Seeing Darkness Read online

  “I will serve Massachusetts—and this country—with my full heart, soul, and energy, all the power within me, if elected. I know what lies in the heart of my people, I know my people. I make a point of knowing my people. I like nothing more than taking to the streets to talk about the economy, gun control, foreign relations—anything and everything that matters, and we need to know what matters most to all of us. I am a family man. My wife and I know the trials and tribulations of raising children, and believe me, we are dedicated to improving our schools. Our schools must be safe.”

  Kylie quit reading and simply stared at him.

  “Kylie?” Matt, the charming bartender, said curiously.

  She barely heard him speak.

  She knew the face on the screen too damned well. She had seen how he looked when he was furious and determined; she had seen the pleasure he had taken in stabbing her over and over again.

  Corrine was behind her, truly concerned again. “Kylie, what...”

  Kylie shouldn’t say anything—she knew it. She was just so confused and unnerved. She turned to Corrine. “That’s him. That’s the man with the knife. The man who was...murdering me... I saw his face. I knew him. Corrine, I saw him so clearly!”

  “Him?” Corrine said. “Girl, where have you been? That’s Michael Westerly. He was a state senator. He’s campaigning to be a United States senator for Massachusetts.”

  Kylie wanted to laugh. She wanted to say something like, Of course it can’t be him, then, and go back to their table and talk with her friends and make Corrine happy.

  She couldn’t speak.

  “That’s it,” Corrine said. “You’ve seen his picture—you’ve seen him campaigning. And somehow, under hypnosis, you transferred that into...whatever it was you saw. Hey, come on. He’s even your political party!” Corrine tried to joke.

  Kylie felt weak; the sense of cold, of blood draining from her...of death seemed to be slipping over her again.

  “No! I saw him,” she said urgently. “He’s a murderer! He killed me...with the knife...”

  Corrine and the bartenders stared at her as if they needed to rush her to the nearest psych ward.

  Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? Why couldn’t she have been hypnotized to believe she had been a Regency heiress at the very least? Anything other than a victim, brutally stabbed to death.

  And now, just seeing the man and his easy smile, his assurance...the sensation was horrible. She fought it desperately.

  No good.

  She was going to fall, slip down to the floor, into pure black oblivion.

  Someone took hold of her.

  She turned; it was a man. When he touched her, her fear increased at first. It was him... Michael Westerly, the man who had murdered her!

  But it wasn’t. It was someone else entirely, someone she’d never seen before. Tall, strong in his hold, and somehow fierce. He had ice-blue eyes and dark hair.

  Something about him both scared and somehow assured her, even as he kept her from falling. He was good-looking, not quite as classic in his looks as the would-be senator. His jawline was rock hard and his look more rugged. His arms were powerful, as if he were half made of metal beneath the fabric of his dark suit.

  She didn’t like the way he was looking at her.

  He eased her onto one of the bar stools.

  “Oh my gosh, thank you,” Corrine said for her.

  Kylie still couldn’t speak. Those icy eyes of his seemed to be staring into her, into the place where she had been that day, somewhere in her soul, in a strange reality.

  “Murdered?” he said. “You appear to be alive and well to me, but what’s this about murder?”

  Corrine laughed nervously. “We did ‘regressions’ today and saw our past lives. It’s all just silly. But seriously, thank you. Kylie could have gotten hurt. She was a little freaked out. You know, the rest of us were all cool princesses or whatever, and Kylie was some poor woman who got murdered.”

  The man wasn’t looking at Corrine. Those ice-blue eyes of his were still on Kylie.

  “There was a murder today,” he said quietly. “Out in the old St. Francis graveyard, between here and the Rebecca Nurse Homestead. A young woman was found stabbed to death. Knife went into her twenty times.”

  As if on cue, the news story on the TV switched. Just in—there had been a murder. Annie Hampton, twenty-four, of Peabody, had been found just an hour ago, brutally stabbed and left among the gravestones.

  Fear settled in, and darkness clouded over the world.

  Kylie passed out cold.

  Two

  The four young women were an intriguing group.

  They’d been deeply distraught when Jon Dickson had produced his identification and asked to speak with them. He had done so in a way that suggested—just suggested—that they had no choice.

  The woman who had so drawn his attention was still in his arms as he juggled his ID, and then everyone was scurrying about, trying to determine if 911 needed to be called or if she had imbibed a little too much of the Cauldron’s signature drink, aptly named the Witch’s Brew.

  She began to come to almost immediately. Her eyes opened—a mix of green and something like gold—and landed on him. Alarmed and startled, she nearly landed a good punch on his face, but he caught her arm in time.

  He tried to reassure her as the crowd looked on. His badge indicated he was a very special agent with the government, and he heard people beginning to wonder aloud about what was going on.

  So there he was, holding a stranger who’d made a small scene about a recent murder, being stared at by her wary friends.

  This case meant too much to ignore any possible leads.

  He was already angry with himself. He’d come with the deepest hope he could prevent a murder. But a murder had taken place nonetheless.

  As soon as he was able, Jon ushered the young women out of the bar and restaurant—drawing only a little more attention than they already had. The women were still flustered enough by their friend fainting and his Federal ID that they came along without resistance.

