Dying Breath. Heather Graham

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