Seeing Darkness

by Heather Graham

  “Sandra, Special Agent Jon Dickson. Special Agent Dickson, I’d like you to meet the love of my life, my steadfast rock in thick and thin, my wife, Sandra.”

  “How do you do?” Sandra Westerly asked, her plastic-politician’s-wife smile perfectly in place.

  “My new friend here is working hard on the case of the poor girl murdered yesterday,” Westerly said. “I was telling him about the campaign trail, how I was home working yesterday on my speech.”

  “He writes his own speeches, you know,” Sandra said proudly. Then, frowning just slightly as she turned to her husband, she said, “And yes, he was working hard on his speech yesterday.” She laughed softly, as if she’d shaken something off, taking her husband’s arm and addressing Jon again. “He tries all those speeches out on me and frets over every word! He’s an incredibly gifted man with words,” she continued. “But of course, he was privy to an excellent education. He went to—”

  “Ah, don’t tell me,” Jon said. “Harvard, right?”

  “Harvard law,” Sandra said proudly.

  “Of course,” Jon said, smiling.

  “Well, Special Agent Dickson, I believe you’ll find my lovely wife to be my corroboration. Will you be kind enough to excuse us? We have dinner and drinks with local businesspeople, and I sincerely long to hear their concerns for the future of industry in this great commonwealth of ours.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Jon said. “Mrs. Westerly, a true pleasure to meet you.”

  Westerly took his wife’s arm and they moved together through the lobby and out the front door. Jon watched them go and he wondered if he saw—or imagined he saw—Sandra Westerly look up at her husband with a slight hardening of the jaw.

  She had never said definitively that her husband had been with her when the murder had occurred. She had talked about his speech-writing ability.

  Would Michael Westerly have managed to change Sandra into something of a Stepford wife? A woman ready to agree with his words, whatever they might be?

  Then again, even a Stepford wife might have a point when she cracked.

  Five

  Kylie found her friends at the Salem Wax Museum. By the time she arrived, they’d worked on their nautical rope tying and done gravestone rubbings. They’d taken a brief tour with a practicing Wiccan who talked about the hysteria of the witch trials, the Puritan view of witchcraft, and what the Wiccan religion was in the contemporary world, including the true insights of paganism, like a good harvest meant everything, and the earth itself was to be loved and worshipped.

  Kylie joined them down in Frankenstein’s Castle, a fun exhibit based on the literary talents of Mary Shelley. They wound through dark alleys and enjoyed the chills and thrills, and then, Corrine announced, “To the pirates! Derby Street, my friends, forward, ho!”

  They left the Salem Wax Museum, chatting as they walked the several-block distance to the New England Pirate Museum. “It’s something to think, while witches were being accused of terrible deeds and being hanged, pirates were busy just off Boston’s North Shore, robbing, pillaging—and innocent farm folk being executed!” Corrine said, glancing at the brochure that advertised the museum. “Apparently, pirates were snowbirds, too—hanging out down South while the snow raged, and then coming back up to raid New York and Boston when the sun came out up here. Blackbeard, Kidd, Bellamy, and more.”

  “Well, if I remember right, Blackbeard was born in 1680, so, in 1692, he was twelve years old,” Kylie reminded her.

  “And Sam Bellamy was born in 1689. I’m not sure I ever heard of a three-year-old ruling the seas,” Nancy said.

  “Hey, quit raining on my parade,” Corrine protested.

  “Sorry, but yes. Right after the witch hunt, the pirates were busy in the same area,” Kylie said.

  “Well, of course Kylie knows. She’s about to open Trelawny House. She has American history down from A to Z,” Jenny said. “But Massachusetts is older.”

  Kylie shrugged. “The oldest building in New York is the Wyckoff Farmhouse Museum in Brooklyn. 1652,” she said. “Trelawny House is one of the oldest buildings in Manhattan. It’s really a miracle it survived, considering the way we like to tear down and rebuild. But it wasn’t built until 1768. It has a great history.”

