Dreaming Death (Krewe of Hunters #32) - Heather Graham Page 0,3

heard him telling Adam that even though McCarron went down, he was pretty sure there was someone higher up the chain or, at the least, in place to take over.

But McCarron didn’t talk, and those they found who he’d hired for certain of his deeds, such as the attack on Stacey’s father, thought he’d been the top dog.

“I’m telling you, there was someone there. Someone else who was really pulling the strings,” her father said.

“Maybe,” Adam said. “And that’s just how life goes—‘Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.’ There will be someone out there to take McCarron’s place. But we’ll be there, too. We’ll just keep going after the bad guys.”

Adam Harrison and his agents saw it all the way through. Then it was time for them to move on.

Stacey was so grateful to them.

She hero-worshipped her parents, and now she also felt that way about Adam Harrison. When they talked next, she was no longer having the nightmare. She was grateful, telling him he had saved her parents—and her.

“No, Stacey, you saved them,” he told her.

“I want to be a PI like my dad!” she said. Then she frowned. “What’s your job?”

“Me? Uh, I don’t do anything special. Well, maybe I do. I find people—the right people,” he told her.

“Am I a right person?” she asked him.

He knelt by her, giving her a hug. She wasn’t sure how such a cool man could also seem like the world’s sweetest grandfather.

“You sure were this time!” he told her. “But you’re only twelve years old. Let’s see where life takes you. You have high school, college...a lot of living to do. But when you’re older, if you want to see me...well, I will definitely want to see you again!” He gave her a business card with his name and phone number on it. It felt very grown-up to her, and she beamed.

She hugged him tightly; she knew he was leaving. She hoped she’d see him again.

But it wouldn’t be soon.

Her mother insisted they move away from Georgetown and Washington, DC.

Their new home was situated on a beautiful hill in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. It was still easy access to the country’s capital but distant enough so Stacey’s mom felt they had a quiet and normal life.

Her mother left her job to teach, and her father retired.

Life was pretty good. Despite her mom not being particularly fond of anything that had to do with guns or law enforcement, Stacey joined a young-citizens watch group in high school. And through local police programs she learned a great deal about averting and investigating crimes and how officers and forensic investigators often solved crimes together. Legwork, the art of interrogation, and science.

She also spent many an hour watching the ID channel, learning all about crimes, both past and present, and the way they were solved.

Sometimes—just now and then—she’d have strange little dreams. One time, she had a vivid dream about a broken zipper on her parka, and it seemed almost silly.

Yet, putting on her parka the next day, the zipper broke.

Then she dreamed that the underdog—Charlie Waters, worst player on the school’s team—scored the winning touchdown for the school’s football team.

The following Friday night, remarkably, Charlie did just that.

But it wasn’t until she was almost eighteen that she had a frightening dream again, one that really mattered—a piece of life and death she had to hope she could change.

And that time it had to do with a friend, Kevin Waverly.

Kevin was a running back for the high-school football team. He was well-liked, did decently in all his classes and planned on either professional ball or, if he didn’t quite cut it as pro, going into coaching or therapy for sports injuries.

Then he fell in love with Elaine Gregory, who was sweet and beautiful. But easily manipulated.

Elaine met an older boy who introduced her to cocaine. Soon, Elaine and Kevin were missing classes, and Coach was threatening to kick Kevin off the team. It wasn’t a large school, and Stacey had heard the gossip.

Stacey’s dream started with her walking through the night. She was walking in a cemetery. She knew, somehow, it wasn’t the historic Harper Cemetery with the fantastic view that was a must for any tourist—no. It was the almost-forgotten Miller Cemetery just a bit to the south toward Port Royal. It offered no view except by night, when the fog rolled in and the trees seemed to drip eerie fingers of moss, and the greatest danger was tripping over a