“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, begging 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... Joe. 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?”
“We pulled it off,” Slash agreed. “And the tongues were a smart idea, right? People can’t talk without tongues, so that was my signature.” He grinned. “I’ve read every serial killer study out there, so I know about signatures. Putting them at Manheim’s place and yours—that was clever of you. It confused everyone.” He sighed. “You should’ve at least let me take Lara’s tongue,” he told Kendra.
That chilled Meg deeply.
I’m probably about to die myself. I should be scared.
But without intending to, Kendra was giving her time—time to come up with a plan, a way to escape. It was a good thing that Kendra seemed to think Meg needed to know just how clever she’d been.
And that she, not her husband, was the real power! “Yes, Slash, the tongues were a great plan of yours,” Kendra said. “I always told Slash—even before I knew he was Slash!—that people, certain people, couldn’t be allowed to talk. I guess that gave him the idea of taking their tongues when he started.”
And Meg realized that Kendra Walker was as much of a sociopath as Brighton, and beyond any doubt, a monster.
She didn’t want to be the vice president’s wife; she wanted to be the first lady.
She’d gotten this man to do the work for her. Knowing he, too, was a monster, she’d exploited his sickness for her own gain. The man before her had now dropped his mask, just as Kendra had dropped hers—but what lay behind his eyes was true insanity. Behind Kendra’s...lay a cold and psychopathic degree of control.
Which of them was the more dangerous? Meg wondered.
She had to move. She propelled herself into the clearing, toward him, scalpel raised and ready, and she caught him hard, right in the belly. It didn’t kill him, but he was wounded and he was down. She could run again, scream for her life...and look for help while he gathered himself. She could try jumping on him, slashing him with the scalpel, but she’d learned in the academy to judge the strength of an opponent and take evasive measures when necessary.
In this case, it was necessary. She turned to make a calculated retreat.
She was stunned when she suddenly went flying herself.
Kendra Walker was standing over her, having tripped her, pure and simple.
“I would’ve told you more,” Kendra said,
scowling down at Meg. “What do I care now? Okay, so I like an audience. But you have become a major pain in the ass.” She turned to the killer she commanded and said, “Joe, Slash, whatever the fuck, get over here now and finish this!”
Meg heard Brighton lumbering to his feet, groaning and cursing and coming for her.
* * *
The ghost soldiers of Gettysburg moved swiftly through the trees—literally through them at times—and Matt struggled to keep up. He couldn’t even see Killer; the dog was all but buried in the tall grass, bracken and brush that covered the forest floor. His heart was beating furiously. He still didn’t know exactly who else was involved, but he did know that Kendra Walker was in on it—whether her husband was aware of it or not. Matt couldn’t tell yet just how much Walker grasped about what had been going on. Matt knew for a fact that it was Joe Brighton who’d done the killing. Ellery Manheim had been cleared of the murders—although he might prove to have been involved, too. The actual killing, however, had been done by one hand, and one hand alone. And Nathan Oliver, the giant who looked like a killer, had been with him and Congressman Walker when Meg was taken. As always, appearances could be deceptive...
Had Ian Walker planned the events tonight—to allow his wife and his henchmen time to slip Meg out of the house—and to ensure that when she found Lara, she could be with her friend for eternity?
He didn’t know yet—he just knew who was involved because he’d found Kendra Walker’s pendant on the ground at the mill. The silver pendant of the Washington Monument she’d toyed with when they’d met... At the moment, he didn’t know and didn’t care if she’d been working on her own or with Walker. Or if, perhaps, she’d acted on some remark he might have made about what would make his climb to the White House easier. She’d recognized the one man among her husband’s retinue who would suit her purposes, a man who’d been willing to slash women to death in order to distract everyone, including media and police, from the murder that meant so much—that of Congressman Hubbard.
And Lara had suspected. She’d sensed that something wasn’t right. And she’d been smart enough to realize that she’d needed to disappear, but she hadn’t realized how quickly.