“You sure? It’s a big place. We haven’t begun to cover it.”
“I’m sure. And I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“It’s good. I told you before, Meg, she might still be alive. This could be a sign.”
Meg realized that he was looking beyond her. She turned, but at first she saw nothing. Then, slowly, she did. There was an older woman sitting on a gravestone not far from them. She wasn’t in Victorian attire; her clothing was more recent. Meg recognized the long skirt, the buttoned-up bodice and belted waist of a dress that might have been worn in the 1930s. The woman’s hair was in a bun and she wore a knit capelet over her shoulders, despite the fact that it was a bright, warm summer’s day.
And Meg realized the woman was sitting on a stone that was part of a Confederate section; many who were buried there were veterans who had survived the conflict and died at a later date.
Matt walked past her. He went straight to the woman—and spoke to her.
* * *
Slash had heard that plenty of people were dubious about this so-called “special” unit of the Bureau known as the Krewe of Hunters.
They liked to tease that those agents were a little nuts. That they were the psychic division and that they communed with the dead.
Yeah, yeah. Well, he for one didn’t buy it.
Bosworth looked bat-shit crazy, that was for sure. He was just standing there, talking to a gravestone.
Slash chafed at the time he was wasting. Ridiculous, following these two all this way. But he’d seen them at the graveyard.
He knew they were handling the case.
So…
Still, this wasn’t fun. This wasn’t like choosing victims, researching them, watching their movements.
That was enjoyable. The hunt. To his own mind, he resembled the greatest of jungle cats, light on his feet, never moving until he knew that he needed only to run and leap and he’d have his prey, helpless, in his hands, at his mercy.
There was no mercy. A jungle cat had to kill.
So did he.
For a moment, he felt a strange discomfort.
Yes, he enjoyed that kind of kill.
It involved cunning and cleverness and care—and then the pounce.
As to the other kind of killing…
That, too, required cunning, he told himself.
It was far more subtle and dangerous and took even greater care and cleverness.
But it was…
Business.
These two really had to go, he thought. He formed his fingers into the shape of a gun and aimed it at Bosworth. Then he turned to Agent Meg Murray, still standing just a few feet from him.
Maybe she thought Bosworth was bat-shit crazy, too!
He watched her.
No, he was wrong; she didn’t.
Killing her might be business. But business could also bring its own fun.
She had to go.
He didn’t want to shoot her.
He wanted a slow kill…
He wanted to see her eyes. See her eyes in that last moment—before she knew what had happened, before she knew what was going to happen. See her eyes…
When she knew she was going to die.
He’d been worried at first. She carried a gun. She had training. Thing was, nobody would suspect him. No one was ever on guard.
Except she was mostly with the other agent, the big-ass experienced one.
Slash smiled. There could be a way. If only Bosworth could die, too. It all had to look right, though.
That’s what it was all about. Optics. An accident could always happen. A fatal accident. But first…the girl.
Slash watched. She seemed to be talking to the air now, too.
They were both bat-shit crazy.
They thought they talked to the dead.
Slash almost laughed aloud. And then he sobered. He stepped back behind a memorial obelisk and frowned, startled by how scared he suddenly felt. What if…?
What if there was the slightest possibility that they did talk to the dead?
He needed to get rid of them, just in case.
Because…
What if?
CHAPTER 8
Meg was quiet, watching Matt Bosworth as they left Hollywood Cemetery. She was pleased by his words.
Lara hadn’t been there; maybe that meant she wasn’t dead.
Then again, cemeteries were filled with the earthly remains of the dead, yet one didn’t see many ghosts there.
They’d seen Leticia Clark, though. She was one of those tragic women who’d lost her husband to the Civil War. Henry Clark had been killed at Cold Harbor, but Leticia hadn’t died until 1931. She’d mourned him all those years, never remarrying.
In death, she mourned at his grave—as she had in life.
“Think we talked her into moving on?” Meg asked. She was still a little surprised to hear herself saying the words.
She was even more surprised that she’d seen him walk past her to speak to the widow, and that he’d seen Leticia before she had. It was frankly somewhat difficult to accept that his “talent” might exceed hers. She’d thought herself so special, and hadn’t realized, despite everything she knew about the Krewe, others might have a depth of vision she did not.
Matt glanced over at her and shrugged. He didn’t seem at all fazed that they’d both spoken with a woman who had died in the 1930s about a Confederate soldier who’d died in the 1860s.
“I hope so,” Matt said.
“Then again,” Meg went on, “do we really know what we’re talking them into doing?”
“I believe it’s right to go on,” he said, smiling at her. “We know that ghosts exist, therefore we know there’s more than what we usually see, feel, taste, hear and touch. If that’s so, and if there’s that beautiful light we’ve heard about…then moving on is exactly what should happen.” He paused. “Though I have seen something different.”
“What’s that?”