  “Yes, and you get to tell it over and over again in the near future,” Jenny said. “What we’d like to hear about now is recent history—what happened at the graveyard?”

  Kylie hesitated. She didn’t want them to know it had been extremely disturbing, and she still felt haunted by whatever had happened. “It was fine,” she said. “I just... I told him what I had seen. We walked around a bit, and that was it. We came back.”

  “And you remembered to ask him to dinner, right?” Nancy asked.

  “I did.”

  “And?” Jenny demanded.

  “He’s coming.”

  “Cool!” Corrine said, her eyes dancing. “Wow. A girl’s weekend, and you land an FBI agent.”

  Kylie looked at her with surprise. “Corrine, I haven’t landed anyone.”

  “He likes you, it’s obvious,” Jenny said.

  “It’s obvious he’s very serious about catching a killer,” Kylie told them. “Come on, pirates! Yo, ho, ho! Let’s go.”

  They were still on the street, several feet away from the entrance to the museum, when they saw their first pirate. It was a man dressed in stereotypical pirate clothing—breeches, frock coat, plumed hat, and high black boots.

  He was entertaining children on the street when they saw him, making coins appear and disappear, growling “Arrr!” at every opportunity.

  They paused to watch. Something about him was familiar.

  “It’s Matt,” Kylie said, recognizing the bartender from the Cauldron.

  “Yeah, it is!” Nancy said with surprise.

  “He seems to be having the time of his life,” Kylie murmured. “I wonder if he’s just working on his own, if you need a permit to do this, or—”

  “Quit complicating everything,” Nancy told her.

  The children moved on, and Nancy walked up to him, calling, “Yo, ho, ho!”

  “Ah! A sassy wench, I say,” Matt said. “Why, alas, missy, were my ship but near, I’d be takin’ ye sailing—aye, the lot of ye,” he said, grinning as he saw the others, “in the captain’s cabin, were I a lucky man! I’m fond of sassy, that I am.”

  Nancy laughed delightedly. “This is great. Are you working for the museum?”

  “Sassy wench, you’d question me, eh?” he demanded. Then he grinned and lowered his voice as Kylie, Corrine, and Jenny approached. “No, I’m not working for the museum, but they don’t seem to mind me here. I’m opening in a show in a few weeks. We’re doing a new musical based on the pirates off the coast. This is my way of helping out, getting into character—and getting local merchants to carry the advertisements for us.”

  “Well, you’re doing a great job out here,” Kylie said. “The kids love you.”

  “I love kids! And the ladies, of course. I pose for pictures with people out here, zillions of them. Hey, it’s a tough job, but you know how that goes, someone may not have to do it, but what the heck, it’s fun, and it may pay off.”

  “Busy man,” Kylie said. “Bartending, acting, and pirating.”

  “Good thing I like people,” he told them.

  “Well, if we can get back up here, we’ll see your show,” Nancy promised, clearly enthralled.

  “We need a picture!” Jenny declared. “No strippers, but maybe a pirate?” she asked Corrine.

  Corrine laughed. “Sure!”

  “Crowd round—I’m a selfie expert,” Matt told them.

  Corrine produced her phone and Matt, drawing them all in close and stretching out his arm with the camera, said, “Say arrr!” He took several pictures, telling them to “work it!”

  H
e returned Corrine’s camera, and Kylie noticed a woman with two children about six or seven waiting patiently for their turn with the pirate.

  “Thanks,” Kylie said, slipping an arm around Nancy’s shoulders and easing her away. “Your public is waiting.”

  Matt nodded, but then he crooked a finger at Kylie. She paused. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly. “I was about to call the cops last night—you seemed really distressed. I figured that guy was someone in authority, but I worried afterward that I probably should have called the cops.”

  “The news was just really...horrible,” she said. “I’m fine. You’d better go. Your fans are waiting patiently!”

  She turned to join the others.

