The Betrayed. Heather Graham

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      This time it was Candy Lewiston who had come to see her.

      Even as a ghost, Candy was rivetingly beautiful. She’d come to the house through the Underground Railroad during the Civil War. Her heritage was mixed—African-American, European and Native American. She had large, dark eyes, her cheekbones were perfectly sculpted and she moved with effortless grace. Ghosts could appear to float, yes, but Candy moved as if she were still flesh and blood, graceful and lithe beyond measure.

      She knew the good and the bad of history. As a child, she’d had a gentle master who’d been happy to spend time with his slaves, attend baptisms of their children and be as generous as a father. At his death she’d found herself the property of a new master; she said he was the cruelest man to ever walk the earth. The daughter of her first owner—who’d been forced to sell the slaves—had actually helped Candy escape, and in their friendship, they’d both realized how wrong it was for any man or woman to own any other.

      They’d ended up living at the cottage down from Irving’s Sunnyside, and while Sarah Jane—Candy’s friend—had gone on after death, Candy had lingered. But that was because she’d fallen in love with one of the few Confederate soldiers who’d died here, brought north to be cared for by his brother, who had chosen to fight for the Union.

      Colonel Daniel Parker remained in the house, as well. He and Candy were together in death as they’d never been in life.

      Candy paused long enough to give Rollo a spectral pat. Rollo knew she was there. His tail thumped on the floor. Smiling, Candy perched on the desk and looked at Mo. “What happened? What did you and Rollo find?”

      Mo sighed and gave up on work, leaning back in her chair. “A man’s head without a body, a woman’s body without a head, the man’s body—and the woman’s head.”

      Candy stared at her in dismay. “How awful! Do they know, was it the politician from New York they were looking for?”

      Mo nodded gravely. “And it’s not...it’s not just that he was dead. He was murdered. Horribly.” She went on to tell Candy about the morning—about everything they’d discovered.

      Candy shuddered. “And with the village and all of Tarrytown bustling with our October visitors...that makes it even worse. I hope they find the murderer quickly.”

      “Lieutenant Purbeck is running the investigation. At least, I think he is. An FBI man showed up, too,” Mo said.

      “Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Candy said. She might be a ghost, but she loved watching as time went by, even though—as she’d often told Mo—time didn’t always go by so well. Wars went on; people just didn’t seem to learn. Candy and her beloved Daniel Parker liked walking the grounds along the river—and keeping up with history as it passed.

      “Well, Mr. Highsmith was an important man,” Candy said knowingly.

      “Yes, very,” Mo agreed.

      “And this FBI man, he seems to be capable and good?” Candy asked.

      Mo thought about her answer. Then she nodded. “He was serious and seemed to understand that...that Rollo knew what he was after when we found a body that wasn’t the right body,” she said. Actually, she’d liked the man immediately. She wondered if she’d been influenced by the fact he was very good-looking. Tall, dark, blue eyed, altogether striking. If he walked into a room, anyone—male or female—would notice, even if he was in a typical dark suit. He wore the suit damned well. She remembered feeling stunned when she’d fallen into his arms. Just for a split second, of course, but he had given her pause.

      “He looks capable,” she said. He looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ, she thought.

      Candy nodded. “So, the police are investigating and the federal government is involved. What happened is devastating—unimaginable!—but you have done what they asked you to do. Now let them handle it. I understand that you can’t forget it. To suggest such a thing would be ridiculous. But let them do their work, and you concentrate on yours. Maybe you should take a vacation, leave this place until they find the killer.”

      “I don’t think I can.”

      “And why not?”

      “What if...?”

      “What if what?” Candy asked.

      “What if the killer isn’t finished?” Mo wondered aloud. The very possibility chilled her. “What if it wasn’t a political assassination? I—I can’t leave now. Rollo and I might be needed again and if we are, there’s always the hope that we’ll find the next victim still alive. Before he kills him—or her.”

      * * *

      “Here’s what I have to tell you,” Dr. Mortenson said, leaning against one of the gurneys at the morgue. “The two bodies, when put back together, are definitely two people. Not more, in other words. Thank God. We still haven’t ascertained the identity of the woman, but we’re running fingerprints and searching out dental records.”

      “How did they die?” Aidan asked.

      Mortenson frowned at him for a minute, as though to say, They were decapitated. Wasn’t that perfectly clear?

      But he quickly understood. He sighed. “I wish I could tell you it was the clean sweep of a sword or one blow from a big ax. A quick death.”

      Aidan’s heart sank. He suddenly knew exactly what that expression meant. “But it wasn’t that way?” he asked.

      Behind him, Voorhaven sucked in his breath.

      “A hatchet job?” Van Camp asked. His tone was rigid. Aidan liked Van Camp; he seemed to be a by-the-book detective, calm, collected, doing his job with dedication and competence. But he had retained empathy for victims.

      He was probably better suited for this job than Aidan. Because, like it or not, Aidan knew he wasn’t really calm, collected and by the book. He wasn’t just empathetic—he was involved.

      “Yes, but...thankfully, the victims were dead before their heads were removed.”

      “How were they killed?” Aidan asked bluntly.

      “Strangulation. Manual strangulation. That should help you. Of course, with the chop job—sorry about that—it’s difficult to get a complete picture. But I couldn’t find ligature marks and there was heavy bruising around the neck. Now, the trauma could’ve come from the, er, removal of the heads.”

      He paused. “I worked in the city for years and saw just about every form of murder out there, although some sick bastard will always find a new twist. In my opinion, however, they were manually strangled, something that takes a significant amount of strength, especially considering the size of a man like Highsmith. The heads were removed afterward, probably for effect, for theatricality—but that kind of theorizing belongs to you investigators. I’m merely stating the obvious here.”

      “Or what appears to be obvious,” Aidan murmured.

      Mortenson hiked up two bushy white brows. “Yes, well, as I said, I leave theorizing to you gentlemen.” He walked to one of the gurneys СКАЧАТЬ