“I’ve read a great deal about Ezekiel Martin,” Vickie said. “He was basically rebuffed by Puritan society. They refused to allow him to become a minister. So, he started his own congregation, moved people westward and then twisted a totally rigid and repressive ethic into something else entirely. And, it sounds to me, as if the woman he became so obsessed with wanted nothing to do with him. He managed to kill her, as if she was some kind of sacrifice to the devil. The good thing, as I see it, is that Charles II was back on the throne of England and his men did come in and give Ezekiel his comeuppance.”
“Yes, Ezekiel’s reign of terror indeed came to an end. But here, years later—in 1804, to be exact—his words were used for murder once again. The place wasn’t even called Fall River at the time—it had been named Troy. And the records on what happened were horribly sketchy because there was still a lot of wilderness around here and...well, I believe that it was one of those cases that horrified everyone, and they wanted to deny what they saw. Anyway, people began to hear strange noises coming from the woods. Like always, so it seems, the poor and the riffraff of society began to disappear. And then a body popped up on the riverbank. There were no arrests. Nothing was ever written down in official records. There were no newspaper reports of what happened. The locals wanted to pretend that it had never happened. Some undesirable parties had merely stopped by their woods, and surely had moved on. Bury the girl—that was what they had to do. The only way any of it is remembered is because of oral history—and what we’ve gleaned from a few personal diaries of the day. Massachusetts didn’t want to admit to anything more that smacked of witchcraft, the persecution of witchcraft or—God forbid—of Satanism.”
“Well,” Griffin murmured, “at least we know that no one involved in 1804 is active in any way now.”
“You’re talking about the attacks in Boston?” Syd asked.
“Yes,” Griffin said.
Syd nodded thoughtfully. “Been watching the news today. They’ve been doing a good job, showing pictures of women who are being sought by the police. A brunette, a redhead and a blonde.” He hesitated, and then reached into a satchel he’d brought. He produced an old book—a very old book, Vickie noted, certainly a collector’s item.
He glanced at her, as if reading her mind. “It’s a diary from 1820. Quite fine, bound in soft leather. I saved nearly a year to buy it!”
“Very nice,” Vickie said.
“But here’s what I want you to see.”
Syd flipped open a page. Amid the faded writing, there was a sketch. It was of a blonde woman lying on the earth, posed almost as Botticelli’s Venus, the way her long hair covered her nakedness.
But she was obviously dead.
A line across her neck indicated her throat had been slit.
It was a disturbing sketch, done with an effort at taste.
“Hmm,” Devin murmured.
What was most disturbing were the similarities the woman in the sketch had to the picture of Helena Matthews that had gone out through media outlets that morning.
“Well, there is certainly a resemblance there,” Griffin said flatly.
Vickie was quiet. Both pictures bore a strong likeness to the blonde woman she had seen watching her when she had gone to meet Alex at the coffee shop.
Had that woman been dead? Was she Helena Matthews? Or, like this woman in the sketch, did she just bear a tremendous resemblance to her—and to Sheena Petrie, who had been found dead here, also on the banks of a river?
“Yep,” Syd said. “I’ve been watching the news. I couldn’t help but note that this woman and Helena definitely share features. The heart-shaped face, the cheekbones, the long blond hair. Well, I guess lots of people have long blond hair, but seeing the picture of Helena on the news today and having this, and, of course, having known Sheena...”
“Sheena, I take it, had a heart-shaped face and long blond hair, as well?” Vickie asked.
“Her face was more of an oval, but...” He broke off and shrugged. “I remember the Ted Bundy case. The girls didn’t look as if they were Xerox copies of one another, but they were a definite type—long dark hair, young...and usually sweet and kind, since he used the lure of needing help to kidnap them to murder them at his leisure.”
They were all still for a moment.
“Well, there is no way that a killer from 1804 was around again in the 1970s,” Griffin said flatly. “But our killer now—assuming that Helena is dead,” he said softly, “could be the same man who attacked and killed Sheena in the 1970s.”
“God help us, though, wouldn’t he have been caught by now?” Syd asked. “I mean, I’ve read a lot, and you see all the TV shows with the forensics and all... Murderers like that either keep killing, or get locked up, or die.”
“He may not be a serial killer—as we know serial killers,” Griffin said.
“What does that mean?” Vickie asked, frowning.
“He may have a different motive that keeps his desire to kill in check. Or he may have kept killing through the years—and gotten away with it,” Rocky explained.
There was an unhappy silence around the table.
“I hope I’ve helped,” Syd said.
“Tremendously,” Griffin said. “Thank you. We’d love to believe that Helena Matthews is still alive—and it’s possible that she is alive. But she remains missing, and her blood was in the hands of a young woman in a coma now. We keep hoping that she’ll come to, that she’ll give us some answers. As of now...well, we’re lucky she’s hanging on. We’re determined to find out what is going on. One of Vickie’s friends is missing, as well.”
“Here’s the thing,” Syd said. “When the cult was active here, people kind of knew that there was something. I mean, it’s not like this was a crime-free place, ever. We had the mills and some rough characters. You still have gangs, and you have alcohol and drugs. But the police were aware of the prostitution ring in the late 1970s, heading into 1980. I swear, I think that someone must know something. Cult members flock together, right? That’s what makes them cult members. We don’t seem to have anything like that going on now.”
“They haven’t found anything in Boston, either,” Vickie said.
“Helena Matthews’s trail ends here—at a gas station owned by a couple of small-minded brothers,” Devin said. “Her blood was in Boston. But it doesn’t mean that she is here or in Boston, not anymore, and she might not have been in Boston herself, ever.”
“Just her blood!” Vickie said.
“Yes, just her blood,” Griffin murmured.
*
Alex Maple jumped and swallowed hard.
Just as he did every time someone came to the door to the little windowless cell where they were keeping him.
It didn’t help that the door had a god-awful screech to it every time it opened. As if it was screaming, crying out in agony.
It was a door.
An inanimate object.
This time, the figure that arrived in a red cloak and ridiculous cylindrical hat and mask was carrying a pile of books. Not books—tomes. They appeared to be ancient—very, very old leather-bound books. The kind Alex usually loved and appreciated.
They were placed reverently on the end of his cot.
“We’re missing something,” the figure said.
“Missing what?”
“A key word, a key phrase. Part of the rite, the ceremony. There’s much I know, much I learned. Ezekiel knew, and I believe he did it. Satan did touch the earth. But Ezekiel wasn’t strong enough. He let his belief slip when there was a threat about. Still, he knew the words. They are there. They are in the words of those who followed him. You will find them.”
Alex started to laugh. It was just so ridiculous.
The figure leaned back. “Really. You find this humorous?”
“I just...”
Alex fell silent.
“Bright boy, yes. You’ve figured out that if you don’t read every word in these books and decipher what it is that I need, I’ll just kill you. You figured out that it’s incredibly important that I find you necessary. Bright boy, bright, bright, boy. Except I do know, of course, that you think it’s all impossible. That means that you’d really better work your ass off, right, bright boy?”
Alex looked at him and nodded fervently.
“And, by the way, I need to know exactly how and where to find Jehovah. The location is in those books somewhere, too.”
He went out.
Closing the door behind him.
It shrieked and groaned in agony.
As if it echoed the terror in Alex’s heart.