At the time, they’d all been so stunned and devastated, they’d never even spoken of it among themselves. They’d prayed and they’d waited for the murderer to be found....
And waited.
The killer eluded all efforts by the police to discover his—or her—identity.
Back then, the cops had talked about cults. Maybe they’d do the same now.
Within the hour, the body was on the way to the morgue. The crime scene unit continued to comb the woods, and Rocky stood with Jack by the side of the road.
“Shit,” Jack muttered, looking at Rocky. “I don’t study this kind of stuff—you know, the psychology of a killer. I guess you do. But my wife watches those shows all the time.” He paused and looked at Rocky a little sheepishly. “My wife—Haley.”
Rocky smiled. “Congratulations. I’m sorry I missed it. I guess I should have come home more.”
“We sent you an invitation to the wedding.”
“I never saw it. I was probably working out west and it never reached me.”
“Yeah, well, anyway, Haley is hooked on all the crime shows. She’s relentless—trying to tell me how to be a better cop all the time. I guess it doesn’t hurt. But how could this be the same guy? Melissa was killed, what? Almost thirteen years ago? I thought serial killers escalated, getting more violent and killing more frequently.”
“Usually. But there have been cases where a killer starts, stops, then picks up years later. Sometimes it turns out he was in prison for something else, but sometimes he just loses the urge until something happens to trigger it again. No one has ever really cracked the puzzle of the human mind. We can look for patterns, we can base our investigations on what we’ve learned, but we’re surprised all the time. This looks like the same killer, but we don’t know yet that it is.”
“Copycat?”
“Possibly. Are you lead on the case in Swampscott?” Rocky asked him.
Jack nodded. “They’ve taken everything else off my plate. They want this one solved.” He shook his head. “Nothing to do with Melissa. It’s just my job.”
“So,” Rocky said, “tell me about her.”
“Carly Henderson,” Jack said. “She was a redhead. We found her in the same kind of situation, small patch of woods in a semiurban area. She was a local. I don’t know who this woman was, but I’m willing to bet she’ll prove to be local, too.”
“Like Melissa,” Rocky said.
“Like Melissa,” Jack agreed.
* * *
“I definitely need a dog,” Devin said, leaning back against the door. It was locked and bolted. She’d checked the back door and the windows, too. She still felt on edge. “A giant dog. Or maybe an attack cat—like a tiger.”
I just found a woman with her throat slashed!
She suddenly wondered at her own courage—or stupidity—in running into the road. She might have flagged down the killer instead of an FBI agent. A normal person would have run back to the cottage, locked the door and called the police.
But what if the killer had hidden in her house?
At least she knew the killer wasn’t inside with her now. The young officer who had walked her back had made a thorough search. He’d gone into her closets and looked under the beds. And the cops would be nearby, searching the scene, for a while, she knew.
Poe squawked.
Her hands, she realized, were still shaking.
She could still see the woman all too clearly in her mind’s eyes. Lying there. Dead.
Poe let out another cry.
“I’m sorry. You’re a great bird. You just don’t have fangs and claws,” she told him.
It was all right. She was locked in, and she wasn’t opening her door to anyone.
Devin walked to the entertainment center—artfully hidden behind lattice doors—and turned on the television, wanting company.
She sat down at her computer, thinking that if she went back to work she would concentrate on the wonderful magic of her aunt—both her real aunt and her fictional Auntie Pim—and get lost in the joy of writing.
Except she didn’t.
Work? Was she kidding herself? She wasn’t going to get any work done now.
She looked up the murder in Swampscott.
The first site she opened, the local paper, gave her as much information as was available to the public.
The police have identified the victim found dead in the Swampscott woods on Saturday as Carly Jane Henderson. Ms. Henderson ran a local beauty salon and was a longtime resident of Essex County, though she was born and raised in Danvers. She was last seen leaving the O Club in Salem at eleven o’clock on Friday night, after enjoying dinner and cocktails with friends. Her car was parked at the local garage, where it remained until found by police. Police are seeking help to solve her murder. Anyone with any information regarding her whereabouts after she left the O Club is asked to please call the county sheriff’s department.
While police are closely guarding information regarding the murder itself due to the ongoing investigation, some local residents remember the murder of Melissa Wilson thirteen years ago. Melissa had left a friend’s house at around five o’clock, after a study date. She was later found the same evening in Peabody Woods. However, while Miss Wilson was seventeen, Carly Henderson was thirty-two.
The clock on the mantel struck twelve. Devin jumped, then stared at the softly chiming clock.
The two men had talked about...both murders. Or two murders. Or...
They’d known each other, she thought. The cop and the man she’d flagged down. Agent Rockwell...and Detective Grail. The two knew each other and...
She turned back to the computer screen.
Melissa Wilson.
She remembered the murder herself. She’d been about thirteen. Her parents had gone crazy with worry, of course. She’d barely been allowed out for weeks. But then events in the rest of the world had overshadowed one murder in little Peabody, and Melissa’s death had faded from the collective memory.
