A Perfect Obsession

by Heather Graham

She hurried after Willoughby. He had long legs and long strides. And he was already talking, as if she were right by his side.

  “...not long after the church was built. There was a graveyard back then, of course, that extended between the church and the rectory. Money! Life is always money. Here’s the thing—the dead were on prime real estate. The dead don’t pay—the living pay. All the dead had to go.”

  They walked around the block.

  “Careful looking up. Everyone will think you’re a tourist,” Willoughby teased her.

  She smiled at him. “The city is so remarkable. So many people—so many years. Lives on top of lives. I think people forget when they come here that we were the first capital of the country.”

  “So much is forgotten. The world always belongs to the young, right? Well, there she is, Kieran. The Lamont building. You want to see the food court. Okay. I’m afraid there’s nothing left of the past, though. But, hey, there’s one of those great chain coffee shops. Want some coffee?”

  “Sure,” she told him.

  The Lamont building was still a handsome piece of architecture. The lobby had marble floors and giant pillars and carefully placed, huge pictures of bridges.

  “Over there,” Willoughby said, pointing to an escalator going downward. A sign in front of it advertised Starbucks.

  “Told you,” he said.

  “Okay, so I’m in the mood for a mocha,” she said.

  She was startled to trip as she stepped onto the escalator; she was normally coordinated.

  “Are you okay?” Willoughby asked, catching her arm.

  “Fine,” she told him. “Sorry. I must be anxious for coffee!”

  “Coffee is good stuff,” he said.

  The food court reminded her of the food court at Grand Central Station. It was big and sprawling; there were many choices and it was busy, people running here and there and everywhere.

  “Actually, there’s a more local vendor over here,” Willoughby said, pointing toward the far wall. “Excellent brews. They show you the coffees they have from all over the world. Hawaiian, South American... I love it.”

  “Well, then, let’s head there,” Kieran said.

  They did so. It was far quieter at the end of the long expanse. There was a young man working the drip presses and he smiled when he saw Willoughby. “Hi, Mr. Willoughby. What will it be today? Kona blend?”

  “Kona sounds great,” Willoughby said. “And for my friend, Ms. Finnegan...?”

  “Kona sounds great to me, too,” Kieran said. She couldn’t help notice that there was an entrance to a supply room to the right of the counter as she looked at it.

  They were at the far right of the building. That meant that next door was Le Club Vampyre, and next door to the basement...

  The crypts.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Kieran heard the words spoken loudly by a woman at the next food stand to the coffee bar.

  The woman was staring up at the TV. The news was on.

  Kieran stepped back to see what was going on.

  “They let the bastard go!” the woman said, her voice still shrill. “Money really can buy anything,” she muttered with disgust.

  Kieran stared at the screen; she couldn’t hear what the reporter was saying.

  She could see Roger Gleason, his attorney at his side and a group of police holding back the crowd as Gleason hurried out.

  “Doesn’t that just beat all!” Willoughby said at her side. “They let Gleason go! I’m going to have to call Digby and see what that means for us. Dammit! He could stop us from going back down to the crypts. No, the mayor won’t let that happen.”

  What it meant, Kieran thought, was that they really had to find the killer’s New York City underground lair.

  “Did you hear, Kieran?”

  “Yes, Mr. Willoughby. I heard.”

  She wasn’t looking at him; she was suddenly determined.

  Could she ask the young man if she could see their supply room? He wouldn’t let her. But she could come back with Craig, if she could convince him that there had to be something somewhere.

  “What is it?” Willoughby asked her.

  “I was looking at the back there. That basement area must just about attach to the crypts.”

  “I suppose.”

  “How well do you know this guy? Well enough to ask a favor?” Kieran asked.

  Willoughby stared at her and shrugged. “One can only try,” he said. He paid for the coffee, leaving a generous tip. He started to speak, but then he didn’t. He spent a moment adding cream and sugar to both cups, then brought them over and ushered Kieran toward a chair by the supply-room door.

  “You didn’t ask him.”

  “If we sit here a minute, we can just kind of slip in.”

  “Okay.”

  “How do you like the Kona?”

  She took a swig of the coffee. “Delicious. Hot, but delicious.”

  They watched the young man as he puttered behind the counter.

  “There! Now—he’s gone out to clean the tables on the other side,” Willoughby said.

  Kieran jumped to her feet; she did so quickly. For a moment, she felt dizzy.

  “Are you okay?” Willoughby asked anxiously.

  “Fine. Let’s go,” she said.

  And she did so, sprinting to the open doorway, hurrying to the back.

  There were typical racks back there, filled with huge burlap sacks of coffee. There were all kinds of mugs, boxes of sugar substitute and sugar. Other racks held rows of boxed pastries, power bars and other light snack items.

  It wasn’t dark, dank or dirty.

  For a moment, Kieran was disappointed. And then she looked at the wall.

