A Perfect Obsession

by Heather Graham

  She heard it clearly, but she didn’t know from where. Sound seemed to bounce off the stone of the catacombs, catch in the shrouded and entombed bodies.

  “Come, come to me. I will love you, keep you...perfect.”

  Terror filled her; she fought it desperately.

  Fear was a good thing, she knew. It made a person alert and wary. But terror led to panic and panic was no good, and she wasn’t a person who panicked...

  Not usually. She was damned close to it, though!

  The sound, the invitation, had come from a bit of a distance. Someone was quoting Shakespeare—the same passage that had been sent to the newspaper.

  Only the killer knew what they had written.

  If she stayed right where she was...

  “Kieran!”

  This time, she heard her name called loudly, in a deep, rich and very masculine voice.

  She almost cried out in answer.

  She refrained.

  Then, she heard the unmistakable sound of a shot fired. And then another, and a volley of several more.

  Next to her, a corpse exploded.

  She dropped to the ground, willing herself to silence, trying hard not to move.

  Then, light blazed into her face. She blinked.

  “Kieran!”

  It was Craig. She jumped up and into his arms.

  “You’re okay? You’re okay?” he asked anxiously.

  “I’m fine. I don’t know who is shooting. It’s so dark, I have no idea what’s happening.”

  “What the hell were you doing down here?” Craig demanded.

  “I was trying to keep Henry Willoughby from coming down,” she said. “Ask the guard. He just took off. I couldn’t reach him. Craig, I have to tell you—”

  “Where the hell is Willoughby?” She heard someone else shout. It was one of the security guards, she thought. Probably the man who had tried to stop them from entering.

  With good reason.

  And yet...

  The killer had been in the crypt. She was certain of it.

  And then another shout came to them. “I found Willoughby. Oh, God!”

  “What’s wrong?” Craig shouted.

  “Willoughby. He’s here, but...someone needs to call an ambulance!”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  THE POLICE WERE out en masse.

  Naturally at first, it was chaos at the club and below the club.

  The beautiful people all went rushing into the night, afraid and confused. The police took information from them and then urged them all to go home.

  But the confusion in the crypt went on and on.

  The ambulance arrived quickly.

  Henry Willoughby was, thank God, alive, but bewildered, as he came to.

  He didn’t know what had happened to him. He didn’t remember being struck by anyone, or finding anyone. But, of course, the crypt was big.

  The rows of the dead went on and on.

  A pile of bones was found where he lay. He might have cracked his head against the stone of the crypt, something might have fallen on him—or, whoever the hell it was who had gotten down into the crypts might have smacked him hard on the head with a rock or bone.

  He just didn’t know.

  He had come to while the EMTs were rushing to help him. Kieran and Craig were by his side as he shook his head in fear, disgust and anger. “I knew the place shouldn’t reopen! Things were just still... I don’t know. Too fresh? But I can tell you this—there was someone down here. Kieran was here. Kieran knows. Yes, right? I’m not just a crazy old man!”

  “There was someone down here,” she agreed. “He was quoting Shakespeare, and he spoke directly to me.”

  “Spoke to you?” Craig asked.

  Kieran nodded. “Yes, I know someone was down here,” she told him.

  “Did you hear someone speaking?” he asked Willoughby.

  “I don’t know what I heard,” Willoughby said. “I know somebody else was there.”

  “Somebody with a gun,” Craig said harshly, looking at Kieran.

  But she was looking at Willoughby again.

  One thought kept repeating in her mind. The killer had been down there. The killer had spoken.

  To her.

  “They’re going to ruin it all,” Willoughby said sadly, looking up as a crew of forensic experts arrived. “They’re going to look for bullets and evidence...and they just won’t know how to deal with things as old and delicate as these bodies in the crypt.”

  “Mr. Willoughby, you’re alive,” Kieran told him.

  “Yes, yes, of course. And I’m grateful,” he said.

  Then, the EMTs were there, warning them that they needed to get Willoughby to the hospital and find out the extent of his head injury. Craig knew they were right, but he was frustrated. He wanted more from the man.

  Willoughby argued at first. Surely he was fine. But then he tried to rise and fell back, and, in the end, he agreed to go to the hospital.

  Kieran was covered in crypt dust. Her little black dress was an odd white color—as were her hair and much of her flesh.

  “A corpse exploded right by me,” she said, wincing. “God, I’d love a shower!”

  “I need a statement from you,” he told her. “Actually, you should give it to Mike.”

  “Sure. Of course,” she murmured.

  He looked over at his partner, who nodded. Kieran—just a little shaky—walked over to Mike, who pulled out a pad and listened to her gravely.

  Craig moved carefully through the rows of the dead. Most of the crypts seemed undisturbed; here and there, pieces of bone or bits of a disintegrating shroud had fallen to the hard stone floor. He looked for signs of a shooter.

  He could find none.

  One of the techs came up to him, a bullet in her gloved hand. “Smashed, but 9 mm, if I know my ammunition. The fellows working here are licensed through the security company with permits to carry on duty here. They’ve all got Glocks, similar to what the NYPD use.”

