Dying Breath by Heather Graham

  Again, he hesitated. Then he smiled. “Massachusetts is a ‘may issue’ state, meaning authorities are not compelled to issue concealed carry licenses even if you meet the requirements. We could get around that—except I wouldn’t. Not unless you’re willing to go through training.”

  “I’m willing.”

  She was willing? She hated guns.

  But she hated the concept of dying more.

  “All right,” he said slowly. “Here’s the thing. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you’re just as likely to shoot yourself or someone you love as you are to shoot a criminal. So, you really do have to get serious. Here’s the other thing. The women who have been taken have all been victims of very sly attacks—they had no clue they were being stalked until they were struck on the head. If you’re in your own home making tea, it’s unlikely the gun will be in your hand. If you’re walking down the street with groceries, you’re unlikely to be ready for the guy who is after you. So, there’s a lot more to this than just becoming savvy with a firearm. Over the years, I’ve seen good cops and good agents go down, because we’re all off guard sometimes and a blitz attack doesn’t give anyone the chance to be prepared.”

  “We’re back to the fact these Undertakers have to be caught,” Vickie said. “And I don’t believe you came to see me today about becoming gun savvy or to make me feel better about the fact anyone can be taken by surprise.”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “I want you to come with Jackson and me to see Bertram Aldridge.”

  7

  “I always think it’s strange how we can remember certain incidents with almost perfect visual clarity in our minds—and forget what we had for lunch the day before,” Vickie said, working at her range top with a steam coffeemaker. She glanced over at Griffin. “I mean, I think most people work that way.”

  Griffin had determined to walk Vickie back to her apartment. He’d nodded to the cop on guard duty, who had acknowledged and followed behind—he wouldn’t be able to stay long. Yes, she’d still need protection.

  People had smiled at them as they’d walked. They probably appeared to be a young couple—out to see the city sights. Maybe people just smiled at her in general. She wasn’t a pushover, but—despite what had happened to her at an impressionable age—she seemed to like people in general. She had an easy way about her—she was quick to apologize if she brushed someone, to laugh if a child’s ball rolled across the street to her and to smile and demur just as quickly if someone accidentally offended her. It was odd, just walking down the street with her. They shared a natural bond—they both spoke to the dead. But he worked with a “krewe” of wonderful people who also spoke with the dead. Yes, they had a natural friendship and bond. This was different. Of course, they shared that certain incident.

  But he’d been drawn to her years before. She’d been wide-eyed and innocent—learning the harsh reality of just how cruel and brutal the world could be. He’d made a point to step away.

  More than eight years had passed. They’d gone different ways, lived in different worlds. She’d changed; he’d changed.

  And when he was with her, he still felt as if he’d always been near her.

  Maybe, in his mind, he had been.

  Maybe she had just grown up to be someone any man would want to know; stunning, naturally seductive, charming...

  Instinct. He was sure some of it was human biology; she seemed to awaken everything primal in him. He’d thought it was the need to protect. He realized it was a need for much more. She stirred everything in his senses. He should walk away; leave this to others. But no matter what faith he might have in his fellow agents, he knew he couldn’t trust that anyone else in the world would—or could—protect her as he could. Ego? No. In some pathetically caveman way, she was his; he would see this all to the end, see her to safety—or die trying.

  He watched the way her hair fell over her face, the way she glanced up with a “coffee’s almost ready” smile. A sizzle of heat ran through him and he nodded and he knew: yes, he should walk away—no, he never would.

  Because she was right; there were certain things you never forget, that you could recall just as clearly as if you were watching them unfold on a movie screen.

  Like the day Bertram Aldridge had nearly killed her.

  And he had come to know her.

  The coffee had steamed; she got two mugs and poured it out, bringing one to him, and indicating they should sit in the little parlor area of her apartment.

  She had great artwork on the walls. Paintings of historic moments mixed with modern-art posters. Two of the walls were lined with bookshelves; her book collection was extensive, histories and biographies mixed with popular fiction and graphic novels.

  “You do know what I mean, right?” she asked him, seated in an old rocker across from the position he’d taken on the sofa.

  He nodded. “Yeah. I see you running out of the Ballantine house, gripping the baby—Noah. I see Bertram Aldridge. I take aim and he’s taking aim and my heart is going a million miles an hour. He trips, his shot goes wild and my shot wings him in the shoulder. But they say, that’s trauma. You remember trauma. Do we always remember it right? Who knows?”

  She nodded. “I remember him in court, too. I remember the way he smiled at me, as if we were friends—almost as if we had dated! The day at Ballantine house... I saw his face fleetingly. I saw he meant to kill me, shoot me down. He had a smile on his face. And then again, in court—that one day I came in—he looked at me as if...as if he knew me. He kept smiling and grinning, as though we shared something...” She broke off, shaking her head. “You know, I really had gotten over it. I went to NYC. Everything was different. I loved my professors, I loved the school and the city and the history there—St. Paul’s, Trinity, Wall Street—a lot like Boston, in a way. New York is a thriving and vibrant world of today—and yet there’s so much in the architecture and the culture and all that led to it.” She fell silent. “I’m sure there are bodies in the wall somewhere in NYC, too.” She gazed over at him. “I am going to find out who was murdered and walled up. How did they go forever—until new sick killers found them?”

