The Silenced (12 page)

He didn’t want to tell Nancy that he hoped there was a reason for her to be held; if not, her chances probably weren’t good.

“You’re going to look for her, right?” Nancy asked, staring at Meg and then Matt. “You’ll look until you find her. If she’s hiding, no one knows where she’d go better than you do, Meg. You two were like little peas in a pod, loving all the same places. I know she’s somewhere, Meg, I can feel it.”

“We intend to look—and we
will
find her,” Meg promised.

He wished she hadn’t made that promise. Despite his fervent hopes to the contrary, he suspected that if they found Lara Mayhew, the odds were that they’d find her dead. Above all, he didn’t want to introduce a false sense of confidence about Lara’s chances.

Meg stood. “Nancy, when was Lara here last?”

“About two weeks ago,” Nancy said. “You didn’t know?”

“The academy was pretty intensive. I’d talked to her—but I didn’t know she was coming here.”

“She surprised me. Just showed up one afternoon and didn’t leave until the next morning. Needless to say, I was delighted to see her.”

“Did she stay in her room?” Meg asked.

“Yes, and you’re always welcome to stay there. I’m sure we could accommodate Agent Bosworth, too. It’s a big house.”

“Thanks, but we have to work, and I want to try and go everywhere Lara and I used to go,” Meg said. “Would you mind if I went to see whether she left anything in her room?”

“Of course not!” Nancy replied. “You know where it is.”

Meg headed for the stairs.

“May I?” Matt asked Nancy.

Nancy grinned at him. “I was assuming you’d
expect
to go up there.”

He nodded, smiling. He liked the old girl. “Thanks.”

He followed Meg up the stairs. Lara’s room was neat and pretty and actually somewhat sophisticated; she’d come here as a child, but if she’d kept posters of rock bands and movie stars on her walls back then, she’d since taken them down. The pictures in her room now were prints of old classics, beautifully framed, many medieval. Her bed was covered in a crimson flower-pattern spread that complemented her drapes. An antique dressing table sat against one wall, while double doors led out to a balcony.

Meg was at the dressing table, carefully opening drawers.

He instantly looked around for a journal and pulled out the drawer on the bedside table.

He was rewarded. There
was
a journal. He sat and pored through it while Meg continued to search for anything that might give them any clues.

“Listen to this,” Matt said, finding Lara’s last entry. “‘I really long for the days when we were such believers. When idealism meant everything. I was told that government involves compromise and I believe in compromise. I know that there’s no politician who can make everyone happy. What I
want
to believe in is men and women who are passionate—who are so dedicated to their cause that they aren’t swayed by money or adulation. Have I found that man? Or does everyone eventually buckle?’

“‘They say
The enemy of my enemy is my friend
. Or wait—
better the devil you know than the devil you don’t
. I never knew what a confusing maze I was entering! Meg got it right— Go out there to fight for justice, to right wrongs. Ah, what a discussion the two of us had at Harpers Ferry!’”

For a moment, Meg looked stricken. But she’d learned a lot of self-control at the academy, Matt thought. She quickly regained her composure.

“Lara should run herself. She has strong convictions,” Meg said.

“What was your discussion at Harpers Ferry about?”

Meg shrugged. “I told her that the FBI criminal division was just what I wanted. That I’d go after the bad guys. I also told her that half the time we never really know the truth about someone we voted for until they’re in office.”

“Sounds as if you felt you were taking the easier route.”

“Yes. What do you suppose was going on in DC?” Meg wondered. “I guess I don’t follow politics closely enough,” she said apologetically. “Even being best friends with Lara.”

“Politics—it’s pretty damn complicated.” Matt held up the journal. “Will Nancy mind if we take this?”

“Not at all, but we’ll ask her.”

They asked, and she didn’t mind. They were welcome to the book, she said. They were welcome to anything they wanted. As they walked to the door, Killer came running up, wagging his tail. He hadn’t gone upstairs with them; he’d stayed happily enough with Nancy.

“You’re visiting here, little guy,” Nancy said. “Right? You’re leaving the pup with me? What’s his name?”

Meg looked over at Matt.

Apparently, she couldn’t bring herself to tell a woman whose niece was missing while a serial murderer was on the loose that the dog’s name was Killer.

“Kelly,” he said.

“Kelly. Cute.” Nancy smiled.

Matt prepared to leave. “Thank you. We’ll use all our resources, but if you hear from Lara, please call us immediately.”

“Definitely,” Nancy said.

“Even if someone tells you not to call the police,” Matt added.

“I’m not foolish,” Nancy said.

“Many people who aren’t foolish want a loved one back so badly they’re willing to risk anything. But if she
has
been abducted, you need our help.”

Nancy put her arms around Meg and hugged her again. There were suddenly tears in her eyes.

“Find her, please, find her!” Nancy’s words were muffled and her voice broke as she began to sob.

“We will find her! We will,” Meg vowed.

At their feet, Killer—now Kelly—whined softly.

“Oh, silly me, crying when I’m sure everything’s going to be all right!” Nancy said. She eased away from Meg and plucked up the dog. “We’re going to be all right, Kelly. And don’t you worry. I’d keep you myself, but Meg says she’s coming back for you!”

