Zhenia and Korbin in New Haven!)
But this book especially goes out to a few other places and people in the region.
For Camp Necon, an amazing writing conference that takes place at Roger Williams University, Rhode Island. In memory of Papa—Bob Booth—and for his amazing family (specifical
With special thanks to F. Paul Wilson and Tom Monteleone—great friends and writers who also happened to be the first to introduce me to Camp Necon.
Thanks to Lisa Mannetti and Corrinne de Winter, N.E. friends with whom I have shared much that is bizarre and wonderful—and with whom I’ve laughed and cried and learned so much. To so many more members of the Necon family—Lynne Hanson, Jeff Strand, Brian Keene, Christopher Golden, John McIlveen, Mary SanGiovanni, Matt Bechtel, Linda Addison, Elizabeth Massie, Rio Youers, Sephera Giron, Yvonne Navarro, Weston Ochse, James A. Moore, Jack Ketchum, Matt Schwartz, John and Diane Buja, Paul Dobish, Barbara Gardner and Craig Shaw Gardner, Dot and John Godin, Jack Haringa, Laura Hickman, Nicholas Kaufmann, Mike Myers, Patti Riendeau, Rick Sardinha, Carole Whitney, Jill Bauman, Hal Bodner, Ginjer Buchanan, Alex Corona, David Price, David Silverman, Jennine Agnew, Alyson Benoit, Jan Kozlowski and so many, many more!
For Lee-Ann Wilbur, who runs the Lizzie Borden House, one of the most wonderful and unusual bed-and-breakfast establishments in the country. Somehow, she keeps the house pristine and historic and yet very livable for guests. It’s historic—it’s haunted! It’s an amazing experience. If you believe in ghosts, you just might find them. If you don’t, you’ll still love the history and the detail. Real life is always more bizarre than anything we can invent.
In memory of Michael Palmer, and for his son, Daniel, a brilliant and wonderful musician and—with his dad and on his own—an equally talented writer.
For all things New England, the hardships and cruelty of history—and all the wonder and growth and beauty, too!
“Graham is a master at world building and her latest is a thrilling, dark and deadly tale of romantic suspense.”
—Booklist, starred review, on Haunted Destiny
If you loved Dark Rites, make sure to catch up on the complete Krewe of Hunters series, featuring the FBI’s elite team of paranormal investigators:
Phantom Evil
Heart of Evil
Sacred Evil
The Evil Inside
The Unseen
The Unholy
The Unspoken
The Uninvited
The Night Is Watching
The Night Is Alive
The Night Is Forever
The Cursed
The Hexed
The Betrayed
The Silenced
The Forgotten
The Hidden
Haunted Destiny
Deadly Fate
Darkest Journey
Dying Breath
And don’t miss the next installment in this fan-favorite series:
Wicked Deeds
“Exceptional character development and worldbuilding...suspenseful elements that will leave you guessing until the end.”
—RT Book Reviews on Darkest Journey
Looking for more suspenseful reads from New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham? Don’t miss out on the New York Confidential series, packed with deadly intrigue, exhilarating romance and heart-pounding suspense:
Flawless
A Perfect Obsession
“Intricate, fast-paced, and intense.”
—Library Journal, starred review, on Flawless
Discover the electrifying Cafferty & Quinn series, where an antiques collector and a private investigator are drawn together in New Orleans as they investigate the city’s most unusual crimes:
Let the Dead Sleep
Waking the Dead
The Dead Play On
“Dark, dangerous and deadly! Graham has the uncanny ability to bring her books to life.”
—RT Book Reviews on Waking the Dead
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A Perfect Obsession
by Heather Graham
CHAPTER ONE
“HORRIBLE! OH, GOD, horrible! Tragic!” John Shaw said, shaking his head with a dazed look as he sat on his bar stool at Finnegan’s pub.
Kieran nodded sympathetically. Construction crews had found the old graves when they were working on the foundations at the hot new downtown venue, Le Club Vampyre.
Anthropologists found the new body among the old graves the next day.
It wasn’t just any body.
It was the body of supermodel Jeannette Gilbert.
