Chapter Six

If Frank thought his meeting with the Kentons went south, it paled next to what he went through with the Gimmels and the Brekkens. The mothers were too grief-stricken to speak, the fathers almost as debilitated.

The stories were relatively the same. Both girls had left the house alone and never returned. Chelsea was on foot, Lauren on her scooter. One minute they were there, the next gone, vanished without a trace. The Gimmels and Brekkens claimed to the best of their knowledge, no one held a grudge against them or any other family member. They had seen nothing suspicious in the neighborhood either before or after the abductions.

Chelsea Gimmel had been taken two days before Mindy, and Lauren two days after Mindy. Yes, they both knew of Judge Parker Kenton, and were absolutely confident a stranger had taken the girls.

When Frank asked them if they thought the girls were still in the vicinity, they offered him a puzzled look. Only Ray Gimmel had asked the significance of that question. Frank reminded them that in many cases children were transported out of the county, often out of state and on occasion, out of the country. He knew by their individual expressions they hadn’t considered that possibility. Frank wondered why not. Why were they so convinced the girls had been taken by a local, yet could not think of one, single possibility of who that local might be?

Frank kept Betsy by his side when he talked to the parents. He wanted to see if Cricket reacted to their conversation. She had the capability of dimming her aura around other people, like she had with him when they first met. And dim it she did.

He wondered what other ghost-like abilities she possessed, or if she even knew how to manifest other powers. Some spirits held monumental strength, others, keen concentration enabling them to move objects with exceptional force or at tremendous speed. He read once that the longer the dead remained a ghost, the more their powers manifested. Those musings took him down another path. How long ago had Cricket died? Mostly he wondered how she had died.

Could it be possible she had also been kidnapped, perhaps by the same person and that’s why she’d entered his life now? He likened it to a retribution-type materialization. Maybe she’d waited a long time for this opportunity, had come forth to see the score settled so her restless spirit could find the peace it craved.

Poor, sweet, little Ghost-girl. Not only had she died before she had a chance to live, but her otherworldly existence had been spawned on the wings of evil. Some tragic event had caused her death; Frank felt it in his bones. A ghostly state originated only when the living passed on suddenly or unexpectedly and weren’t prepared for death. This was a common occurrence among the young, more specifically from those who died in violent accidents. No matter how many times Frank tried to discount those theories when it came to Cricket, he knew in his heart her life had ended tragically.

He wasn’t a religious man, didn’t attend church on Sunday, and had broken more than one of God’s commandments. So why would the man upstairs listen to him now when he asked for His mercy where Cricket was concerned?

After meeting with first Lauren’s parents and next Chelsea’s, Frank climbed into the Denali and drove out of Nestorville, another small town in the area. Less than a mile down the road, Frank felt a tug on the steering wheel.

"Where are you, Cricket? You can stop hiding now." He looked over at the passenger seat and then down at Betsy in his lap. "If you want the doll, take her, she’s all yours." A solid pull on the steering wheel veered the car left. "Hey, stop that. Want us to have an accident?"

Her aura lit up above him.

"Yeah, you don’t care because . . . well, forgive me for sounding so crass, but you’re already dead. I’m not yet, I want to remind you, and I’ll thank you not to hurry it along."

Sparks flew over his head, and he knew the moment he said the words, he should have kept his mouth shut. What a terrible thing to say to a child, living or passed on. His cell phone buzzed. He plucked it from the dashboard and looked at the messages awaiting him. Damn, Rueben Hayworth, Parker Kenton, Grace, and Emily. Emily? Rand’s mother had left three messages? Shit, there would be hell to pay now. Rand had probably told her of his plans to drop out of college, and no doubt said he had his blessing.

He tossed the cell phone back and vocalized his frustration. "I didn’t give Rand my blessing, Em. The little prick all but blackmailed me. Rueben, when I know something about the missing girls, I’ll let you know. And Grace, right now I don’t care if the fucking ambassador to Egypt calls about a missing child. In fact, tell everyone I’m no longer taking cases about missing or abducted children. Ever! My heart is not cut out for this shit. As for you, the Honorable Judge Parker Kenton, sadly, I have nothing to report about your daughter. I’m stuck out here in bum-fuck-no-man’s land without clue one. I agree with your wife. The girls vanished into thin air. Poof! Without a trace and I have no idea where to even begin to look."

Frank slammed his fist into the side window in an attempt to tamp down his aggravation at the same time Cricket yanked on the steering wheel. The car crossed the center lane, hit the ditch and almost rolled over. He slammed on the brakes and brought the Denali to a halt.

Opening his door, he jumped out and drew a deep breath. "What is it with you, Cricket? I said you can have the doll. I’m not driving another foot until you stop pulling on the wheel. That last stunt nearly put us in the trenches."

Cricket fluttered from the car, her aura working overtime.

"What? I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m frustrated, pissed off and most of all, worried about those girls."

She took off across an open field, flying against a gentle breeze and then doubled back. He cupped his hand over his brow to block out the sun and watched her. She hovered over him for a brief second and took flight again in the same direction, only to return seconds later.

"God, why can’t you speak to me? Why can’t I hear you?" He toed the dirt with his foot when she repeated the maneuver. "Damn, you’re trying to tell me something, and I must be denser than moss. Show yourself, give me hand signals; give me something."

As if his words called her forth, her image appeared in front of him.

"That’s my good girl. I knew you could do it."

She hovered in front of him and beckoned him forward with her hand.

"You want me to follow you?"

A burst of energy flared before his eyes.

"In the car?"

It dimmed.

"Okay, on foot. Go, I’m right behind you."

