The MacAndrew farmhouse had been in the Confederate line of fire; while MacAndrew had sympathized with the North, he was also a Quaker and a pacifist. When the Confederates had arrived in need of a field hospital, MacAndrews, his wife and six daughters had set about tending the wounded. They’d welcomed the help of Confederate doctors.
When the Union forces had rolled through, Northern doctors had worked with the Confederate ones and the injured Union and Rebel forces had lain side by side. The Rebels would become prisoners, but many had forged friendships with their Northern doctors and fellow patients that would last all their lives.
The farmhouse was large, with eight bedrooms upstairs and four more on the second level of the old barn, which was now a gathering place. Apparently, Congressman Walker’s people would be in the main house, along with two members of the Capitol police, their own retinue, Matt, Meg, Angela and Jackson Crow. Other security would stay in the barn; there were four guard stations set up around the house itself, one on either side of the road, one in front of the house and one behind it.
It seemed impossible that anyone could get at Congressman Walker—not while he was at the MacAndrew house, at any rate.
They were met there by Larry Mills of the Capitol police, who’d already taken over; Maddie Hubbard had specifically requested that Meg be in the upstairs bedroom that connected to hers.
Matt would be across the hall, and Kendra and Ian Walker would be next to Maddie.
Larry Mills seemed to be a serious and competent man. He had a buzz cut and looked weathered and fit, thanks to eight years as a navy SEAL, he told them.
“They’re not due in until eight,” he said. “As you saw, I have the stations set up, and rooms assigned. They’re bringing their security with them. A few of your unit are in the party, so I’m assuming you’re in communication?”
Matt assured him that they were—and that they’d be back at the house before the congressional party arrived.
“That ain’t much of a dog,” Mills said, pointing at Killer. “He isn’t a security canine of some kind, is he?” he asked dubiously.
Meg didn’t really answer, but said, “You’d be amazed. He’s got a great bark.”
“Does he know the right people to bark at?” Mills asked.
“Oh, I think he does,” Matt replied. “Trust me, he’s an asset.”
Mills grinned. “A German shepherd, a rottweiler—that’s an asset. Him? He’s an accessory.”
They laughed politely and Mills scratched Killer’s head.
Then Matt and Meg left for what remained of their free time.
* * *
Aside from Gettysburg, Adams County offered a number of “stations” on the Underground Railroad. As they got in the car again, Meg reminded Matt that one of them might be where Lara was hidden... Matt saw how anxious she was. Meg was now convinced that Lara was alive, but that she wouldn’t be if they didn’t find her soon.
“It’s not going to be anywhere obvious, Meg,” he told her. “Not a place that’s on a tour. This has to be something very different. Obscure.”
He’d just gotten in the car when Angela called. He immediately put her on speaker.
“We’re heading out soon,” Angela said. “We’ll be riding in Walker’s car. I estimate our time of arrival to be somewhere between seven and eight, but I’ll keep you posted along the way. I’m calling you now because I found something you were looking for. Congressman Walker is the majority owner of a corporation called PTP, or Preserve the Past. They’re not nonprofit, but they work closely with historic boards. PTP has bought and restored a number of places in Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia—and Pennsylvania. PTP purchased ruins in Gettysburg about six months ago. The old farmhouse was condemned, and I’m assuming the corporation plans to build a re-creation of the home. There’s also the ruin of an old mill nearby. Thought you might want to check it out. Carefully—and discreetly—of course.”
“That’s it!” Meg cried.
“Can you give me the address?” She did and he rang off, then turned the car around in a handy driveway and veered in the right direction. “Do you know the place?” he asked Meg.
“Not really, but I’m sure I’ve been by. But if it’s just some ruins in a field and it’s privately owned, we might not even have noticed it.”
“Probably not,” Matt agreed. “There’s still a lot of farmland around here. A lot of history and tourism, but a lot of farmland, too.”
As they approached the address Angela had provided, he saw that there were lines of cars parked on the road leading up to another farm, practically next door to it. There were all kinds of tents pitched out in the fields, while paddocks in front of an old farmhouse were filled with horses.
“The camp!” Meg said.
“Yeah, the living-history camp Sylvia mentioned. A Union camp,” Matt said. “That’s where the medical reenactments she was talking about must be taking place.”
He drove slowly, looking across the acreage. Men sat by the tents cleaning rifles. A command tent had been set up, and he could see a group of men in Union officers’ clothing at a table. Spectators milled around, watching them. There was a blacksmith shoeing a large draft horse and cooks worked around campfires.
“Matt, the ruins are beside the encampment, so we can park with these other cars. That way, no one would notice us if they happened to go by.”
She was right. It was perfect, especially since he could see that while an easily scaled wooden fence surrounded the neighboring property, the fence was covered with signs that read Private Property! Keep Out! Violators Will Be Prosecuted to the Full Extent of the Law!
“Well, I guess we’re going to become lawbreakers,” he said.
“We’re investigators!”
“With no legal search warrant,” he reminded her.
“Imminent danger. I heard someone screaming,” Meg improvised.
