*
They drove back to Boston for Griffin and Rocky to head to the station and study the endless pages of material they had received since the pictures of Audrey Benson, Helena Matthews and their red-haired Jane Doe had gone out in the press.
Devin accompanied Vickie to her apartment where they found Dylan Ballantine and Darlene—once again curled up on the sofa together, enjoying a season of The Walking Dead.
Dylan jumped up, clearly upset.
“You really need to leave a note or something. I didn’t know where you were. No one knew where you were. I even had Noah ask our parents for me, and they were oblivious—they have no idea that you’re involved in anything.”
“You’re a ghost,” Vickie said. “Dylan, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to leave a note.”
“I’m dead, not stupid or illiterate,” he informed her, talking to her as though she was a dumb little sister.
“Dylan!” Darlene warned, rising to squeeze his hand and smile at Vickie and Devin. “He was worried. I mean...we can’t be everywhere, you know. And you guys were just...well, you were gone.”
“It’s okay,” Vickie said. She looked at Dylan. “I’m sorry. We’re going to be heading out again. I’m not sure exactly where we’re going.”
Devin’s phone rang. She answered and they all looked at her as she listened to the person at the other end, replying here and there with monosyllables.
“What’s going on?” Vickie asked her.
“Okay, so, I know where we’re going.”
“Where?” Vickie asked.
“Barre.”
“Barre, Massachusetts?” Dylan asked.
“Yes. It seems that they finally pinpointed Alex Maple’s phone,” she said.
“And it’s in Barre?” Vickie asked, trying to keep her voice steady. They’d found Alex’s phone. It could mean they were coming closer to finding Alex.
Or it could mean that her friend was dead.
“Not exactly,” Devin said. “It was actually at the bottom of the Quabbin. They had state police divers go down. Barre is the closest city to the area where it was discovered.”
“Toward the west,” Vickie said thoughtfully. “Four towns had to be destroyed to form the Quabbin. And, I believe, if it had been standing at the time the reservoir was formed, Jehovah might have barely made the cut.”
“I still don’t understand,” Devin said. “Where exactly is this place? It doesn’t sound to me as if there is an exact location that anyone can really pinpoint.”
“There are theories,” Vickie said.
“But if there isn’t an exact, how come? Is there an almost exact? I’m thinking that there has to be an educated guess exact? I think we were so inundated with the stories of the witch hysteria, we never found out enough about Ezekiel Martin. He was a known rebel, and known to commit murder—without any kind of spectral evidence coming into the mix. Now, of course, everyone knows that the so-called Salem witches weren’t witches at all—and if they’d confessed to being witches instead of risking their souls with a lie as they saw it, they wouldn’t have been executed. But here’s the thing. Ezekiel Martin was a murderer. He deserved the punishment for murder. And he claimed that he could summon Satan.”
“Ezekiel Martin took his own life—slit his throat—when his people panicked and started to desert him.” Vickie elaborated for her. “I believe when Charles II had his men come in, he was truly weary of the restrictive bull that had cost his father his head. Okay, so Charles I did believe in the divine right of kings and was kind of an arrogant bastard, but all in all, not really such a bad one. Still, while most historians say that Charles II showed admirable constraint against the enemies who had done in his father, he wasn’t exactly any man’s fool. And his commander in the field, Captain Magnus Grayson, knew what Charles II’s opinion of a man like Martin would have been. No doubt about it, Ezekiel Martin would have been executed, so it’s not a terrible surprise that he took his own life.”
“Slashed his throat,” Devin said. “That’s meaningful, I think. He slashed his own throat.”
“Well, there’s definitely a pattern. We don’t really know a lot about the crime in 1804, but we do know that the saying was used, and we could reasonably presume that whoever was killed also had their throat cut,” Vickie murmured.
Devin looked at Vickie unhappily. “I don’t want to believe that Helena Matthews is dead—no one does. But the amount of blood that was thrown at you was...was a lot. If she had her throat slit, too, I’m afraid that it’s part of the ritual being carried out.”
“Then why take Alex? It’s so frustrating,” Vickie said.
Devin nodded and smiled slightly. “It is frustrating work—but it can be rewarding, too.”
“Oh, I know! It’s just that Alex became my friend when he helped me with the Undertaker case. People did die, but some did live—including me!—so I care about him, and I owe him.”
“We need to come with you,” Dylan said.
“Out to Barre?” Vickie asked. “But, Dylan, your family is here, in Boston.”
“I spent plenty of time down in New York City with you when you were in college,” Dylan reminded Vickie.
“But when Noah and your parents were in danger, it was so important that you were here,” Vickie said.
“They’re not in danger—you’re in danger,” he told Vickie. “And besides, what? I could be in danger? I could die young?” He looked at the two of them determinedly. “You haven’t come across anyone else ready to help you on this, right? I mean, to be specific, anyone dead?”
Vickie glanced at Devin, who was smiling. She shook her head.
“No,” Vickie admitted.
“Shocking, really. These victims should be bitter and hateful and longing for justice somewhere along the line for someone!”
“There is someone out there. I see her, and then she disappears. I think that she may be a woman whose name was Sheena Petrie. She was killed in Fall River in 1980 and the truth regarding her death was never discovered.”
“I know what it’s like to be adrift, a remnant left behind, lost and unable to touch the world of the living,” Darlene said quietly. “We just might be able to help.”
“And we’re going to need two cars, anyway,” Devin said.
“I guess...” Vickie murmured.
“You guess?” Dylan asked.
“I guess you’re coming with us,” Vickie said.
9
“She’s awake!” Barnes said. He hadn’t even hung up his phone before he conveyed the message to Griffin and Rocky.
They’d met in Barnes’s office to go over the “sightings” that had been called in on the police tip. Most of what they had received had been about Audrey Benson, or the pretend Audrey Benson.
“Wonderful waitress—the police should not be hounding her,” read one message.
“You’ll find her at the coffee shop,” read another.
Of course, a number of people had called in about Helena Matthews; they had met her somewhere at some time doing some good deed. She was a wonderful woman. She might have been at the bowling alley in Worcester; she might have been at a shoe store in Gloucester.
“The redhead...she might be a girl I dated in high school out in Orange, Massachusetts,” was another message.
They had only found a few tips that might provide any real leads; he did, indeed, intend to follow them through.
But for the moment, the announcement that Barnes had just made was of key importance.
“Our Jane Doe? She’s awakened?” Rocky asked.
“Yes, that was the hospital. She’s awake, and she’s stable. The doctor warned me—there’s no way to tell what kind of brain damage she may have suffered. She could have total recall, or remain a Jane Doe. So far, they’ve asked her what her name is, and she hasn’t managed an answer. But her condition could change at any time.”
“Let’s go see her,” Griffin said.
They were at the hospital in a matter of minutes. Their Jane Doe had been transferred from a critical care unit to a room.