Dying Breath

by Heather Graham

  Thank God, he hadn’t. He found the poor wooden coffin in which the victim had been buried alive. As he worked to remove heavy clods of dirt and bracken, Jackson was already on the phone calling for backup and an ambulance.

  Backup wasn’t far behind them. But before others arrived, Jackson joined him in the hole. They pried open the coffin lid.

  And found Barbara Marshall.

  She was pale beyond death; her lips were blue.

  For a split second, Griffin and Jackson stared at one another. Then Jackson braced the coffin as Griffin pulled the woman from it, crawled from the hole with her in his arms, eased her gently to the ground and began resuscitation. He counted, he prayed, applied pressure and tried to breathe life into the woman.

  Even in the midst of his efforts, a med tech arrived; Griffin gave way to the trained man who moved in to take his place.

  “We may have been too late!” he said, the words a whisper, yet fierce even in their quiet tone.

  “Maybe not,” Jackson said.

  The emergency crew worked quickly. Griffin stood there, almost numb, as Barbara Marshall was moved, as a gurney was brought, as lifesaving techniques went into play with a rush of medical equipment.

  Then she was whisked away, and he and Jackson were left gasping for breath as their counterpart from the police department arrived, while uniformed officers held back the suddenly growing crowd—and the press.

  At last, with enough breath, Griffin looked at Jackson. “Think she’ll make it?”

  “She may.”

  “Think he’s watching?” Griffin asked.

  “Hard to tell. Whoever is doing this is also leading the semblance of a normal life,” Jackson said.

  “So he—or they—could be at work, picking kids up from school, or so on,” Griffin murmured.

  “But I think that, yes, watching will be part of the pleasure, whenever they can watch,” Jackson said.

  Griffin stood, fighting anger and disgust, and looked around at the buildings that surrounded them.

  Boston was, to him, one of the most amazing cities in America. Modern finance and massive skyscrapers dominated the downtown area—along with precious gems of history. Boston Common, King’s Chapel, Faneuil Hall, the Paul Revere House, the Old North Church and more were within easy walking distance. Centuries of history within blocks. Colonial architecture, Gothic churches, Victorian; Boston was a visual display of American eras.

  But the multitude of what was newer and contemporary in building might well afford the kidnapper a fine vantage point for watching as the police and FBI agents ran around like ants on the ground following the clues he so relished sending to the media.

  This time, the clue had been, “James II, sadly not long for the throne. Still, a thief. Ah, Old Boston!”

  A crew had been sent to King’s Chapel, as well. But Griffin had been convinced that their kidnapping victim would be found in the cemetery. This Undertaker liked drama.

  And history and dirt, so it seemed.

  Barbara Marshall was his fourth victim. Griffin prayed she survived.

  The first victim, Beverly Tatum of Revere, had not.

  But then, no one had heard of the Undertaker when she’d been taken.

  When they had so desperately searched.

  And searched.

  Beverly Tatum had been found by police two weeks later, locked in an old freezer in a dump.

  Jennifer Hudgins of Lynn had also died. The family had notified the police, who’d suspected her husband was responsible for her disappearance. They’d tailed him, questioned his coworkers...and then they’d run out of leads. The husband’s alibi had been proven true.

  Jennifer had eventually been found inside a locker at an abandoned school in Brookline.

  Then, Angelina Gianni of Boston had been taken.

  The FBI had been called in for help—the Krewe, specifically, because Angelina’s husband, Anthony, had been certain that his wife’s mother had been speaking to him from the grave, telling him that he must dig to find her.

  By then, the major television and internet news agency that had received the first two clues—and had originally considered them to be nothing but odd statements from a kook—had determined that they might be from the real criminal.

  The clues had been received in plain white envelopes—mailed from Boston’s largest post office, no matter what other towns, cities or suburbs had been involved. No fingerprints of course. They contained a simple line or two lines giving a clue as to the whereabouts of the victims. The first clue had been “Where the old is discarded, where one may find what was once cold.” The second clue had read “No longer may one learn; is all learning but kept locked away?”

  They’d found the third victim, Angelina, before it was too late. Griffin could be grateful that his knowledge of his Massachusetts home had helped. The clue had read “Fire away, and so it begins!”

  He’d focused on Lexington and an old house that had served as a bed-and-breakfast near the first famous battle site. Of course, even then, he might not have found her if it hadn’t been for a dream. Or rather, the ghost who had entered his dream. The ghost of the missing woman’s mother. Eva, her name had been. Even in his dream, she’d switched to Italian now and then.

  Though Griffin had known since he’d been a child that the dead could sometimes speak, it was sometimes difficult to admit. Even now—even belonging to the Krewe of Hunters. Even working with Jackson Crow, who seemed to think their strange and very often useful “gifts” were nothing unusual.

  And so Angelina had lived. Her family had been grateful and they would have done anything to help the police. But Angelina had no memory of what had happened to her.

  All she remembered was the darkness of being locked away.

  This time, no ghost had come to him. The kidnapper or kidnappers—while the press had decreed one man and dubbed him the Undertaker, Griffin couldn’t rule out there wasn’t more than one person involved—had come straight to Boston. Having grown up on Beacon Hill, and walked these streets on his beat as a Boston cop before joining the FBI, Griffin had been certain about the message.

