Wonder didn’t last long; she quickly found that sleep was her only answer.
Eight
Jon returned to his office; Essex Street was very quiet by the time he arrived. The bars and shops were closed, and the last of the gawkers of the bizarre accident had headed to their homes or hotels.
Inside his little room, he found he had no desire to sleep. So he pulled out his computer and went over every note he had on the murders and studied the crime scenes again. He shook his head, muttering to himself.
It was impossible for Michael Westerly to have murdered Deanna Clark, Willow Cannon, or Cecily Bryant—unless he could be “beamed up” in a manner that defied science. He’d been several states away each time, in full view of the public.
And yet the murders were alike. To a T.
Copycat?
Or was it simply a step too far to believe that a woman had been hypnotized and seen herself as Annie Hampton being murdered?
The sun was beginning to rise when he heard a tap at his door. He jumped, aware that he was letting his fear and feelings for Kylie effect his usual levelheadedness.
But who the hell else might be looking for him when the sun was just rising?
He hadn’t shed his clothing or his holster; he instinctively felt for his Glock as he walked toward the door, checking through a hole in the cardboard that covered the window.
Then smiling, he eased back and opened the door. “You knocked,” he said.
His old friend was back. The man who had first haunted his youth and basically propelled his direction in life, Obadiah Jones.
“Polite, my friend—in my day, and yours,” Obadiah told him.
“Well then, sir, please, do come in.”
Jon figured that he’d never really know if ghosts got tired of standing and preferred to sit, although he was aware that they could grow weary sometimes, trying to manifest themselves to those who saw them for long periods of time.
Obadiah had been around a long time. He was good at being a ghost.
“Have a seat, please,” Jon said.
“Thank you.”
Obadiah found a chair in front of the desk as if expecting Jon to take his place behind it, so he did.
“I saw that accident tonight,” Obadiah said.
“You did? What did you see?”
“You didn’t see anything? I saw you talking with the police.”
Jon shook his head. “I was in the hotel. I felt the impact. I ran out to see if I could help.”
Obadiah nodded with pleasure. “I trained you well.”
The ghost hadn’t actually trained him. Apparently Obadiah knew that because he was smiling. “Sorry, you were always decent. I do pride myself on reminding you of that fact. But you had it in you. That’s why I could...well, manipulate you a bit. And it worked. Well, in my mind.”
“Thanks. So, what did you see?”
“When he was driving down the street, the old fellow grabbed his chest—then, I imagine he thought he was hitting the brakes but hit the gas instead.”
“A heart attack,” Jon murmured.
Obadiah inclined his head with a bit of a shrug. “Yes, but possibly, a heart attack brought on.”
“I don’t even know the man’s name yet, but he had to be in his sixties. A heart attack at that age—really, at any age—isn’t that much of an anomaly.”
Obadiah shook his head. “I know the old fellow. Jimmy Marino. Well, he doesn’t know me, but I know him. A nice fellow of Italian descent. His family has been in the area about a hundred years or so. Not as far back as some of the folks around here, but long enough.”
“And?”
“Heart attack seems odd to me. He has an apartment down near the wharf. He and his wife had one of the big old Victorian houses in town, but she passed away young or youngish—she was just fifty. The cancer, you know. His kids are in Boston now, though they’re good kids and come and see him. Thing is, he was talking to Mrs. Martinelli—a sweet Italian widow—at the memorial the other day. The two of them like to go sit at that memorial, you know, by the Old Burying Point.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And I hang out there, you know that.”
“Yes.”
“Well, the old fellow was happy, telling her that he’d just been to his doctor. He’d aced something called a ‘stress test’ and the doctor had told him he had the heart of a young man—not just a young man, but a football jock.”
Jon leaned back in his chair, frowning. “Who would want to cause anyone to have a heart attack and drive into a hotel? Doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t know. And I don’t know much about modern medicine or science and I’m wondering how you could cause such a thing. And if you could, how you’d manage to get someone to have that heart attack and drive into a building. But it struck me as so odd that a man glowing because he’d passed a ‘stress test’ and had the heart of a football ‘jock’ could suddenly have a heart attack.”
Obadiah paused for a minute, adjusted the scarf he wore around his neck as if he could really feel it. “I’m deeply distressed that the poor young woman was murdered. I haven’t found anyone—” he paused again, grinning “—any dead friend, that is, who witnessed anything. Such a giving young woman, so young, to have something so terrible happen to her. Since I rather pushed you into your direction in life, I thought I should come to you with anything. And so I’m here.”
Jon nodded thoughtfully. Odd, he thought. One of the girls had also mentioned the fact that it was bizarre, though none of them thought that it could have had anything to do with a murder.
And he still couldn’t fathom it. An attempt at murder perhaps, but by a different culprit? Stabbing a woman in a cemetery and drugging someone into a heart attack were two very different things.
“Well?” Obadiah said.
“Food for thought. I have friends from my unit coming in tomorrow. And I’ll certainly talk to Detective Ben Miller about it. You know that he’s lead here on Annie Hampton’s murder.”
Obadiah nodded grimly. “You should go to bed. I never told you to give up sleep.”