Finding the old graves wasn’t much of a shock—not in New York City, and not in a building that was close to two centuries old. The structure that housed Le Club Vampyre was a deconsecrated Episcopal Church. The church’s congregation had moved to a facility it had purchased from the Catholic Church—whose congregation was now in a sparkling new basilica over on Park Avenue. While many had bemoaned the fact that such a venerable old building had been turned into an establishment for those into sex, drugs, and rock and roll, life—and business—went on.
They were expanding the wine cellar, and so work on the foundations went on, too.
It was while investigators were still being called in following the discovery of the newly deceased body—moments before it hit the news—that Kieran Finnegan learned about it, and that was because she was helping out at their family pub, Finnegan’s on Broadway. Like the old church-nightclub behind it, Finnegan’s dated back to just before the Civil War, and had been a pub for most of those years. Since it was geographically the closest establishment to the church with liquor, it had apparently seemed the right place at that moment for Professor John Shaw. They’d barely opened; it was still morning and it was a Friday, and Kieran was only there at that time because her bosses had decided on a day off following their participation in a lengthy trial. She’d just been down in the basement, fetching a few bottles of a vintage chardonnay for her brother, ordered specifically for a lunch that day, when John Shaw had caught her attention, desperate to talk.
“I can’t tell you how excited I was, being called in as an expert on a find like that,” the professor told Kieran. “They both wanted me! By ‘they,’ I mean Henry Willoughby, president of Preserve Our Past, and Roger Gleason, owner and manager of the club. I was so honored. It was exciting to think of finding the old bodies...but then, opening a decaying coffin and finding Jeannette Gilbert!” He paused for a quick breath. “And the university was entirely behind me, allowing me the time to be at the site, giving me a chance to bring my grad students there. Oh, my God! I found her! Oh, it was...”
John Shaw was shaking as he spoke. He was a man who’d seen all kinds of antiquated horrors, an expert in the past. He fit the stereotype of an academic, with his lean physique, his thatch of wild white hair and his little gold-framed glasses. He held doctorate degrees in archaeology and anthropology, and both science and history meant everything to him.
Kieran realized that he’d been about to say once again that it was horrible, like nothing he’d ever experienced. He clearly realized that he was speaking about a recently living woman, adored by adolescent boys and heterosexual males of all ages—a woman who was going to be deeply mourned.
Jeannette Gilbert—media princess, supermodel and actress—had disappeared two weeks ago after the launch party for a new cosmetics line. Her agent and manager, Oswald Martin, had gone on the news, begging what he assumed were kidnappers for her safe return.
At that time, no one knew i
Kieran hadn’t really paid much attention; she’d assumed that the young woman—who’d been made famous by the same Oswald Martin—had just had enough of being adored and fawned over and told what to do at every move, and decided to take a hiatus. Or it might have been some kind of publicity gig; her disappearance had certainly ruled the headlines. There were always tabloid pictures of Jeannette dating this or that man, and then speculation in the same tabloids that her manager had furiously burst into a hotel room, sending Jeannette Gilbert’s latest lover—a gold digger, as Martin referred to any young man she dated—flying out the door.
In the past few weeks the celebrity magazines had run rampant with rumors of a mystery man in her life. A secret love. Kieran knew that only because her twin brother, Kevin, was an actor, struggling his way into TV, movies and theater. He read the tabloids avidly, telling Kieran that he was “reading between the lines,” and that being up on what was going on was critical to his career. There were too many actors—even good ones—out there and too few roles. Any edge was a good edge, Kevin said.
While all the speculation had been going on, Kieran couldn’t help wondering if Jeannette’s secret lover had killed her—or if, maybe, her steel-handed manager had done so.
Or—since this was New York City with a population in the millions—it was possible that some deranged person had murdered her, perhaps even someone who wasn’t clinically insane but mentally unstable. Perhaps this person felt that if she was relieved of her life, she’d be out of the misery caused by being such a beautiful, glittering star, always the focus of attention.
It was fine to speculate when you really believed that someone was just pulling a major publicity stunt.
Now Kieran felt bad, of course. From what she knew now, it was evident that the woman had indeed been murdered.
Not that she knew any of the findings. In fact, she knew only one: Jeannette had been found in the bowels of the earth in a nineteenth-century tomb. But she knew it was unlikely that the woman had crawled into a historic coffin in a lost crypt to die of natural causes.