Seeing Darkness

by Heather Graham

  “Coming to meet someone,” she said softly. “I didn’t climb over the little wall. I walked alongside it and I came down the path. I headed straight for the church.”

  “Okay, shall we do that?” he suggested.

  She nodded somberly.

  They walked alongside the wall. As they moved, a feeling of immense dread began to fall over her.

  “Stop,” Jon said.

  She halted, frowning as she looked at him.

  “You’re ashen. This isn’t good.”

  “I’m fine. I’m a pale person.”

  He smiled at that. “Give me your hand,” he told her.

  She complied. His hand was large, his fingers long. They walked along again and while she still felt the sense of something terrible, she felt as if she had the strength to face it.

  They came through the opening and walked along the overgrown path.

  She paused and closed her eyes for a minute. She could feel the breeze, and a sense of anticipation. She shook her head, confusion plaguing her. “Annie... If I was somehow in her shoes... She was glad to be here. She came here often. She was excited at first. She came to meet someone.”

  “So she was happy,” Jon said.

  “Anticipating what was going to happen. I think she was waiting for someone. Someone she’d met here before... It was probably a natural place to meet for her. She didn’t live far. She was a teacher and interested in old graves, in history, and from the little I know from the news, she was very happy here. She loved her home.”

  “And the person she was meeting?” Jon asked her.

  She shook her head. “She was waiting for him, but what he was feeling, I don’t know. Until he arrived, that is, until they were together.”

  She stopped walking just outside the church. “I think he found her just about here.” She paused. An area of the graveyard was still roped off with crime scene tape. It looked as if large portions of earth had been dug up.

  She recoiled inwardly.

  Blood had seeped into the ground there, and the forensic crew had dug up the earth to test it, hoping Annie Hampton might have taken some of the killer’s blood with a good scratch, and there might be his blood cells mixed in with hers, bits of skin...

  “He dragged her,” she said softly.

  She felt his hand, holding hers tightly. “I’m here. You’re safe,” he told her.

  She nodded and closed her eyes. For just a few seconds, she could see it again: the man, his furious face, and the way he dragged her.

  She’d been stunned. It was supposed to have been a romantic interlude, something that broke up her humdrum life. Annie was a good girl, she went to work, she came home, she loved children and charities, and this... This was different for her. Wild and a bit crazy and new. She had been in love, perhaps, partially with the secrecy he demanded, with the mystery.

  She’d been stunned by the fury in his face, and she knew right away something was wrong.

  The knife. She had begged and pleaded.

  She saw the knife, saw it coming for her, felt it...

  She cried out, and the world began to go dark and she started to fall.

  She felt his arms as he caught her, and she struggled around the darkness, finally finding light again.

  Jon was holding her, and she was looking into his eyes, dark with deep concern.

  “I think I found out all that I can,” she whispered. “She was in love. She was meeting him here. She came because she wanted to.”

  He was still holding her; she hadn’t tried to pull away. She wasn’t sure she could. She couldn’t read his expression. “You must think I’m... I don’t know.”

  But he shook his head. “I’m not thinking anything. I’ve seen too much, and I... Well, let’s get out of here, and then we’ll talk.”

  She was silent as they headed back to his car. Finally, once they were on the road, she had to say something. “I don’t understand this. At Dr. Sayers’s office, we had tea, and at first I thought he’d drugged the tea. But I never drank mine. And then, when he hypnotized me...” She broke off and shrugged helplessly. “The most awful part is that it’s as if I still feel it. As if I know what it’s like to feel a knife in my flesh, and my blood...spilling.”

  “Now, you need to... Well, I guess you can’t forget it, but—”

  She looked over at him. “You believe me. I’m not even sure I believe me.”

