The Shadow Men by Christopher Golden; Tim Lebbon

been through something like this before?”
    But Trix shook her head. “No. Nothing like this. He just … he wandered off because he didn’t know where he was. He barely knew who he was. Well, how far can an old man get, right? But by the time I got home from school, six hours had passed with no sign of him and my grandmother had started to freak out completely. She said there was only one person she knew of who could really help, and we got on the bus—she didn’t have a car and couldn’t afford a cab—and she brought me to the Old State House, to that same spot.”
    Jim frowned. “But what is it?”
    “I’m surprised you don’t know. You’ve lived in Boston your whole life, and you’ve never followed the Freedom Trail?”
    “Maybe when I was a kid. What does—”
    “The Boston Massacre. That’s the spot, right there in front of the Old State House, within spitting distance of the balcony.”
    He knew the story well enough—colonials throwing snowballs at British soldiers posted in the city, taunting them until the situation became so tense that there was musket fire, killing five men. It had been one of the events that fed the growing anti-British sentiment that led to the Revolution. “You’ve totally lost me,” he said.
    Now when Trix glanced at the front door of Abruzzi’s, Jim looked as well.
    “What are you waiting for?” he asked.
    Trix smiled nervously. “I’m getting to that.”
    “Fine. So your grandmother took you to that spot?”
    “And she asked for help—”
    “Why would she—”
    “Just fucking listen!” Trix hissed, eyes full of pain.
    The dad at the next table gave them a nasty look, but Jim stared him down and he finally turned away.
    “I’m sorry,” Trix said, taking a swig of her beer.
    The waitress came and slid a basket of bread between them. Jim waited for her to walk away, then he took a piece and tore off a chunk. “Go on,” he said.
    Trix hesitated, looked at the door, and then squeezed her eyes shut again. “All right. Short version. I’m sorry, it’s just so … Jenny’s the only person I’ve ever told this story, and now when it matters, it’s hard to figure out how to explain.”
    Jim said nothing, just listening. From a speaker set into the ceiling above them, Sinatra sang about coffee. He chewed the bread and found it too dry to swallow, so he chased it down with a sip of water, then more whiskey.
    Opening her eyes, Trix seemed to have come to a decision. “I’ll tell you what my grandmother told me. She said Boston had an Oracle, like in ancient Greece. This woman knew everything about the city.” Trix shook her head. “No, it was more than that. It was like … I don’t remember the words my grandmother used, but it’s like she shares a soul with the city. She knows every brick, right? Every corner. Something happens in Boston, she knows, whether it’s a secret or not. You know that saying about when a tree falls in a forest when there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a noise? The Oracle would hear. So people go to her. If your kid runs away and is still in the city, the Oracle can find him. If someone stole your car and dumped it, she can tell you where they left it. She knows where all the bodies are buried, literally.”
    Jim pushed back into the red vinyl seat. “So how are there still unsolved murders?”
    “You think the cops are going to ask ‘the Oracle of Boston’? Seriously?” Trix said. “It’d be like calling a psychic hot line. They wouldn’t risk their careers.”
    Jim narrowed his eyes, staring at her. “Jesus. And you really believe in this?”
    Trix sipped her beer, glaring at him. “I have to. It’s our only hope. And it worked once before.”
    “It did?”
    “Just listen. My grandmother took me to that spot, and we asked for help finding my grandfather. Then she brought me here. Her friend Celia had told her this was the place—that you asked for help and then you waited at De Pasquale Brothers,