Jon smiled. “I’ll do that. And thank you, my friend. Food for thought. Thank you.”
“I’m keeping my eyes open,” Obadiah promised, and rose.
Jon didn’t have to let him out; he vanished on his own.
Jon went ahead and stripped down to his boxers. He lay down, even though he didn’t think he’d sleep. What could the murder and the car accident have to do with each other?
He must have catnapped; he awoke to a pounding on the door. He leaped up, stepping into his pants and reaching for his small belt holster and Glock again before going to the door.
He needn’t have worried; it was just Devin and Rocky. He welcomed them warmly. It was good—really, really good—to have more Krewe in town.
He had promised to keep Kylie safe. And it was certainly reassuring to have a greater sense of surety where that promise was concerned.
* * *
“I can’t believe we’re really leaving you,” Jenny said, surveying her overnight suitcase and carryall bag in the center of the suite. “Well, I suppose the good in this is that if I’ve forgotten something—which I am prone to do—you’ll be able to get it for me.”
“Of course,” Kylie said.
Corrine came out with her little suitcase and bag as well, shaking her head. “This is scary. We’re not leaving you behind because you’re working on a historic find, we’re leaving you behind because of a horrible murder. I’m still—”
“I’ll keep in contact every day, I promise,” Kylie said.
“Do that, because if we don’t hear from you—” Corrine began.
“We’ll be calling in the militia,” Nancy finished, dragging her bag out as well.
Kylie smiled. “You’
ll hear from me, I promise.”
“We’re beating a dead horse here,” Corrine said pragmatically.
“Right. So where are we going to lunch?” Nancy asked.
“Nowhere yet,” Corrine said firmly. “It’s still early, and I’m waiting right here until that FBI man shows back up.”
“I’m hungry,” Jenny murmured. “We could call down—”
“They have a great brunch downstairs,” Nancy suggested.
Kylie’s phone rang then, and she hurried back into the bedroom to get it. She answered and returned to the others in the middle of the suite. It was Jon Dickson, telling her he was almost there. Even as he spoke, there was a knock on the door.
Corrine opened it, and Kylie was surprised to see a woman there, tall, in a pantsuit, and stunning with a wealth of long dark hair. She was accompanied by a tall man, athletically built, also in a suit, and breaking the intimidation of his size with a warm smile.
She started to frown, her fear receptors working overtime, but she quickly saw Jon right behind them.
“Hey,” he said, coming around the other two as if ready to introduce them.
But the dark-haired woman smiled at her. “Hi, I’m Devin, and this is Rocky. Special Agent Craig Rockwell, to be more professional, I suppose.”
“Wow!” Jenny said happily.
“I’m not that cool,” Rocky said with a grin.
Jenny quickly flushed. “I, um, I didn’t mean you. I mean Miss Lyle. It’s so amazing to actually meet you!”
The dark-haired beauty made a face. “I’m really Mrs. Rockwell now, but thank you. You mean—you know my books?”
“I do. I adore them—my nieces adore them. So charming!”
“Well, thank you so much,” Devin said.
“Okay, all right, I’ll introduce in the other direction,” Jon said, smiling. “Kylie Connolly, Corrine Rossello, Jenny Augur, and Nancy Ryman.”
“A pleasure,” Devin said, and her husband echoed her words.
Kylie looked over at Jon, curious about the pair. Before she could say anything, Rocky told them, “We’re both from the area, too. Devin still has a cottage, inherited from an aunt, just outside the city. My folks still own a place here, though they spend their time in the South now and keep it rented out.” He glanced over at Jon, then added, “Rest assured, we’re well prepared to watch over Kylie.”
“That’s good to hear,” Corrine said. “But, Devin, you write children’s books?”
“I do.”
“Then...” It was clear she had some doubts about a children’s book author being an effective guard.
Devin smiled and said, “I’m also a consultant for the FBI. I’ve spent hours at the gun range, and since Rocky and I have been together, several self-defense classes, martial arts, and so on. Talk about your couples who fight,” she added lightly.
“That’s great,” Kylie said, ruing the fact that the greatest training she had was in several dance classes—and a nice, peaceful form of yoga.
“We are so glad we got to meet you,” Corrine said, although it was evident she was still weighing the two newcomers with the critical eye of a mother hen.
“Food!” Kylie said. “Jenny was talking about being hungry.”
“Right, you all can join us if there’s time? We don’t have to be on the road for a while,” Nancy said. “I mean, I know you’re here because of what happened, and there are things you need to be doing... Although, I’m not sure what you can do at this point, except go over what you know and try to make sense of it. But maybe it’s good to take a bit of a break and refresh your mind...?”
“We eat. We just got here, so a meal would be great,” Devin assured them. “And the brunch here is really excellent.”
“Let’s head down,” Jon said.
Over the meal, Jenny and Nancy wound up quizzing Devin about her books. When it appeared they were behaving a little too much like stalker-fans, Corrine broke in and asked Devin to talk about her cottage.
Kylie had ended up at the end of the table with Jon at one side and Rocky the other. While Devin and the others talked among themselves about the cottage and the surrounding area and its history, Rocky told Kylie quietly, “Please, do have faith in us.”