She’d jumped when the clock chimed; when her phone rang, she nearly flew off her chair.
Who could be calling at midnight?
She stared at the caller ID. She didn’t know the number. She didn’t even know the area code.
For some reason, though, she answered it.
“Hello?”
Images from books and movies swept through her mind. It was the killer. He was going to tell her that he was watching her....
“Miss Lyle?”
For a moment she didn’t reply. She couldn’t.
“This is Agent Rockwell.”
Sometimes the handsome cop was the killer, she reminded herself.
“I asked Detective Grail to make sure that an officer was posted outside your house tonight.”
She found her voice. It was a squeak. “You think—you think he’s still out there?”
“Frankly, no. Whoever this is, he carefully stalks and kills his victims. It’s very possible he gets to know them, one reason why Carly Henderson might have left willingly with him, and why the victim you discovered may have stood unsuspectingly with her back to him.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything, just waited for him to go on.
“I think you’re fine—I promise. But I thought you might be nervous, and that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a patrol car in front of your house.”
“Thank you.”
She walked to the window, pulled the drapes and looked out. There was a patrol car, bearing Salem’s famous witch logo on the door.
“Thank you,” she repeated.
“Have the best night you can,” he told her, and hung up.
There was something she liked about his words, she realized. He hadn’t said anything inane like Have a good night.
No. He’d said, Have the best night you can.
She’d barely noticed anything about him earlier, but now memory kicked in.
The man was tall and well built, though it was hard
to really tell what lay beneath the suit. He’d looked strong. A good man to have around when a murderer might still be lurking in the woods nearby.
Unless he was the murderer.
Oh, God, her imagination was making her crazy.
She hovered by the computer a while longer and then rose at last. She was too nervous to undress for bed. She turned out her bedroom light but left the other lights in the cottage on.
Sensible, she thought. She could see out, no one could see into her room.
She was finally beginning to drift off to sleep when her half-closed eyes turned toward the bedroom door.
Maybe she was asleep already. Dreaming. She could swear she saw Aunt Mina there with her delightfully rosy cheeks and her long white hair rolled into a bun.
“Sleep, my little darling, I’m here,” her aunt said.
And Devin managed to fall into a real sleep at last.
* * *
“Are you two ever calling it quits and going to sleep?”
Rocky looked up. He and Jack had spent the past several hours poring over everything they knew about Melissa’s murder, and the murders of Carly Henderson and the as-yet-unidentified woman whose body had been found that night.
The question had come from Haley—Haley Grail, Jack’s wife.
Haley, too, had aged well. She’d gone from being a cheerleader to a dance instructor. She and Jack had married five years ago. They had one child, a toddler son named Jack, after his father, and called Jackie.
Haley had been pleased to see him, genuinely pleased. Not surprising. They’d parted as friends. Tonight she had her pretty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and was wearing sweats.
“Wow, I didn’t realize how late it was. Sorry,” Rocky said, rising. “My fault. I drove back into town and into a murder. And with the similarities to Melissa’s death, well...”
“It’s not all your fault,” Haley said. “Jack has been obsessed, as well.” She looked at her husband affectionately. “And I understand. You have to remember, Melissa was my good friend back then.” She straightened and went into parental mode. “But you two, if you’re going to be worth anything to anyone tomorrow, should get some sleep.” She smiled at them even as she nodded firmly. But then her smile faded. “He’s back, isn’t he?”
“Haley, we really don’t know—” Jack said.
“He’s back. The Pentagram Killer is back,” she said.
Rocky looked at Jack. He hadn’t known they’d given a nickname to the man who’d killed Melissa.
Jack shrugged. “You never heard that?”
“I never knew the news about the pentagram was out there,” Rocky said.
“It’s not. That’s just between us. Those of us who were there.” He stopped, flushing. “Of course, Haley and Vince and Renee and I have talked over the years. I guess we didn’t start using the nickname until after you went to college. It’s just between us. You never heard the term because...you were gone, and once your mom moved...you never came back. The kids growing up around here just call him the Backwoods Slasher. I think I heard it first at Salem College, where I wound up going. You know how urban legends start. In the dorm hallways people would see the ghost of Melissa, her throat red and bleeding, and she’d say, ‘Help me.’ When kids went parking out by the woods, they were warned to beware of the Backwoods Slasher.”
Rocky knew all about urban legends and ghost stories.
It was just different when you’d been there. When you’d really seen a woman lying dead in the dirt, a necklace of red around her throat.
When you’d really heard the words from somewhere in your mind.
Help me!
And when you’d completely failed to do so.
“Haley, that was thirteen years ago,” Rocky said. “We don’t know what’s going on here yet. We will find out this time, though.”
She smiled at him. “I know you will,” she said. “Meanwhile, you know you’re welcome to stay here. We have a little room behind Jackie’s. It’s yours, so long as you don’t mind tripping over Legos now and then.”
