Seeing Darkness

by Heather Graham

  She finally found a national channel, where an astute young anchorwoman was giving statistics on murder rates in the country—unsolved murder rates. They were staggering, and frightening. She noted that similar murders had taken place along the Eastern Seaboard, from Virginia through DC, and on up.

  “Officials now suspect there is a serial killer at work,” the anchor said. “Several members of law enforcement believe Annie Hampton might well have been attacked by a murderer moving north and leaving a river of blood in his wake. Please call the tip line shown on the screen if you have any information regarding this murder or suspicious behavior in your area. Any and all help will be greatly appreciated by authorities.”

  Kylie turned from the television back to her computer and began to research recent unsolved murders. As the anchor had suggested, they were numerous. She narrowed her focus to young women who had been stabbed to death. She found a handful of stories about stabbing murders, the bodies left in abandoned graveyards up and down the Eastern Seaboard.

  She hesitated.

  And then she looked up Michael Westerly, trying to find his events calendar.

  She blew out a breath, frustrated. Michael Westerly had not, according to his calendar, been in Virginia. Or New Jersey.

  She sighed. What was she thinking? That this senator was a serial killer? Based on what? A weird vision? As Corrine had theorized, Kylie had probably just seen the man’s picture somewhere. And while her friends had envisioned beautiful past lives for themselves, she had somehow imagined an act of violence.

  But she could still see his face, see the fury in his eyes, feel his determination and his cold rage and she could feel...

  The knife. Ripping into her.

  She stood, slamming her computer shut.

  Before heading into the bedroom, she picked up what remained of their second bottle of champagne and drank it down in gulps.

  Stupid. Champagne shouldn’t be guzzled. Now she didn’t feel like sleeping; she felt like she had swallowed a giant air bubble.

  She made herself try anyway. Eventually, she sank into darkness.

  She could feel the cool air on her face. Saw herself standing in a field of forgotten graves.

  She was a short distance from the deconsecrated church, plain and stark among the stones. Many of the gravestones bore death’s-head carvings; they were wearing away, just like the memories of those who had lived and long been buried in the earth and by the passage of time.

  She walked down the overgrown path that led to the old church, covered in faded graffiti.

  It was a strange place to meet, and yet, so safe. No one ever came here; if anyone did, they could each explain being there.

  She felt the breeze again, felt the dying sunshine, bearing down on her. Winters could be so harsh and brutal here, but when the sky was clear, it was a beautiful blue, and when the soft touch of the wind moved in from the water, it was as wonderful as a sweet caress, especially when the afternoon waned, and night was coming.

  She arrived so happy, in love with love, anxious to see him.

  Then, he was there, and the expression on his face stunned her. The way he wrenched hold of her was startling at first.

  And then terrifying.

  There was that first astonishing kiss of the blade...shock and agony.

  Kylie woke with a start. She realized she was trembling; she was thankful she hadn’t cried out. In the bed opposite from hers, Corrine was still sound asleep.

  It was barely six thirty. Kylie hurriedly rose and peeked in the other bedroom. Jenny and Nancy were still asleep. Of course. For a weekend vacation morning, it was ridiculously early.

  Kylie knew she wasn’t going back to sleep. She showered quickly and snuck out of the room.

  She was going to go back to see Special Agent Jon Dickson—whoever he might be—and try to make some sense of it all.

  Three

  “This will change things,” Ben Miller said glumly to Jon over the phone. “The killer has changed it for us—and for the country. They’re going to have to start watching for this man all the way up in Canada, if we don’t get somewhere. I mean, there are differences, but it has to be the same killer, right? Victimology—troubled women then, now a happy one. Annie Hampton was stabbed at least twenty times—medical examiner says he can be exact after autopsy—but man, that’s some kind of wicked mean anger, right? You came here afraid this killer would strike again. I pray we don’t have more than one person stabbing women like this at work on the East Coast. When you were telling me about the murders you’ve been following...solving...trying to solve...”

  It was the crack of dawn, but Ben hadn’t had the least hesitation in calling him. He’d known Jon would be awake.

  “It’s all right, Ben, you’re not going to offend me. I’ve been to the crime scenes. I’ve seen the bodies. But the first murder was considered a local affair, as were the second and by the third. We may have stepped in eventually, but a bright detective called us because he didn’t believe in throwaway lives, which, sad to say, isn’t an uncommon sentiment. When clues are nonexistent and there isn’t a family member pressing the police, a case can go into a cold file with painful speed. I wasn’t officially on this case until the third victim was found, though I did backtrack to the beginning,” Jon said.

  He was quiet for a moment, then added, “Geographically, it was close enough for us to step in, but at that time, there was nothing to suggest it was a Bureau case. Knowledge that he might have started several years ago and killed four or more previous victims didn’t make it through all the channels until we were just about headed this way.”

  “You knew, though,” Ben said. “You knew it was going to happen here. And we didn’t even have time to get the media to post warnings—it happened. And to Annie Hampton. That’s what I mean by it all changing things up. Don’t get me wrong, every human life is precious. Except for, sorry, the life of a monster who kills like that. It may sound bad in some circles, but if someone has to shoot that bastard, I won’t be sorry.”