  “Things—and people—wind up buried in time,” Griffin told her. “Last night was...bad. For officers. You’re not an officer.”

  She grinned at that. “Surreal,” she told him. “At least they weren’t...fresh victims. I mean, I’ve spent endless hours in museums where they often display bones and corpses from the past. Okay, okay, so I admit it! I had a dream about them. A nightmare. They came alive and came after me—maybe I’ve seen too many episodes of The Walking Dead.”

  He laughed softly because she had spoken so lightly.

  “I’ve dreamed of the dead coming alive, too. Well, to be honest, when I was a kid, I thought I was dreaming—and the dead were coming to see me.”

  She seemed to inch closer to him. “The first time I ever saw, spoke to or had my wits scared out of me by the dead was at the Ballantine house that day. It was like opening a door. I don’t always see them walking around. Just sometimes. Sometimes they want to be seen—sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they want to talk—and sometimes they don’t. The thing is, a ghost was a human being and whatever makes us human beings—the soul I imagine—remains the same.” She winced. “This sounds ridiculous, but I’ve met some really great ghosts. Often in cemeteries. They say they don’t hang around where they’re buried often, but...some have nice graves, I guess, and they like to check on them. Dylan, of course, seems to have decided to watch over me for life. I’m so accustomed to having him around.”

  “That’s—actually nice,” he said softly. “He seems to be a real friend—and real friends, dead or alive, are often hard to come by.”

  “And you?” she persisted.

  “Ah, well, I was one of those kids who
saw his first ‘ghost’ when I was really young. We lived in an old Revolutionary house just north of downtown. One of Washington’s officers was stationed there and used the house during the Battle of Bunker Hill. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. He would just come and play with me—damned good ghost. He could move a kid’s toy block! Anyway, when I was older and talked about him, I was whisked off to a psychiatrist. The doctor told my parents that a lot of kids had imaginary friends. So, I had an imaginary friend. But I had an aunt on my dad’s side who has whatever it is that we have. She told me not to share my imaginary friends with others. They were special. She was great. Aunt Mathilda. She died about five years ago. She told me not to expect to see her. She was ready to go and meet up with Uncle Henry. I never have seen her. I like to think she is happy with Uncle Henry.”

  “What about your Revolutionary soldier? Is he still there? With your folks?”

  “My parents are in Arizona—my dad had to go—bad asthma. But they still own the house, and come up sometimes. When they’re not in it, relatives and friends might use it—and, they rent it out with an association sometimes.”

  “So...you were just always comfortable with the dead popping by?” she asked, a curious small smile curving her lips.

  “Yeah, pretty much so. Like Noah,” he added softly.

  Vickie sighed. “Well, nice. It all came as a bit of a surprise to me. I’m glad now, of course. I love Dylan. I can understand how losing him nearly destroyed Chrissy and George Ballantine.” She paused for a minute, forming her words. “You see the dead—and Jackson Crow? What about the cops you’ve worked with? Other agents?”

  “Well, to try to make a long story short—none of the cops I worked with saw the dead. But that was okay—I’d learned never to let on that I did. Jackson Crow, yes, of course. The entire special unit we’re with are able to see and communicate with souls who have remained behind.” He hesitated, shrugging. “I was always looking for an explanation for the people I saw that others didn’t—and as a kid, I spent a lot of time searching newspapers, books and the internet. But actually, I didn’t have to look for others—they found me. A man came into my life. Adam Harrison. I was still young when I first met him. He knew my aunt and Uncle Henry when they were still living. He came to dinner one night. He didn’t say a word in front of my parents, but he came into my room with my aunt—under the pretense I could show them some of my new toys or books or something. And he sat down and seriously asked me questions and I told him all about my Revolutionary hero and a few of the other people—the dead ones—I’d met over time. Aunt Mattie was there, so I figured it had to be okay. Though, of course, I admit, I was afraid my parents had called in another shrink, at first. He was great. He told me he envied me—and other people like me. He said some of them helped him out at times—that they were able to help when bad things happened. Because sometimes, the dead know what we don’t. Medical examiners are great—they do so often speak for the dead. But speaking with the dead themselves...well, that could really make a difference. Anyway, he told me to look him up when I was ready. He said to go to school and college and do well and maybe even join the police force and then aim for the FBI. And when I did, to call him.”

  “And this man is...?”