  He was grateful that he and Jackson and the Krewe, as representatives of the FBI, had helped. He was incredibly grateful that one victim had lived; maybe Barbara Marshall would make it as well.

  But they were no closer to the kidnapper—or kidnappers, as he suspected. Jackson knew that Griffin believed it had to be more than one person executing the crimes, but since the press had gone with “Undertaker,” they referred to the kidnapper themselves.

  A shout suddenly went up from the street and echoed back to them. An officer in uniform came running back to them as they heard the sirens from the ambulance moving away through the city.

  “She breathed on her own!” the officer said, his face alight. “They think she’s going to make it.”

  Griffin looked over at Jackson and nodded his appreciation. Then he looked up at the buildings again, certain they were, indeed, being watched. Jackson leaped up and offered Griffin a hand; Griffin realized he was still somewhat in a hole. Accepting Jackson’s hand, he stepped out.

  “We’ll find him,” Jackson said quietly. He had a right to be confident. The Krewe solved their cases. Griffin knew that; he was extremely grateful to be a part of the unique and special unit.

  “Sure,” he said. He knew their minds were on similar tracks.

  They would find the sick criminal doing this. But would they find him, and stop him, before someone else died?

  As he joined Jackson, walking toward the street entrance of the cemetery, he saw Detective David Barnes, Boston Police, on his phone, looking ashen and tense.

  Griffin had only just met Barnes on this case. The man had been with the BPD over fifteen years, but when Griffin had been a cop, Barnes had bee
n Southie, working patrol out of South Boston. The man had studied him intently when they had first met—he’d obviously heard Griffin had once been with the BPD, and that he’d been the patrolman to bring down escaped convict Bertram Aldridge. The dramatic takedown had been all over the news at the time, and had made Griffin’s reputation.

  Barnes seemed to be a decent man and a good detective; he’d welcomed their assistance and had been glad to have them on the team. Griffin figured he was about forty-five—with the wear and tear of someone a few years older.

  “Victory—and yet short-lived,” Barnes said, deep furrows lining his brow. “We’ve gotten a call from a nearby resident, George Ballantine. His wife didn’t show up after their son’s Little League practice—then he found out she never even made it to her garden club meeting earlier in the day.” He stared at Griffin, nodding, and added, “Yeah. Ballantine.”

  Something inside clicked hard against Griffin’s chest.

  Ballantine.

  He could remember too clearly when the killer, Bertram Aldridge, had made an attempt on the life of the Ballantine’s toddler son and their young babysitter. He could remember seeing the terrified girl, running, and the killer in the street, raising his weapon...

  “Aldridge is still incarcerated—maximum security,” Griffin said.

  “Yeah. And Aldridge liked to play with knives. This guy likes to let his victims smother slowly. Apparently, he’s not even that worried when we find them still alive—he just heads out for another victim. Aldridge liked to write taunting notes to the police, too, though. But...this tone is different. Can’t be Aldridge—absolutely impossible.”

  “If we know he’s locked up,” Griffin said.

  “First thing I checked—couldn’t help myself,” Barnes said.

  “How long has Mrs. Ballantine been missing?” Jackson asked.

  “Her meeting was at noon. She wasn’t there when George arrived home at 3:30 p.m.,” Barnes told them.

  “That’s not a very long time,” Jackson said.

  It was barely four-something, Griffin thought. In any other circumstances, the situation wouldn’t cause much alarm. Yet. There were a dozen explanations. Mrs. Ballantine’s phone might not be working. She’d stopped to see a friend and hadn’t even realized her ringer wasn’t on. She’d had a flat tire and a friendly driver had stopped and called roadside assistance for her—and she was still waiting. The police wouldn’t have even taken a report.

  Ballantine. The family targeted again?

  “It’s him,” Griffin said quietly. “It’s the Undertaker. We need to get over to the Ballantine house as quickly as possible. Get ahold of the media; find out about a note—a clue.”

  Jackson studied him and nodded.

  “Detective Barnes?” Jackson said.

  Barnes didn’t argue. “I’ll get my car.”

  “No need. It’s a short sprint from here,” Griffin said.

  “You remember the house?” Barnes asked him.

  “I remember it well,” Griffin said.

  * * *

  “Step light, my friend, for here I lie

  Just steps away from a place to die

  Boston Neck, and about the neck,

  A rope I was forced to wear,

  Years later was I found and cleared

  By children bright and oh so dear

  So now I rest in hallowed ground,

  My story to be found.

  No witch was I, no cause to die.”

  Vickie Preston read the words from the monument aloud to her group of older teens, glad her dramatics—and simple, sad history—seemed to have them enthralled.

  She had a group of ten with her: teens who had nearly been lost in the system. She had case files on all of them—if they hadn’t been neglected or abused by their own parents, they had fallen prey to the evil vices of others.

  Most had bounced about in foster care. They would all turn eighteen soon and enter the world on their own, where statistically they didn’t seem to have much of a chance. Vickie had come home to Boston after college to work with a private charity called Grown Ups that was trying very hard to give such young people a better chance at survival in the real world as adults.