  He sighed. “But the general population isn’t as outraged when a sex worker or an addict is killed. It’s not that they think they deserved it, but with the lifestyle they were living, those victims played a dangerous game. I worked a case once where a call girl had been killed—autopsy showed she was half eaten up with cirrhosis of the liver and she would have been dead in another six months. But those six months belonged to her. People don’t see the violence and desperation that we see on a daily basis. Brings me back to this,” he said. “Annie Hampton was no invisible victim. Do you think that, up to now, the killer believed he was killing women who needed to be killed? Who were suffering?”

  “I’m not giving this guy any humanitarian attributes,” Jon said.

  “I’ve been going over it and over again, all night, working with the information you gave me on the other murders and comparing what happened to Annie Hampton,” Ben said.

  Jon had spent the night going over the details as well.

  With Obadiah Jones. A dead man, but one who’d stayed around and watched—and saw many things.

  He had found Obadiah last night, sitting on a bench at the memorial at the Old Burying Point. He’d heard about the murder, but to his great regret, he knew nothing that could help Jon.

  Now Obadiah would be watching and listening. Haunting the place with a passion.

  Jon gave his attention back to his living friend, the county detective on the phone.

  “There’s a lot of talk at the precinct,” Ben was saying. “You know, there were still those who doubted that one killer was committing all the crimes. Because if this is the same killer, he has an amazing capacity for movement, and an excellent knowledge of his surroundings, wherever he chooses to kill.”

  “That’s true. He might be a trucker, or...it could be a woman trucker. Or a salesperson. Whoever it is, they
’re smart and careful. Not a cigarette butt, gum wrapper, hair, fiber, or scrap of anything was found anywhere near the first two bodies. Not a thing, until the matchbox at the last crime scene in Rhode Island,” Jon reminded his friend.

  “Yeah, I heard that. Except for that matchbox, the sites were so clean that plenty of officers believe the killer has to be a member of a police force or something like that. Or perhaps someone who worked in forensics and knew what would give them away. And there’s no real proof the crimes were committed by a man, right?” Ben asked.

  Jon shrugged, then smiled at himself, aware Ben couldn’t see him. Good thing—he was at his desk in a robe and boxer shorts. “In profiling, the nature of the crimes suggests a man, but until a killer is caught, a profile is a guide, an assumption made through education on the human psyche—but never proof.”

  “Well, if you want to see our medical examiner, I’m heading over at 11:00. You can go earlier, if you want, but I’d rather be there for the end report—even though I don’t believe we’ll learn much we don’t already know. She was stabbed repeatedly and bled to death.”

  “I’ll join you,” Jon said.

  “Walk straight up off the pedestrian sideway. I’ll meet you between the museum and the Old Burying Point,” Ben told him.

  Jon rang off, pensive. He couldn’t help thinking about Kylie and the strange reaction she’d had to seeing Michael Westerly on the news. And then hearing about the murder. He’d watched her face; there had been very real horror written on her features.

  He told himself he’d overreacted, putting so much faith in her vision. There was probably no way Senator Michael Westerly could be involved. The man had a wife, grown children, and a sterling reputation.

  Jon shook his head thoughtfully; he’d started creating his case board last night. He had times and details, pictures of the victims in life and in death, statements from those close to them...

  Jon had confirmed Westerly’s schedule last night, reaching out quietly to an assistant in the senator’s office. The man hadn’t been anywhere near the other sites where the crimes had been committed. If the dates and times of the senator’s meetings and other engagements were correct, Westerly couldn’t be the killer.

  Kylie had been hypnotized. Maybe she had mixed things up in her mind under the influence of a clever mentalist who could make people see “the past.”

  Except the murder hadn’t been in the past, which made it very curious. Still...it could be just a mind game played on a susceptible subject.

  But Kylie had been convinced. In her mind’s eye, she had seen Westerly murder Annie. She had, in her vision, been Annie Hampton. And Jon knew very well that there was more to the universe, and to the human mind, than most people realized. Which was why he believed that Kylie had seen something.

  The killer just couldn’t have been the man Kylie had seen.

  Could the senator’s schedule be off? Or had he disappeared by night to commit murder and then reappear in the morning? Were the logistics even possible?

  Jon picked up his phone again. He made an appointment to meet with the senator, clearly identifying himself as being with the Bureau.

  Apparently, that didn’t cause the least alarm. The senator would be glad to see him that afternoon, or so the man’s assistant assured Jon.

  He hung up, drumming his fingers on the desk. He’d slept badly and was grateful that there was a shower stall in the small bathroom. And the water ran hot.

  He was ready for a long shower.

  It didn’t matter that he stayed under the steaming water for a long time; he was spinning his wheels that morning. Having arrived just yesterday, he’d already met with Ben Miller, set up shop, and started to stake out the Cauldron.

  He’d hoped to stop a killer here but the man struck before he’d found the least clue how to find him. Jon had barely come out of the shower, dried himself, and dressed when there was a knock at his door.

