“Come on! I can see help just over there!” she told Lara.
She realized then that her friend had passed out, that Lara’s entire weight was hanging on her. She gritted her teeth and lifted her up, starting across the overgrown grasses and bracken and through the trees. She was going to live—and see that Lara lived, too.
* * *
“Oh!” Maddie said in confusion. “Meg is gone? Gone—how could she be gone? She said she’d stay with me! Oh, dear, she must be so worried about her friend that she decided if I was sleeping she’d go out and look for her!”
“She didn’t go past me!” the Capitol man insisted.
“No, it’s obvious.” Kendra Walker grimaced. “She climbed out her window and somehow got down to the back porch, which is right underneath this room. So much for the security people. Great job! She went out a window and disappeared.”
“Meg didn’t go out a window—not on purpose,” Matt said firmly.
“I didn’t hear a thing, and I came up and knocked on Maddie’s door to check on her and she was fine. I assumed Agent Murray was asleep in the next room,” Joe Brighton said. “Face it, Bosworth. She figured that if she slipped out by night, no one would know.”
“Her gun and shoulder bag are gone,” Angela said quietly.
“I don’t care what’s gone. Meg wouldn’t leave. I know her. She wouldn’t just leave. Even if she felt she should be looking for Lara Mayhew.”
“All right, let’s get out there and search for her,” Jackson said.
“Search for her?” Ian Walker still seemed dazed. “That’s…that’s rather futile, isn’t it? She’ll come back when she’s ready.”
“Congressman Walker, you have plenty of protection here. My people and I will be heading out to search for our colleague,” Jackson announced.
“But…” Kendra began.
“If my agent is sure that his partner didn’t leave willingly, I believe him, and that’s that,” Jackson said.
“We could have your badge for this!” Kendra protested. “What if she was taken? You’re going to abandon us? Maybe that’s just what the kidnappers want! They want us to be defenseless, and if you go…”
“You’re far from defenseless,” Jackson interrupted. “Now, let’s go. Matt, you lead.”
“Mr. Crow is right,” Ian agreed. “Kendra, we’re fine. Joe, Nathan, you get out there, too, and join the search.”
Matt called the dog. “Come on, Killer, time to find our girl,” he said quietly.
Killer raced along with him. Downstairs, Jackson spoke to the men at the checkpoint, who’d seen nothing. But they’d been watching the road to the house, not the house itself. He returned to Matt. “The local authorities are all on the hunt. Where to?”
“The ruins of the old house. Meg was certain Lara was nearby when we were there. She saw her, deep in the earth.” Jackson would, of course, know what he meant. “There has to be something that we missed.”
“Let’s do it,” Jackson said. “We’ll take a few cars. We can split up as needed.”
Matt was already headed for his car, Killer at his heels.
* * *
Meg staggered into the Yankee encampment; there seemed to be no one around. She fell to her knees holding Lara and then struggled back up again. She made her way to the medical tent. She knew that at least she’d find a cot and blankets for Lara.
She burst into the tent, which was as quiet as the rest of the camp. The encampment tents couldn’t be far and she’d venture over there later. But first, Lara.
She laid her friend on one of the surgical cots and wrapped a blanket around her. A Union doctor’s uniform coat hung on the back of one of the chairs. She put it on; it was mammoth on her and scratchy—real wool, she remembered—but it was warm and it covered her. She looked around for something to conceal Lara. She’d have to leave her here alone while she went to get help, and she was afraid to do that.
Matt would have checked on her when he came back to the B and B. She was very certain that no one had broken into the MacAndrew house; the killer had been inside all the time. Matt would be on the hunt for her, but the killer would be, too.
“Halt! Who goes there?” she heard.
She turned around. A man in a private’s uniform, carrying a lantern and an Enfield, was staring at her from just outside the tent.
Help was here.
“Sir, my name is Meg Murray, Special Agent Meg Murray. I need you to alert the camp. Please! My friend may be dying.”
“Is this some kind of prank?” the man demanded, dropping his Civil War stance. “This is private property specifically rented for the encampment. It’s not a playground for college games.”
“This is no game!” Meg shouted. “I’m an agent with the federal government and I need your help now! Go and alert the camp. Get the cops here. Now! Do you understand me?”
The young man had come into the tent and saw Lara lying on the cot. He looked at Meg again, his eyes wide. “Yes, yes, I’m going right now.” He left them at a run. Meg walked over and peered anxiously at Lara. She was so flushed, and when Meg touched her cheek, she felt as though she were on fire. But an ambulance would be here soon.
She was startled to hear a thunk—and then a sound that was like a groan, and every nerve in her body seemed to shriek out a warning.
They’d been found. And not by Matt and the Krewe.
She had to do something; it was only a matter of time before someone came upon them. In the dim light filtering in from outside, she surveyed the surgical tent.
And then her eyes lit on the scalpel. A weapon, of sorts.
Meg picked it up and edged over to the flap of the tent. She heard a whisper, but couldn’t identify the speaker. “They’re here. They’re here. Dammit, find them!”
“You said to keep them alive, you idiot!” The voices were low, but this one was oddly familiar.
