Secret Sanctuary

by Amanda Stevens

  “I’ve been wondering that myself.” Cullen lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck. “But when he said that, I felt as if I should know what he was talking about. Like maybe there’s something I’ve forgotten or haven’t connected yet. You know how it is when you can’t quite put your finger on what it is that’s bothering you?” He snapped his fingers suddenly. “Wait a minute. I think I do know. When I first interviewed Bethany Peters’s mother, she kept wringing her hands and crying over and over that Bethany had always been the picture of health. She’d never been sick a day in her life. How could something like this happen to her?”

  “I’m sure it was just a figure of speech,” Elizabeth said. “She was very upset.”

  “Maybe. But she was pretty adamant. And one of Morgan Hurley’s friends said something along those lines about her. She was never sick. Might be worth taking a look at their medical records and see if we can find other similarities.”

  To what end? Elizabeth was about to ask, but then she turned to Cullen as something occurred to her. “Remember the test tube we found in the cooler room with Bethany’s body? What if someone who knew Bethany’s blood type and her medical history wanted to get a sample of her blood for some reason? An experiment, maybe?”

  “But the cause of death was exsanguination. Her blood was drained. The killer would have known that.”

  “It’s almost impossible to drain a body completely of blood,” Elizabeth pointed out. “But I’m not talking about the killer. I’m suggesting someone other than the killer may have wanted a sample of Bethany’s DNA. If we could find out who all knew about those blood types and medical histories and why they were so significant, then we might be able to figure out why someone wanted those girls dead.”

  “We already know that Bryson knew.” Cullen frowned. “It still seems a long shot to me. Although…” He trailed off into thought.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking about something Shamus McManus said to me once. We were in the Beachway Diner, and it was right before I was called to the Pierce compound after you’d found Bethany’s body. He said that McFarland Leary rises every five years to come searching for the ‘offspring of his offspring,’ I think is the way he put it.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  Cullen shrugged. “I’m not even sure he knew what he meant. Marley Glasglow was there at the time, and he warned Shamus about sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m thinking Shamus may have overheard something he wasn’t supposed to.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. But Shamus also asked me if I ever wondered why so many scientific types settle in Moriah’s Landing. I think that’s starting to sound like a damn good question.”

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s any mystery to that,” Elizabeth said. “There are a lot of major universities in the area, and Boston is a fairly easy commute. Plus, the Pierce Foundation awards a lot of grants. It could be simply a case of following the money.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve been asking some questions around town about Leland Manning ever since we saw him that night. He has a laboratory right there on his property. If he has the background and credentials you say he has, why isn’t he affiliated with some Ivy League university, or some hotshot private research institution? And what about his weird theory on witches? If anyone is conducting bizarre experiments, I’d put my money on him. And another thing.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “He’s not the recluse that David Bryson is. He frequents a bar down on the waterfront.”

  “Manning?” Elizabeth had a hard time picturing the rather formal man they’d met the other night in a waterfront bar.

  “That could be where Shamus overheard something he shouldn’t have.”

  “But that still doesn’t tell us what he heard,” Elizabeth mused. “Or if it’s connected in any way to the murders.” She sighed, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. “It’s all giving me a headache, just talking about it. Two months and two bodies, and we’re still no closer to finding the killer. Face it, Cullen. He could be anyone. Bethany had a class under Paul Fortier, and it’s possible something more may have been going on between them. But Morgan was an arts major. She wasn’t required to take biology. Then there’s Leland Manning. Yes, he lives fairly close to the campus. Yes, he has a laboratory on his property. And, yes, he has some pretty strange theories. But where is the connection to the victims? Same with David Bryson. He was a suspect in the murders twenty years ago, but nothing was proven then, and we don’t have anything on him now except that he somehow knew, or at least guessed, that Bethany and Morgan had the same blood type and maybe similar medical histories. So where does that leave us?”

  “You forgot to mention your friend, Professor LeCroix. As freshmen, wouldn’t both girls have been required to take an English class?”

  Elizabeth waved an impatient hand. “Yes, but Bethany was dead before Lucian ever arrived in town.”

  “Assuming he arrived when he said he did.”

  “Yes…”

  “You’re still defending him, I see.” Cullen gripped the wheel as the car shot around a sharp curve. “Still figuring on him being your first lover?”

  Elizabeth gave an embarrassed laugh. “I know I implied that, but I was just…hurt. A little angry, I guess.”

  “You must have had some thoughts in that direction or you never would have said anything.”

  “I haven’t. I don’t know why I said anything about him.” She gave him a pleading look. “Can we just stick to the investigation right now? If you have something on Lucian LeCroix, let me hear it.”

  Cullen glared at the road. “His credentials checked out.”

  “You ran a background check on him?”

  He shrugged.

  They both fell silent, both deep in thought, and then, as they were nearing the cemetery, Cullen said, “I keep thinking about Claire.”

  Elizabeth turned. “I know. It’s still a shock to see her like that. She was always so beautiful and the most gentle person I ever knew. That something so horrible could have happened to her, of all people.”