She gave him a reassuring nod. “I appreciate you coming here. Did you and Devin know each other growing up?”
Rocky glanced at Jon, who must have given him a subtle hint just to tell the truth.
“We met over a dead body, just a few years ago.” Rocky smiled grimly. “A murder occurred on her property...just like one that happened when I was in high school.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid old friends did wind up being involved. It was rather heartbreaking. But... Well, it’s over, we’re together, and so familiar with this area that we should really be helpful on this. And you will be safe with us.”
She smiled at him. “I’m glad. I insisted on staying. I am a total coward with no skills whatsoever.”
Rocky glanced at Jon again and Kylie wondered just what Jon had told him. This crazy woman thinks she was channeling a murder victim as it was happening.
“I know we discussed staying on at the hotel,” Jon said, “but now we’re thinking that the safest thing to do is for you to pack up and head out to Devin’s cottage.”
“We’ll both be there,” Rocky said.
Kylie looked from one of them to the other. It would get her out of the hotel where Michael Westerly was staying. “I—I guess that would be a good thing.”
“Great,” Jon said. “We’ll see Corrine, Nancy, and Jenny off, and then get you moved for the day.”
“Isn’t that kind of a wasted day for you?” Kylie asked.
Jon shook his head. “Devin and Rocky will drive you out there. I have a detective friend in town I want to see about a few things. And it won’t take all day to move you. We’ll meet back up at the Cauldron for an early dinner.”
“Westerly will be in Boston tomorrow,” Kylie said.
“He won’t drive there until morning. We looked at his schedule,” Rocky said.
“Which will give us some time to make sure he’s out of Salem,” Jon said.
Kylie wasn’t sure what that meant, other than they wouldn’t have to worry about the man for a day.
Brunch went long; they all joined in conversation about the area, growing excited about visits to Gloucester, arguing over the best chowder, and arguing trivia about the Founding Fathers and Massachusetts in the Revolutionary War.
Then Corrine sighed at last and said, “Okay, we have to get on the road.” She stood and addressed Rocky and Devin first, saying, “Such a pleasure to get to meet you. We do feel better about leaving Kylie. And, Jon...you may be a hotshot FBI guy, but if anything happens to Kylie—”
“You do strike terror in my heart,” he assured her, his tone grave, “but with or without the threat, I swear, I would give my life for her.”
“It’s in the job description,” Rocky said more lightly.
After a few more goodbyes, they all left the dining room, heading to the elevators—Kylie to pack, and Corrine, Nancy, and Jenny to get their bags so they could leave.
Jon paused in the lobby, explaining that he had to go talk with his friend, Detective Ben Miller. He told Corrine, Jenny, and Nancy goodbye one more time, receiving ardent hugs from all her friends, Kylie noticed. She was amused, and then not. This was a case. It would be solved. It had to be solved.
Then the man would most probably be out of their lives for good.
Before he left, Jon paused by Kylie, his head low, and spoke softly. “You’re okay, right? I swear by these guys.”
She felt him close, breathed his scent...and lowered her head slightly, unnerved by the strength of the attraction she felt for him. “I’m fine. Rocky looks like he could knock over the entire Patriots’ football team. I’m good.”
&n
bsp; He nodded and smiled. “Rocky is the best. So is Devin. Don’t let the knowledge she’s a children’s author allow you to doubt she’s badass.”
“I won’t. Maybe I can take some lessons from her.”
The others were waiting for her at the elevator. When the doors opened, to her dismay, Michael Westerly walked out, accompanied by his wife and a couple men she assumed to be aides—or bodyguards. The politician beamed a smile and a good morning to everyone in front of him.
Kylie froze. The others muttered good morning. Maybe it was obvious that, at least, he wasn’t getting their votes.
But when he looked at her, she felt as if his eyes became all-seeing. As if he knew. As if he was fully aware she knew beyond a doubt he was a murderer.
The moment ended; he walked into the lobby, greeting others. Smiling, dignified, a handsome mature man.
“Kylie.”
She felt Devin’s hand protectively on her shoulder.
“Elevator,” Devin whispered.
Luckily, Kylie’s group was alone in the elevator car.
“That man!” Nancy exclaimed. “Smiling like that!”
“We really have no proof,” Corrine murmured unhappily.
“We have proof—Kylie saw him!” Jenny said.
“We need proof that will stand up in a court of law,” Rocky said quietly. “This may be Salem, but the days when a court allowed any kind of spectral evidence in are, thankfully, long gone. Please don’t worry. There will be a way. Westerly will make a mistake—there will be someone out there, somewhere, who knows something. We won’t stop.”
Kylie still felt numb.
When they reached their floor, her friends’ obvious distress broke her out of her terror. “Quit acting as if we’re never going to see one another again,” she chided. “I’m going to be fine. I swear!”
“Yes, yes, yes, of course,” Corrine agreed, wiping away tears. “And she’s reporting to us every night. Let’s go—I have to be at work tomorrow!”
And just like that, her friends were gone.
Seeing Darkness Page 12