  The way they lingered for her to join them reminded her of a strange classroom picture: tiny Nancy next to Corrine and Corrine next to Jenny. Small, medium, and large.

  “What was that about?” Jenny asked protectively.

  “He just wanted to make sure I was all right after last night.”

  “Ah, Kylie, an FBI guy and a pirate! You’re raking them in,” Jenny teased.

  Kylie groaned. “May we just see the pirates?”

  As they headed into the museum, Corrine reminded them, “No bailing on me. After dinner, we’re going to find Carl Fisher’s ghost tour—I’ll bet he’s good. And then Kylie can rake in a tour guide, too! They’ll wind up arguing history all night.”

  Kylie laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, do we know how to get wild, or what?”

  * * *

  Jon didn’t make an appointment with Dr. Sayers; he simply walked the short distance to the man’s office.

  While signs on most businesses advertised tarot card, palmistry, tea leaves, and all manner of readings, there was nothing other than the doctor’s name on his door.

  An older woman sat at a desk in a small reception area, and there was one door behind her. The place seemed small, but pleasantly appealing. Copies of paintings by the old masters adorned the wall; they seemed to invoke the romantic, including literary characters such as the Lady of the Lake from Le Morte d’Arthur, and a mystical angel rising above questing knights from the Round Table.

  “Hello,” the woman said pleasantly. “Welcome. I don’t have an appointment for Dr. Sayers on the books right now—would you like to make arrangements to see him? I’m afraid he’s having lunch.”

  “I don’t have an appointment. I just thought I’d try to see the doctor.”

  “He’s a wonderful man, if something is troubling you. You’re more than welcome to wait. You’re aware that people see him as a therapist? As well as for past-life regressions.”

  Jon produced his badge. “I really just need a few minutes of his time.”

  “Oh. Oh!” she said and jumped up. “He is having lunch, but he’s just in his office. Give me a minute.” She started for the door and then stopped, turning back and frowning. “What...what is this in reference to? I can promise you, Dr. Sayers is a truly fine man, and his practice is perfectly legal.”

  “I’m just hoping he won’t mind speaking with me. I don’t suspect him of any wrongdoing in the least,” Jon said. “I just need some help with something.”

  She looked at him a bit suspiciously another few seconds, then opened the door to the inner office and disappeared. She reappeared moments later and invited him in, “The doctor will see you now.”

  Jon thanked her and went in.

  Like the reception area, the inner office was handsomely appointed. There was a desk, paintings on the wall, a chaise longue upholstered in a dark crimson velvet, and numerous matching chairs. Maybe he held group sessions for therapy or—as with Kylie and her group—allowed friends in while working with one or the other.

  Dr. Sayers had cleared up whatever lunch he’d been having; the desk he sat behind showed no sign of any kind of leftover food. He stood, offering his hand. He was in his early to midthirties, dressed in a casual suit, tanned as if he worked on it, and quick to offer a grim nod.

  “Sir,” he began, “I’m happy to help law enforcement at any time, but I’m not sure what this is about.”

  Jon shook his hand. “Special Agent Jon Dickson, Dr. Sayers.”

  “Please, sit, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m not particularly sure, but thank you for indulging me. You saw a young woman the other day—let me correct myself—you saw four young women the other day. Three apparently had lovely past lives. One believed she was being murdered.”

  Sayers arched a brow. “You know I can’t discuss patients.”

  “People seeing you for a regression aren’t exactly patients,” Jon said.

  “I’m not a palm reader—not to cast aspersions on palm readers. Many see things, help others see things, and guide them gently toward what would be right for their lives. But as you see, I am a licensed psychologist.”

  “I understand that. I’ve come for what help you can give me. I met Miss Connelly the other night. She was extremely upset when she heard about the murder of Annie Hampton.”

  Sayers’s manner seemed to change from black to white. “Oh, my god! Yes, right... I’d love to help you, but I don’t know what I can tell you. Poor Miss Hampton. I heard she might have been a victim of a serial killer. Kylie Connelly was in this office precisely when that murder was happening.”