Frank had to run to keep up with her. They crossed the meadow, traipsed through a thicket of underbrush, crossed a creek and at last, came to a clearing. The moment the house came into view, Cricket disappeared behind his shoulder.

"This house? Is this what you wanted to show me?"

He felt a solid push between his shoulder blades.

"The girls are here?" Before she had a chance to respond, he asked, "Are they alive or buried here somewhere?" Oh, God, please don’t let them be dead.

He strode through the cluttered yard and up the rickety steps. His stomach plummeted and his sixth sense kicked in. He roiled against the wicked vibes washing over him. Malevolence oozed from the decrepit ramshackle of a house, seeped out the barricaded windows and withered in the stale afternoon air.

Another jab to his shoulder blades forced him to knock on the door. Long, long minutes later, the door creaked open but not before Cricket took flight for parts unknown. Ghost-girl had a connection with this place, a deep, malicious bond that scared the daylights out of her.

Anger took over. Frank fully intended to barge past the man when he opened the damn door, storm into the house and search every nook and cranny until he found Mindy, Chelsea and Lauren. They were here somewhere, alive or dead, and he wasn’t leaving without them.

He nearly stopped breathing when the woman opened the door all the way. She stood before him looking like a specter had taken hold of her. Dressed in a tattered black skirt and matching blouse, she reminded Frank of a rag-picker. Covered in remnants of leaves and broken twigs, he couldn’t help but wonder what type of thorny bush the woman had fought with. Matted, gray hair sprouted from the sides of her head and hung down her back in wild disarray. Her face, gaunt and pale was crisscrossed with streaks of dirt and caked mud.

A blank stare greeted Frank as he wedged his body between the door and the stoop. "Hello, ma’am."

The woman gave him a tentative nod.

"My car broke down a mile back, and my cell needs a charge. Wonder if I could use your phone."

She peered over his shoulder as if searching for something . . . or someone.

"I’m alone, and I can understand your reluctance to let me in."

Frank reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out his card. Make or break time. Once she realized he was a PI, she’d either slam the door in his face or ask him in. To his surprise, she opened the door and with a flourish of her arm directed him in. He drew a ragged breath and stepped aside in the humble foyer, waiting for her to lead him to the phone. He knew this woman had never seen a cell phone but still needed emergency contact with the outside world.

He didn’t need to use the damn phone, but he’d worry about that when the time came. Dread clawed at his gut as she ambled through what represented the living room with him dogging her heels.

"I’m alone here," she said. "Lost my husband a year back and I’m afraid the place has gone to hell in a handbasket since then."

"I’m sorry to hear about your husband. Don’t worry about the house, ma’am. I’ll just use your phone to call for help and be on my way."

Frank stopped dead in his tracks as he walked by the old stone fireplace separating the dining room from the living room. On the mantle sat a picture of a young girl, his Ghost-girl. His heart fell to parts unknown.

When she realized he’d stopped, she turned around to face him. "This way. The phone is in the kitchen."

"Such a lovely child." He nodded toward Cricket’s picture. "Your granddaughter?"

"Daughter." He swore her eyes misted over when she said the word.

"I’m sorry; I thought you said you lived alone here."

"I do. We lost Christine twenty-five years ago this fall." He’d been right about the tears. A single drop fell from her right eye. "An accident, a terrible mistake . . .."

He couldn’t help himself, had to know. "I don’t mean to pry, but you said a terrible mistake. What kind of mistake?”

Her back stiffened. "I thought you said you needed to use the phone. Like a light bulb going on, her face transformed. Her eyes blazed and she drew her lips into a thin, hard line. "PI? Is that the same thing as a private investigator?"

Frank nodded.

She lurched forward and grasped the back of a dining room chair. "How stupid of me." Her knuckles turned white around the arm of the chair, and her eyes glossed over.

"Let’s end this here, now, before someone gets hurt. Tell me where the missing girls are."

"You can’t have them." He saw her face pale in spite of the streaks of dirt. "You’ll not take them from me!"

"I’ll ask again. Where are the girls? I’m taking them out of here one way or the other."

A pained whimper left her throat and her features took on the expression of a wild animal. "You don’t understand. They must die like Cricket."

Good, God, this woman was Cricket’s mother? Frank took in the room and noticed the dining room table was set for a feast—fine china graced the linen tablecloth and crystal goblets sparkled under the afternoon sun pouring through the window to his left.

Although baffled by the scene, and despite the potent rush of adrenaline coursing through him, he tried to keep his voice calm as he pulled his cell from his pocket. "I’m going to ask you one more time and then I’m going to call 911."

Her shoulders sagged. "There." She pointed to a door off the kitchen. "At the bottom of the steps, you’ll find a door. They’re in the cellar."

Frank rushed past her and headed for the door. He opened it and before he knew what hit him, he tumbled down a set of narrow, wooden stairs. Ass over tea kettle he went, spinning like a top. At the bottom, he heard a groan fill the room and realized it was his. His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch and when he sat up, it hung at an odd angle. Damn, he’d fractured his collarbone. Blood seeped from a gash in his forehead. He must have hit the fucking garden tools he saw parked halfway down. His back hurt and one or two of his ribs were either broken or badly bruised. He tried to reach for the Glock strapped to a holster across his back but it proved an impossible feat.

Muffled cries echoed out from behind the door to his right. The old woman must have bound and gagged the girls. Frank looked up when he heard the basement steps creak. Through a haze of confusion, he saw the black form descend the stairs, one slow step at a time. What the hell did she have in her hands?

Oh, Christ, a shovel.