“Rotting bodies smell. They can’t be found until after…” She couldn’t make out the rest of the sentence.
She strained to hear. There were two of them. If they were armed, she might not be able to bring both of them down with her scalpel.
She had to lead them away from Lara.
Meg drew the blanket up higher, hiding her friend’s face, praying that Lara would look like a mannequin in the surgeon’s displays.
Then she made a point of rustling as she walked out of the tent. And to her relief, she heard the whispers again.
“That way!”
“Let’s go.”
* * *
“The house?” Jackson said. “We’ll search it again.”
Matt closed his eyes and tried to think, to concentrate, to will Meg to use whatever she had, whatever skill or intuition she possessed, to tell him where she was. When he opened his eyes, he was staring across at the ruins of the old mill. Killer stood beside him, whining anxiously.
Then the dog started to bark. “No, that way,” Matt said.
Jackson stayed behind to begin another search of the farmhouse. Angela had already gone in.
Killer raced ahead and Matt followed. They reached the old mill and he threw open the old doors, letting the moonlight flood in. “Meg!” he shouted.
There was no answer, but Killer was barking and running in circles. Matt headed over to some of the old broken millstones and the machinery to the rear. He trained his flashlight on the area; there was a deep pit with stone vats for the corn to be milled around a threshing floor.
“Meg!” he shouted her name again. The sound of his voice, loud as it was, seemed muted. He found himself remembering their conversation with Sylvia Avery earlier that day—and how people had sworn they’d heard the ghosts of the battlefield crying out.
They hadn’t heard ghosts; they’d heard the living. Lara Mayhew, beggi
ng for help.
But no one was here now.
“Killer, find Meg. Get her scent. Find Meg, boy, come on, you can do it.”
The dog sniffed the floor in a fury. Then he dashed out.
As Matt hurried after him, he saw something shimmering on the ground. He paused to pick it up.
And then he knew. They had all missed it, but who would ever suspect…
The killers had been there before them. He could only pray that Meg had made her way out.
The dog was racing across the field toward the Union encampment, exactly where Meg would have gone for help. As he ran past the farmhouse, he shouted for Jackson and Angela.
He didn’t wait for them but kept on running, his heart thundering in his ears.
He realized in that moment that he couldn’t bear to lose her.
No. He wouldn’t lose her. It was that simple.
* * *
Meg wasn’t sure where to run. As she moved forward, she had to ignore the cuts on her feet—and the pain that streaked through her as she stepped on a nail by the blacksmith’s tent.
She dashed by one of the sutlers’ displays; it had been covered with canvas for the night but someone had left a pair of cavalry boots beside it. She swooped them up as she ran, trying to decide what direction to take. She heard something fall behind her; a rack set up for drying clothes at the laundry, she thought. They were close.
The soldiers’ tents, where the hard-core reenactors were sleeping, were to the right, tucked away from the rest of the encampment. The road was the other way. If she tried running across the field to the soldiers’ tents, she’d be seen. If she made for the road, she’d be an easy target, as well.
Definitely an easy target—for anyone with a gun.
And her pursuers would be armed. One of them, at least—she could tell by the voice—was security for Congressman Walker.
But the other…
She felt she should have recognized the whisper. There was something that teased at her mind. Something she couldn’t quite place…
* * *
Matt reached the encampment with Killer.
The dog came to a dead stop, and Matt slowed just in time to keep from tripping over a body. He hunkered down to see that it was a young man dressed in a private’s uniform. The sentry? There was a bloody gash on the man’s forehead; Matt raised his voice and shouted for Jackson—who came pounding along behind him.
Jackson was already on his phone. “We need ambulances…every cop in the vicinity. Union encampment by the old mill and the ruins of the farmhouse,” he said quickly, and crouched beside the body, too. “He’s alive?”
“Yes, has a pulse,” Matt said.
Angela was almost there and Killer was running toward the surgeon’s tent where they’d watched the doctor and listened to the medical lecture. “I’ve got this—go,” Jackson said.
Matt stood and started running again, following the dog, Angela directly behind him.
He burst into the tent, Glock drawn. There was no one inside the tent.
He saw a form on the cot. He stepped forward, his heart in his throat, and pulled the blanket away.
A woman lay there, blond hair filthy and matted, naked. She was covered in earth and dust.
Lara. Lara Mayhew. She hadn’t gotten herself here. Meg must have done it.
Angela came into the tent and rushed over, immediately checking for a pulse. “She’s alive. High fever. I’m going to get water, cool her down while we wait for the ambulance. Find Meg.”
Matt nodded, whirled around and stepped out of the tent.
At least he hadn’t tripped over her body yet!
But, he thought, I’d know if she was dead! I’d know it.
Meg was alive and she was out there, not far away, running by herself. And she might not have discovered yet what he’d figured out. Might not realize who was after her.
Killer barked.
Matt turned to the dog. “Killer, which way?”
She could have run to the soldiers’ tents; she’d expect to find help there. And whether or not the men had their old guns loaded with black powder, those guns had bayonets attached to them.
But that part of the encampment was across a barren expanse of field. A sharpshooter could easily pick her off.
