Griffin—for all of being a solid, talented, determined and striking agent—still was uneasy around her parents. He’d saved their daughter’s life twice, but still worried about their approval, she supposed. But, she told herself, that was because he cared. And that was okay.
Even their apartment made him nervous, it seemed. He appeared extremely uncomfortable, just standing near her father’s desk, while she plowed through the bookcases, looking for anything that might have been written by a man named Nathaniel Alden.
“Griffin!”
“What?”
“Help me.”
“Vickie, this is your father’s very personal space.”
“Dig in.”
“You’re his daughter.”
“There is absolutely no reason to be afraid of my father.”
“I’m not afraid of your father,” he assured her.
“Good.”
“I’m afraid of your mother.”
“Griffin!”
“Okay, okay, I’m not really afraid of your mother,” he said with a sigh. “Honestly, I just feel like I’m prying and—”
“These are his books, Griffin. Not his underwear.”
“All right!
He moved over to one of the endless rows of books and began searching through the titles.
“Alden, you said?”
“Nathaniel Alden. I believe the book was written during the Civil War. It’s out of print now. Hard to find, which is why Hanson needs our copy. It’s a study of social norms in the Massachusetts Bay Colony from the founding through the Age of Enlightenment and onward, to the abolitionist movement in Massachusetts to the Civil War and beyond, to our treatment of veterans who returned from the war, of those who were crippled by it and those who apparently went insane because of it. Remember all the stuff we learned about Dr. Boylston and the crude method of inoculations he promoted? And how Cotton Mather—not my favorite historical person!—actually pressed for the science of it, as well? They were coming into what was then the modern world. But I’m thinking that, somewhere in that book, there’s something that relates back to Jehovah.”
“It was written right around the Civil War—before the Quabbin was engineered.”
“Yes, but even though a number of the towns are gone, there will still be landmarks that are the same, or that compare to what is there now. There’s a map in this book. I can get a good map of the landscape the way it is now, and go by some of the descriptions. There’s a way.”
“Well, if there is, and Milton Hanson can find Jehovah, shouldn’t we let him?” Griffin asked her.
“He’s...smarmy. That’s what my dad says. But I agree that there’s something off about him.”
“You think that Milton Hanson could somehow be guilty in all this?” Griffin persisted. “Smarmy—there’s a big difference in trying to pick up grad students from trying to bleed them and prepare them for a Satanic sacrifice,” he pointed out.
“Of course! But we don’t have any suspects. Except for Audrey Benson, who has disappeared. And in the hospital we have Gloria—no last name. No one knows anything, Griffin, and the people I noted the night after Alex was last seen were Audrey Benson, Milton Hanson and Roy and Cathy Dearborn,” she said.
Griffin moved over to her position and caught her by the shoulders, then lifted her chin so that he could look earnestly into her eyes. “I know it’s the hardest thing in the world, but you can’t let emotion get into your mind, Vickie. There’s no reason to believe the man is evil because he was in a coffee shop, because he works with Alex.”
“And is—according to my dad!—smarmy.”
“Lots of smarmy people aren’t murderers.”
“Why does he want this book—now? I don’t trust anyone right now, Griffin.”
“He wants to find Alex.”
“I don’t believe he gives two figs about Alex.”
“Then maybe he wants the prestige of finding him—or Jehovah,” Griffin said.
His phone rang and he stepped away. She could hear that it was Rocky on the other end.
Rocky and Devin had gone into the police station with David Barnes; they were going to do some research on their own.
There would be a task force meeting later. It wasn’t as if a known serial killer was loose in the city, but the circumstances were bizarre enough and foreboding enough that a task force of different law enforcement agencies throughout the city, county and state—with the help of the federal government—was being formed.
He listened for a few minutes. “All right. It works for me.”
Griffin slipped his phone back into his pocket. He was staring at her with a peculiar expression. He sighed suddenly.
“Okay, so there is no record of a sister and brother with the surname of Dearborn having been born in Athol in the last fifteen to thirty-five years.”
“Oh!” Vickie gasped. “Then they aren’t real, either! It is a conspiracy! Whoever is at the helm of this knew that Alex would go to see them. The not-real waitress, Audrey Benson, drugged him and somehow made away with him Saturday night.”
“Just because we can’t find a record of their births doesn’t mean that they’re in on a conspiracy,” Griffin said. “They might have lied for many reasons. They might have come to Massachusetts from Arkansas or Alaska, for all we know.”
He started scanning the bookshelves again.
“They were actual musicians. They have a website and a bunch of social media pages,” Vickie said.
“Yes.”
“And Rocky and Devin have been looking into the sites, right?” Vickie asked.
“Yep. Bingo.”
“Bingo. Of course. They’re very good at what they do. They’ll find their tax returns or something. They’ll—”
“No—bingo, I found your book. You want a book that was written by Nathaniel Alden, right?” Griffin asked, reaching for the book and turning to hand it to her.
“That’s it, yes!” she said. She smiled at him radiantly and took the book from his hands. Nathaniel Alden had been a professor at Harvard in his day. He had been one of the finest writers on social commentary that Vickie had read. She knew, of course, that her dad admired him, too.
As, apparently, did Milton Hanson.
But she surmised it was what he had written about Ezekiel Martin that Hanson wanted.
“I don’t know what he’s looking for,” Vickie said. “But maybe he knows that he can find it in this book. I just know that I have to have a chance to read through it before I give it to him.”
“Don’t you think that when he can’t find it, he’ll know you have it?” Griffin asked her.
“Maybe. What’s he going to do? Call me a liar? I don’t have to loan him a book, anyway!” she said.
The doorbell rang.
“Did you want to get that?” Vickie asked Griffin.
“Oh, no, no. This is your deception. Right or wrong, I don’t know.”
“If there’s any chance he’s involved, it is right! Please let him in?” Vickie said.
He shrugged at that, pushing firmly past her on his way to the front door. He paused and turned back.
“I’d hide it, if I were you,” he said.
“Yep!” she said. She ran into her parents’ room to do so.
When she emerged, Griffin had opened the door to Milton Hanson. He had evidently introduced himself.
Hanson knew about him.
“Couldn’t help but hear about you—and Vickie, of course—after that entire Undertaker terror!” Hanson said. “Vickie!”
He lifted his arms to embrace her. She forced a smile and allowed the hug, then quickly moved away.
Hanson had never been accused of anything; he’d probably never been inappropriate with a student.
He just had a manner that seemed to exude some kind of sexuality—not a good kind, but an uncomfortable one.
Objectively, he was very distinguished with his iron-gray hair and strong facial structure. He was lean and muscled, as well. Vickie was sure many people probably found him attractive.
“Nice to see you, Professor,” Vickie said.
“And you’re on the hunt for Alex, right?”
“Yes, sir, we are,” she said.
He looked at Griffin. “Of course, that’s what you do. But, Vickie, don’t you think you’ve already given your family enough of a scare? You should really join your folks in Europe. You’ll be safe there. Leave Alex to the professionals.”
“But aren’t you looking for Alex, too?” Vickie asked.