But there was no proof that the young doctor had ever arrived in Boston. And as for the day laborers and others who had disappeared, well, they had probably just moved away.
If they had met with foul play, where were the bodies?
MacDonald had written in his final journal—he was quite a note-taker and had lived to the ripe old age of ninety-one—that he had served the Boston Police Department proudly—his one regret had been he was certain he had failed to find justice for those who had not been “in the fine graces of normal society, other than the man of medicine, who was not proved to be in or of the area.”
She quickly keyed back to the title page of the paper and found the name of the grad student who had written the content on the research site. Alex Maple. She didn’t know if Alex was a he or a she, or how to contact Alex. She couldn’t find a web page; she reverted to Facebook and found several Alex Maples. But once she was certain she found the right one—Harvard and the current Beacon Hill address seemed to point in that direction—she wrote Alex a message. If the photos were any clue, Alex Maple was a young man in his late twenties.
She was startled to realize it had grown late and she was really tired. Glancing at her phone, she saw Griffin hadn’t called her or sent any messages.
She was tempted to pick up the phone and call him.
Wincing, she determined she would not allow herself to do so.
She still jumped, her heart racing again, when her phone rang. “Yes?” she answered quickly, without glancing at the caller ID.
“Sweetheart?”
“Mom!”
“You haven’t called—I’ve gotten so worried.”
Vickie smiled, shaking her head. “All is well. A cop is outside my door. I had lunch with Roxanne. I’m good. And, of course, I love you and Dad. I’m sorry—I should have checked in.”
“The news is full of information about that woman being found. With corpses! Oh, God, the poor thing... I don’t want you involved in this. Oh, Vickie! Italy. You need to come to Italy.”
“That won’t solve anything. I’m protected. Cop at the door. Cops here, there and everywhere. I’m good, I promise.”
“You really should be staying here.”
Maybe she should be staying with them. Making them feel secure in her safety. She just couldn’t do it. What if...?
She was glad she was speaking with her mother over the phone. Because, of course, it was at that moment she realized and admitted to herself that she wasn’t leaving her own place because of Griffin. What if...
What if he did want what she wanted? A chance to forget the rest, and explore one another? Just let go and give in and let the years wash away and have everything?
“Mom, all is well, I promise.”
“I don’t understand why you’re all mixed up in this.”
“I help with history, Mom, that’s all.”
“This is very scary.”
“I know, and I promise I’ll be a better kid, check in twice a day—okay?”
“Dad says he loves you. He says you’re more stubborn than a mule, and he loves you anyway.”
She laughed softly. “Tell Dad I love him, too.”
She hung up. It wasn’t the call from Griffin she’d been hoping for, but she was blessed with great parents. Maybe she’d read a bit more, head back into the late nineteenth century.
And maybe he would still call.
She turned back to the internet.
* * *
They were at the station, and it was the first time Griffin has seen Barbara Marshall since she’d come out of the hospital; she’d been so lost and confused then, unable to remember anything at all. She’d been sweet and grateful, but had remembered nothing but the massive explosion of pain in her head.
He had been able to speak with Jackson and Barnes briefly before meeting with Barbara and her friend, Annie. Barbara had gone to a therapist; she hadn’t yet been to a hypnotherapist.
They decided to call in a specialist who had often worked with the BPD, assuming that Barbara didn’t mind.
“Barbara, I’m guessing you’ve heard of hypnotherapy,” Jackson said, when all their greetings were finished and it was ascertained she thought she was doing very well—“Miraculously, alive!” she’d told them.
“Hypnotherapy. I’m not sure I can be hypnotized,” she said.
“But you could try,” Annie said. She was a heavy-set woman with great big brown eyes, dimples, a soft voice, and an ever-encouraging smile.
“Sure,” Barbara said. “I’d do anything. I know some women haven’t been so lucky,” she added, a catch in her voice.
“We’ve got some leads,” Griffin said, hunkering down by her. “But the thing is, there may be another time when we’re not fast enough. Anything you can do to help us will be immensely appreciated.”
“What about the other women? You found a lady named Fiona West last night, right? Does she know anything?”
“Fiona West is still in the hospital, but she was able to answer a few questions. She was heading to her car; she’d parked off Washington. She reached her car, put her key in the lock...and that was it. Searing pain at the back of her head,” Jackson said.
“Yes, well, whoever this is, they really hit hard.” She fell silent, perhaps caught up in the memory of her trauma.
“I came over to stay with Barbara,” Annie explained.
“I’m not married or engaged, and I’m afraid the last guy I really cared about is in the military, deployed,” Barbara said. “He corresponds when he can, but...anyway, I’m basically alone. Except for very good friends.”
“The thing is, in her sleep, she fights with someone. And she whimpers and moans and says ‘no, no, no...oh, God, buried alive.’”
Griffin stared at the two of them with surprise.
“Then, somehow, somewhere, at some point, you more or less regained consciousness,” he said.