  Jon had taken office space right on Essex Street—not that he wasn’t welcome at the police precinct; he was set up there as well. And he could always call on Detective Ben Miller, his local contact—and friend from the time they’d been five or six and starting out in kindergarten. But Jon had known he’d need his own place, and a shop had been empty, the windows blackened, and it had seemed perfect—right in the middle of town, perfect to watch the comings and goings around him.

  “This is harassment,” insisted the woman who had identified herself as Corrine. “I’ll have you know we all went to Harvard!”

  “And her fiancé studied law,” muttered one of her friends—Nancy, he thought.

  “But still, I mean, you have to tell us what’s going on,” said the third woman—Jenny?

  “I need your help,” he said flatly.

  He hadn’t realized he’d taken the hand of the fourth young woman—Kylie Connelly, now perfectly fine on her own—to lead her down the street until she suddenly balked, trying to jerk away from him.

  He stopped short, staring at her.

  “I don’t know what kind of government agency you’re really with—or if that’s a badge you bought in a souvenir shop,” she told him. She stood very straight, and in her defiance, she reminded him of an Amazonian warrior—ready to go to battle for all that was right and just. She was about five-eight, with a headful of rich, chestnut hair that seemed to naturally curl around her shoulders and beautifully frame her face.

  All four of the young women were attractive. Maybe they were just of an age to be attractive, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, professional, certainly, and at ease with themselves and the world. Confidence could be an attractive asset.

  They were obviously close friends as well, a
nd were quick to rush to one another’s defense, as siblings and best friends were prone to do.

  He didn’t want to scare them more than necessary, but he’d been hunting a serial killer for almost a year—hopping state lines as if those lines were a blueprint for getting away with murder.

  Which was why, of course, the FBI had gotten involved.

  And since the first victim, Deanna Clark of Fredericksburg, Virginia, had been seen by her sister hours after her death, begging for help, the Krewe of Hunters had been called in. Jon was here, following in the wake of that murder—and the murders of Willow Cannon of New Haven, Connecticut, and Cecily Bryant of Warwick, Rhode Island.

  Jackson Crow, field director of Jon’s unit, had called him in as a liaison after the first murder. He’d been hoping to get a step ahead of the killer by coming to Salem.

  He’d failed.

  He’d seen the latest victim, the young woman an odd splash of color in her cheerfully patterned dress against the gray tombstones and the haze of the day that had seemed to settle over the area—blending with the tombstones and the jagged rock that surrounded the place. Yes, her dress had provided color, as had her blood, spilled upon the stones and the ground.

  He’d seen her dead; he’d been too late, a step behind.

  No, in truth, dozens of steps behind, and if he didn’t discover the truth...

  They’d find more bodies among the gravestones.

  Maybe that was why he was grasping at straws, seeking any shred of information that might help.

  He decided that the truth was going to serve best with this group of women. The truth—more or less—and nothing but the truth—more or less.

  “It’s a real badge,” he said. “I’m with a special unit of the FBI. You’re welcome to check my credentials with my superior. I’m on the heels of a murderer. And you seem to know a great deal about a murder that was just committed. The news coverage you saw was the first out. The body was discovered just about two hours ago.”

  Kylie shook her head, her defiance and assurance slipping.

  “We know nothing about it,” she said, her voice husky and pained. “I saw the newscast. And it was horrible, and—”

  “And I heard you clearly. You identified Michael Westerly as a murderer. You mentioned a knife. What I want to know is what would make you say that. What do you know about this murder?” Jon demanded.

  The others gathered around Kylie Connelly as if they were a trio of nuns protecting an abandoned infant.

  But she was having none of that. She maintained her pose of utmost dignity, glaring at him with distain. “I know nothing about a murder. Really,” she said. “My friends and I have been right here, in the heart of Salem, all day long.”

  “We can prove it,” Corrine said.

  “Corrine is getting married,” Nancy informed him. “This is her bachelorette weekend.”

  “She isn’t into strippers,” Jenny explained. She glanced over at her friend. “Although, maybe in retrospect, Corrine, it might have turned out a heck of a lot easier if you’d been into the concept of a few naked bodies.”

  “Jenny!” Nancy snapped.

  “Look, I’m sorry to cause any distress,” Jon began, “but this is very serious, and horrible and tragic. Will you please just come with me to the office for a few minutes? We can sit down and clarify all this.”

  Kylie started walking again, in the direction he had been leading them. Even if she didn’t know where they were going. For a moment, Jon was as still as her friends, who were looking at one another in confusion.

  He turned and took the lead again, no longer attempting to take her hand. Everyone followed.

  He produced a key to the ground-floor space he’d taken on Essex Street. Soon enough, it would be rented out to another gift shop, but for the moment, it was his space.

  He opened the door. Kylie Connelly walked in, still ramrod straight and indignant.

  Her friends balked.

  “How do we know you’re not an insane murderer?” Corrine demanded. “The windows here are all covered. And there’s a sign that says Lola’s Little Lollipop Shop, Coming Soon!”

