At some point during the night, Aidan’s fellow agents Jane Everett and Sloan Trent arrived to help, and Mo was pleased to meet them. Jane was eager to hear about Rollo and his gift for finding the missing, but Mo had the feeling that she was asking her much more.
When they were briefly alone while the men searched the cliff sides, seeking vaults and entries, Jane asked her quietly, “You haven’t seen anyone here who could help, have you?”
“Seen anyone?” Mo repeated carefully.
Jane smiled. “In the cemetery. Any spirits who might help?”
Mo inhaled, looking at Jane. The woman was an artist, she knew. Her ability to put life into the two-dimensional image of a face had led them to their second victim. Jane was sophisticated in a casual way, attractive—and confident. And she was talking about ghosts.
“No,” Mo said. “But...I wasn’t looking. And I seldom see—”
“The dead in cemeteries,” Jane finished for her. She smiled again. “Your dog is fantastic. And I’m sure he’s found the boy. We just have to get to him.”
“I know he’s here somewhere,” Mo said. “And,” she added softly, “I believe he’s alive.”
Rollo came trotting over to Mo. He whined and slipped his head beneath her hand, obviously impatient. He wanted her working with him.
“Well, we’re not going to get into a vault by standing here,” Jane said.
“You’re right. Rollo, let’s go.”
Jane went ahead. Rollo ran down the hill, seemingly without effort. It wasn’t quite as easy for human beings on two legs. But, like Jane, Mo made her way to the bottom.
There were officers in front of them and behind them. On Aidan’s orders, they were meticulously searching the hillside—not for clearly visible vaults seen with rusted iron gates that couldn’t be opened, but for entries time had hidden, with vines and foliage that completely obscured any opening there might be. It was slow going, especially in the dark. The sun would come up soon enough, but no one wanted to wait.
With Rollo at her side, no longer barking, Mo took a hands-on approach, hoping she didn’t disturb a stinging insect or awaken a snake or some other creature. She had her hands flat on the earth when she paused.
She could hear the crying again.
For a moment, she went still. It seemed that she was standing before an area on the face of the hill that was nothing but dirt. Vines grew profusely here. But when she stuck her fingers through them, she touched metal. Hard, cold metal.
She didn’t cry out for the others at first. She tore at the vines, and as she did, she realized that someone could have just slipped between them.
There was a door. Iron? It had a massive brass ring for an opener, and she pulled on it. By her side, Rollo barked.
Then she heard it again—the sound of a sob.
Is it in my head? she wondered. A remnant of something that once was?
Rollo barked excitedly.
The sound came again.
It wasn’t real—or at least it wasn’t now.
But it had been real...she was hearing an echo in time. Did that mean the child was dead—or merely unconscious? The door gave.
It should have creaked. It should have groaned and been almost impossible to open. Time should have created a seal stronger than any made by man.
But the door slid open and before she could stop him, Rollo rushed in.
Mo followed her dog, crying out for the others to come.
*
Aidan was cracking open a lock on a vault when he heard Mo scream. He hurried along the overgrown path to the source of the sound. Jane was just reaching the door. He hurried past her, pushing his way through, aiming his flashlight into the tomb.
Coffin shelving lined the walls, the old seals mostly intact, but there were cracks here and there. A broken altar featuring a pair of praying angels stood toward the center of the front area. The vault itself stretched deep into the hillside.
“Mo!” he called.
“Here!” Her voice echoed and he could hear Rollo barking.
Aidan went farther inside. Before he could reach Mo, he paused.
There was another old stone, set like an altar in the center of the long aisle of tombs. The stone was broken and it looked muddy—but it wasn’t mud that marred the altar. It was blood. A hatchet and a knife leaned against the makeshift altar.
“Aidan, come quickly!”
He moved past the broken and bloodied altar. Mo was just beyond it, hunkered down, trying to lift a bundle from the floor.
“Mo?”
“It’s him! It’s the boy, Aidan. And he’s alive!” Jane hurried in behind Aidan.
“Get the medics,” he said tersely.
She ran out, and Aidan rushed to Mo’s side. “Let me,” he told her.
It was easy for him to pick up the eight-year-old boy. The child was unconscious, but he seemed to be breathing without any problems. Although he was covered in dirt and spiderwebs, he appeared to be unhurt.
He looked at Mo, and she looked back at him with relief. She was shaking.
“Thank you,” he said simply.