  He paused. “Do you think I might have tapped on something real? Not that my therapy sessions aren’t entirely real, or that past-life regressions don’t happen with people as well. You see, I believe in past lives, Special Agent Dickson. I’m not playing at the paranormal in any way because I’ve set up shop in Salem. I’m a guide. I only take people where they are going into their own minds. But... I was here, and she was here exactly when they’re saying Annie Hampton must have been attacked.”

  “Have you ever had anything like that happen with another client, such as with Miss Connelly?” Jon asked.

  Sayers shook his head. “I still have reservations about speaking with you. Doctor-patient privilege.”

  “But you didn’t see her as a doctor.”

  “I didn’t see her as a charlatan, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “Not at all. As I said, I’m just here for help. Do you think Miss Connelly really saw something? That it’s possible she saw through someone else’s eyes, and was somehow with Annie Hampton when she was murdered?”

  Sayers sat back, looking at him with eyes full of wonder. “I do. I was with her. To be honest, we were frightened, her friends and I. She was fighting the air, crying out. I was this close to dialing for emergency help. It was so odd... She was smiling at first. She seemed so happy, and then scared, and then she was screaming. I had to work to break her out of her hypnotic state.”

  “Thank you very much, Dr. Sayers. I appreciate you seeing me.”

  “This is no quack situation, I assure you. Yes, I believe Kylie Connelly saw whoever murdered Annie Hampton. I believe she saw a serial killer at work.”

  * * *

  The pirate museum offered all manner of artifacts, a fun cave to explore, and all kinds of interesting tidbits of information. They had a great time exploring, and since they’d decided on dinner at about seven, they hopped over to another favorite museum and store, Count Orlok’s Nightmare Gallery, where movie monsters and explanations regarding them were on display.

  Movie monsters were fun.

  They weren’t real.

  Jenny bought a few T-shirts, as did Corrine—her beloved Derrick would love them.

  When they were about to go to the brewery, Kylie texted Jon Dickson. He was already at there, he texted back; he’d go ahead and get a table.

  When they arrived, and the hostess came out to greet them, Jon stood and waved as he saw them. He greeted them all pleasantly, asking about their day. A waitress brought them flights of beer to taste and promised to be back soon for th
eir orders.

  Naturally, Kylie wanted to know how his day had gone, but she was polite and sat—perhaps too quietly—as the others went on about the things they’d been doing.

  Then out of nowhere, Jenny, sitting very tall, as if she were standing and using the authority of her six feet—asked Jon point-blank if dragging Kylie to the graveyard had helped in any way.

  “Yes,” he answered simply.

  “You caught him? You know who did it?” Jenny demanded with surprise.

  “No, but I feel Kylie is helping me put puzzle pieces together.”

  “Are you any closer?” Corrine asked. “It’s so sad, really. I didn’t know Annie Hampton, but I feel guilty having my bachelorette weekend when something so terrible happened. I wonder if that makes me strange.”

  “It makes you human in the best way possible,” Jon assured her. “But regrettably, there are forty to forty-six murders a day in the U.S. alone—statistically.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible,” Nancy said. “Almost one a day per state!”

  “Well,” Jon said, “it’s not per state. So, how much longer do you have in Salem?”

  “We leave Monday morning,” Corrine told him. “We all go back to work on Tuesday. Except for Kylie. She has the week, if she chooses to take it. She was handpicked to oversee tours and research at the Trelawny House. It’s a historic property that’s undergone tremendous renovation and preparation. The last of the inspectors come through this week, and her boss—some billionaire who bought the property—insisted she take time after all the work she did getting everything up to par. Oh, and there’s a tavern—Colonial food, of course. Kylie did all the food research, too.”

  Jon looked over at Kylie and smiled. Was he wondering what she intended to do with her week? She felt her color deepening, but before she could be put on the spot, he asked the others what they did.