The same with the road. It, too, would leave her exposed, a target.
He took a moment to do what he always told Meg to do—concentrate. Envision her before him. See her, try to reach out for her.
He thought he heard her speaking…inside his mind. It was as though her mind were connecting with his. He could almost hear her reasoning, weighing her choices carefully.
I’m coming, Meg, I’m coming!
Killer was sitting by the tent, staring toward the woods.
Matt looked over, too. And as he did, figures began to appear before him. Soldiers. Some in Rebel uniforms.
And some dressed in Union garb. They were there by the woods, Private Murphy front and center. They were there, just as if they were assembled for war, except now they were no longer waging war against one another. They stayed on this hallowed field; perhaps they’d learned peace in death, as those who had survived learned peace, after the war, slowly and through the decades that had followed.
They beckoned to him. And he began to run again.
* * *
Once in the camouflage of the trees, Meg paused to catch her breath, still clutching the oversize boots. She wondered how it had all been pulled off, and started putting together the few facts she was certain of with what she’d begun to figure out. She knew that help was on the way; she could see that an alarm was being raised and that men were beginning to stir at the camp.
She allowed herself a fleeting smile. She could swear that she heard Matt’s voice in her mind, reassuring her.
I’m coming, Meg. I’m coming!
He was out there; he was close. And he wouldn’t be alone. The Krewe was a team. They were a team and they believed in one another.
Yes, help was out there.
But she didn’t dare cry out; the killers were among those who might be seen as rescuers by anyone who happened to come upon them. She had no doubt that, even with other people, they might well have an opportunity to kill her before she could speak. Before she could reveal what they were…
She leaned against a tree and got her feet into the boots. When she’d done that, she moved deeper into the woods. She moved as quietly as she could, trying to keep from cracking branches or giving any other indication of her whereabouts.
She’d gone in about fifty feet when she came through the trees and to a clearing.
“Meg?”
She heard her name whispered by a terrified voice. A female voice.
She didn’t reply; she waited.
Then she heard a soft, frightened sob. “Help me…someone help me, please.” Looking around the trees, she saw that Kendra Walker, muddied and disheveled, was slumped by a tree, tears streaming down her face.
“Help me, oh, Lord, someone…help me!” she wailed again.
Meg was shocked. Had whoever spirited her out of the MacAndrew house taken Kendra, too? Had the killer finally snapped and decided to take out his boss’s wife, along with all those who’d seemed to threaten him?
Or was Walker himself behind it all—and had he chosen tonight to rid himself of another burden?
The cries were heart-wrenching.
Meg crouched low and inched toward her. “Mrs. Walker—Kendra, you have to be quiet. Help is coming,” she whispered, “but we need to be quiet until we see that it’s—it’s the Krewe that has come. Get up, please. We have to get farther into the woods.”
“I—I can’t!” Kendra told her. “My ankle! I had to get away when I realized it was… J
oe. Oh, God, it was Joe all along, Joe Brighton!”
“Get up and lean on me. We need to move into the woods, where we can hide until we know it’s safe.”
Meg started toward Kendra but she stopped abruptly. She could see someone there in the night, slowly appearing.
It was the ghost she had seen before. The ghost of Genie Gonzales.
And Genie spoke.
“Don’t trust her!” Genie said.
Kendra evidently didn’t see Genie; she turned to look around, to find out where Meg was.
And then everything about her changed. The mask of tears was gone. She had a hard, vicious expression on her face and she seemed furious—not hurt at all.
“Damn you, Joe, get the little bitch!”
Meg whipped around to see Joe Brighton behind her, wielding a long sharp knife. He smiled at her.
“Joe Brighton,” Meg said. “Not a surprise.”
The man acted confused. “Not Joe, it’s Slash. Slash McNeil, at your service.”
“Joe, quit acting like an ass. This isn’t the time to fool around. Kill her! Kill the bitch and let’s be done with this!”
“Slash,” the man said, still smiling at Meg. It was a bizarre smile, cheerful and self-satisfied. “Slash—and I’ve been waiting.”
He had a Bowie knife; she had a scalpel. He was a fit, strong man. But he couldn’t get behind her to drug her again and carry her out a window and eventually down into a deep dark hole. They were face-to-face.
“I’ve watched. I’ve waited,” he said. “Slash… Slash doesn’t like playing with pills and leaving women alive in the dirt. Slash likes to feel the knife on flesh. Now… I have my chance.”
“Damn you, Joe!” Kendra shouted.
“Shut up, woman!” Brighton growled, never taking his eyes off Meg.
“That’s what happens when you deal with men who are sociopaths or psychotics,” Kendra said. She shrugged, glancing at Meg. “Oh, well. I don’t care if Joe has fun thinking he’s the world’s most famous—uncaught!—serial killer. Slash. I got wind of his little idiosyncrasies, including murder, when I caught him one night about to attack a coed. I might have died myself if I hadn’t convinced him I needed someone like him. My husband is a good man, you see, and a total fool—like most good men. He didn’t see that he’d never get anywhere while Hubbard was alive. Now, Hubbard, that was tricky. But we pulled it off, didn’t we…Slash?”
Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 5 Page 28