  He watched the road as he drove, but she saw his jaw tighten slightly, as if he was contemplating his next words. “There was a case in Denver I worked a few months ago. A kidnapping. The husband swore he could see his wife, who’d been taken. He had a vision of a warehouse filled with computer monitors. He didn’t know how he saw it... He dreamed it, dreamed her voice, calling to him. He was able to describe the warehouse in detail. We had to check out a few places, but we found her, because of what he saw.”

  “And you’re sure the husband wasn’t involved?” Kylie asked skeptically.

  He glanced over at her. “The husband was in the military, deployed to an air base in Saudi Arabia, when she was first taken. He called us in a panic. No, he had nothing to do with his wife’s kidnapping. So, while ideas that may be a bit strange aren’t the first line of inquiry, we never discount anything. And on this case, we’re desperate. We have so little to go on.”

  “But you knew he was going to strike here. He just did it ridiculously fast.”

  “If it is him.”

  She looked at him. “You think it’s a different murderer?”

  “Either that, or the greatest lover in history. You said Annie was expecting this man, that they’d met at the graveyard before. She was excited to see him, so he must have been the mystery man her friends knew about. That would lead us to speculate he picked up the other women, wooed them until they were comfortable with him... But he started this months ago in Virginia. And even before then.”

  “Maybe he’d been having an affair with Annie, and the others were just pickups.”

  He grimaced. “The other victims had substance abuse issues or were sex workers. They were, I imagine, easy enough for him to charm or coerce. Who takes a date to a graveyard?”

  Kylie shook her head. “I think in Annie Hampton’s case, she knew the place well. The graveyard was perfectly natural to her—she’d known it forever and ever. And whoever he was, if it turned out they didn’t have the place to themselves, he’d have an excuse for being there. Playing tourist or doing some research.” She hesitated.

  She’d seen his face again, the enraged face of the politician.

  She was afraid to speak her thoughts out loud.

  But again, Jon seemed to be reading her mind. “I checked out Michael Westerly’s calendar, including confirmed dates when he was seen by crowds of people. It doesn’t allow for him to have committed the other murders.”

  “I guess my friends were right—I just saw his picture somewhere,” Kylie said. “That’s what put him into my daydream or nightmare or whatever it was.”

  He glanced her way again. “I have an appointment with him in an hour.”

  She twisted to look at him. “And what are you going to say? ‘A random woman trying to be regressed to a past life saw you murder Annie Hampton’?”

  “I’m going to say an anonymous tip came in, and there are people who believe he was Annie’s mysterious boyfriend.”

  “I see,” she murmured. “The fact that he’s married would account for the secrecy with Annie.”

  They reached town quickly. He parked in a municipal garage and when they walked out, she asked, “Where are you meeting him?”

  “Walking distance,” he said. “The restaurant at your hotel.”

  “He’s staying there?” she asked with horror.

  “I don’t know. His secretary set it up.” He frowned. “I’ll find out, if you want me
to.”

  “I guess... Yeah, I’d like to know.”

  He grimaced. “You all are welcome at my place, but there’s only the one bed.”

  She shook her head but couldn’t help grinning. “There are four of us. I’m sure we’ll be fine. And it’s pretty ridiculous. I saw him during a regression. I’m not up on the law, but I don’t think that would stand up in court. Unless we went to the witchcraft days and I could say his spectral presence murdered her.”

  “And he might have hanged for it,” Jon said.

  She hesitated. They paused at the intersection that would take them by the Peabody Essex Museum and into the pedestrian walk on Essex Street—right by the Old Burying Point. It was ancient, for the US, at least; the second oldest cemetery in the country, right behind the Miles Standish Burial Ground in Duxbury. It was similar to the one they had just left; stones were awry and tree roots grew haphazardly through and around many, though some stones had been carefully preserved.

  A memorial to those hanged as witches during the craze—and to Giles Corey, pressed to death—was next to the cemetery. Twenty benches had been created for the tercentenary of the trials in 1992; names of the accused and the dates of their deaths were etched into the stone benches. It was a simple and moving memorial, surrounded by trees and in the center of the tourist district.

