gone down. His shot might have killed Bertram instead of wounding him, but Victoria Preston would have been shot as well if Bertram Aldridge’s shot hadn’t gone wild...
He hadn’t liked to think about it back then. He didn’t like to think about it now.
But he’d seen the kid who had been with Vickie.
The ghost.
Seen him, and then he’d been gone. Griffin never knew if Vickie had seen what he’d seen that day, if she hadn’t been saved to a far greater degree by a dead boy than she had been saved by his own actions.
He’d never point-blank asked her if she’d seen the boy; he hadn’t been sure of what he’d seen himself, despite his own past.
Now, of course, he knew. Yes, she saw the boy.
And the boy was still with her.
Chrissy Ballantine’s older son.
Griffin was doing the driving; he was the Bostonian, who knew where he was going, which streets were open, which were closed, which only went in one direction. They could have easily walked. But under the circumstances, the car was quicker—and more official.
And, thankfully, due to government tags, could be left anywhere, even in the narrow streets of Old Boston.
He’d suggested that they head to the corner street of the Ballantine house. Naturally, police were still in the house. George Ballantine was there with his son, and crime scene techs and detectives were going over the house and the grounds and trying to ascertain how the kidnapper/killer got in—and how he or she got out.
Jackson Crow was fast to get out of the car, but Vickie Preston was already out the back door. She stood for a moment, looking around. Griffin hurried around to her side, looking around as well.
The Paul Revere house was just down the street. They were on the Freedom Trail. When Griffin had been growing up, he’d had lots of friends who lived in other areas and the suburbs who came here just to shop for their Italian sausages and cannoli.
It was Old Boston. Centuries of history unfolded in a number of fairly centralized streets; giant skyscrapers stood among cemeteries where founding fathers had long lain at rest. Great Gothic houses of worship stood among the modern, built in defiance of restrictions long before the Constitution affording a separation of church and state had been penned. Boston was, in Griffin’s mind, a perfect example of the making of a country—and, in this particular area, there were treasures to be found.
It was also a mammoth haystack. How to find a woman among the new and the old—and the many giant buildings that rested here and there between those crafted at a time when a skyscraper had yet to be imagined?
“You think that she’s here—somewhere near the house?” Jackson asked Vickie.
She stood looking up, thoughtful, distraught. Then she glanced Griffin’s way.
“I’m a writer and researcher,” she murmured. “I don’t know much about the mind of a killer, I’m afraid. But...”
“But what?” Griffin heard himself ask, a little too sharply.
“Yeah, what, what?”
The ghost of Dylan Ballantine was with them, anxious. Griffin hadn’t felt his presence in the car—Dylan must have come on foot. Or through the air—or however the dead managed to travel.
None of them actually responded to the boy.
Griffin glanced at Jackson.
Apparently, none of them were going to acknowledge the fact that the others also saw Dylan.
“The clue is, ‘Where Preston ran and old Paul rode.’ I mean, he might have ridden on any of the streets around here, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything. The reference to ‘Preston’ could also mean anything, but ‘where old Paul rode’ might suggest that she’s somewhere Paul Revere might have been.”
Griffin looked around the street. He tried to judge the age of the buildings they saw. The apartments across from them had 1830 chiseled into the stone. They were near Boston Common, and they were near a few of the very old churches, and, of course, burial grounds.
But he didn’t think they’d find her in a cemetery or vault. Their last victim had been found so. Maybe the killer thought that they’d start digging, with such a clue.
“The Ballantine house,” Vickie said. “It was here before the Revolution.”
“The Ballantine house is crawling with cops,” Jackson pointed out.
“The basement?” Dylan said.
“They haven’t found anything to explain how the killer might have spirited her out,” Jackson said to Griffin. “It’s easy enough for a determined criminal to watch people coming and going—and to notice they might have forgotten to lock a door or haven’t found time to lock it and set an alarm. No one saw or heard anything. It wouldn’t be surprising if a criminal had just slipped in and even out. But it’d be more surprising if someone came out carrying something the size of a woman, even if Chrissy Ballantine is a small woman.”
Dylan was already running across the street.
“Vickie?” Griffin asked.
“They have a basement. Only part of it has been finished. The foundation is really big—so, as you can imagine, there’s a lot to the basement.”
Griffin studied Vickie. He was pretty sure that she had something of a “gift.” Intuition, or something stronger that helped her. Like her ability to see the dead.
A gift...that some people might consider a curse or a sickness! Whichever. At the moment, he had to think that they were working with a gift—one that could save lives.
The three of them headed toward the house. Men in uniform stood outside, blocking entrance to it, but Griffin and Jackson quickly showed their credentials. They were allowed through.
George Ballantine was seated on the couch in the grand parlor of the house; it was a large room, tastefully furnished with antiques. He had a cup of coffee in front of him that he hadn’t touched. When they entered, he was talking aloud, rambling, just to talk and try to figure out why this would have happened to him.
“Chrissy is smart, she doesn’t just open the door. I mean, my God, we had a maniac in here once. She’s careful. ” He paused, breaking off in pain. “We lost my older son—we nearly lost Noah. And now Chrissy...”
He broke off, staring across the room.
“Vickie?”
“Mr. Ballantine,” she said, hurrying forward.
George stood, a distinguished man in his tailored suit, and reached out for Vickie. She hurried forward and he enveloped her in a trembling hug.
“Mr. Ballantine, we think that Vickie can help,” Jackson said.
George Ballantine looked at Jackson and then at Griffin.
They’d met at
