“In an armchair kind of way,” he agreed. “Anything I discover or think that I discover—well, I’d immediately bring to the law.”
She smiled sweetly, leaning against Griffin. “Well, I’m already with the law,” she said lightly.
She knew she should be polite; her dad would be horrified by her lack of manners, even if he wasn’t fond of Hanson.
But she didn’t want him to stay.
“Come into the office. You’re welcome to look through the books. We have about, what, Griffin, a half hour or so?”
“About a half hour,” Griffin agreed. “Press conference tonight,” he told Hanson.
“Oh? And what can you conference on exactly? A missing professor?”
“And the very real possibility of a dangerous cult somewhere in the state—a cult who may already be responsible for several deaths. Anyway, let’s head to the office. We’ll see if we can find your book,” Griffin said.
“You wanted something by Ashcroft?” Vickie asked innocently. “I don’t think we have Ashcroft. We have John Millar—his work was more European, right? He was a Scotsman. And there’s William Robertson, 1783, a history of America!”
“I said Alden, Nathaniel Alden,” Hanson told her, smiling.
“That’s right. Do you see it?” she asked.
“No. No, I could have sworn that he had it, but...hey, I could have been wrong.”
“I don’t see it, either, but really, there are a number of wonderful books here.”
“It’s a great collection.”
“Okay, well, you do know how my father loves books. I know he’d be delighted to lend any to you, just so long as you return it, of course!”
“Collectible books—of course. I hear you have your own collection.”
“I do!” Vickie said. “I love fiction, as well. I have a few very early printings of Daniel Defoe—and others. My library is nothing like my dad’s, but we do all love books.”
Griffin was quiet, just watching, his head slightly lowered as he tried not to betray a grin.
Vickie hoped that she really appeared to be helping Hanson.
“So many books!” she murmured.
“Well, I can’t find the Alden, but I will borrow this,” Hanson said, sliding a book from the shelves.
It wasn’t a first printing, early printing or a collectible book in any way. It had been written by Ernst James, a Boston philosopher born in the late eighteenth century who went west after the Civil War and made it to the ripe old age of ninety. It was called The World We Make.
Vickie couldn’t remember if there was a reference to witchcraft in the book; in her mind, James had been far more interested in science and in the fact that Boston was fulfilling her destiny as a port. But he did have the insight of having been born in one century and living far into the next.
But she couldn’t hide every book her father owned. And, in truth, she wanted to lend him a book. It was good to have a reason to keep an eye on him. He was smarmy.
“I’ll let you all get going. Give your parents my regards when you speak with them, Vickie,” Hanson said.
“I will,” she assured him.
And finally, he was out the door.
Griffin looked at her, shaking his head, amused.
“I think he knows you have that book.”
“Maybe.”
“He warned you to be careful.”
“And I warned him to be careful,” she said.
“Let’s go. We need to get to the police station.”
*
The task force meeting went smoothly. The city and state police had been on guard since the attacks had begun. Griffin, Rocky and Barnes explained various facets of the case.
It was the pills, of course, that Darryl Hillford and Gloria last-name-as-yet-unknown had taken that were the definite tie to put it all together.
A few of the officers asked how they could be certain that the words left on the victims referring to Satan’s arrival definitely connected the cases with those that had come before.
“Nothing is definite. Someone is, however, using the past as inspiration.”
Police divers had been in the Quabbin. They had recovered Alex Maple’s phone.
They now intended to concentrate on areas surrounding the Quabbin. They would be looking for Jehovah.
They would be looking for a hidden sanctuary where they believed Alex, and perhaps others, were being held.
Cult members might be living and working in other nearby towns. It would be a place where others might come and go.When the task force meeting was over, they met outside with reporters.
They shared much of the same information; however, they left out the fact that they were looking for Jehovah.
They warned people to watch for suspicious activity.
And then the press meeting was over, too.
“Quick Italian food?” Rocky asked. “I know of a pizza place just down the block.”
They’d only planned on being a foursome, but Barnes seemed to need a diversion, and so he was quickly invited, as well.
Soon, they were down the block, promptly ordering and dining quickly on Boston’s best pizza.
“I can’t help but think...” Vickie said.
“What?” Griffin asked her.
She shook her head. “I keep feeling that we’re being held here—that even Fall River was some kind of a distraction.”
“We’ll head west tomorrow,” Rocky told her.
“And I’ll be here,” Barnes said. “So much has happened. What about Fall River? What was your feeling?”
He looked from Griffin to Rocky. Devin smiled slightly, looking down. She was a full-fledged agent. She’d gone through the academy. She and Rocky had even worked a case in Ireland on what was supposed to have been their honeymoon. But Barnes had some old-fashioned ways about him, even if he had some fine women officers on his force.
“One of the detectives working the new case is friends with the detective who worked the old case,” Griffin said.
“Oakley. Charlie Oakley. The murder shook him up so badly he left the force. Worked private security,” Rocky said.
“And Helena Matthews was seen with someone at a gas station?” Barnes asked.
“Yes. By a not particularly reliable duo of brothers,” Devin said.
“I was thinking... Fall River has a department, but I wonder if they’d mind if we sent an artist out to do up a likeness of the man who appeared to be with Helena. Officer Tracy was very good, I thought,” Vickie said.
“I’m sure we can make it happen. But you said that they’re unreliable,” Barnes said, nodding toward Devin.
Devin smiled. “I say, better than nothing. We’re not going into court. We’re just trying to get an image, an idea.”
“Even if we recognize a man—or have an image—it doesn’t mean that it’s the person who kidnapped her or...or worse,” Barnes said.
“Still, won’t hurt,” Griffin said.
“So we’ll make it happen,” Barnes agreed.
*
Alex wondered at first if he was dead.
He couldn’t move. He was lying down, but he wasn’t on a gurney; he wasn’t in the horrible room where he had first awakened—where the headless body had been huddled in the corner.
There was a bandage on his arm. He was weak, so weak...
He tried again to move. He could barely open his eyes. When he managed to do so, he realized that he was in darkness...but not complete darkness. There were shadows, and he was not alone.
He’d been drugged again.
He could remember struggling, wondering where he was being taken. Then he realized that there were too many of them...six, seven, eight people in the red robes. He’d gone limp. Then he’d been on this bed...
And then the world had faded.
He heard someone speaking to him suddenly, someone who spoke softly with a gentle, female voice.
“Rest, it’s important. Please just lie there...you’ll be okay. But you have to be careful. Don’t rip out the bandage on your arm. Rest, lie there, be careful...”
There was someone near him. He wondered if he was having a hallucination. She was beautiful and blonde, dressed in something flowy, and she seemed to hover near him in extreme sorrow.
“Lie still, rest.”
She looked up, and he realized that he could hear noise from outside.
Chanting, in Latin.
He heard a scream.
Then more and more screams...
Laughter, cries of exultation.
No more screaming.
“Lie still, rest, please. You’ll be okay, but you must be careful.”