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.
The young women were all from Massachusetts. He could beat that; he’d been born and raised right here in Salem, and he still had friends and family here.
The first call to the Krewe’s office had been when Deanna Clark had been found. The body had lain in a cemetery outside Richmond, an hour and a half drive for the Krewe. Her sister had told the police that Deanna’s ghost had come to her, which had prompted one police officer who had heard rumors about a special FBI unit to reach out.
While they’d been asked for help and advice, the lead in the case had remained in the hands of the local police.
Then they’d been alerted about a similar murder on the outskirts of New Haven, Connecticut. Willow Cannon’s body had been in the morgue by the time he arrived, and the local police had been handling the case as well, allowing for FBI assistance.
Then Angela Hawkins—Jackson’s wife, and the agent in charge of deciding which cases should be handed to the Krewe and which ones would best be left to local authorities or the main offices of the Bureau—had discovered that a year earlier a woman had been found murdered in a similar fashion in Macon, Georgia. The year before that, one had been left in a small family graveyard near Raleigh, North Carolina. And a little more than a year before that, a slightly different scenario—a victim had been found near a graveyard in St. Augustine, Florida.
The geographical differences and the time gaps might have suggested different killers, but Angela had a theory that their killer had started out slowly. Perhaps honing his ability to kill and disappear, or perhaps discovering his need to kill had gripped him ever more tightly.
When the third victim in the latest rash of murders had been found in Rhode Island, the case had fallen under Federal jurisdiction. Jon never forgot any of the victims—he had studied each of them.
Deanna Clark was the first. Tragically, her death might have gone unnoticed if it hadn’t been for the dogged determination of a second cousin to find the truth; Deanna had been lost to most of her family for a long time. A musician, she had stumbled upon heroin along the way, and then prostitution, and her murder had been chalked up to a very bad trip—surely some other junkie had committed the deed.
He had seen pictures of her in life, and he had heard her recordings. Whatever need for alcohol and drugs had taken control, she had once possessed a beautiful smile. She’d been kind to children, and she’d been known to rescue abandoned pets. He’d quickly become determined to find justice for her, and had meant to search around Richmond until he found the truth.
Then, Willow Cannon had been found outside of New Haven. Her history had been similar. In Willow’s case, she had fallen in love and followed the object of her desire to Connecticut. He, however, found love elsewhere. Willow then fell into the vices far too easy to embrace, especially for the down-and-out, in certain areas of New Haven. She’d had a record; petty theft. She’d started off young and sweet and trusting...and wound up with twenty-one stab wounds.
Thankfully, a local detective had resolved that her death would not go into the cold-case files. Even now, he was still working the case, keeping in touch with Jon, sharing info, letting him know any little step forward—and every frustration as well. That was all right.
Then there was Cecily Bryant, a student at a small college in Rhode Island, young and naive—and tripping into the excesses available in a college town.
She had been killed in an abandoned cemetery just at the border of Rhode Island and Massachusetts—and that was where they had found their first real lead: a matchbox underneath the body.
A matchbox that advertised the Cauldron, in downtown Salem.
So, Jon had come here to set up his office just yesterday, with the help of Jackson Crow, who’d worked through all the red tape and arranged for governmental rental of the shop. Then Jackson had hopped on a flight back to the main offices.
But to Jon’s dismay, he still hadn’t acted quickly enough, or with enough knowledge, to stop the murder of Annie Hampton. He was willing to accept any help in apprehending the murderer—no matter how bizarre it might seem to others. He had long ago discovered many things in the world were not apparent to everyone.
If Kylie Connolly had somehow seen this murder, he had to know everything she knew.
He had seen Annie Hampton when she’d been found in the old churchyard. He had seen her bright colors against the gray of the stones and the graves and the sky. And he’d seen her blood.
She had been found by a tourist wanting to do a stone rubbing of the grave of a soldier killed at Yorktown. She’d hysterically called police. Jon’s old friend, Detective Ben Miller, had been called, and Ben had called Jon right away. The two of them had held a quick meeting when Jon first arrived.
“You really think he’s going to strike here next because of a matchbox advertising a restaurant?” Ben had asked.
“Yes,” Jon said.
Sadly, he’d been proven right, and tragically, he’d been proven right with a terrible speed.
Jon kept his gaze steady on Kylie. “I am not seeing anything foolish or silly in any of this. I need to know what you know.”
“You can’t seriously think Kylie channeled a murder!” Jenny said.
“I don’t know what I think,” he said, leaning forward on the desk and looking at each of them one by one. “I know a woman is dead, and Miss Connelly saw the image of Michael Westerly on a TV and said he’d killed her. She’d seen it.”
“Obviously not true! I am here,” Kylie announced. “I’m right here.”
“But you know something.”
Kylie stood. “All right.” She took a deep breath and started pacing. She crossed the narrow room and back before she went on. “Under hypnosis, I felt that I was walking by a graveyard and a church, and I knew the church wasn’t open. Then, he was there—and he dragged me into the cemetery. I could feel the stone scratching my legs as we went over the wall. I was crying and begging and screaming and it didn’t mean a thing. He was enraged, but almost methodical. Then he pulled out a knife. He stabbed me and stabbed me. I could feel it. The man I saw was Michael Westerly.”