  Kylie had been to the Old Burying Point many times. It was moving, of course. The cemetery held the graves of a Mayflower Pilgrim and a witch trial judge—John Hathorne, great-great-great-grandfather of Nathaniel Hawthorne, a man so distressed by his ancestor’s part in the witch trials he put a w in his name, as if that could dispel his association with such a man.

  The Old Burying Point had never bothered her; rather it had fascinated her. So much history could be found there.

  She had felt so differently that afternoon, at the graveyard surrounding the abandoned church.

  “Are you all right?” Jon asked her.

  “Fine. Really. Absolutely fine. I’m going to call Corrine and the girls and find out where they are and I’ll just meet up with them.” She hesitated before awkwardly adding, “Oh, I’m supposed to invite you to dinner.”

  “To a bachelorette dinner?” he asked, his mouth curving.

  “It’s not like we’re the most exciting group out there,” Kylie said. “I know you’re really busy, but...you have to eat sometime.”

  He laughed softly. “They want me to come? I thought they were about to accuse me of abduction and forced confinement last night.”

  Kylie shook her head. “They understand. They’re a bit scared by what happened. But okay, I’ll be honest. Nancy has a lot of friends and family in this area. She checked you out. They like you now.”

  She wondered if she should have spoken—if her words were offensive.

  But he laughed again and gave her a grin. “Well, I’m glad I passed muster. Sure, I’d love to stop by and eat with you and your lovely group. Just text me and tell me a time and a place. You kept my card from last night, right?”

  “I have your number,” she assured him.

  A soft breeze was blowing; the temperature was pleasant, as if winter was only a memory. Tourists still flocked the streets, but she was surprised when he said, “Why don’t you find out where they are? Can’t be far. I’ll walk you there, meet them, and then still have plenty of time to walk back to the hotel.”

  “Oh, you needn’t bother—”

  “Humor me,” he said, “please.”

  She nodded and put a call through to Corrine. She and Nancy and Jenny were close, just down at the wax museum.

  “You don’t have to walk me,” Kylie said again with a smile. “You can just watch me from here. They’re right there.” She pointed. “I think we’re heading down to Derby Street after, to the Pirate Museum. History suggests that pirates of old weren’t quite as romantic as we like to think of them these days. But Corrine loves pirates, so—”

  “Museum on Derby Street, and you’ll be right by the brewery,” he said. “Get going. I’ll be watching. And I’ll meet you later.”

  Kylie nodded and turned to go, lowering her head with a smile, but she looked up as she walked away. She was surprised that she’d had...not a good time, that was impossible when the memory of a murder was still so strong within her. But she liked him. Many, many things about him. Not to mention the way he touched her, held her, and made her feel...safe.

  She paused and looked back. He was still watching her. And that should have made her feel safe.

  But there was something else in the air that seemed to disturb her. She couldn’t explain it. It was as if someone else was watching her, too. And those eyes were not filled with care or concern, but rather something evil.

  She straightened, gritting her teeth. What the hell was the matter with her? She’d been here so many times! Salem and witchcraft—past and present—had never done anything but intrigue her before. She was feeling so unusual.

  No, she was right to be a little off-kilter. A woman had been brutally murdered. It was natural to feel uneasy when such a thing had happened so near. Uneasiness was good. It made people careful, smart, and aware.

  She hurried on to the museum, wondering what Jon’s meeting with the senator was going to be like. She was ridiculously pleased that Jon had agreed to have dinner with them; she was going to see him again.

  * * *

  Senator Michael Westerly was the perfect picture of a politician. He was maybe half an inch shorter than Jon’s six-three; he was impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit and a lighter blue shirt. He didn’t appear at all stuffy; for a casual meeting, he wasn’t wearing a tie and the top button of the shirt had been left open. His hair was a soft brown, just beginning to gray at the temples, and his eyes were a clear gray, steady on Jon as they met.