  “Adam Harrison is the overall supervisor for the Krewe of Hunters, our division. It’s his creation. Adam’s son, Josh, had a rare kind of sixth sense. Josh was killed in a car accident, but when he died, one of his best friends—who was with him at the time—apparently inherited the gift. Adam started working with her and other people around the country. He’s from Northern Virginia and a wealthy man, a philanthropist—and very friendly with a number of people in power. The Krewe of Hunters is really just a special unit—it isn’t an official title. The first people he chose for the units came together in New Orleans and so the ‘krewe’ part of it all began. I became a cop—as you know. Applied to the FBI, went through the academy, spent some time working with the criminal investigation unit in DC, and when I thought it was time to look up Adam, he sent for me.”

  Vickie was smiling. He wished he could just reach out and stroke her cheek. She seemed to love his story.

  “Amazing!” she said softly.

  It seemed they had moved closer. The intimacy between them was palpable. She was nearly touching him. He could touch her.

  His phone began to buzz in his jacket pocket.

  “Sorry,” he murmured.

  “Of course!” She rose, moving away to allow him to speak privately.

  It was Jackson Crow.

  Griffin braced himself, thinking they might have received another taunt, clue or riddle from the killers.

  “Is Vickie okay with coming along with us to see Aldridge?”

  “Yeah,” he said to Jackson. “I believe Victoria Preston will be fine visiting Aldridge with us.”

  “I’m setting it up. But we’ve got another problem.”

  “There is another clue?”

  “It’s Barbara Marshall—the woman we dug out of the cemetery. We’ve tried to interview her before, but she had no memory of anything other than a conk on the head. We’ve received a call from the friend, Annie Harte, who has been staying with her—and Barbara fights something or someone in her sleep. Annie is hoping we can help. Barbara is still going through therapy, but apparently, she hasn’t remembered anything during sessions—just in dreams. At any rate, Annie and Barbara want to see us. They’re going to meet us and Detective Barnes down at the station.”

  “All right. I’m on the way.”

  Vickie had moved away, but she walked back toward him then. “Another woman? Already?” she asked, slightly pale.

  “Not that we know about. I have to meet with Jackson and Detective Barnes.”

  “Oh.”

  She stood about five feet from him. Five feet. He wished he could just cross that small bit of space and take her into his arms. Hold her. He wondered if she was thinking anything of the same.

  “You’d best go. And you will...”

  “Keep you apprised. Yes.”

  “And I will go with you to see Bertram Aldridge, of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “It’s above and beyond—and thank you.”

  “No,” she murmured.

  “Thank you for the coffee.”

  “Thank you for the conversation.”

  He was going to move by her. He imagined a strange and kinetic energy suddenly leaping through the air, drawing them together.

  She stepped back.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he managed huskily.

  And then he was out the door. But even when he reached the car he had parked a few blocks back, he could swear the scent of her perfume still drifted on the air.

  Talk about being haunted...

  * * *

  The Boston Police Department was the oldest in the nation. The first night watch was established in 1635—not that one could consider that a police department. By 1703, officers were hired who were paid thirty-five shillings a month for their service. A reorganization took place at the end of the 1700s. Those serving carried a rattle-like creation that could summon help, a badge that proved a man to be on duty, a pole that was painted blue-and-white and had a hook—to catch and pull those evil-doers who were escaping, and a “bill” on the other end to be used as a weapon.

  The day police didn’t come into being until 1838, and they were not connected to the night watch, but answered to the city marshal. It was the year the General Court created the formal police department and disbanded both the night watch and the day police.

  Vickie had a pile of books set out in front of her, opened to different pages. She was determined to find somewhere in her materials something about the murders that had been committed in the late 1800
s. She’d found a number of books that proudly announced the history of the Boston Police Department.

  What she needed was records of their work. And such records surely existed in readily available material—she even had the complete transcripts of the Salem witch trials, and those had taken place years before the victims of a long-dead killer had been sealed into a false wall in the Boston Neck.

  She left her books and headed to the computer and began to key in the names of the police in the late nineteenth-century she found referenced in the books. She was alone, but she cried out with pleasure when she found a research site—constructed by a history major at Harvard—that had gathered together the notes of one Officer Joseph MacDonald, a man who had served from 1871 to 1901—a thirty-year service that hit her time period exactly.

  Night fell while she read and read—feeling triumphant. MacDonald first noted that a woman named Mary, a thirty-five-year-old prostitute had disappeared. Her friends had asked him to look for the woman; most of the officers in the department then had given her disappearance little thought. She was, after all, a “tippler” and a prostitute. Disappearance unsolved. A year later, a day laborer known around only as Flannigan suddenly failed to show up for a job.

  It was assumed that he had moved on.

  Four years later, MacDonald noted that a “goodly number” of people had vanished from the streets. When a man of some influence arrived in Boston, looking for his brother, a doctor who had been set on moving to Boston, and demanded police attention, MacDonald brought his suspicions of a murderer to his superiors.

  But there was no proof that the young doctor had ever arrived in Boston. And as for the day laborers and others who had disappeared, well, they had probably just moved away.

  If they had met with foul play, where were the bodies?