Still holding the dog, she saw the two of them to the door. Matt shook her hand, sorry to see that tears were still brimming in her eyes. Meg hugged her a final time.

“You’ll keep in touch?” Nancy asked.

“Daily,” Meg replied.

Then they returned to the car.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Matt told her.

“What? I shouldn’t have said I’d keep in touch?”

“No. That we’d find her.”

“Why not?”

“You may not be able to keep that promise,” he said.

“But we will find her,” she said stubbornly. “Didn’t
you
tell me that?”

“Yes, I did tell you we
might
find her. I certainly haven’t given up hope. But it’s one thing for us to operate on that assumption and another for you to make unwarranted promises to a bereaved relative.”

She paused, scowling at him, her hands on her hips.

“Fine. Then
I
will find her.”

Matt went around to the driver’s side of the car. “Where are we going?”

“What?”

“Where are we going? This is your hunt, remember?”

She looked at him coolly and slid into the passenger seat. He realized she probably had no real idea. How did you hunt for a missing person who might have been abducted—or who might have gone into hiding?

She dug into her bag while he revved the car but remained parked. She brought out Lara’s Richmond journal and read aloud, “‘Sometimes I want to go back. Way back to the days of innocence when we truly believed. Follow the trail as Meg and I did when we were students. Richmond to Sharpsburg, on to Harpers Ferry where we were
home
, and Gettysburg, where we learned that ideals are everything, and that good men may fight for different causes.’”

She turned to him. “Hollywood Cemetery. One of her favorite places. It’s on...”

“I know where it is,” he said curtly. She closed the journal and he drove to the cemetery.

“I don’t really think she’d be hiding here, would she?” he asked.

Meg was gazing straight ahead. She didn’t reply.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.” She turned again and looked at him. “No, she won’t be hiding there. She won’t be there if she’s...alive. But if she’s dead...” Her voice trailed off.

Matt wondered what she meant. That if Lara was dead she’d show herself to Meg in a place she loved?

* * *

Meg wasn’t sure what she was doing. If she was going to give any credence to the words in Lara’s journal, she had to think of them as a sort of map. And then, all she could do was follow that map—without really knowing if her friend was dead or alive.

As a native of Richmond, she was proud of the graceful state capitol building with its rotunda statue—claimed to be the only one for which George Washington had actually sat. She loved the Confederate White House and was deeply moved by the sad history of Jefferson Davis’s family when they’d lived there, losing a son when he’d fallen from the balcony. She’d once read to Meg from Varina Davis’s memoirs about the day she’d lost her little boy. The president of the Confederacy had held his dead child while his generals had begged him for orders. Jefferson Davis, his wife and family were buried at Hollywood Cemetery. Conceived and created as a “rural garden” cemetery, it had winding trails and beautiful, poignant stones. It truly was a garden with its sloping lawns, little hills and graceful old trees with gentle, shading branches that swayed in the breeze. The monuments included many marble angels—angels in glory and angels weeping, their emotions somehow visible in their stone poses. A great pyramid was a memorial to the Confederate war dead. But Hollywood Cemetery wasn’t just a sad reminder of the lost Southern “cause.” All manner of men were buried there, some who’d been moved long after their deaths, when other cemeteries had fallen into disrepair or urban progress had forced them to close. Teachers, lawyers, generals from almost every war the nation had ever fought, even the war against itself, were buried here. Long-grieving wives, many of whom had outlived their husbands by twenty to sixty years, now rested beside the men they’d loved.

The cemetery was huge, sprawling and lovely. While there were twenty-two Confederate generals buried there—along with thousands of soldiers—Meg headed first to an area where she knew she’d find one of Lara’s favorite graves, that of Varina Davis, first lady of the Confederacy. She was, naturally enough, next to her husband, the one and only president of the ill-fated Confederacy. Monuments and stones and statues honored the men who’d fought for what they believed was a just cause. History—and human decency—had proved them wrong.

But while they stood by the obelisk that marked the graves of Varina and Jefferson Davis and his family, Meg felt nothing.

There was no sign of Lara. No sign of anyone.

She felt Matt watching her, occasionally pausing as if he, too, were searching the area for what most people wouldn’t see—but which some might feel.

“It’s a beautiful place.” He spoke quietly, but she sensed that he was impatient. That he thought they were on an impulsive and ill-conceived mission.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be,” he said. “I never mind coming here.” He smiled at her suddenly and recite:

“If life and death be things that seem

If death be sleep and life’s a dream

May not the everlasting sleep

The dream of life eternal keep?”

She laughed softly. “John Bannister Tabb, Confederate soldier, priest, poet and I don’t remember what else,” she said.

“Wow. I’m impressed,” he told her. “You weren’t even born here, steeped in this history.”

“Harpers Ferry, not that far, and even more steeped in history,” she responded. “When you go downhill toward the national park and the river, you can practically turn back time. Especially on a dark night when the fog is falling.”

“I know from everything you’ve said that Lara loved history—and that she saw it as an important path to what the country is today,” he said quietly.

“Yes.” Meg sighed. “She’s not here.”

“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.