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writing this strange message.
    Not much time. King's cup...stone Queen...Virgin wall. All stolen. Medicine bag next. Stop them. Was right. DANGER! Go to Waldoboro. Stop them. Don't take any wooden nickels.
    Manning felt an icy finger of dread run down the length of his spine. There was something disturbingly familiar about the tone of the message, something that began to dredge up painful memories long buried by the passage of time.
    The image of a sad old man restrained upon a hospital bed flashed before his mind's eye, and Tom gasped aloud, slamming closed the cover of the notebook.
    Ghosts of the past, never laid to rest.

    Franklin Massie held on to the sides of the embalming table, the painful arthritic throb of his old joints making him momentarily unsure he could continue with the task before him. He paused, gazing down at the elderly corpse laid out before him, and decided that he must.
    Not much older than me, he thought, reaching down with hands sheathed in rubber gloves to pluck an unsightly hair from the corpse's nose. Franklin studied the man's features. It was obvious that his passing hadn't been pleasant, for there was a certain strained expression on his face. He took note of the ruptured capillaries in the nose, the distended belly and the yellowed skin. Alcohol abuse had claimed another one.
    This was nothing new to the funeral director, especially when dealing with the more troubled populace of the old city. He had an agreement with City Hall to handle the arrangements for those who passed from life with no one to mourn them, nor funds to pay for the cost of burial. The City paid him a flat rate for his services, barely enough to cover expenses, but he didn't mind. It made him feel good that these poor souls were at last being shown some proper respect. He treated them as he treated all of his clients. To Franklin Massie, death was the ultimate equalizer.
    Franklin imagined himself lying naked upon the cold metal table, a stranger's hands preparing him for his own final slumber. It won't be long now, he thought. The ache of his joints was growing steadily worse, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to handle his equipment. It had been the same with his father, Walter. When Father could no longer get up in the morning to open the doors of the Massie Funeral Parlor, he had simply surrendered his spirit. Franklin wondered if he would be as smart, or would he be found dead in the embalming room one day, an extra body on the floor, in addition to the one on the table.
    He turned from the corpse, forcing the unpleasant thoughts out of his mind, and flicked the switch to start the embalming machine. He picked up the long, sharply pointed trocar and turned back to the deceased.
    "I know this looks bad, but I guarantee, you won't feel a thing," the mortician said, preparing to plunge the pointed tip of the shaft into the corpse's belly.
    A green light began to flash above the room's entryway--someone was at the door upstairs.
    "Wonderful." Franklin set the trocar down and switched off the machine. "Sorry about this," he said to the corpse. "But it looks like we'll have to finish up later."
    The pain in his hip was sharp, and it made him wince as he turned, removing the rubber gloves and throwing them in a nearby trash receptacle. He hobbled to the sink, washed his hands dutifully with a powerful, antibacterial soap, then dried them well with paper towels.
    The light above the door continued to flash.
    Franklin lurched toward his cane propped against the wall near the door, then shuffled out of the room and over to the basement stairs. This was actually the hardest part of his job these days, he reflected, using both the wooden handrail and the cane to ascend slowly, step by painful step. He could hear the bell now, and prayed that, after all his effort, the person at the door wouldn't get fed up and go away. Not for the first time, he wished business was better and he could hire someone to help him, but he