Heather Graham - Dark Rites

“He didn’t show? You know him better than I do, but that’s not like Alex, is it?”

“No, it’s not like Alex at all.”

“Did you call him?”

“At least a dozen times. And I’ve left just as many messages,” Vickie said.

Griffin was silent for a minute. “How long have you been trying to reach him?” he asked her.

“Um, let’s see... I started calling him this morning, when you got the call from Devin telling you that she and Rocky were going to be heading up to Salem, and did you want to meet for dinner. So, I’ve called and texted all day.”

“I can come and join you. Well, in a while. A woman was attacked—she’s on her way to the hospital. And a man died. I’ve still got things to do and, you know, paperwork.”

Paperwork.

She’d learned all about police paperwork during the Undertaker case.

“Roxie and I will go ahead and have dinner and then head to my place,” Vickie said. “We’ll wait for you there. In the meantime, I’ll hope that Alex calls me with some kind of an apology!”

“Is his family near?”

“He grew up in Massachusetts, but his folks are living on an island off Georgia now—his dad started getting asthma,” Vickie said. “He has a little sister, but she’s studying in Europe somewhere.”

“Okay.” Griffin was quiet for a minute. “I just have to report to the local office, get my statement in. And Barnes has to do the same, but he can kick this over to one of the task force members. Finish eating. I’ll get to you as soon as possible.”

“I’ll head home,” she said.

“I’ll see you soon.”

She hung up and looked around the room again with frustration, hoping—perhaps ridiculously—that Alex might have appeared. No Alex.

She frowned, though. A young blonde woman was standing at the end of the counter bar, as if waiting for a coffee creation.

But she was staring at Vickie intently, with unusual intensity.

“Why is that woman looking at me like that?” Vickie murmured aloud.

Roxanne turned to look toward the counter, but at that moment, several young men walked by—all of them a fine size to serve as tackles for the Boston Patriots, should they choose.

“There—she was right there. Really pretty blonde. Young, long hair—white summer halter dress with a flowy white wrap...”

“I don’t see her.”

“She’s gone. She was staring at me, weirdly.”

“Maybe she got a bad shot of coffee, Vickie. Hey, not trying to be insulting or anything here, but it’s not always about you, Vick!” Roxanne said lightly.

Vickie laughed. “Yeah, yeah, honestly, I know!”

“So! Back to earth here. Griffin is on his way?” Roxanne asked.

“In a roundabout way,” Vickie said. “We’ll just have dinner and go to my place.”

“You’ll go to your place,” Roxanne said. She shivered. “I want to stay a mile away from whatever it is you have going on!”

Vickie didn’t blame her friend; Roxanne had gotten a concussion when she’d been dragged into the investigation during the Undertaker case. She might have been killed.

“Oh! What I said—it sounded absolutely horrible!” Roxanne said, wide-eyed. “I mean, I’d like to think that I’m a good friend, that I’d be with you through thick and thin, but—”

“It’s okay!” Vickie assured her.

“You two will want to talk. Do you think that Griffin caught the person who attacked Alex? Do you think that Alex is safe now?”

“I don’t know. Griffin seems to think that there’s more than one person involved.”

“Oh! Then...maybe Alex isn’t just rude, or forgetful, or having an emergency with his dog,” Roxanne said.

“He doesn’t have a dog, Roxanne, and I am getting more and more worried.”

Vickie managed a smile for her friend. “It’s okay. Go home. I do understand. And Griffin will be tired and we will need to talk. So, we’ll finish dinner...and hope that Alex is okay. That he’s just being rude—and the danger facing him is going to be from me!” Vickie said. She tried to speak lightly.

She just didn’t believe that Alex was rude. He was too good a guy.

And that meant...

She tried to keep her worry at bay as they ordered and made small talk as they waited. She didn’t do so very well. She picked at her food. And finally, Roxanne said, “Hey, let’s go. I have to wrap up my latest painting to bring to a gallery at Copley Square tomorrow. And you’re not enjoying your time with me. And I’m enjoyable. So let’s just cut it short. I know you’re worried.”

They left the restaurant, walking together as far as they could to their apartments, and then warning each other to keep their eyes out for trouble.

Both women carried whistles and mace—something Griffin had insisted on after all the trouble during the Undertaker situation.

But Vickie reached her apartment with no one doing anything other than giving her a nod in acknowledgment as they passed—that was Boston’s method of a smile, she thought. A nod!

Entering her apartment, she called Griffin’s name, but she didn’t believe that he’d returned yet, and he hadn’t.

Her apartment, however, wasn’t exactly empty.

It appeared that a young couple was seated on her sofa.

They were both just teenagers, and attractive. He had been a high school football hero, well-built, charming, quick to smile. She had been a light-haired, light-eyed beauty, incredibly sweet, tragically naive. They were really adorable—completely absorbed with one another...

And dead.

Of all things, they seemed to be watching a marathon showing of The Walking Dead on Netflix.

The boy was Dylan Ballantine. He’d saved Vickie’s life when she’d been a teenager—and he’d haunted her ever since. A good thing, since he’d helped incredibly in the recent Undertaker situation. His family had been involved, and Dylan dearly loved his family.

The young lady...

She was newer at being a ghost.

Tragically, she’d been a victim of the Undertaker.

Vickie saw the remote on the coffee table and picked it up to turn the volume down.

“Hey,” she said to the two.

“Hey, Vickie! We didn’t expect you back yet!” Dylan jumped up, looking as guilty as a teen caught petting in the back seat of an old Chevy. “We thought you’d be late, that you and Alex would go on forever and ever over all you’d dug up!” Dylan added. “We aren’t really TV hogs, you know.”

“It’s okay. You know you’re welcome to the television. I’m happy that you guys are enjoying your...”

She almost said “lives”!

“Enjoying each other, being together. Enjoying...”

“The Walking Dead?” Dylan asked, amused.

“You’re ghosts, not zombies,” she reminded him. Dylan did have a wicked sense of humor—he’d spent years totally enjoying tormenting her, trying to make her speak to him in public and, in short, look entirely crazy.

Years ago, Vickie had been babysitting when an escaped serial killer had targeted her. Her charge—Noah Ballantine—had been born after the death of his older brother, Dylan, who’d been struck by a drunk driver at seventeen. And when the psycho had been in the house, Dylan had materialized before Vickie, warning her to grab Noah and get the hell out.

Terrified, she had done so. At that time, Griffin Pryce had been a cop and was out on the street, and he’d been the one to bring down the man who had been about to kill her and Noah.

While she’d felt an instant connection to Griffin, she hadn’t seen him again until he had returned to Boston as an FBI agent, looking into the Undertaker kidnappings and killings.

But while the ghost of Dylan Ballantine spent much of his time in his parents’ home, which wasn’t far from Vickie’s, he’d apparently made it his vocation in death to haunt Vickie, down in New York City when she had been at the university, and again here, in Massachusetts, since she had moved back. He’d actually become an amazing friend—although one who still liked to taunt her in public and make her appear to be insane when she forgot herself and responded to him.