  It appeared to be old stone, boulders set together. Perhaps the new building had made use of some of the old foundations. After all, such rock could last a millennium or more.

  “What?” Willoughby asked in a whisper. “Kieran, we need to hurry.”

  She walked quickly to the area of the bare wall, toward the irregular stones that she had seen.

  “I’m hurrying,” she told him.

  As she reached the wall, it seemed that her knees were giving out, that black spots were appearing before her. She was weak...

  She fought the sensation.

  She reached the wall and slammed against it.

  And then she began to slip down, the darkness coming in waves.

  “Kieran! Kieran! What’s wrong? I’m going to get help!”

  Drugged! She’d been drugged. When? The coffee... The champagne...

  And Roger Gleason was back on the streets.

  “Help! Help!” Henry Willoughby called. “Damn that young fellow, where the hell is he? Don’t worry—I will get help!”

  Willoughby’s voice faded.

  Kieran couldn’t think or feel anymore. She merely slipped into a deep abyss where there was nothing but black.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  CRAIG HEARD HIS PHONE ringing from far away—as if he were underwater.

  Then he sprang up, searching his bed for the phone. As deeply as he’d been asleep, he was suddenly wide-awake.

  Outside his window, he saw it was already growing dark. Damn, he’d slept long. But, then, he’d not made it back to his apartment until almost nine, and he hadn’t fallen into his bed until ten.

  It was Egan on the other end.

  “He’s out.”

  “What?”

  “Gleason is back out on the street, Craig. I don’t know how the hell he managed it. The man is charged with one murder but suspected of being a serial killer and yet Gleason’s attorney managed to get bail for him. Of all the stupid damned
judges!”

  As Egan went on, Craig’s mind raced. Even if he was innocent, it was bad for Gleason that he was out; anything that happened would be on his head.

  And if he was guilty...

  Well, all the young and perfect women in Manhattan were in danger again.

  “Sir,” Craig said, interrupting Egan’s rampage, “we need to get an officer to Sadie Miller. She left the hospital. If Gleason is afraid that she might recognize him, she could be in extreme danger. And Kieran, too. I’m up and moving. I’m going to head to Finnegan’s. She’s sure she heard the killer in the crypt last night. He might believe that she could recognize him, too.”

  “Get going. I’ll have McBride find the closest officers and get them to Finnegan’s now. Go. I’m on it—and Sadie Miller.”

  Craig jumped out of bed, looking for his clothing as he speed dialed Kieran.

  She didn’t answer.

  He glanced at his watch. She might have left the offices of Fuller and Miro and headed to the pub already; if so, she might have been helping out. Her phone would be in her purse.

  He called the pub. Declan answered after a number of rings.

  “Hey, Declan, can you put Kieran on?”

  “She’s not here,” Declan told him. “She was, but she went out. She was here with the Ghoul Crew from next door, but they’re all gone now.”

  A startled scream suddenly sounded through Craig’s phone line. He heard Declan’s voice, deep with alarm.

  “What the bloody hell?”

  The bar phone dropped.

  Craig had no idea what happened at Finnegan’s; neither did he have time to figure it out.

  Barely dressed, he headed out. He dialed Kieran again and again, to no avail, as he raced for his car.

  He called Egan and was told officers were almost at the pub.

  Then he dialed Declan again. That scream from earlier was still echoing in his mind. What was it all about? Kieran?

  This time, the phone was answered. It wasn’t Declan, but rather Kevin.

  “What’s going on there?”

  “Mary Kathleen—she just passed out. One of the other girls told me that she’d said something about being overwhelmingly sleepy. And she’s out cold. One of our customers—a doctor—checked her out; her vitals are fine but...we’re trying to figure out what happened.”

  “Where’s Kieran?”

  “She was here...”

  “But where did she go?”

  “No one knows. She was talking to the whole historic crew from next door—and then she was gone, and they were all gone. Oh, my God! Craig. They let Gleason out! It’s all over the news. And Kieran was here and she’s gone and Mary Kathleen...it’s like she was drugged!”

  * * *

  Kieran woke up feeling as if she’d been hit by a sledgehammer.

  She had no clue as to where she was.

  And she couldn’t see anything. She was somewhere in total darkness. On something hard, something very hard. Stone.

  She eased herself up. She was uninjured, but there was something worse...

  She didn’t remember how she’d gotten where she was.

  She took a careful step, reaching out in the darkness and touching more stone.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing that she smoked. If she smoked, she might have a lighter in her jacket.

  “Oh!” She said the word aloud.

  She did have a light in her jacket—she had a matchbook that advertised Finnegan’s. Letting out a sigh of relief, she dug out the matches and lit them.

  And a scream tore from her lips.

  She dropped the match at the gruesome sight.

  She’d come face-to-face with a grinning skull, bits of scalp and hair remaining.

