“None taken,” Hawthorne said, the smile returning to his face.
“But I have to ask, why me and why you? Why not go with a detective agency?”
“Because the uncle, a man named Bernard Samuelson, understands that no detective agency will find the girl. It will take a man with a special skill set, one with which a person is born, not taught. A person such as yourself.”
The two men stared at one another across the short gulf between them for a few moments before Ryan said, “With all due respect, I’m beginning to think you’re a little crazy.”
Hawthorne’s grin never wavered, though Ryan wondered if he saw a touch of frustration work into the corner of it. “The payment is guaranteed, Mr. Dixon. You need only make a good faith effort and I assure you, succeed or not, you will be paid.”
“But I still don’t get it. Why me?”
Hawthorne’s smile grew wider. “Sometimes it takes a hero to perform such a duty. Besides, can you really turn your back on a face like this?”
Hawthorne slipped a picture from inside a desk drawer and slid it in front of Ryan. Whether he expected Ryan to gasp or not, he didn’t show it. For his part, Ryan could not hide his reaction. He had seen the girl before, a child no older than thirteen or fourteen. One with flannel pajamas covered in shooting stars and moons and unicorns.
“Good,” Hawthorne said. “You leave for Boston in the morning.”
Ryan pulled his jacket tight around his chest, fastening the second to last button in a stubborn if futile effort against the cold. It was a late April evening, and he had expected warmer weather, but the notoriously fickle Massachusetts climate had been his undoing. So he stood there shivering on the corner of Dartmouth and Newbury Street, in the shadow of an ancient Episcopalian church, watching as the girls in their too small — and too cold — outfits walked past, clinging to each other’s arms, off to some night of excitement and excess in the depths of Boston’s more enticing neighborhoods. For a moment, he thought of joining them. Of leaving the job and his life behind, starting afresh in a new place where the sun rose bright and clear each day. He thought of it, but only for a moment.
Ryan didn’t notice the Mercedes until it pulled beneath a streetlight and stopped. Ryan stepped forward and stooped down as a window lowered and the face of a man appeared, framed by the upturned collar of an expensive coat.
“Mr. Dixson, I presume.”
“And you must be Mr. Bernard Samuelson,” Ryan said, reaching through the window to take the man’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m sure. Please, Mr. Dixson, get in.”
The man opened the door, and Ryan slid inside. Before he could put on his seatbelt, the driver had already jerked away from the curb, into Boston traffic and a sudden, gently falling rain. It seemed that Samuelson had arrived just in time to prevent Ryan from having a very uncomfortable night, indeed.
“Would you like a drink, Mr. Dixson?”
Ryan hesitated, glancing over at the bottle of scotch that rested in a panel obviously custom-made for the man who now sat looking him over. “Is that allowed?” he asked. Ryan had always been a straight arrow, no matter how much he tried to avoid it.
Samuelson smiled. “While you are with me, all things are permitted.”
The man removed a stopper from the bottle and poured liberally, handing it to Ryan and filling his own glass.
“So Mr. Dixson,” Samuelson said as the car maneuvered through Boston at speeds that could not be legal, “I understand you were a soldier in a past life.”
Ryan watched as the car pulled off the city streets and on to the interstate. “I was,” he answered, “what seems like a long time ago now.” Without thinking, Ryan’s hand went down to his side, rubbing across his stomach where the newly healed wound still ached.
“It’s fortunate. I’ve found that men such as yourself possess an uncommon bravery. You’ll need it if you are to find my niece and save her life.”
“So you do think Angela’s in danger then?”
Samuelson didn’t immediately answer, but rather stared straight ahead. He clenched his jaw before nodding. “She is. Of that there can be no doubt.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Samuelson, but I don’t think I understand.”
The man laughed mirthlessly.
“No, my friend, there’s no way you could. I am a very wealthy man, Mr. Dixson. And a man in my position learns things that others do not know. They see things that others do not see. Not all of those things are pleasant. I have been told you are a reliable man, and I believe that you are exactly what we need. But I must warn you now, once you commit to this road, you cannot leave it. You won’t find our Angela without walking down paths that are better left untrod. If you wish to abandon this mission, now is the time for you to decide. But one way or another, I need your answer.”
Ryan looked out the window of the Mercedes as it sped along through the rain. In the distance was the sea, and in the lightning that rippled through the clouds he could see the breakers as they pounded upon the shore. He couldn’t know what he was getting himself into, but for a very long time he had felt as though his life was without direction. At least now he had a compass.
“No, Mr. Samuelson, I intend to see this through to the end.”
Ryan wasn’t certain, but it seemed that the compartment grew darker then, and if he were asked, he would have sworn that a flicker of a smile passed over the old man’s face in that instant.
“Very good, Mr. Dixson. I expect you have some questions. Ask them now, please.”
“The police…” Samuelson waived him off before the words could leave his mouth.
“You must understand now, the police are worthless in this. They will provide you no assistance, no leads. My sister is a sweet girl, but she has always been a fool. And the foolish never learn. Pay them no mind. The men who took my niece, they do not seek money, and no ransom will win her release. That task falls to you.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about all this, sir. Is there something you want to tell me? Did you do something? Offend someone? Did they take her because of you?”
The old man sighed and drank deep from his glass of amber liquid. Ryan hoped it would loosen his tongue and clear up the riddles. But the riddles were only just beginning.
“Do you know, young man, where we are going tonight?”
Ryan glanced out the window, noticing for the first time that they had left the interstate and were speeding down what could best be described as a country road. Ryan had never been to the northeast, and everything about his background had told him not to expect this. In his mind, New England was simply one great city, stretching from somewhere in Maine down through New York and Philadelphia and in to Washington, D.C. But as he gazed out into the black darkness of a rainy Massachusetts night, he realized he had been wrong. If anything, there was something ancient about this place, old and decayed.
“No sir, I can’t say that I do.”
“I don’t suppose you would. We are headed to a place of legend, my friend. To one of the oldest townships in the Commonwealth, a place made famous for awful things that happened here long ago — Salem.”
Ryan chuckled. “Witches? I don’t understand.”
Samuelson removed a cigar from his inside pocket and held it up to Ryan. “Care for one?” he asked.
“No,” Ryan said, “but you go ahead.” He watched as the old man pulled a gold-plated cutter from his pocket, snipping off the end before lighting the other with a match. The rich, thick smoke filled the cabin, reminding Ryan of a trip his friends had made to a local strip joint the night before he deployed.
“People are given to superstition, Mr. Dixson. No matter how rational they may claim to be. It’s in our nature. And it has, at certain times, served us well. But so too has it cost us dearly. You speak of witches, and that is no surprise. Salem is famous for that incident and the lives that were lost because of it. But it is not purely without cause that something dark seems to stalk that village. No doubt you have heard speculation about what happened there. Superstition, mass hysteria, even poisoning. All or none of that may have substance. But what if I told you there was more to it than that?”