“No!” he whispered.
And she saw why. A man in black denim jeans, a black hoodie, and a black mask was hurrying stealthily toward the girl along the stone path and then over.
“Damn you!” The girl tried to stand and fell. “Please . . . help me. I have to have something, please, please, please—”
“Did you bring the money?” the figure asked.
“I—I don’t have the money. But I’ll get it, but—”
“I need the money. The stuff doesn’t grow on trees. Wait, it does grow on bushes, I think, maybe. Who cares—money doesn’t grow on trees. I need the money!”
Angela fumbled with her cell phone; she couldn’t call Jackson; the call would be heard.
They needed more anyway.
That morning, she’d set Detective Carlson’s number in her phone, and she sent it as quickly as she could.
His answer seemed loud.
He had a bad time understanding her when she tried to whisper lest she be heard.
“It’s drugs—D for drugs!” she snapped into the phone. “We need an ambulance, but I don’t know if the seller is armed or not.”
“Where are you?”
“In a tomb . . . family mausoleum.”
“I’m on my way; calling emergency,” Carlson said.
It flashed through Angela’s mind she might have just done the worst thing.
What if Carlson was in on it?
She couldn’t believe it, but she would be prepared. The girl was getting worse. The man in the hoodie was speaking to her and saying, “Damn, Jeannie, how much . . . what, you couldn’t just be recreational? You’re in a major league meltdown, girl.”
“I need more!” she screamed. “Please, can’t you see? I’m dying!”
“Then hurry up!” the man said, looking around. “Die—before you implicate us!”
Another figure came running up from the road along the path.
“What’s going on? Did you get the stash? We need it. What the hell is she doing here like this?”
“Dying—and not quickly enough,” the first figure said. He was looking around. He found what he sought, a heavy piece of broken cement near one of the graveyard’s angels.
He was going to slam it down on the girl’s head.
And make it look like she, too, had fallen . . . to a cop it could be made to appear she had come to the church, looking for the priest, perhaps, and then fallen and seized and cracked her head again and again . . .
“I know the second man. It’s Jimmy Clark. He’s not that bad a kid, I don’t know how—I haven’t seen him near the vault before!”
Angela drew her Glock and walked out of the tomb.
“Drop that!” she commanded. “Get far away from the girl!”
The figure in the hoodie froze; then dropped the boulder.
“Oh, no, oh, no!” The second boy in front of her cried.
The one John had identified as Jimmy Clark. He was terrified. He turned to run as fast as he could.
The man with the rock swore, reaching for his gun. Angela fired, hitting his wrist with her Glock before he could shoot.
But even as he fell back, dropping his weapon and screaming, John Haverhill called out a warning.
“Angela!”
Someone was at her back—with the muzzle of a gun pointed against her head. “You know, killing isn’t really fun for me. And this bitch is going to die one way or another—”
“Not if she gets medical help,” Angela said.
This time, she recognized the voice. She’d seen the man earlier. It was the groundskeeper, Fred Morris.
“That’s just the point, she can’t. You came down to honor an old friend, huh?” he jeered. “What kind of a cop are you?”
Where the hell was Jackson?
“Special Agent Angela Hawkins. I can’t imagine the prison term—or death sentence—that might fall your way, killing a revered general, a girl who is barely an adult—and a federal agent!” Angela snapped.
“I’ve got to get Jackson,” she heard John murmur.
“He’s on the—the other side!” Victoria whispered.
John didn’t have to leave. They saw Ethan Aubrey was racing toward them. For a moment, it seemed he hit a wall.
Then he plunged through it.
Freddie Morris laughed. “Oh, lady, get serious! Why the hell did you hang around here? Stupid woman. I’ll bet you thought you were going to find something right? Ah, yeah, some of the drugs are still there. Right at the bottom of the tomb with that silly old war boy. But Jeannie doesn’t have any more money, and it’s too late for her I’m afraid. And you. Tomorrow is a big day. People again! Our sales-in-the-woods shop is going to flourish. Oh, don’t worry about me. They won’t find you here, so don’t worry. Just poor Jeannie here.”
Jeannie was on the ground. Her shaking was growing worse. She was about to seize.
But the ghost of Ethan Aubrey had made it to them. He was unseen at first, but he raced around to the back of Fred Morris and grabbed his hand with pure effort, and to Angela’s surprise and pleasure, she saw the hand moved.
Fred Morris fired a wild shot.
A second later, his hand exploded.
Jackson was there, standing by the side of the church. He’d always had a damned good aim.
Angela met his eyes in the pale moonlight covering the graveyard. He ran to her as they heard sirens ripping through the air. For a moment he held her, shaking. Then he dropped down to the ground, seeking a twig, sliding it across the mouth of the shaking girl lest she bite her tongue.
Carlson arrived with two cars of officers behind him. EMTs rushed from their vehicles, and the little chapel and churchyard became chaos.
The girl, Jeannie, was quickly whisked away to the hospital.
Fred Morris screamed that it was all Jimmy—he’d talked them into it. Angela didn’t know Jimmy or the truth, but she trusted the ghost of John Haverhill. She said she didn’t know what the boy’s involvement was, but he hadn’t wanted to be part