  “Vanished without a trace,” Cullen muttered.

  “What?”

  He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “How the hell did someone get her out of that mausoleum without any of you seeing anything?”

  Elizabeth felt the old familiar rush of guilt. “You don’t know how many times I’ve asked myself that same question.”

  He was slowing the car, and Elizabeth glanced around. St. John’s Cemetery was to their left, and Cullen pulled off the road near the gates.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in alarm.

  “I’m going to have a look around.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there has to be some way that she was taken from that crypt.”

  “But the police searched it. They didn’t find anything.” Elizabeth knew her voice sounded slightly desperate, but she couldn’t help it. The last time she’d been in that cemetery, she’d been running for her life.

  “Yeah, but I know the guys on the force,” Cullen said dryly. “Most of them won’t even walk under a ladder. It’s my guess they gave the mausoleum a cursory search, at best.”

  Elizabeth stared at the cemetery gates, a terrible dread welling inside her. “You don’t expect me to go with you, I hope.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Cullen’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. “I need you to show me exactly where you and the others were when Claire disappeared.”

  “This can’t wait until morning?”

  His expression turned grim. “Another girl could be dead by morning.”

  He was right. If there was a clue inside that mausoleum that could stop the killings, then Elizabeth wasn’t going to let a little fear stand in her way. Cullen reached over and removed the gun from the glove box.

  “I’m leaving the safety on this time, but if we run into trouble…” He showed her how to flick it off. “Like I said before, just p
oint and shoot.”

  Easier said than done, Elizabeth thought. Her hands would be shaking so badly she would be lucky not to shoot Cullen. Or herself.

  He checked his own weapon, then returned it to his shoulder holster. He glanced at Elizabeth. “Ready?”

  “No.”

  He grinned. “It’ll be okay. We’ll stick together. I won’t let you out of my sight.”

  “Promise?”

  “You got it.”

  THE CEMETERY looked different tonight. No storm clouds threatening on the horizon. No fog creeping through the landscape. Just a pale, fragile moon casting a mysterious glow over the tombstones and mausoleums. A mild breeze stirred shadows, making the city of the dead seem almost…alive.

  Topping a low hill, Elizabeth paused, her stomach clenching in fear. “That’s it.” She pointed to a crypt directly ahead of them. “I can tell by the broken cross. Leary’s grave is somewhere to the right of it.”

  “Show me.”

  Elizabeth took the lead, uncertain that she would be able to find Leary’s grave in the dark, but she moved unerringly to it, staring down at the headstone worn smooth by time and weather. “This is it. This is where we were. We formed a circle around the grave. Then we drew lots and Claire lost. She got up and walked to the mausoleum alone.”

  “Show me.”

  Her heart pounding, Elizabeth crossed the ten yards or so to the crypt, taking some comfort in the knowledge that Cullen was right behind her and they were both armed, although she still had her doubts about her ability to shoot anything. Besides, how did one kill a ghost?

  Cullen reached around and tried the door of the crypt. It opened easily, and Elizabeth remembered how Kat had had to struggle with it that night. Had someone been here recently?

  “You can wait out here if you want to,” Cullen told her. “I’ll leave the door open.”

  Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder, her gaze scanning the headstones as she remembered how the fog had formed into a human shape over Leary’s grave. The manifestation had probably been a combination of an active imagination and intense fear, but Elizabeth didn’t relish a repeat performance.

  “That’s okay,” she said, suppressing a shudder. “I’ll go in with you.”

  The crypt was a fairly large one, and old, with a thick carpet of grime covering the marble floor and cobwebs draped from the ornate ceiling. The place smelled of death and decay, but then Elizabeth wondered if that was her imagination, too.

  Cullen played his flashlight over the walls. “I don’t see another door. How the hell did he get her out of here?”

  He shone the beam along the wall vaults. They were stacked on top of one another, and each contained a stone plaque. Elizabeth read some of the epitaphs. Beloved Wife and Mother. Our Dearest Son.

  An angel holding a lantern had been carved into the stone on one of the bottom vaults and the inscription read: An Angel Walks Among Us. Follow Her Light to His Sanctuary.

  “Wait,” Elizabeth said, when Cullen moved the light to the next vault. “Go back.”

  She knelt and ran her hands over the angel.

  “What is it?” Cullen asked.

  Excitement spiraled through Elizabeth. “Do you remember all those old newspaper clippings I have hanging on the walls in my house? I’ve always been an avid history buff, especially about anything pertaining to Moriah’s Landing. I have hundreds of books in my collection, and I like to go to flea markets whenever I can—”

  “Elizabeth,” Cullen said impatiently. “Get to the point.”

  “Moriah’s Landing is famous—or infamous, depending on one’s perspective—because of the witch executions in the 1600s, just like Salem. But both towns were also active in the Underground Railroad before the Civil War. The symbol of a safe house was a lantern hanging from a hitching post. But there are no hitching posts in cemeteries.”

  Cullen knelt. “You think this place was used as a station in the Underground Railroad?”

