The drive in Eben’s old Cadillac took just under an hour. Aaron had found a treasure trove of information about the Garney incident online, and Reggie studied the printouts as they trav-eled.
On February 2, 1954, one Joseph Garney had set fire to a country church with the priest and a Sunday school class of five trapped inside. Eighteen years later, he died in prison. His body was shipped back to his hometown of Fredericks, a farm town at the foot of the Berkshire Mountains, in a plain pine box.
During the ride, Reggie felt an ember of hope flicker to life inside her. After they pulled into the local gas station and learned there was only one cemetery in Fredericks, it flared even brighter.
When they found the place and drove through the open gates of the cemetery, Eben started coughing, a painful, sticky hack that forced him to pull to the side of the poorly plowed road. Tombstones dotted the slopes, and a few bleak mausoleums stood on the crests.
“You okay?” Reggie patted Eben gently on the back.
“Fine, fine.”
“Stay here where it’s warm. We’ll be back in a few.”
Eben just held his white handkerchief to his mouth and nodded.
Reggie and Aaron got out of the car and surveyed the grounds.
“You start at the top row and work your way down,” Reggie said. “I’ll take the bottom one and work up.”
Aaron nodded.
“Joseph Garney,” he whispered. “We’ll find him.”
The muddy snow beneath Reggie’s feet pulled at her boots, making a crunch-sucking sound with every step.
Louise Wilkes. Hollis Johnson. Charlotte Mundt . . .
She trudged onward, trespassing in the land of the dead, imagining creatures of desiccated skin and moldering bone seething beneath her feet.
. . . Hugo Branz. Katherine Stahl. Miriam Lukowski . . .
So many graves. So many stones.
. . . Simon Hastings. Bette Youmans. Fiona O’Connell . . .
This is what awaited everyone.
. . . Beloved Father, Cherished Wife, Dear Son . . .
Could Henry already be dead? If he wasn’t in his body, then where was he? Where had the Vours taken him?
Shivering, Reggie knelt in front of a small, nondescript stone caked in grime and frost. She cleared the stone and saw the epitaph:
Pray God Forgive Him
Joseph Garney, 1935 — 1972
“Aaron! Down here!”
Aaron scrambled down the slope as Reggie started clearing away snow from an adjacent headstone.
By the time Aaron reached her, Reggie had uncovered the name:
Joanna Canfield
1901 — 1929
Beloved Mother
Aaron scraped the ice from the stone right beside it, revealing the name of Joshua Canfield, who died and was buried beside his wife a decade later.
“Canfield,” said Aaron. “These have to be Macie’s parents, right?”
Reggie nodded. “Macie Canfield. She’s our girl.”
Aaron placed his hand on her shoulder. “Now let’s go find her.”
Eben looked tired when they returned to the car, but his coughing had calmed. He smiled when they told him Macie’s full name.
“Now we can find her, Eben!” Aaron shouted. “All we need —”
“Tomorrow.”
“But we’re so close. All we need is —”
“Aaron,” Eben said, “it’s Christmas. Everything is closed. Libraries, post offices, courthouses . . .”
“So tomorrow.”