“That’s a stretch,” Matt said. He found a place near the road, directly beside the fence. They were in the midst of other cars, dozens of them. They could hear the speeches being given and the murmur of conversation from the Union encampment. There was an expanse of long grass before they could reach the remains of the condemned house on the property. And there were overgrown trees not far in, which meant they wouldn’t be obvious for long, if anyone did look over.
“Should we crawl?” Meg asked.
“Nope, walk in like you own the place. No one will pay any attention to you.”
He opened the car door. To his surprise, Killer, who’d been well behaved, hopped onto his lap and then out the door, not giving Meg a chance to grab his leash.
“Hey!” She jumped out her side of the car and went scrambling over the wooden fence and after the dog. Matt followed as quickly as he could.
Well, good excuse for trespassing. “I had to get my dog, Officer... He ran off!”
Meg could run, that was for sure. He could catch up pretty quickly, but by the time he did, they’d passed by the long, overgrown grass and made it to the shelter of the trees. He nearly collided with her as they crashed through the doorway. The door itself was broken and hanging ajar.
She’d stopped—because Killer had stopped. He stood in the hall and whined. He was uncertain of where to go.
“I’ll take the left side of the house,” Meg said.
“Be careful. It’s crumbling, could cave in,” he told her.
“Gotcha.”
The ruins were dark, gray, forlorn. Anything of value had long ago been removed. His route led to a dining room. No dishes or serving implements there; even the chandelier had been taken away. But wooden cabinets showed where china and crystal had once been kept, and a lopsided table and broken chairs paid homage to meals once eaten by a family. Spiderwebs reigned supreme.
He moved on to an empty pantry a
nd then to what had been the kitchen, a room with worktables, a sink with a rusty pump and a giant hearth.
Coming around from the other side of the house, Meg met him there. A narrow stairway went up to the second floor—the servants’ stairs, he assumed. Another door that was also hanging crookedly on its hinges opened out to more broken steps, steps that led down to the basement, he thought.
Killer followed Meg, then stood in the doorway to the second set of stairs and whined.
“We have to go down there,” Meg said.
“The place is condemned. Could be dangerous. We have to be careful,” he told her.
“Yes, so I should go. I’m way lighter than you are. If the stairs are on the verge of collapsing, I have a far better chance of not falling through.”
“We both go or no one goes,” he said firmly.
“But me first. I can warn you of faulty steps.” Killer solved the problem for them. He barked, and started down the stairs.
“Flashlight?” Matt asked her.
“Yes, of course. I know about being prepared. I just graduated—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said with a smile, “from the academy. All right, I’m shining my light down there, too. Use one hand for the railing. It may hold if the steps don’t.”
“I know,” she muttered. He could tell that she was a bit annoyed, but he couldn’t help it—he was a protector by nature.
Killer was down there now—and barking. Matt stood in the doorway and tested the first step; it seemed sound. He shifted aside to allow Meg to take the lead.
She moved carefully, but a moment later he heard a loud creak.
“Fourth step!” she called up to him.
“Okay,” he said. Tension flooded his body. He found himself thinking of childhood fears—of monsters that lived in the darkness of basements. Any monsters here would be human. He was pretty sure there was no one down there with a knife or gun, but he didn’t know. And Meg couldn’t hold on to a rail, plus her flashlight—and reach for her gun with the necessary speed if something did raise its ugly head down there. Something or someone...
“I’m down!” she shouted. “The rest of the steps seem solid enough.”
He followed her, still moving cautiously. Together, they beamed their flashlights around the place. It was typical of abandoned basements. A slanted shelf held lanterns; candles were piled in another box, half-melted into one another. A rope was strung across the space, hung with old clothes as if they’d been put there to dry in winter. Barrels, staves and crates sat in one corner; here, too, spiderwebs seemed to hold court.
“Watch it. Nice nesting place for a brown recluse,” he said. “Nothing like getting your man, and then dying of a spider bite.”
“There’s nothing down here,” Meg said, her tone disheartened. “I thought... I thought we’d find her. But this isn’t even like the floor I saw. I mean, I thought I saw. She was on the ground, alone, passed out from hunger or dehydration or...”
Her voice trailed off. Matt suddenly wondered if he’d been wrong about Lara and wrong in making Meg believe that Lara might be alive.
He hated to lose faith like this, but she was probably dead. The killer must have taken greater care with her corpse, weighting it so well that she wouldn’t float back to the surface. One day, someone fishing or diving in the river would come across her decomposed remains, her bones part of the riverbed.
He realized, though, that he had faith in Meg, if not in himself.
“We’re going to find her. Let’s keep looking down here,” he said.
They did. They searched for a good hour, tapping the walls, hoping for a secret exit, the kind of thing that might have been used in slave days.
“We have to give it up now,” Matt said at last. “We’re almost out of time.”
Meg nodded, and they headed back to the stairs. But before they reached them, Meg paused, easing back against him and turning around.
“Killer, come,” she ordered the dog.
He didn’t seem to hear her. He stayed where he was, whining again. Meg walked back over to where he stood and stooped down to pick him up.