  “It’s easy enough to acquire those firearms personally, too.”

  “We’re going to have to do more investigation to figure out who shot what where,” the tech said. “I talked to one of the security guys. He’d found you and then run back down, and he swears that he was fired at first in the crypt, and then returned fire. The thing is, once the lights went out, there was something of a panic upstairs and down. No one seems able to say for certain where they were or what happened where.”

  “So, the killer—or the shooter in the crypt—might not even have existed? You’re saying that Willoughby might have just cracked his head himself somehow?” Craig asked. “And something sounded like a gun so the security personnel just shot in response?”

  Police lights now flooded the place. The light should have made it all less creepy, less eerie. Somehow, the garish, unshielded lights seemed to make it all the sadder.

  “I don’t know what happened yet. This is going to take some time,” she said, and shaking her head slightly, she turned back to work.

  “Craig!” Kieran called softly.

  He turned to her. Her deep blue eyes with their hint of green seemed enormous in her face.

  “Yeah?”

  “The killer was here, definitely here,” she said. “He was speaking. None of that was let out to the media—I mean, none of the information about the note he wrote to the newspaper with the Shakespeare?”

  “They’ve kept a lid on it so far,” he told her.

  “I figure whatever I say down here now isn’t for the media, so... I heard whispering. Quoting Shakespeare. Someone was reciting lines from Romeo and Juliet.”

  He didn’t want to believe her. He told himself there was so muc
h going on. It was dark; it was a crypt. Maybe, just maybe, she’d let her imagination run wild.

  “You heard that? You’re certain?” he demanded.

  “‘Beauty’s ensign yet is crimson in thy lips...’”

  He was an agent; well trained, secure in his competence. They’d met with many strange cases in his years with the Bureau. But he didn’t like the feeling that washed over him now. It was as if a phantom existed, one who came and went like a breath of air.

  “Dammit, yes, I know it!”

  There were a half dozen forensic techs down there with them and at least as many officers. The crypt was big—covering about half a block, he reckoned—but they had plenty of people searching it.

  Maybe too many.

  Mike walked up to them. “No one,” Mike said. “There’s no one here.”

  “But there was. I’m certain,” Kieran said.

  “Well, sure you were down here, and Willoughby was down here, and the guards were down here...and someone panicked when it went dark,” Mike said. He smiled, shrugging with a grimace. “There was so much going on, Kieran. I think you need time to think, though. Maybe you were feeling a little panic, too.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I was scared as hell, but I didn’t panic. There had to have been someone here!”

  “Shots were definitely fired. You know that. You and I rushed in together,” Craig told Mike. “That’s what I mean. Someone down here apparently did panic—one of the security guys. But who fired first and at what—that’s what we’ve got to figure out.”

  “Listen to me, dammit! Believe me, there was someone else in the basement,” Kieran said flatly.

  “Two of the security guards fired. They swear they were fired at first,” Mike said. “And in the rush and in the darkness, no one can be certain that someone didn’t get up or down the stairs and wasn’t seen.”

  “Okay, so he got back up the stairs somehow. Or he disappeared—with his gun—into thin air. But I don’t care what the forensic teams find. I know that there was someone else,” Kieran said, her tone aggravated.

  “The forensic teams are going to be down here all night,” Mike said. He looked at Kieran, nodding as if he believed her. Craig looked over at Mike and arched a brow slightly.

  Mike looked back at him. He didn’t speak out loud. Craig knew what he was thinking.

  Yes, it’s Kieran, she doesn’t lie, and she’s been through a lot, and she’s smart and she doesn’t panic.

  Maybe the killer had fired blindly and gotten out of the crypt in the confusion of darkness.

  And Kieran could have been killed.

  He set his hands on Kieran’s shoulders, feeling torn between his duty as an agent and his love for this woman. He didn’t want her away from him, but he had hours of work ahead of him down here.

  He simply had to learn to trust other people to care for her.

  “I don’t want you to be alone. We’ll get an officer to see you home, and a cop will stay with you. One I know. One we trust,” Craig said.

  “I don’t need a cop in my apartment,” Kieran protested.

  “He’ll be in the hallway. We’ll have shifts if we need them,” Craig told her. “Your brother will stay with you, right? Wouldn’t hurt for you not to be alone.”

  “My brother and Dr. Fuller!” Kieran exclaimed. “Where are they now?”

  “They were with the crowd upstairs, ushered out with the blackout when all the panic began,” Craig told her. “I can’t leave here until we’ve sifted through everything, but let’s head up and you can get ahold of your brother. Cell phones don’t work very well down here.”

  The club seemed strangely empty and just as eerie as the crypts below; it was as if the population of the world had just suddenly disappeared, evaporated into space. The expanse of the great old Gothic church was vast. With everyone out, each little sound echoed.

  Kieran called her brother; he was over at Finnegan’s and waiting anxiously to hear from her. He was upset; Craig could hear every word of their exchange.

  “Danny, Declan and me. We’re sitting here worried sick,” Kevin said, his voice strong enough to resonate through the cell phone. “Though, at least, some cop told me you were fine and with the cops and agents.”