“The mind is awesome and terrible, huh, Special Agent Pryce?” Barbara asked softly. “But we know I was found in a cemetery, so how does that help?”
“It can help. Do you remember—were you carried in a box? Over someone’s shoulder—lugged between two people?” Detective Barnes asked.
Griffin glanced at Jackson. They both liked Barnes, but he rose to impatience quickly.
“Easy, Miss Marshall,” Griffin said.
“Please. I’m alive because of you and Special Agent Crow—and the Boston PD, of course, Detective Barnes,” Barbara said. “Just call me Barbara.”
“Barbara. You’re not ever going to recall a step-by-step situation—you were knocked unconscious. But it sounds as if you did come around a bit here and there. If we try hypnotherapy, you just might remember something that would tell us more about the way you were taken—and delivered to the cemetery.”
She nodded. “Sure. Anything that might help.”
“Excellent,” Jackson said.
“I’ll call Lenora in,” Barnes told them.
He quickly understood why Lenora Connor was so appreciated by the BPD; she was in her late fifties or early sixties, a small woman in a casual suit with salt-and-pepper hair and a calm and friendly manner that quickly put everyone at ease. She expressed her concern for Barbara, thanked Annie for being such a great friend and even discussed the weather—beautifully balmy, as it was. Then she explained to Barbara, “This isn’t about silly things like you barking like a dog or anything like that. It’s just setting your mind at ease and rest, and your body at ease and rest. Our brains are the original computers, really. And you know how cluttered up computers can become, far too many windows open, too many pictures, space taken...we just try to clear up the clutter, okay?”
“Do I need to lie down?” Barbara asked.
“You need to be comfortable. Are you comfor
table sitting?”
“Perfectly,” Barbara said.
“Then we’ll begin!”
The therapist talked, describing an idyllic scene so well Griffin was convinced he could almost hear the trickling water of a stream. Barbara closed her eyes.
So did Annie.
Slowly, Lenora brought Barbara Marshall back to the night she’d been kidnapped. Sitting in her chair, the young woman began to twitch in distress. He was about to leap forward and stop what was going on, but the therapist lifted a hand and talked her through it.
“I smell the earth. And I hear something...something being dragged. And someone swearing. I know that a box is being dragged and I can’t move, can’t fight, can’t see... But I hear them. I smell the earth. And she’s whispering, she’s whispering...”
Griffin, Jackson and Barnes exchanged glances.
Lenora looked over at them.
“She?” Griffin mouthed silently.
“You hear a woman’s voice?” Lenora asked.
“She’s the one swearing,” Lenora said.
“And then?” Lenora asked gently.
“Then... I smell the earth. And I can’t breathe, and I know I’m going to die.”
She began to whimper again and before Griffin could move, Jackson gave Lenora the sign to bring Barbara around.
And Lenora did so gently.
Barbara opened her eyes and stared at them all. “I remember!” she said. “Yes, I remember. There were two of them, and yes, damn it all! One of them was a woman!”
“Did you—see her?” Barnes asked hopefully.
Barbara Marshall shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”
“But you’re certain?” Griffin asked quietly.
Barbara Marshall looked up at him and nodded. “They were kind of whispering. I heard things chirping...like crickets, whatever. They knew where they were going, but they were watching out for other people. I think it was really late. I kept smelling the earth, but that makes so much sense—I mean, they were taking me to a cemetery. I was over a guy’s shoulder. Big enough, strong enough. I know the other was a woman because of the sound of the whisper. I’d swear in court that it was a female who was whispering that way. I mean, sometimes, you can’t tell. I hear songs that might be sung by a man or a woman, but...that whisper. I know that it was a woman.”
Griffin looked up at Jackson.
He knew they were silently agreeing it was time for more of what they knew to be out there in the public, time for a press conference. They were so often in sync. He didn’t always partner with Jackson; Jackson was often in the home office, juggling a couple dozen agents and cases across the country.
But it was damned good synergy when they could work together.
“Press conference,” he said to Barnes.
“Now? Tonight? It’s getting late.”
“They’ll air it all again in the morning. We might as well get started on this tonight,” Jackson said. “If you don’t mind, we’ll have Griffin run with it from our perspective and you take over with the police.”
“All right, then,” Barnes said.
“Um, um, wait! We’ll still have a cop watching over us, right?” Annie asked, jumping up from her chair.
Barnes nodded. “You bet. I’ll get an officer to see you home now.”
“And you won’t...you won’t use my name, right?” Barbara asked.
She and Annie were assured Barbara’s name would not be mentioned.
Barbara Marshall and Annie were both effusive, hugging them before they left. They didn’t seem at all intimidated by their FBI titles, nor did they notice Barnes seemed more shell-shocked by a hug than by a dozen decaying corpses.