“We’ve searched, boy. We’ve searched all over. We can’t find anything,” Meg told him.
“Take him and go on up first,” Matt suggested. “I can catch both of you if you fall—better than you catch me.”
Meg almost smiled. “I’m just not sure about hauling you back up if another step does go,” she said.
“I tested them all. Only the fourth one was really bad.” When they emerged into the kitchen, he turned to her and laughed. “You’re covered in spiderwebs. You look like hell.”
“As I noted before, you have a talent with words—you always know the right thing to say,” she told him sardonically. “You should see yourself. And Killer!”
The dog looked like a ghost dog; he, too, was shrouded in gray webbing.
“We’ve got to get this off before we return to the MacAndrew house!” he said. “You help me, and I’ll help you.”
“Don’t you dare try to turn spiderwebs into something erotic!”
“I’ll contain myself—as long as you exercise control, as well,” he teased.
It took some time before they were both presentable.
“We didn’t go upstairs yet,” Meg said.
“No. She’s not going to be upstairs.” If she was there, he thought, they would’ve heard something. Unless she was dead.
And then, he knew, they would have smelled the odor of decomposition.
He didn’t say that to Meg. And what she said next did make sense.
“I agree we won’t find Lara, but we can tell if someone’s been here recently.”
“It’s likely that if the PTP corporation bought the place, they’ve had people here, including local real estate agents,” he said. “But you’re right. We’ve come this far. Let’s go up.”
The upstairs of the house was as sadly haunting as the rest. The few pieces of furniture were broken and falling apart. Drapes were ragged and drooping from the windows. In one bedroom, Meg paused.
“What?” he asked her.
She was standing by a window and motioned him to come over. “Look, but don’t touch. There are prints in the dust on the windowsill. Someone’s been here. And there in the distance...”
Across the fields and roads, up on another hill, was the MacAndrew farmhouse.
“Well, whoever was here was certainly checking the view,” Matt said. “That might’ve been a security precaution by Larry Mills or one of the other cops. Maybe they’d thought about stationing someone here to keep watch. It’s hard to say, Meg.”
“Lara’s somewhere nearby,” she said passionately. “I just know it!”
“We’ll figure it out—and we’ll get to her in time,” he promised. He prayed he could keep that promise. But somehow, he felt that something was going to break soon.
Congressman Walker’s speech was the next day. That was a catalyst, he thought. He wasn’t sure how he knew or why, but that would be the catalyst.
“We’d better go.”
When they were outside the house, Matt looked across the overgrown field and to the Union encampment. “Let’s pay our new friend a quick visit,” he said.
“Our new friend? You mean Sylvia Avery?”
“Yes. She should be at that encampment, in the vicinity of the medical tent.”
He didn’t wait for her to answer, but started across the field. Meg was behind him; Killer was not. He went back and picked up the little dog. Crawling through the fence, Matt was greeted by a man in a Union uniform. “Sir! Living history that way!” he said, and pointed.
“Thanks, thanks so much,” Matt said, and the soldier tipped his hat. They walked past scores of people, some in casual summer dress, many in uni
form—or in their daily clothes with Union or Confederate hats or other paraphernalia. But no matter what people were wearing, they were friendly and courteous as they walked around. Most seemed to be talking about what they’d seen or learned.
He supposed that people probably didn’t come to these events if they weren’t interested, if they didn’t care about history—and if they didn’t honor the fields of battle that had taken more lives than other wars.
He caught Meg’s hand. She was wearing a pantsuit that was dignified and proper but didn’t scream FBI agent. He hoped they looked like a couple of tourists fervent about Civil War history.
They passed an officer explaining the use of the Enfield rifle to a crowd, and then an infirmary. At last they came to a surgical tent. A man in a Union doctor’s uniform was describing field surgery, saying that even the federal forces had been low on ether, the anesthesia of the day. Most of the time, the men were dosed with whiskey. Limbs were removed, flesh cut, a bone saw used. Tourniquets were employed to stop the bleeding. Good doctors, he told his audience, disinfected the wounds with some of the alcohol the injured were drinking; these doctors had discovered that they lost more men to infection after surgery than they did to the surgery itself.
He poked Meg; he could see that Sylvia Avery was assisting in the mock surgery.
The doctor finished his speech, announcing that he was Dr. Collin Ferber of Philadelphia, a fifth-generation surgeon, following in the wake of his ancestor, who had worked on the Gettysburg battlefield. The crowd responded with applause, then began to disperse. Matt took Meg’s hand again and moved through the milling people to find Sylvia Avery.
“Well, hello, you did come by!” she said, obviously glad to see them both.
“It was an excellent lecture and show,” Meg told her.
Sylvia beamed. “Thank you. We pride ourselves on historical accuracy.”
“Do many of the reenactors actually stay here at the camp?” Matt asked.
“Oh, yes, most do. We used to stay, except I have to admit, the more years that go by, the more I long for my creature comforts. Showers, soft beds and softer pillows and finding an excellent cup of coffee ready for me when I get up,” Sylvia said. “Frankly, Jordan and I are too old these days to enjoy too much authenticity.”
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