  “Read the script,” Elizabeth told him. “‘Follow Her Light to His Sanctuary.’ A sanctuary is a haven. A safe place. That could also explain how the rumors got started about the mausoleum being haunted. The conductor, whoever he was, wanted to scare people away.”

  Cullen looked doubtful. “It’s hard to imagine runaways hiding in here. Someone could have easily stumbled upon them, in spite of the rumors.”

  “I don’t think they hid in here,” Elizabeth said, waving an arm to encompass the crypt. “I think they hid in here.” She tapped the vault. “My guess is there’s a series of catacombs or tunnels beneath the mausoleum. They might even lead all the way to the sea, where a ship would take the runaway slaves to freedom.”

  “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

  The openings to the vaults were hinged, so that coffins could be slipped into place, and then the doors were closed, sometimes sealed.

  A small metal handle had been set into the stone at the bottom, and Cullen gave it a tug. When it didn’t budge, he laid aside the flashlight and used both hands. The door gave a little, then finally creaked all the way open.

  Cullen picked up the flashlight and angled the beam inside. The vault was empty.

  He gave her a tight smile. “Nice work, Sherlock. Now we know how Claire’s abductor was able to drag her off right under your noses.”

  He leaned forward, thrusting the upper part of his body into the vault. “I can see steps.” His voice echoed in the abyss. “Looks like they lead down to some sort of cellar. If you’re right, there should be an opening to a tunnel somewhere down there.”

  He started to crawl into the vault, but Elizabeth grabbed his leg. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m going to have a look around the cellar. See if I can spot the opening to the tunnel.”

  “Cullen! Are you crazy? That cellar has been there for over a hundred and fifty years. It could cave in at any moment.”

  But he was almost all the way into the vault by now. Elizabeth had to lean inside to see him. He was at the stairs. Going down.

  “Cullen!”

  “I’ll be right back. Wait for me up there.” He took something out of his pocket and tossed it to her. Miraculously, Elizabeth caught it. It was his cell phone. “If anything happens, call the station. Get some help over here.”

  Elizabeth backed out of the vault and sat on her heels. Without the flashlight, the crypt was very dark. She could feel something crawling on her neck, and then she realized it was goose bumps. She was chilled all over, and it came to her in a flash the reason for her terror.

  She was no longer alone in the crypt.

  Her heart began to beat in long, painful strokes. Someone, something was right behind her, but she didn’t dare turn around. She didn’t want to see Leary’s ghost….

  A flesh-and-blood arm grabbed her by the throat and pulled her to her feet. Elizabeth struggled. She tried to cry out. But it was too late. She heard the phone clatter to the floor just as a cloth was shoved against her mouth and nose.

  A split second before the ether overcame her, she saw a foot kick the vault door shut, trapping Cullen inside.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cullen heard the vault door slam and rushed back up the stairs. “Elizabeth! Open the door!” But he realized almost at once that she would never have closed that door on purpose. Someone must have come into the vault.

  The killer…

  “Elizabeth!” Cullen shoved against the door until he worked up a sweat, but after several moments, he realized he was having a hard time breathing. The effort was using up all the oxygen in the cellar.

  He turned and surveyed his options. Option, he amended. There was only one thing he could do. Find the opening to the tunnel and follow it out.

  And then it hit him. The full extent of his predicament.

  He was trapped underground….

  In a small, close space….

  No air…

  Panic rushed up from his stom
ach, into his lungs, pressing against his chest. He couldn’t breathe….

  Get a grip, a voice commanded him. Elizabeth was in dire trouble. He didn’t have time to go all mental. He hadn’t had a problem entering the vault, so why was he panicking now?

  Because he was trapped, that’s why.

  Cullen didn’t know when or why or how he’d developed claustrophobia, but he thought it might have been when his mother left. After she’d taken off, he’d sometimes awakened in his small cell-like room, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat.

  He felt that same helplessness now, but he fought it. He had to get out of there. Elizabeth was in big, big trouble.

  The thought of her calmed him somewhat, and he played the beam of his flashlight along the walls of the cellar. To his right, a small opening, barely large enough to accommodate a man lying flat on his stomach, led, perhaps, to freedom.

  But could he do that? Could he force himself into such a narrow space? Even for Elizabeth?

  An image came to him suddenly. He could see Elizabeth lying on a table, her features pale and fragile as the blood was slowly drained from her body….

  A new panic seized him then, and he strode across the tunnel, dropping to his knees in front of the opening. He could do this. To save Elizabeth, he would do anything.

  He slithered into the tunnel, clutching the flashlight, putting one hand in front of the other as he inched forward. He forced himself to think about how Claire had been dragged along that same tunnel. How terrified she must have been. All these years, she’d lived in her own private hell, and now it was up to Cullen to find her kidnapper, to finally bring him to justice.

  And so he made himself keep going.

  After long, agonizing moments, the tunnel widened and he was able to stand upright. That was better. Not much…but better….

  He walked along, feeling spiders crawl in his hair and along his back, but he knew that was just the panic. After a while, the air in the tunnel began to smell fresher, and he thought he could hear the distant sound of the ocean. His first instinct was to run toward the sound, but caution held him back.