“Darkness, horrible darkness that can eclipse the dead. Not fire and brimstone—just darkness. I’ve tried to study different beliefs across the world, a natural outcome of our special talents, perhaps. Maybe there’s a place souls go to get cleansed, the purgatory many Christians believe in. Maybe there is a fire-and-brimstone hell. Or hell could be simply an absence of God. Of light, and decency. We don’t know—at least, I don’t.” He gave her another quick smile. “And until they move on, the dead don’t know, either. So, there you are.”
“I’ve never seen that darkness you’re talking about. Just the light,” Meg said. “The light people see in near-death experiences. The light they walk into that leads to peace. Or heaven…”
Her phone suddenly rang in her pocket; she almost jumped, but grabbed it from her pocket.
The number was Nancy Cooper’s. Meg’s heart began to beat too fast.
“Meg, are you still in Richmond?” she asked.
“Yes, about to pull out. We’re at Hollywood Cemetery. Why? Did you hear from Lara?” Meg asked anxiously.
“No, I’m sorry. Did you…see her? Anywhere?”
“No.”
“That’s a relief. And I’m positive Lara’s still alive.”
“We won’t stop looking,” Meg said.
Matt whispered, “What is it? Any news?”
“No,” Meg said, shaking her head. She covered the mouthpiece. “I’m not sure.”
“Nancy,” she said, speaking into the phone again. “Is anything wrong?”
“I hate to trouble you—but yes.”
“What?” Meg could feel her heart beating even more frantically.
Should she be on this case? Hell, yes. She had to be on this case.
“
What is it?” she asked.
“Kelly,” Nancy said.
For a moment, Meg went blank. Oh, Kelly—Killer!
“What’s the matter?”
“He’s been sitting by the door, crying and then howling, since you left. I’d do anything to help, and I’ll deal with this, but…that poor little dog. My heart is breaking for him. He was fine with me while you were in the house, but now…” Meg looked over at Matt, afraid to say anything.
“That’s okay,” she said automatically. What was she going to do? Matt was going to tell her she’d made a huge mistake and that Nancy was just going to have to keep the dog—no matter how much he howled and cried.
“What?” Matt persisted.
“The dog,” Meg said. “He’s, uh, crying a lot.”
“Tell her we’ll pick him up.”
She couldn’t have been more stunned. She probably gaped at him.
“Just tell her we’ll pick him up,” he repeated.
“We’re coming for him, Nancy.”
By the time she said goodbye, Matt had turned the car around. Meg wasn’t sure what to say or do. She felt she should apologize, but the words kept catching in her throat. She finally managed to choke out, “I’m sorry.”
“We’re not on a time constraint,” he said.
Who was she going to leave the dog with in DC? Her friends were all in the process of moving. Lara would have kept him.
But Lara was the reason for this unlikely road trip.
“Washington’s on the way, so we’ll head up I-95 and then go west,” he said.
They were back at Nancy’s within ten minutes; she was ready for them, a bag with his dog food and the little bowls they’d gotten him in her hand, Killer/Kelly at her side.
Meg stepped out the car to get the dog.
But Killer/Kelly left Nancy and made bounding leaps toward Matt, trailing his leash behind him.
To his credit, the man stopped. It was rather incongruous. The tall, fit FBI agent in his suit, with his smooth-combed short hair and sunglasses, reaching down for what even Meg had to admit was a dog so ugly it was cute.
“I’m sorry,” Nancy said. “You’re on a professional and personal quest, and I’m whining about a dog. It’s just that I know where he came from and I realize he’s so traumatized that even a little more time with you might help. I’ll keep him if you need me to, but I’m afraid he’s going to die of heartbreak on my watch!”
“It’s okay, Nancy, we’ve got him,” Matt told her.
“Maybe he’ll be a good companion. He’s not much of a guard dog—I mean, he couldn’t protect you from the bad guys—but I’ll tell you one thing, he can bark!”
Great! Now she had a barking dog with her. Meg briefly doubted her own choices. She was the new kid, fresh out of the academy, barely possessing the needed credentials. And then she’d insisted on keeping a victim’s dog…
Meg stepped forward again, hugging Nancy, making promises again. Matt gave her assurances that they’d do all they could.
He didn’t promise results.
When they were back in the car, Matt slipped Killer over to Meg. He didn’t say a word as he started the car and began to drive.
When they reached DC, where should she tell him to go? Oh, yes, she was proving herself to be very professional.
They drove away from Nancy’s, toward I-95, and still neither of them spoke. Finally, reaching the highway, he set his phone in a car-carrier and said, “Jackson.”
His voice recognition system immediately dialed.
A moment later, Jackson Crow was on the phone. “Anything?” Matt asked.
“An ID on the second victim. Her name was Karen Grant. From Arizona. Same basic lifestyle and background as the other two women. She was new to the DC area. She had a job at a pizza parlor in the Georgetown area. She’d been on the job two weeks—and was looking into working her way through school. Twenty-eight years old, mother dead two years, her dad four. She didn’t have a boyfriend. Angela tracked her down through the spa where she had her eyes permanently made up. She’d only been there once.”