  “I’m fine. You guys knew that I would be with Craig. You worry too easily,” Kieran said, glancing at Craig.

  “A blackout and shooting...yeah, silly me. I worry,” Kevin said. “Tell her I’m right, Craig—I’m figuring you’re there close?”

  “He’s right, Kieran,” Craig said.

  “I’m sorry,” she told them, “and tell Declan and Danny I’m just fine. I don’t want to come into Finnegan’s, though. I really need a shower.”

  “A shower?” Kevin said.

  “Corpse exploded,” she explained briefly.

  “Of course,” Kevin muttered. “But...”

  They heard Kevin speaking to Danny and Declan. And over the phone, they could hear the strains of a violin playing an old Irish tune. Craig recognized the sounds of the local Irish band they had both enjoyed many times.

  Not tonight.

  Danny and Declan were apparently mollified by the plan. An officer would escort Kieran to the pub, pick up Kevin and take her home.

  Kevin assured Craig that he would stay with his sister through the night. He’d be damned if he’d leave her.

  Craig confirmed that the police officer would stay, too, guarding the hallway over the karaoke bar.

  But before he could let her go, Craig pulled Kieran to the side to speak with her. “This is scary as hell, you know. You were down there—the killer was down there. Or a man we assume to be the killer. He knows you.”

  “You do believe me.”

  “Of course, I believe you. That’s what I’m worried about.”

  She looked away uncomfortably.

  “Hey, I’m smart enough to be alert, aware and wary,” she assured him. “And my brothers are great—they won’t let me be alone, Craig. You know that.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. It will be late.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, cupping his face with her palms. “This is what you do, Craig.” She smiled. “You’re not deserting me. I’m fine.”

  He nodded after a moment and let her go.

  Mike walked over to him. “If we can be certain that it was the killer down in the crypts—though it might not have been—we can definitely scratch Oswald Martin, Leo Holt, Brent Westwood and Kevin Finnegan off our list of suspects. I saw all of them right before we started down.”

  “It was definitely the killer,” Craig told him.

  “You know that because...?”

  “Because he was quoting.”

  “Quoting, yes, that’s what Kieran said.”

  “Romeo and Juliet. Mike, who the hell else would taunt someone he might turn into a victim with that?”

  “And you’re sure she didn’t imagine it?”

  “She doesn’t imagine things.”

  “If that’s true, the killer was down there. I mean, assuming all the profilers and experts are right. Kieran—you think he was after Kieran? How could he have known that she would walk into the crypt?” Mike asked.

  “No one could have known. She might not have been his specific target. I can’t figure this out right now. But I believe Kieran, and it would be just too coincidental for someone to have sent in a letter with a passage from Shakespeare—and then have someone downstairs, where Jeannette Gilbert was found, quoting lines from the same play. We just don’t know how he got down there.”

  “But you did tell Kieran about the letter to the papers, though, right?” Mike asked.

  “Yes, I told her.”

  “She heard this in a pitch-black crypt—she might have been in a suggestible fr
ame of mind. Hey, even I get the creeps in a crypt in the pitch-dark!”

  “She didn’t imagine it. I believe the killer—whoever the hell he is—was down here. There was a security guard on duty but he admitted that he went to help one of the servers with the boxes. So this guy was in the tomb when Willoughby went down with Kieran. Willoughby heard him there. Maybe the killer just slipped back upstairs to join the party—and maybe it was planned that way. It was even pitch-black in the club for a few seconds when the lights first went out.” He followed his line of thinking to the next question. “As you said, we know that Oswald Martin, Leo Holt and Brent Westwood were right here. Did you see Gleason, John Shaw or Digby up here, or the grad students?”

  “The grad students were together in a group near the backup bar. But,” he added quietly, “I didn’t see Digby, Shaw or Gleason.”

  “Where is Gleason now?” Craig asked. “Has anyone seen him since this all started?”

  “I haven’t seen him, but I’ve been with you.”

  “Put out a search for him.”

  “Right away,” Mike said. “I’ll find McBride, get the cops moving.”

  They found McBride interviewing a guest just outside the arched entrance.

  McBride quickly marshaled a number of officers, and a search was begun.

  Dozens of officers, in the club, out on the streets.

  Down in the crypt.

  Roger Gleason was nowhere to be found.

  * * *

  “Whoa!” Kevin said, getting into the police car next to his sister. “You were in the cellar? That must have been terrifying. They forced us out. I didn’t know where you were, Kieran.”

  “I’m fine, really, honestly,” Kieran promised. “Kevin, please, I’m sorry you went through that, but I’m fine.”

  “Here I am thinking first that I’m where...where Jeannette was found. And then I’m actually being given cards by several producers and directors. And then the lights go out, and I realize that you’re not there, everyone is being rushed out—”

  “Which producers?” she asked, pouncing on the good news.

  He looked at her, a worried half smile on his lips. “I don’t remember right now. I have their cards. You’re missing the point. You really have to lie low until they find this guy.”