  His handshake, Jon thought, was firm, not crushing. He wondered if even the handshake had been practiced, intended to instill faith in his strength and his steadfast abilities.

  Maybe he was all that he seemed. A good man trying to do good things.

  Then again, all political affiliations aside, Jon had to wonder if it was possible to go into politics with a completely pure heart, if the game itself didn’t change a person.

  “Sit down, please sit down,” Westerly said. “Nice to meet you, Special Agent Dickson.”

  The senator had chosen the lounge area of the restaurant. He’d found a position right before the hearth—there was no frost outside and they didn’t need a fire for warmth, but there was an electrical blaze that had been turned on for atmosphere.

  “What can I get you?” he went on. “That’s soda water for me—it’s work and no play on the campaign trail—but please feel free to indulge in whatever suits your fancy.”

  “Coffee, thank you,” Jon told him, smiling. “There’s never enough coffee.”

  Westerly looked at his watch. “There’s never enough time, either. But I’m always ready to help in any situation. So, what can I do you for?” he asked. “My secretary assumed you were a member of an outreach group for the federal government and that, perhaps, you intended to endorse my candidacy. To be honest, I’m not sure if I hired a sadly naive woman or if Miss Foster is simply forever optimistic. I looked you up, naturally. You’re with a special unit involved in high crimes. You’re here on a serial killer case, and it seems you’re a hair too late, since we had a tragic murder yesterday.”

  He’s certainly a smooth talker, Jon thought. “To my great regret, sir, we are admittedly stumbling in the dark here.”

  “Okay, we’ve established the facts. You’re not here to endorse my candidacy.”

  “No.”

  “Why, then?”

  “Senator, I am—along with excellent Massachusetts law enforcement—investigating the deaths of several young women, and now specifically the murder of Annie Hampton.”

  “
You believe there’s a way I can help you?” Westerly asked.

  “I’ll be honest with you, sir. Your name came up in the investigation.”

  Westerly was undeniably startled. He frowned, and Jon noted his fingers tightened over the handsome claw arms of the upholstered chair in which he sat.

  “My name?”

  “Yes, and I asked for a private meeting because of the delicacy of the situation. Annie Hampton was seeing someone. To friends, she referred to him as her ‘mystery man.’ It’s been suggested you were her mystery man. This may seem entirely frivolous, but in keeping with standard procedure, it was necessary I speak with you.”

  Westerly was silent for a minute, and it seemed that he was slowing growing red. His blood pressure was spiking, Jon thought.

  “How dare you?” he managed at last.

  “Senator, please, I had to ask. Your name came up. Following protocol and procedure, it was necessary I ask you about it.”

  Jon’s words didn’t seem to register for a moment. Westerly still looked as if he was a rocket about to go off.

  “How dare you?” Westerly asked again.

  “Sir, I need to ask where you were yesterday.”

  Westerly’s fingers gripped tighter on the arm of the chair. “Home. Preparing for my speech in Boston.”

  “Can anyone corroborate that, sir?”

  “What? Do you have the audacity to accuse me of lying? Do I need to call my lawyer?”

  “No, sir, I’m simply asking if anyone can corroborate your story.”

  Westerly was staring straight at him—then, he wasn’t. He was looking across the room, and for such an arrogant man, he suddenly had an expression of thankfulness and relief. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this short, Special Agent Dickson. My wife has arrived.” He stood and motioned across the room. “Sandra!” he called.

  Jon stood as well. He watched a slim, well-groomed woman walk across the lobby and toward the lounge. She was about the senator’s age, but she kept her hair a soft brown, worn in a contemporary short cut that framed her face. She was handsomely and conservatively dressed in a red shirt and tailored black skirt. She wore little black pumps that matched her little black bag. When she reached them, smiling a campaign smile, he thought that she might have had some work done. She was pretty, but also had a tight look about her, as if her skin had been stretched a little too far.