She paused. “It’s all about the power of suggestion. I’m sure I’ve seen his picture before. Maybe I don’t like something he’s done as a politician, and while I didn’t recognize him in my regression dream, I might have held his image in my subconscious. I have no idea. I majored in history and minored in hospitality, not psychology. So I don’t really know what that experience was all about. But it was just a weird bit of fun. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re here on a special weekend to celebrate Corrine’s upcoming wedding, and we’d very much like to make it a nice occasion for her. If there’s nothing else we can do for you, please, you’ll understand we have to go.”
Corrine, Nancy, and Jenny stood as well. He rose.
He was about to thank them for their time—and to ask them to contact him if they thought of anything else—when Nancy snapped, “Check out our alibis! Just call Dr. Sayers. We were here all day!”
“I never doubted that, though I will reach out to Dr. Sayers,” he said. He looked at Kylie then, and reached to a pile of cards on the desk. He handed her one, hoping she would take it. “Please, be aware there is a very dangerous killer out there. Be careful. And, again, if you see anything, hear anything, anything even remotely suspicious, I will be grateful if you call me.”
“Sure,” she murmured.
He walked them to the door and watched as they headed out to the street—still somewhat busy. A few of the shops stayed open late, and the ghost tours were still going about the historic district.
He was worried for the group.
Yes, he thought dryly, they’d gone to Harvard. But they were four women, alone... They might be successful at their chosen fields, but he felt certain they had never known brutality or experienced any of the factors that might have led them to suspect the worst in others.
At least none of them would be wandering around alone. The killer—thus far—was taking only one vulnerable woman at a time, and until today, he had chosen women on the fringes of society, those who had become lost to loved ones, who might be gone days before their absence was even noted.
Today’s murder was different. Jon had left the cemetery—and the medical examiner and the forensics crew and his friend, Deputy Ben Miller—just before heading to the Cauldron. There’d been no mystery as to the victim’s identity. Even Ben had known all about her.
Annie Hampton had been a school teacher, loved by her coworkers and students. A starry-eyed idealist, fighting the good fight. She’d had a good education, been cherished by a good family, and she had also enjoyed the camaraderie of many close friends.
The killer was upping his game.
And the women Jon had just met seemed to be very much like the most recent victim. Lambs, he thought. He could only pray they would not be easily led to slaughter.
He hesitated a minute before letting himself out and locking the door behind him. There was one friend he hadn’t met up with yet in Salem.
He’d told the girls he’d accept any help.
And his old friend—his dead friend—Obadiah Jones was out there somewhere. Maybe, just maybe, he could help.
* * *
“The nerve of the man!” Corrine exclaimed as they headed back down the street.
“Well...” Nancy started, apparently ready to come to Jon Dickson’s defense. Special Agent Jon Dickson’s defense. “To be fair, I mean, it’s so horrible—that poor woman. And Kylie did walk up to the bar and say the politician had killed her. You can’t blame him. It’s like having a fit over something on an airplane today. You just can’t do it. The whole world is jumpy.”
“Let’s try looking him up, see if we can find him. We’ll make sure he’s totally legitimate,” Corrine said.
“That’s a plan,” Jenny said. “What if he’s just...whoa. What if he’s a killer himself? He’s tall, dark, wickedly sexy... Isn’t that what some serial killers have supposedly been like, gorgeous on the outside? They’re just all twisted up inside. Oh! And if that politician did kill you—or someone else and you saw him killing you—then he’s kind of like that, the same thing. Michael Westerly is a very charismatic politician. You just don’t know that, Kylie, because you’ve been living in New York. If you’d hung around Boston, you’d have recognized him instantly. Not that there’s anything wrong with living and working in NYC, you just haven’t been here.”
Kylie stared at her friend, acutely uncomfortable, and yet trying very, very hard to smile. Jenny had just put into words a deep-seated dread that had been growing in her.
What if she had somehow experienced not a past life, but the present life of someone else? The life and death of someone else?
If she had, Michael Westerly wasn’t a man dedicated to bettering the world for everyone. He was worse than a man just out to better his own world. He was a stone-cold killer.
“We’ll head to the room and whip out our computers,” Corrine said.
“We never ate,” Nancy said. “And this may be wrong—I mean, a woman was killed—but I’m hungry as hell.”
“Room service,” Jenny suggested.
“We can get all comfy and order food and it will be great,” Corrine said.
“We’re supposed to be celebrating,” Kylie reminded her. “We’re supposed to be going out and imbibing at least one silly cocktail. I’m ruining this party. We’re supposed to be having a great time.”
Corrine looped an arm through hers. “This is going to be fun. We were all but dragged out of a bar by a mysterious dark-haired hunk of a man. Now we’re going to go and find out just who the hell he really is.”
“Do they list FBI agents online?” Jenny wondered, frowning. “I mean, wouldn’t that kind of put a whammy on the whole thing, if people know who you are? Oh, maybe that’s just if you’re undercover. This dude isn’t undercover.”
“Let’s just head up,” Corrine said. She gave Kylie a heartfelt smile. “This is fine, it’s cool. My one big wish was to visit Dr. Sayers. I had no desire to have a wild party. Us spending time together is my idea of a great way to head into marriage. Really. So, let’s go up and put on comfortable T-shirts and sweatpants, order up food, eat whatever, and see what we can find out about this guy.”
“Jon Dickson,” Nancy said gravely.
“Okay,” Kylie said. She hated to admit that if she could actually do what would make her happy, she’d lock herself in a room alone and try to sort through her feelings.
Fear.
Empathy for the stranger who had been murdered.
Guilt for ruining Corrine’s party.