Dying Breath. Heather Graham

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      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 been 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 СКАЧАТЬ