LITMIR.BIZ

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tried to see with his mind’s eye. Yes, there could be someone beneath it. But with just the wood piled on top?

      Had the killer changed his ways, and strangled or stabbed her first?

      He strode firmly over to the woodpile and began to toss the large and small logs to the side. He became more frantic, and then he was joined by Jackson and Vickie.

      But as they neared the bottom of the pile, he felt his frustration grow. There was no woman there.

      “Beneath, beneath!” Vickie cried. “There’s a door to a deeper pit...they used to store way more wood down here before, decades ago, long before modern heating systems came in.”

      And there was a door. Griffin saw a little metal ring in the middle of it. He jerked so hard on it that he almost ripped the thin wood portal out of its sockets.

      And there she lay. Chrissy Ballantine, covered in the minutiae of dust and chips and dirt that had fallen upon the place where she’d been entombed...

      “Get her out,” Jackson said.

      “Mom, Mom!” the ghost of Dylan sobbed.

      Griffin dropped low on his knees and lifted Chrissy Ballantine from the little pit in her own home. He was prepared to resuscitate; Jackson was shouting to the cops upstairs to get a paramedic down to him.

      Vickie stood by, silent, watching, as if she were frozen.

      Chrissy Ballantine took a deep breath and coughed and sputtered on her own.

      Resuscitation wasn’t necessary.

      Chrissy Ballantine was alive and breathing on her own.

      And her eyes opened. She looked up and smiled.

      “Vickie... Dylan.” Her eyes closed. She was alive.

      And the paramedics were hurrying down to tend to her.

      Griffin closed his own eyes for a minute, silently thankful that they’d found a second woman alive—on the same day.

      Then he realized that Dylan’s mother had said his name.

      He looked up where Vickie was standing. She stood alone, staring at him with enormous green eyes. He tried to smile and rose and moved away from the paramedics and Chrissy Ballantine. They could hear George Ballantine above, fighting with the cops to get to his wife. They could hear a policeman urging him to let the paramedics work.

      “She’ll be okay, Mr. Ballantine. She’ll be okay. You can come along. They’re going to get her to the hospital now,” one of the officers assured him.

      “We’ve got to go to the hospital, too,” Jackson told him.

      “Yeah,” he said. “But first, we have to get Miss Preston home.”

      Vickie shook her head. “I should go back to my parents’ house, Agent Pryce. They need to know—I mean, I can call them, but they’re parents and need to see me, to know that I’m just fine and that Chrissy Ballantine has been found. Alive.”

      “Of course,” Jackson told her. “But we’ll get an officer to escort you.”

      “And,” Griffin added, “please assure them that we’ll have officers outside their building.”

      “Do you think Chrissy Ballantine will know what happened?”

      “Two victims were found alive today, Miss Preston,” Jackson said. “We can certainly hope that one of them is able to give us something. Mrs. Ballantine owes her life to you, and we got lucky with the other victim. We’re working to find real answers soon.”

      The med techs were getting Chrissy onto a stretcher. Boston med techs were among the finest in the country, Griffin was certain. Chrissy Ballantine already had an IV in her arm and an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Her color was already better; she was going to make it just fine, he believed.

      When they had cleared the room, Vickie headed toward the stairs.

      Detective David Barnes was on his way down.

      He almost ran straight into Vickie.

      “Miss Preston?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      “I’m Detective Barnes. You found her—you found her already?”

      Griffin wasn’t sure if the note in Barnes’s voice was amazement—or skepticism.

      “Logical, Detective,” Jackson said, stepping forward. “And thank God for Miss Preston. She went the historical and reasonable route. No one saw anything. Hard to slip the woman out in a neighborhood like this without someone seeing something. And as for the clue—where old Paul rode. This house was here. Victoria Preston was pretty amazing.”

      “Of course—and still, wow. Amazing—that’s the word,” Barnes said. “Thank you for your help, Miss Preston. Naturally, there’s paperwork.”

      “There always is,” Vickie said.

      “Miss Preston would like to get to her parents’ home and let them know that she’s fine and that Mrs. Ballantine is alive as well,” Griffin said.

      “Yes, of course. But...” Barnes said.

      “I’ll go with Miss Preston and take her statement,” Jackson said. “You and Griffin can head to the hospital and speak with Mrs. Ballantine as soon as it’s possible without endangering her health.”

      “All right,” Barnes said. Griffin was sure the man was still looking at the three of them suspiciously, as if they shared something that he wasn’t in on.

      And they did.

      “Let’s go then,” he said to Barnes. He paused and turned to Vickie.

      She looked tired, covered in sawdust and damp from exertion. Her dark hair was disarrayed and her eyes seemed incredibly large and green in the garish light of the unfinished area of the basement.

      “Thank you,” he told her.

      “Of course,” she said. “Of course.”

      That should have been it. He should have moved instantly.

      He didn’t. He stood there a few seconds longer. There was more to say.

      He didn’t know how to say it.

      When he finally turned to head out, he knew that he’d see her again.

      He had to. He had to because...

      He simply had to.

      * * *

      “Bick-bick! Vickie, Victoria!”

      Vickie was almost out the door, escorted by a nice big cop on one side and the rock of a man who was Jackson Crow on the other, when she heard Noah Ballantine calling to her.

      She turned, and it felt as if her heart melted in her chest. Though the families had stayed friends since the night of the traumatic events—they’d seen each other now and then at church or other social events—it had now been years since she had seen Noah.

      She would have recognized Noah Ballantine, now a nine-year-old, anywhere. He hadn’t changed much. His dad was a truly dignified-looking man, and somehow, Noah was just as dignified. His mother was beautiful, and Noah was still a beautiful kid.

      He remembered her. And that was truly amazing. He’d been so young the last time they’d seen one another.

      He was tall for his age, lean, with a thatch of sandy hair and hazel eyes. He stared at Vickie gravely, and yet with a look of hope that was humbling. He wasn’t a particularly big kid, but something about his face and eyes seemed way older than his years.

      His father, Vickie knew, had just headed for the hospital. Griffin and Detective Barnes would be following. She hoped that everyone hadn’t just forgotten Noah in their anxiety for his mother and determination to talk to her.

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