  Crypts. She was in the crypts somewhere...but, where? Light of some kind would surely be back on in the hidden crypts beneath Saint Augustine’s.

  She fumbled for another match and lit it.

  Wherever she was, it was just like the crypts at Saint Augustine’s. Perhaps an extension of them?

  Rows and rows of the dead rested in dark silence; there were no coffins at all, just decaying bodies in decaying shrouds, sarcophagi here and there dispersed beneath the rows and...

  The slab. The slab she’d lain on. It was strangely shadowed and colored.

  Her match went out.

  She lit another.

  She brought it close to the slab where she had lain. Yes, it was darkly stained...and the stain seemed to go all the way to the ground.

  Match out; light another. At least it was a full pack. She figured she had about twenty-five matches to go.

  She hunkered down, studying the floor. The stain extended here.

  Her match went out. As it did, she felt a chill sweep through her.

  She knew what the stain was.

  It was blood.

  The blood, most probably, of Jeannette Gilbert.

  Her mind raced with questions. Why was she here? How had she gotten here?

  More importantly, how in the hell did she get out?

  She lit another match, raising it high, looking at the rows and rows of chalky white, decaying skeletons, rows and rows of shrouds...

  Wait. One looked a little bit different. She hurried to that stone slab, and then she realized why.

  There was no body there. Just a dress. A white dress, and atop the dress, a rose.

  She inhaled and swallowed hard. Her fingers suddenly burned, and she dropped the match and quickly lit another.

  She had to get out. Get away. She hurried to the next row of the dead, anxious to be far from the slab. She lit a match, trying to see if there was an end. The match went out. When it did, she thought that she saw the faintest glow.

  A light was coming from somewhere. She headed toward it.

  She wasn’t sure why she was moving silently or carefully. But then she heard whispering.

  And then words that sent a shiver up her spine.

  “‘Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.’ Ah, yes, death comes to the most beautiful, the most perfect! Lucky are those who die young, before life’s ravishes ruin all that is glorious and perfect! Ah, yes, for the lucky...‘death’s pale flag is not advanced there!’”

  For a moment, Kieran stood entirely frozen.

  Panicked.

  And then she remembered something.

  She didn’t panic. She recalled telling Mike that before. That day...that day she had gone to see Sadie Miller. With Dr. Fuller. Then...then she had gone to the pub. She had been looking for...

  What she had found—the killer’s work lair.

  “‘Crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks...’”

  She looked at the pale, pale light that seemed to trickle in from far away. She moved toward it, carefully—listening all the while.

  Then she heard a hoarse shout of surprise.

  “No, no! Where are you? Where are you, Kieran? You should have finished drinking... Kieran, it shouldn’t be hard, shouldn’t be painful...oh, Kieran. I will find you!”

  * * *

  Craig rushed into the pub. Declan was there, not working the bar. He was waiting for Craig at the door.

  “Officers are here, and an ambulance... Danny and Kevin are already over at the old church, searching the entire place for the people Kieran was talking to. Old Dr. Cohen was in here when Mary Kathleen collapsed. One of the girls working the floor tol
d me that she’d had champagne... Apparently she drank Kieran’s champagne rather than waste it. I have to get to the hospital... Mary Kathleen... But my sister is out there! Craig...”

  The anguish in Declan’s face sent greater spirals of fear shooting through Craig.

  Kieran had been with the historians.

  And Roger Gleason was out... He’d had time to get to his club...

  But time to somehow slip into the pub unseen and spike champagne?

  “We’ll find her, Declan. I swear it,” Craig vowed.

  He turned and ran down the street—nearly knocking an old woman aside.

  He’d have to apologize later.

  He was afraid that the doors below the great Gothic entrance to the church-club would be locked, but no, the historians had come here.

  The doors were open.

  He burst in. The great expanse was empty.

  “Kieran!” He shouted her name loudly.

  At first, the sound of his voice echoed and echoed.

  Then he heard something; not Kieran, but Kevin. And Kevin came racing up the stairs.

  “Craig, they say that she was with them, but she wanted to see a building by here. Something about being certain there was a connection. Allie heard that the building had been the rectory. They say she left with Willoughby. But Willoughby called in a panic to tell them that she passed out there in the basement, but when he went screaming for help, she disappeared.”

  “Where’s Willoughby now?” Craig demanded.

  “I don’t know... I saw him before...searching!”

  “What about Gleason?”

  “I have no idea. I know nothing except that he got out, and he called Digby and said that he wasn’t going to stop history because of his own troubles—and that he was innocent. Craig, where the hell do we start looking?”

  Mike burst in, not bothering to close the double, carved wood doors at the entrance. He shouted his name as he came hurrying in. “Craig! I just heard!”

  Craig swung around. “Get next door, Mike. She passed out there—in the basement.” He looked back at Kevin. “Where exactly?” he demanded.

  Kevin shook his head. “Willoughby didn’t say. The basement—there’s a food court.”