  “There are four of you,” Jon said simply. “I’ve shown you my identification. If you’ll just look inside, you’ll see you’re fine. The street is filled with Friday night tourists, and—”

  Kylie popped her head back out of his office. “Hey, just come in. Let’s get this over with.”

  The others filed in. He followed behind them.

  The room was set up sparsely; he had a desk with his computer, several folding chairs, fridge and microwave, and a file cabinet filled with hard copies for the case. Against the wall was the air mattress he’d been using since he arrived two days ago. His duffel bag of clothing sat on the floor.

  The last clue—found near the body of Cecily Bryant, in a historic cemetery on the border of Rhode Island and Massachusetts near Fall River—had led him here. It remained in an evidence bag at Krewe headquarters in northern Virginia.

  Their only clue.

  He was glad the photos from the earlier crime scenes remained in his desk in an envelope.

  He indicated the chairs in front of the desk. The four young women perched nervously. He took his position behind the desk—an automatic position of authority, or so they had claimed in one of his academy classes.

  “As you saw on the news, a young woman named Annie Hampton was found in the old St. Francis graveyard, just about two miles from here. I don’t believe this is the killer’s first murder. We’ve been tracking a man up the coast from Virginia. Four known murders to date now with Annie, all young women, all killed in historic graveyards. Three unsolved murders from previous years might have been the work of this same killer, but they weren’t grouped together at the time because they took place almost a year apart from each other.

  “If it’s the same killer, they’ve escalated at a frightening pace. It’s my deepest regret we haven’t caught this man yet. We have questioned hundreds of people, investigated family disputes, work disputes, random drifters, all to no avail. If we just had something... That young woman shouldn’t have died today. We are desperate to catch this monster before anyone else is killed, so I beg you, tell me anything at all you know.” He stared hard at Kylie.

  She met his gaze fiercely, and then sighed and shook her head.

  “I don’t know anything about the murder,” she said. “Seriously. We have been here—within six blocks of where we are right now—all day. We came in this morning, checked into the hotel, had lunch, and then went to our appointments with Dr. Sayers.” She seemed to wince. “He’s a psychologist and hypnotist known for his past-life regressions. It’s Salem, right? Then we shopped, mostly right there on Essex Street. In absolute truth, there is nothing we can tell you that would help to solve a murder. Any of us would help if we could. What you’re saying is horrible. Don’t you think we’d help if we thought we could give you any information that would bring in someone who was doing something so horrible?”

  Jon leaned forward. “When the image of Michael Westerly came on the screen, you identified him as the murderer.”

  The other girls were silent. Uneasy. They glanced over at Kylie, letting her do the talking.

  “Corrine suggested I had seen his face somewhere before. Listen, I’m not sure I even believe in past-life regression. Everyone gets to be a princess. Except me,” she murmured, sounding a little bitter. “I was hypnotized. Trust me, I’ll never be hypnotized again. I pictured something awful.”

  He kept eye contact with her. “Tell me, please, what did you see?”

  She shook her head, as if what he was suggesting was impossible. The she sighed. “All right, I saw him—that man—Michael Westerly. And he was...killing me.” She hesitated. “Stabbing me to death.”

  She paused for a moment; Jon could see she was remembering eve
ry brutal second of the attack. Whatever the experience had been, the terror of it had been real for her.

  “But,” she continued, “I’m telling you, we were here. All day long. Whatever I saw was just... I don’t know...suggestion. Something evoked by his words or his tone, maybe. Not real. Obviously. I’m here. I’m alive and well. And you can check with Dr. Sayers. I doubt if he’s still in his office, but it’s just around the corner.”

  “What happened, though, in this imaginary scene? Step by step,” Jon encouraged.

  She looked at him as if he was asking something entirely ridiculous of her. “I was walking—”

  “Walking where?”

  She inhaled and seemed to grit her teeth before going on. “By a cemetery. Not the Old Burying Point here in the historic district, or even the Howard Street Cemetery. But it was very similar to those. The markers were from the 1600s and up. Pretty place. Old trees growing through some of the old stones, many weathered with no words left... Revolutionary soldiers, Civil War soldiers... Death’s-heads on some markers, a few newer ones...some angels and cherubs. Overgrown. A little sad, really, and by a church. I wouldn’t know which cemetery since there are at least thirty in the area that are so old... Salem is old.”

  “But it had a little square-shaped church?”

  She nodded uncomfortably.

  “The little box church—deconsecrated—now a tiny museum that sits between here and the Rebecca Nurse Homestead?” he asked. “If you’ve been here often and traveled more than the usual tourist treks, you might know the church and old graveyard.”

  She looked pained.

  “Think about it,” he pressed softly.

  “Of course, she knows it,” Jenny burst out. “We’re all from Massachusetts, we went to Harvard. Kylie even spent a summer working at one of the museums, playing Bridget Bishop for their interactive program. Yes, we all know the area. Look, we’re not a pack of silly girls out trying to cause a ruckus. We went to—”

  “Harvard, yes, I got that,” Jon told her. “I have absorbed that from the many times you’ve shared it with me. I’m not implying you’re silly in any way. I don’t know how this could be, but...” He broke off, frustrated.