“So we have identifications on all three women. And their backgrounds are almost as similar as the murders themselves,” Matt said.
“Exactly. Any new leads on your end?”
“We’re driving to Harpers Ferry. We didn’t find Lara.” Matt paused. “Any reason we need to stop at the office?”
The dog, maybe, Meg thought.
“No, we’ve got various agents working here,” Jackson informed them. “I think it bodes well for Lara Mayhew that she’s nothing like the other victims. She’s well-known, has family, friends. These girls—they didn’t have time to make friends who’d miss them. Who knows? Maybe the killer thought the bodies would stay submerged longer. But Lara’s victimology is entirely different. Keep looking for her. If there is a connection to these other killings, finding her is the only way to discover what that connection is—and whether there’s a political element. Anything at Lara’s home?”
“The aunt is telling the truth, at least according to my radar,” Matt said. “She hasn’t heard from Lara. We went through the house and found the last journal she’d been working on there.”
“She talked about Harpers Ferry and a conversation we had there—about politics and work,” Meg put in quickly. She hoped Killer wouldn’t bark. “We really think Lara knew something Congressman Walker didn’t tell us. She’s been bothered for weeks. I could tell because of the things she said when we talked. Of course, I was distracted—the academy,” she added ruefully, “and Lara said she’d explain more when we saw each other again.”
“We’re keeping an eye on Congressman Walker,” Jackson assured them. “Still, it’s hard to imagine that he could be responsible for these murders. I always thought he was one of the good guys. Now, I’m feeling skeptical. But Lara might’ve been referring strictly to Walker’s politics. It’s one thing to be a compromised politician. It’s another to rip three women apart. Meg, honestly, with the way the victimology here is panning out, I just can’t see Lara being taken by the same man. But…I don’t know. We have to do our best to catch this person before anyone else is killed—whether or not it’s the same person who took Lara. Keep in touch.”
“Will do,” Matt promised, ending the call.
Meg held the dog in silence. Matt glanced at her, barely taking his eyes from the road.
“It’s about two and half hours to Harpers Ferry,” Matt said. “You okay till we get there?”
“Fine. And then some,” Meg replied, worrying about the dog.
“Your family still there?”
“We own a house, but my parents are down on Hutchinson Island in Florida now. They got tired of shoveling snow.”
“Ah, so we can stay free instead of using taxpayers’ money?”
Meg shook her head. “I’m sorry, but it’s rented.”
“So we need a place that takes dogs.”
She hardly dared to breathe.
“I have to think about it for a few minutes,” she said. “There are a bunch of lovely little bed-and-breakfasts, as well as chain hotels off the highway.”
“There’s no shortage of places—and you don’t have to think about it at all. Angela will have taken care of it from the office,” he said, “I just thought I’d give you a bit of a hard time.”
“About the dog, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t respond one way or the other.
“You have a lot of friends in Harpers Ferry?” he asked after a while.
“It’s my home.”
“People know you—and know you went through the academy?”
“Yes. A lot of friends work at the national park or the concessions around it.”
“So we can’t
pretend to be your run-of-the-mill tourists,” Matt said.
“Did we need to?”
“No, we’ll rely on honesty.”
“Meaning?”
“We’ll just tell the basic truth. Say we’re looking for Lara. And hopefully, she’d be able to get word to us if a friend is hiding her. And since you know lots of people here,” he added, “if we need a dog-sitter for an hour or two, we should be all right.”
“With the windows down, he can wait in the car while we’re busy. I have a feeling that he’s a really good little dog.”
“Of course you do,” Matt said.
She wanted to smack him for being a smart-ass.
She wanted to smack herself, too. Great entry into the Krewe.
They continued in silence for a while and then Meg asked, “You haven’t been with the Krewe that long, right? Six months?”
He nodded. “A bit longer than that. I’ve been out on cases in Pennsylvania and Maryland so far. We also have a new office in New York City, and I spent time there last year. Jackson set that up.”
“He’s great. And you two get along well.”
“We’re both Native American,” he said, grinning.
“No, you’re not!”
He laughed. “I am. I’m actually one of thousands of people who trace their ancestry back to Pocahontas. I’m a mix of many nationalities now, while Jackson is half–Native American. But it’s a lot of fun to trace your heritage all the way back to someone as noteworthy as Pocahontas.”
“Nice. I can’t really trace my family history very far at all.”
“If you’re really interested, there are internet sites that can help.”
“I know that one grandparent came from Nova Scotia, one from California, one from North Carolina—and one from Harpers Ferry. That’s it,” Meg said. “What I was always more concerned with was…why? Why certain people? Does it have something to do with background?”
“You mean, why you see the dead?” he asked.
She was quiet for a minute. “Yes.”
“I guess some people just do. Some feel a greater…sensitivity, for lack of another word, to what you might call the nonmaterial world, while others are so skeptical they’ll never experience that feeling of a departed loved one being near. I recognize that I have this ability. And,” he added, “for me, it’s been a good thing. What about you?”
Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 5 Page 14