  It had also just been a good move on her part. She’d split ways with her boyfriend, Jared Norton, several months ago; he’d liked to surprise her by waiting on the doorstep of her brownstone apartment in New York, convinced that she wanted him back in her life.

  It wasn’t going to happen, and he needed to move on.

  It was still nice to have a home with an address he didn’t know—and where he wouldn’t show up.

  “Miss Preston!”

  “Yes,” she said quickly.

  “I thought they only killed witches in Salem!” One of the boys, Hardy Richardson, said, shaking his head in disbelief. He was a handsome kid, dark-haired, tall and broad-shouldered, with a quick and boyish smile. It was nice that he had maintained his smile; without it, he appeared to be years older than his true chronological age.

  “Ah, no. The ‘craze,’ as we consider it, happened in Salem. Salem was part of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. And, sadly, while the Puritans came to the New World in search of religious freedom, they were the least tolerant people one could imagine. Quakers and members of other religious groups were banished or punished severely—several were hanged at Boston Neck. Also, there were a number of people who lived here who were hanged for witchcraft—even before the horrific events began in Salem,” Vickie said. “A woman named Anne Hibbins was hanged in 1656—long before the trials began in Salem. We don’t know the name of the woman buried here, honored by this tombstone. That’s because she wasn’t legally buried here.”

  “Right. So, how can she be buried here?” Hardy asked. “I thought they dumped the bodies right by the hanging tree or in some marshy plot nearby?”

  “Sometimes, a brave and intrepid family member went out and found the body. If you study this stone, you’ll see there is a date carved into the stone—1733. She was probably found and buried here secretly by the family—and they marked her grave when they dared,” Vickie said. “But that doesn’t mean she’s down there—progress and decades and then centuries mean that stones get moved around sometimes. Still, I love this memorial.”

  “Vicious people,” Cheryl Taylor, a petite—but very pretty and well-built—brunette murmured, before looking over at Vickie. “Do you think that’s why we have such a bad reputation now?” she asked Vickie. “I mean, Bostonians, we do have a reputation for being snobby. Think that dates back to the Puritans?”

  Vickie grinned. “Maybe—who knows? It was an extremely repressive society. In fact, when King James II ordered that an Anglican chapel be built in Boston, he had a hard time getting land. The cemetery was here first—he took part of the cemetery to build the chapel. We’re standing in the oldest cemetery in the city. You can actually learn a tremendous amount about people and society by visiting graveyards. Of course, remember, a lot of original old grave markers would have been wood—long gone now. Time and the elements take their toll. But you can see on some of the oldest stones that the art is severe—a skeletal head with wings, rather scary-looking. The stones, for such a serious people, could be expensive to buy and carve. Over time, the appearance becomes more that of a cherub or angel—life itself becoming more valuable, the terrors of death less extreme.”

  “Whoa, those Puritans!” Cheryl said, shaking her head. “Still I don’t get it—when did they begin to die out? I mean, if everyone was banished or hanged for not being a Puritan...”

  “All legal machinations, as well as religious. Charters came and went. James II of England was forced to abdicate his throne; William and Mary became King and Queen of England. They opened the colonies to others. Actually, it’s complicated, but—as in many cases—it had to d
o with politics and government,” Vickie said. “But in my mind, William and Mary made the greatest changes when they came to the throne of England in 1689 after the Glorious Revolution.”

  “The Salem witch trials were 1692! So, William and Mary let that happen.”

  Vickie nodded. “True. A large part of the world believed in the evil of witchcraft back then. Communications were very slow. William and Mary turned it over to their royal governor, William Phips. Phips set up the trials of oyer and terminer—which meant to see and to hear. When the dregs of society were being accused, William Stoughton, a tough old buzzard who wholeheartedly believed in Satan and witchcraft, allowed spectral evidence. Then suddenly everyone was being accused—including the governor’s wife. So, in a way, public opinion turned the tide. And Phips—when his wife was accused. Rather than going out with a bang, it rather all ended with a whimper. In the years following, there were many changes in the entire colony, by law, by religion and by people. Like most things, change came about slowly. And the land for King’s Chapel was actually taken during the rule of James II. Like I said, it had a lot to do with charters and laws and who was running what when. What’s actually good here is that execution for witchcraft was far less frequent in the colonies than in Europe. And, when we did create our American Constitution, we set forth a separation of church and state. That guaranteed freedom of religion when we became our own country.”

  “Right. Now we just have weirdo cults!” Hardy said.

  “True, but they don’t run the country,” Vickie said.

  “Thank God, have you seen some of the stuff on some cults? Scary!” Cheryl said.

  “Really scary,” Hardy said. “If spectral evidence was allowed in court and the dregs of society were killed first, we’d be goners,” he said. “I mean, heck, the right person just had to accuse you and your ass was in jail.”

  “Pretty much—but you’re not the dregs of society. You’re about to be adults and choose your own course,” Vickie said. “There will always be room to improve, but laws do protect us now.”

  “Speaking of us as a country, though, is Paul Revere here?”