  He answered it carefully—that was his instinct. There weren’t many people who knew he was in Salem. And it was still ridiculously early for anyone to be out in a tourist town, somewhere between seven thirty and eight. He knew he would not be opening the door to a stray tourist who wanted to know when lollipops would be available.

  To his surprise, it was Kylie Connelly. She offered him a weak smile. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “Um, may I come in?”

  “Sure.” He opened the door wide, indicating she was welcome. Still, he felt awkward with her in his space, until they were seated on opposite sides of the desk as if in an interview.

  Or an interrogation.

  He looked at her hopefully. “You have something more for me?”

  She sighed and shook her head, looking down at her hands for a moment and then back up at him. “I don’t have more, I’m sorry. But I’m afraid I’m going a little crazy. I barely slept. There seemed to be so much to my vision, or whatever it was... I could feel the sun, see the sky, and I... Oh!” She leaned forward, as if remembering. “I knew I was supposed to meet him there. I met him there often, probably because it’s in an area where no one really goes. Tourists occasionally, but it’s not the beaten path, you know? Most people come downtown, and then they might drive out to the Rebecca Nurse Homestead or other sites associated with the witch trials, but... Sorry, I guess I’m digressing. Anyway, in my dreams, I was remembering more about the experience. More than what I saw with Dr. Sayers.” She winced. “This sounds impossible, I know. I felt I was Annie Hampton, and I walked with her, waiting...until the killer came.”

  Jon frowned. “What do you do for a living, Miss Connelly?”

  “I’m a docent—or a curator,” she told him. “I was with the Met until recently. I’m going to be the head historian for a museum in an old mansion in New York City that’s just been restored. Why?”

  He had to admit to himself—he’d been afraid she was going to say she was a psychic or the like. Not that he disparaged any form of a living, as long as it didn’t hurt others. He just needed to know she wasn’t showboating for attention for her profession. And naturally, in his work with the Krewe, he’d come to be skeptical of those who claimed to have “powers.” Those who really did have unusual abilities tended to keep their talents quiet.

  Whatever this was, she wasn’t making it up. She hadn’t approached him with her vision. On the contrary, he had dragged her out of the restaurant where she and her friends had gone to enjoy an evening together.

  “You’re from Massachusetts,” he said, “and you went to Harvard. But you’re working in New York?”

  She shrugged. “I was offered a good position after college. And I love New York. Of course, I love Boston, too. It’s a great city.”

  “I see.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “Just curious.”

  “I’m... I’m not prone to this kind of thing. I don’t normally have visions or anything. But you pulled me out of the bar. You seemed to believe me. And then I had nightmares all night. I don’t know... I thought you could help.”

  “Yeah. Sorry,” he said. “Listen, I have to meet with a local cop in a while. But later, I’m going back by the graveyard. Would you come with me? Show me everything you saw and felt in this dream that you had?”

  Kylie turned a strange shade of pale red and swallowed, then nodded slowly.

  “If it’s going to bother you, just say so,” Jon offered. “It’s probably a long shot on my part anyway.”

  “It’s going to bother me, yes,” she told him. She stood. “But I’d like to go with you. Maybe I can knock it all out of my head that way.”

  He walked with her to the door. “Great. We’ll just see what happens.”

  “What time? Or can we be a bit flexible?” She grimaced. “We’re Corrine’s wedding party, you know. I’m her maid of honor. I realize that next to horrendous murde
rs and the work you do, a wedding must seem very minor. But it’s important to my friends. Still... I want to go with you.”

  “I’m sorry this has happened, for what that’s worth,” Jon said.

  “I just keep thinking about Annie. I’m truly sorry for her,” she said. “And I want to help. I wish I was kick-ass. Like Wonder Woman—we all want to be Wonder Woman these days. But I’m a historian. I probably should have at least taken kickboxing, but Pilates is pretty much it for me. I guess I’m trying to say I wish I could do more.”

  “Meet me back here. We’ll go from here,” he told her. He held open the door.

  She paused and turned to him. As close as she was, he noted again her exceptional eyes, green and yellow, made more luminous by the chestnut frame of her hair.

  “Miss Connelly?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  He offered her a rueful smile. “For what it’s worth, the Pilates seems to have paid off very nicely.”

  He could have kicked himself. It wasn’t a comment a professional agent should have made, not in any way.

  But none of this seemed to be going by the book.

  To his relief, she smiled. “Thanks,” she told him. She looked at him curiously, and then walked back out to the street.

  * * *

  Somehow, Kylie made it back to the hotel suite just as the others were beginning to wake; they assumed she had been there all along. She didn’t correct them.

  “Did you sleep okay?” Corrine asked her anxiously.

  Kylie smiled. “Like a baby,” she lied. “So, what are we up to this morning?”

  “Oh, you know me. I love the Salem Witch Museum—I think they tell the story well without sensationalizing it or being, I don’t know... It’s a tourist attraction, but a really good one, in my mind.”

  “We all love it, and it’s your party,” Kylie said determinedly. “Breakfast first, though.”

  “And a ghost tour tonight. Touristy, but fun,” Nancy said. “Then it’ll be kind of late on a Saturday night. Latish, anyway, and we’re going to go a little wild.”