She hurried through the trees, and she came to a clearing.
The water was to her left; it was a big river, or a lake. Little mountain-peak-like islands seemed to rise from it.
“Vickie...”
She looked straight ahead.
There was a terrible scream; the misty light increased.
In front of her there was an inverted cross and, from it, a woman had been hanged upside down.
For a horrible moment, it seemed as if she looked at Vickie. As if she was pleading for help.
But that was impossible. The world around her was red. The ground pooled with red. Her hair fell in crimson streams.
Her throat had been slit.
And the red everywhere was the blood that ran from her throat. Ran...
And then gushed. And it filled the path and the river and began to climb, obscuring even the mountains, and Vickie turned and ran back, tried to run away from the blood.
“Vickie!”
It was Alex’s voice. Alex was behind her, calling for help.
“Vickie!”
She woke up in Griffin’s arms. He was holding her, cradling her, soothing her.
“It’s all right...it’s all right.”
“Griffin...”
“You were dreaming. A nightmare.”
“It was Alex, Griffin. I mean...is it possible? He was calling to me. I could hear him, I could hear him in my mind just as clearly as if...as if he was here.”
Griffin pulled her closer, smoothing back her hair.
“We’re going to find him, Vickie. We’re going to find him.”
“Do you think that he could be calling to me?” she asked.
He eased her back down with him. “From what I’ve seen in life—and death—just about anything is possible,” he told her softly.
She would never sleep again, she thought.
But, in his arms, she did.
When she awoke in the morning, she found a note on her pillow; he had showered and headed out to get started on the task of researching Alex’s last known whereabouts. She smiled, got up and stepped into the shower.
She was startled to see dirt in the water around her feet.
She lifted a foot...
There was dirt on it! Rich, dark dirt!
As if she had walked down a forest path.
Suddenly, it seemed as if the water off her body ran red...
Bloodred.
She gasped.
But the dirt faded into the bloodred color of the water...
And the blood faded away, as well, and she was just standing in the shower.
Seeing things and losing her mind.
*
By nine the next morning, Griffin was waiting at the office of Professor Milton Hanson.
Hanson was a trim man who appeared to be in his midfifties or early sixties. He had iron-gray hair and kept fit; he was about five foot ten and leanly muscled—a handsome academic with nicely angled features and clear gray eyes. He must have readily claimed the attention of his classroom, Griffin thought. His voice was rich and powerful and his manner commanding.
“I’ve actually been trying to reach Alex myself,” Hanson said after Griffin had shared why he was there. “Yesterday was Sunday, so I didn’t expect him in school, but I was calling him about work we were doing.” Hanson frowned thoughtfully. “Alex is an exceptional researcher. Never stops—he can always find another reference or another book. He’s great with the Internet and has no problems finding out what obscure library might hold a source he wants to investigate. I wasn’t worried, but... I’ll call his assistant now.”
He did so. Griffin waited.
Hanson sighed and hung up the phone. “Alex hasn’t shown up to work. He had an early class this morning, but he didn’t make it.”
“Do you know where he might have gone?” Alex asked.
“No. Or yes—as in anywhere they might have made some kind of fantastic new historical find. Except—no. Alex is extremely responsible. He doesn’t just take off and go places.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Griffin said. He lifted his hands in question. “Friends? Enemies? Is there anything you can tell me?”
“He’s friends with everyone,” Hanson told him. “He has no enemies—not that I know about. I’m sure some professors or academics out there are jealous. He’s just naturally brilliant, his theories always test out when the research is all done... Oh, no. You think that something has happened to him?” Hanson frowned, then his brows shot up. “But you’re him! You’re that federal agent who brought down the attacker last night. Some kind of crazy man who killed himself rather than be caught. But when Alex was attacked, it was random, right?”
“Yes, we caught a man last night who had attacked a woman. He died,” Griffin said. It was all over the news. He decided not to explain. “A friend of mine is a close friend of Alex’s. He was supposed to meet her last night. Now he hasn’t shown up for class.”
“My God! He could be lying dead in his apartment!” Hanson said.
“He isn’t lying dead in his apartment. It’s been checked.”
“Already? But—”
“He has friends who care,” Griffin said, not telling the man that the “friends” he was referring to were himself, Vickie and Detective Barnes.
“Oh, well, that’s a relief!” Hanson said. “Good. I mean, good that he’s not dead. I’m so sorry that none of us seems to know where he is!”
Griffin rose, presenting one of his cards to Hanson. “If you see him or hear from him or think of anything that might help us, please call.”
“Of course.”
“What about other friends here, in the department?” Griffin asked.
“Well, he came here as a guest professor, you know. I believe that he’s about to become full-time, but that’s up to many people, really—after all, this is truly one of the finest teaching institutions in the world.”
“Yes,” Griffin agreed, lowering his head to hide a slight smile. It wasn’t that he disagreed; it was Hanson’s absolute assurance in his words.
“You might speak with Lacy Callahan. She is a professor of history, as well, specializing in ancient myths and all form of religions, especially as pertaining to the human psyche. They are friends, and they love to argue. In our world, that makes for good friends,” Hanson said.
“Great. Thank you. Where do I find her?”
“It’s summer session, so I’d say that she’ll be in the courtyard in about fifteen minutes. She always takes a tea break after first class in the summer—she loves the sun. Students know they can find her there,” Hanson said.
Griffin left Hanson’s office and headed out to the street.
The sun was out; the day was perfect. It was Monday morning, and Boston was alive with activity.
There was a crime rate in Boston—no way out of it. But he loved his city.
Yes, it had once been a bastion of ungodly religious intolerance, but from that harsh and cruel base, some of the greatest minds in the history of the country had risen to the Age of Enlightenment and then the birth of a new kind of freedom and a brave, new country.
He’d also been with the FBI long enough to know that while men and women could rise to the greatest of accomplishments, compassion, intelligence and more, there were those who could twist anything into something dark.
And he could feel it.
It seemed all the more reinforced by Vickie’s nightmare last night. It wasn’t just a dream.
He didn’t know how it worked. He didn’t know if it was the gut thing that men and women in law enforcement all seemed to develop, or maybe it was something more.
And perhaps that something more defined the members of the Krewe—whatever gift or sense it was that allowed them to speak with the dead.
However it worked, he knew: the attacks weren’t over.
They were just a tease of something more sinister.
And somehow, Alex’s disappearance was part of it.
*
Devin arrived at Vickie’s apartment as she was still dressing and gulping down a cup of coffee.
Griffin had headed off to speak with Professor Hanson; Rocky was going to speak with the police who had been on guard duty over Alex following his attack.
She and Devin were off to follow in Alex’s last footsteps.
Since they were headed to the café by Faneuil Hall, she wasn’t sure why she was drinking coffee, except that, of course, it was part of her general morning ritual.