to the beautiful state of New York.
To Al, Mystery Mike and all those at Bouchercon, 2013.
To Connie Perry and Shayne Pozzessere for a wonderful trip into the shadows and forests of the Hollow and the mind—Irving’s cottage, the church, the cemetery…and all those places where wonder exists and the imagination can fly.
Contents
“They got me, my old friend. They got me.”
Aidan Mahoney woke with a start.
His room was dark; instinct made him reach for the Glock at his bedside and then remain dead still.
Listening.
He’d heard the words as clearly as if they’d been spoken directly in front of him. And when he’d first opened his eyes, he could have sworn that there’d been a form—the form of a man. A man beseeching him—for help. Tall, nicely dressed in a suit, leaning toward him.
But he’d blinked.
And now...
Now there was no one.
He tensed, searching the darkness, listening carefully. He heard the hum of the heater, the noise of a car in the street below and, distantly, the blaring of a horn.
Nothing else. The usual sounds of New York City at night.
But something teased at the back of his mind. Something he should have realized, something he should have recognized about that whisper. His eyes adjusted to the shadows. No, there was nothing in his room. No one stood by his bed. He glanced to the side, but he knew he’d slept alone the night before. He occasionally brought a woman home, but there hadn’t been anyone regular in his life since his crush on Tina Hastings in high school and his passionate college romance with Kathy Flanders.
The passion had lasted until college ended—and cooled almost overnight when their career choices clashed and Kathy had gone on to study anthropology in Cambodia.
Even then, he’d been the one to keep his distance. Sometimes it was just best to be alone and to fight your own demons.
And right now he was definitely alone.
But he’d heard the voice.
He’d seen something.
Cautiously, he crawled out of bed. He kept the light off and made a quick but thorough search of his immediate space, checking next to the dresser, quietly opening the closet.
From there, he left his room just as quietly. Nothing in the hallway. He kept moving, wearing only his boxers, inspecting the apartment’s second bedroom—his office—the kitchen, living room and dining area. No sign of anyone. Anywhere. He’d dreamed the words. He must have.
From down below, he heard the angry squeal of a cat; a garbage can was knocked over. A lot of street noise came into the apartment, since he was on the third floor of an old brownstone in the Village. But the voice he’d heard hadn’t come from the street.
He groaned aloud, setting his Glock on the kitchen counter and opening the refrigerator door, letting the cool air wash over him. He was always wary; training in various military and law enforcement branches had caused that. But he wasn’t paranoid. There was no one in his apartment and he was sure of that now.
But, to his mind, the alternative was almost worse.
He’d known the voice. But he couldn’t quite place it.
They got me, my old friend. They got me.
Aidan glanced at the clock over the fireplace. The time was creeping toward 5:30 a.m. What the hell? He might as well stay awake, shower, get dressed, then head on in to work.
He