“That’s nice of you, Haley,” he said. “Thank you. But I’m at the new hotel on Derby Street. I’m okay. And now it’s time for me to go.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Jack told him.
As they headed to the car, Jack said, “Hell, you even look like a fed. Black suit, perfect tie.”
Rocky laughed. “And you look like a detective.”
“Oh, yeah, how’s that?”
“Nondescript,” Rocky teased. “I’m joking, of course. You look good. I’m sure you can still ‘go long.’”
“It’s softball for me these days,” Jack told him. “I’m a damned good first baseman.” He hesitated. “Vince is on the team, too. You can imagine what that’s like. When he hits the ball...well, if he gets a piece of it, we’re all rounding the bases.”
“I have no problem believing that. How’s the rest of our old gang?” he asked, then added softly, “You and Haley are married. What about Renee?”
“Renee is the eternal cheerleader—she’s coaching now. Obviously Vince is still in town, too. Believe it or not, he’s running for city council. He became an attorney,” Jack told him.
Rocky laughed. “Well, hell—Vince is going to show us both up. Good for him.”
Jack was thoughtful for a moment. “It changed us, you know? Melissa changed us. We were all cutups—except for you. But...maybe we realized how short life could be. I don’t know. But after the night she was found...after the grief counselors came to school...and after watching...waiting... for something horrible to happen again. I don’t know. We changed. Actually, I thought about you a lot. You could have done anything. With your grades, you had it all made. But all you wanted was to be a cop. Like your dad.”
“Did it have anything to do with wanting to solve Melissa’s case?” Rocky asked. “You deciding to become a cop?”
Jack shrugged. “Maybe. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Rocky admitted.
“And you walked right into another murder.”
“Technically, I was driving. Miss Lyle walked into the murder—or sort of, anyway.”
“How do you figure that?” Jack asked him.
“That she sort of walked into a murder?”
“Yeah.”
“She said she heard something. But according to the medical examiner, the woman was killed around five, and Miss Lyle didn’t even get home until it was at least six. By then...who knows what she heard. I’m going to talk to her again tomorrow—with your permission, of course.”
Jack grinned. “You have my permission, though I have a feeling you’re not going to need it. Someone on high is going to tell the sheriff to invite the FBI—and you’re going to be it.”
“I doubt I’ll be alone,” Rocky said. After his meeting with Jackson Crow, he’d met the other members of the local Krewe. Crow’s wife was also one of his agents; her name was Angela Hawkins, and her main job was to assess reports and determine which agents should work each situation, according to their talents as well as their availability. She would undoubtedly be sending someone else to work the case with him.
Jack nodded. “Autopsy tomorrow, if you want to observe. Carly Henderson was released to her family a few days ago for burial. You’ve seen all the records and reports, though.”
“Thanks. And good night, Jack. Good to see you. I just wish...”
“I know. You should have shown up for the reunion,” Jack said. “Except even then...”
“Melissa was on everyone’s mind.”
“Yeah,” Jack agreed.
Rocky slid into the driver’s seat.
Jack called out to him one last time. “I’m glad you’re here, Rocky. I’m, uh, ready to go long.”
Rocky waved to him. “Takes a team,” he replied.
A little while later, in his room at the hotel, Rocky laid his Glock in its small holster on the bedside table, stripped down to his shorts and lay back on
the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Three. Now there were three.
That they knew of.
Why one all those years ago—and two more now, so many years later?
He could ask himself the question all night and it wouldn’t matter. He didn’t have the answer.
Yet.
Finally he slept.
And he dreamed. He was a kid again, following a voice. A voice that said, “Help me.”
He ran—ran hard and fast. This time, he had to save the victim. He came to a graveyard and hopped over and around stones, trying to reach the summit of a little hill right in the middle of the graves. Because he could see her there.
It was Devin Lyle.
She was facing him. The wind had caught her raven-black hair and swept it around her face. She was tall and sleek, and her dress was caught by the whipping breeze, as well. The night sky was a deep blue, with black shadows. He could hear her calling to him, asking for help, and he couldn’t reach her.
There was a presence behind her, but she didn’t know. She didn’t see.
It was the killer.
For a moment something glittered in the starlight.
A knife.
Rocky jerked awake drenched with sweat. He looked at the bedside clock. It wasn’t quite 6:00 a.m.
Screw it. He got up and showered. He thought of the different investigative paths he might take.
By the time he was dressed, he knew exactly where he was going.
* * *
The old saying was right. Daylight did make everything better.
Devin rose, showered and dressed, then brewed coffee. Looking out, she saw that there was still a patrol car in front of her house, just as she had been told there would be.
She poured a cup and went outside. Unbidden, an image came to her mind. She was going to get there and find out that the officer was dead. There would be a bullet hole through his forehead or a knife stuck through his throat.