Thirty minutes later, despite the late hour, they were downstairs on the steps of the station, surrounded by dozens of members of the press, including reporters with cameras and notebooks. People were raising their hands and asking questions before Griffin walked to the makeshift podium to speak. He didn’t clear his throat or wave a hand in the air; he waited until the din died down and then he spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re all aware that two women have tragically died, the victims of a criminal dubbed the Undertaker. All law enforcements agents in the area and all agencies of law enforcement are on this case. Tonight, however, we do have information for the public. We have had several victims survive the kidnapping and murder attempts on them, and from these survivors we know two things and believe it’s incredibly important for everyone out there to be aware of what we’ve learned. There is not just one Undertaker. Two people are perpetrating these vicious crimes. Secondly, we believe that one is a man—and that his accomplice is a woman.”
Immediately, there was another uproar.
A woman! No one had expected such a turn of events.
“What is the possible motive for the murders? There’s still no sexual assault?” one reporter shouted.
“No, sir.”
“But the victims are all women!”
“Yes, thus far, and that we know about,” Griffin said. “However, everyone needs to stay vigilant. The attacks have been blitz attacks—the victims have been knocked unconscious with a severe blow to the back of the head. This is something that could happen to anyone, man or woman.”
“How do you know that a woman is involved? Do you have a description? Was she seen?”
“Heard,” Griffin said.
“Must be a manly woman!” someone shouted, and there was a titter of uncomfortable laughter that followed.
“Our concern tonight has been in warning the public. Please, be careful that your doors are locked at all times. Don’t park in alleys; try to travel in groups of at least two. Detective David Barnes will be speaking to you about police presence and tip lines, and more on personal safety. Thank you.”
Griffin turned the microphone over to Barnes and stepped aside.
He slipped away from the area with Jackson Crow.
When they turned back, Barnes was still being besieged with questions; he was fielding them well.
“Let’s get some sleep—it could grow more intense,” Jackson said.
“Sure.”
Their hotel wasn’t far from Vickie’s apartment. He found himself pausing before the hotel’s entry, staring out at the night.
He was tempted to head to her place.
It was late. She’d probably be in bed.
Right where he’d like to find her, he thought ruefully.
Yep, true. But...
There was so much at stake.
He turned and followed Jackson into the hotel. He thought Crow would go straight to the elevators; he did not.
The man wasn’t much of a drinker, but he turned into the bar. He ordered two shots of Scotch and thrust one toward Griffin.
“Here’s my question. And my thoughts,” Jackson said. “We know—or we’re pretty damned sure—that this couple knows the area really well, or at least one of them does. We’re looking for a man and a woman. But how the hell did they find the bodies in the wall? They’d been in there for a hundred years. No one would have been guilty of a crime in finding them—the killer or killers would be long dead.”
Griffin didn’t have a chance to answer him. He looked up to see David Barnes striding toward them.
“Thought I might find you here,” he said.
Jackson nodded to the bartender who returned with a shot for Barnes. Barnes swallowed it in a gulp. “That was sure hell,” he said, referring to the press conference. “You guys have it down pat—speak first, and then give it to the cops!”
Jackson laughed softly. “The cops know the local score best.”
“Griffin’s from here. He knows the score.”
“I’ve been gone awhile. But we were just talking about the ol
d bodies in the wall. And I was thinking one of these killers might have grown up right around there, as in, maybe, right on Washington Street.”
“I know someone who grew up right there,” Barnes said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, me,” Barnes said quietly.
8
Closing a book, Vickie contemplated the bodies in the wall at the Pine house once again. Oliver Pine had seemed like a really nice man. Then again, if someone in his family or someone associated with his family had been killing people in or around the house in the late 1800s, it really wouldn’t have any bearing on him. Except of course, it was embarrassing to have creepy ancestors. Still, probably every living person could trace themselves back to someone who had done something evil.
She’d been so tired earlier; she was surprised to realize that she’d gotten going again and read for hours. It seemed there were threads that could go together but she didn’t quite have a grasp on them yet. Leaning back and idly fingering one of her books, she wondered what it was.
She thought about Bertram Aldridge. Police had thought he’d be found in the Boston area because he had family there. But his mother had lived in the south side—Boston Neck—according to all the reports she found. Near the Pine house.
She felt re-energized suddenly, keying in the words Aldridge and Pine, South Boston, Boston Neck and different years, starting with 1870.
Bertram Aldridge could trace his family history back to the start of the nineteenth century. There had been Aldridges living there since the early 1800s. The family had a place near the Pine house that had stood until 1955, when it burned down.
She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for—the fact Aldridge might have had a killer ancestor shouldn’t have made him a killer—she knew of all kinds of instances in history when a killer’s family had been completely normal and indeed, done many good works.
Maybe she shouldn’t discount family legend—what a killer might know or suspect because he’d heard it in a number of stories passed down through the family, generation after generation?
Pondering the question, she noted a site that led to known families in the Boston Neck and South Boston at the end of the 1800s. Absently, she keyed it in, and then she paused on the first page, surprised.
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