Dying Breath. Heather GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
none of them were going to acknowledge the fact that the others also saw Dylan.
“The clue is, ‘Where Preston ran and old Paul rode.’ I mean, he might have ridden on any of the streets around here, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything. The reference to ‘Preston’ could also mean anything, but ‘where old Paul rode’ might suggest that she’s somewhere Paul Revere might have been.”
Griffin looked around the street. He tried to judge the age of the buildings they saw. The apartments across from them had 1830 chiseled into the stone. They were near Boston Common, and they were near a few of the very old churches, and, of course, burial grounds.
But he didn’t think they’d find her in a cemetery or vault. Their last victim had been found so. Maybe the killer thought that they’d start digging, with such a clue.
“The Ballantine house,” Vickie said. “It was here before the Revolution.”
“The Ballantine house is crawling with cops,” Jackson pointed out.
“The basement?” Dylan said.
“They haven’t found anything to explain how the killer might have spirited her out,” Jackson said to Griffin. “It’s easy enough for a determined criminal to watch people coming and going—and to notice they might have forgotten to lock a door or haven’t found time to lock it and set an alarm. No one saw or heard anything. It wouldn’t be surprising if a criminal had just slipped in and even out. But it’d be more surprising if someone came out carrying something the size of a woman, even if Chrissy Ballantine is a small woman.”
Dylan was already running across the street.
“Vickie?” Griffin asked.
“They have a basement. Only part of it has been finished. The foundation is really big—so, as you can imagine, there’s a lot to the basement.”
Griffin studied Vickie. He was pretty sure that she had something of a “gift.” Intuition, or something stronger that helped her. Like her ability to see the dead.
A gift...that some people might consider a curse or a sickness! Whichever. At the moment, he had to think that they were working with a gift—one that could save lives.
The three of them headed toward the house. Men in uniform stood outside, blocking entrance to it, but Griffin and Jackson quickly showed their credentials. They were allowed through.
George Ballantine was seated on the couch in the grand parlor of the house; it was a large room, tastefully furnished with antiques. He had a cup of coffee in front of him that he hadn’t touched. When they entered, he was talking aloud, rambling, just to talk and try to figure out why this would have happened to him.
“Chrissy is smart, she doesn’t just open the door. I mean, my God, we had a maniac in here once. She’s careful. ” He paused, breaking off in pain. “We lost my older son—we nearly lost Noah. And now Chrissy...”
He broke off, staring across the room.
“Vickie?”
“Mr. Ballantine,” she said, hurrying forward.
George stood, a distinguished man in his tailored suit, and reached out for Vickie. She hurried forward and he enveloped her in a trembling hug.
“Mr. Ballantine, we think that Vickie can help,” Jackson said.
George Ballantine looked at Jackson and then at Griffin.
They’d met at the house, briefly, before heading over to pick up Vickie. George Ballantine hadn’t really seemed to recognize Griffin from the past, but then, they hadn’t had much interaction. The detectives and FBI agents on the case had dealt with the family. He’d looked at Griffin strangely, but hadn’t seemed to have grasped the connection.
Vickie—he knew.
“Vickie, dear, so good of you to come...it’s been so long. Noah... Noah is in his room. I’m trying to keep him from everything going on. Of course, I haven’t managed that at all. He’s nine now, still a kid, but... I’m going to have to explain. He just knows that his mom is missing. He had baseball today, Little League, you know? They called me because Chrissy wasn’t there to get him, and then I came home, and she wasn’t here, but she had a cup of tea out... Chrissy doesn’t leave things out like that. Her purse is here, her keys...it’s as if she’s vanished into the thin air. And that clue, Vickie, I mean, thank you. No one can know that ‘Preston’ means you, but...oh, God! I can’t believe this. My family, Chrissy, she’s amazing...you know Chrissy. Oh, God.”
Vickie Preston drew gently away from him. “Mr. Ballantine, we need to search the basement.”
“The basement? The cops have been down there—they’ve been everywhere,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Ballantine, but we need to look, please,” Griffin told him.
The man still looked dazed. “Of course. Whatever. But shouldn’t you be out there looking for her?”
“We’re working on it, Mr. Ballantine. Please,” Jackson said quietly.
“What about the other woman—the other woman who was just saved? It’s all over the news—you just saved her. Can’t she tell you anything—tell you who did this? She could help, she could give us something!” George said.
“We keep checking in,” Griffin assured him. “I’m afraid she’s still unconscious. We need your help, sir.”
Ballantine nodded. “Sure.” He frowned as he stared at Griffin. “I know you,” he said.
“I used to be a Boston police officer,” Griffin said.
“Yeah, yeah, you were here...” George Ballantine seemed confused, and then angry. “Are you the reason this madman took my Chrissy?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. I haven’t worked here in years,” Griffin said.
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Mr. Ballantine demanded. Then he looked at Vickie as if it all might somehow be her fault. “Both of you...maybe it’s because of you.”
Vickie was visibly shaken; Griffin fought his anger. The man was in no condition to be rational.
“I’m with the FBI now, Mr. Ballantine,” Griffin said. “Excuse us. We’re hoping that something in the basement will help.”
He turned; he didn’t know the Ballantine house, but Vickie did. She took his cue and walked away from Ballantine, heading to the kitchen.
Vickie opened the door that led to the basement. Griffin and Jackson followed her down. It was evident the police and techs had been down there already. Shelves that lined the brick walls had been gone through; the door to a half bath stood open.
One door led to the water heater and cooling system, another to other mechanics. The first room held a pool table and old comfortable chairs. There was a half bar that had been built to one side.
Structural components blocked off various areas.
They walked through the different rooms in the basement, between giant brick columns, leaving behind the finished section and moving into a raw work area. They all searched.
Vickie stood in the middle of the floor, baffled.
Dylan Ballantine appeared at her side.
“Vickie, please, please, think!”
She was thinking; that was painfully evident.
“I’m not sure what else...where else. The clue seems so evident. Where Paul rode...this house would have stood then. I’m not sure what else...there’s the Paul Revere house down the street, but too many people are in and out. And the churches...there are so many tourists around.”
“And we just found a woman in one of the cemeteries,” Jackson said quietly, encouraging her train of thought.
“She’s