The Silenced (14 page)

“I know the house,” Meg reminded him. “I’m from West Virginia, remember?” She couldn’t prevent a certain irony from entering her tone.

“Yes, of course. Anyway...we were always interested in Washington and Lee family history. And even as a kid, I felt terrible for Lee. Lincoln offered him a pivotal post leading the Northern army, and Lee had to make a decision. Back then, your first loyalty was to your state. And he was a Virginian. They say the entire household could hear him pacing through the night and day, trying to make that decision. He had to know that the Union would take his house—the Union would have to. Guns up here could have shot right across the Potomac into the Capitol. And can you imagine him having to tell his wife that they were going to lose a home that had come to them through
her
family? But he had to decline Lincoln’s offer because he was a Virginian and Virginia was bound to secede.”

“And when the Union took the property, they began to bury their dead, ensuring that he’d never come back. Except now the house is a Lee memorial,” Meg said. “And?”

“And I was looking up at it, and I saw Lee.”

“As in Robert E.?” Meg asked.

Matt was still wearing his dry smile. “Yeah,” he said huskily. “As in Robert E. I saw him standing in his uniform, hands folded behind his back, gazing out over the Potomac. He was some distance from the columns.”

“Did it occur to you that it might have been a reenactor?”

“Of course. In fact, my mom was certain that I’d seen a reenactor.”

“How do you know it wasn’t?”

He smiled. “Because I saw Mary Lee walk up behind him and put her arms around him. Reenactors seldom engage in that kind of intimacy. But everyone said it
was
a reenactor—although the management at the house said there were no reenactments that day. I accepted it. Easier than dealing with the ribbing I got for seeing a ghost. I let it all go.”

“And then?” Meg asked.

He turned and looked at her. “A girl in high school. A friend. A great kid. Kerry Sullivan. We weren’t a couple, but we’d known each other since grade school, and our parents were friends, too. I was actually away, checking out colleges. I dreamed that she and I were walking along a path in the Blue Ridge. Our parents often rented cabins up in the mountains in the national park. I was in New York, and she was supposedly in Richmond. But in my dream, she took my hand when we sat down and told me to be kind to our parents, to reassure them that she was all right. I teased her. I said no one had ever accused her of being all right. She just smiled and touched my face. She’d done that as long as I’d known her—a funny little way of running her hand down my face, telling me not to be a jerk. I don’t remember anything else until I woke up. And when I did, I could still smell the scent of the perfume she always wore. I called home, and my mom was crying. She’d been about to call me, to say that Kerry had died of an aneurysm during the night.”

He took a thoughtful breath. “I knew then. Everyone thought I was crazy again because they saw me talking to her at the grave site. She was in a great mood, happy that so many people had come to her funeral. She told me to say good things to her parents and sisters and brothers. Make them feel okay. I promised I’d try. And then she told me...”

“What?”

“To use it,” he said quietly. “That she could talk to me, that maybe others could, and that...I should use it. Bring comfort to the living. And maybe help the dead.”

“And that’s why you’re Krewe,” she said.

“I wasn’t like you. I didn’t know right away that this is what I should be doing, where I should be working. But yeah, I figured a dead girl had talked to me, so I needed to do what she said. First, I went to the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington—a long-standing family tradition—and then did a stint in the service.” He paused. “Deployed to Iraq.”

She didn’t move; he didn’t betray any emotion and yet she knew his time in the service must have been very hard. He spoke again.

“Then I joined the FBI. Things have changed, of course, since 9/11. The FBI is much more active overseas now and I was assigned to the Middle East for a while. After that, I went back to school for behavioral science and finally landed at Quantico—and then with Adam.”

“He is an incredible man,” Meg murmured.

“That he is. I learned how to profile, and to put the results together with what I’d learned about the dead. And from the dead, from those who stayed. I’ve watched and observed and I discovered that some ghosts won’t talk to everyone, and some are better at talking than others. Some are so real you’re convinced you can touch them, some can’t quite learn to be ghosts—like the way I couldn’t learn to ice-skate. They’re the hardest to communicate with, these almost-ghosts.”

Meg realized that she was smiling.

“What?” he asked warily.

“You really can’t ice-skate?”

“Total fool on the ice. I fall all over the place.”

“Well, we should be okay,” she said.

“Why?”

“It’s summer!”

“There you go,” he said lightly.

Meg saw that they’d traveled a good distance already; they were headed west now, skirting DC.

Killer sat quietly in her lap, like an angel.

When they came to a rest area, Matt pulled onto the ramp. “We can take him out for a minute,” he said, indicating Killer.

“He hasn’t barked or whined or anything.”

“He’s a dog. I’m not taking any chances with this car.”

Matt parked near a small lot for dog-walking. Meg got out, setting Killer on the ground and looping his leash around her wrist.

“Need a break? Want coffee?” he asked.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Okay. I could use more coffee. I’ll leave you two and be right back.”

As he headed into the concession area, Meg called to him. “Bosworth.”

He turned.

“If you’re getting coffee, anyway, I guess I’ll have one. Thanks.”

He nodded and moved on. He wasn’t running or even hurrying; he had a very long gait and naturally moved fast.

Meg took Killer to the dog park. He stayed by her side, sniffed a little and did his business. A Pekingese, seeing him, barked wildly. Killer ignored the other dog and resumed sniffing the grass.

Waiting with him, Meg idly watched the traffic. She frowned, noticing a black sedan with tinted windows sliding into the rest area. It didn’t park.

It merely slowed, then entered the lane that led back to the highway.

She tried to get a look at the license plate as the sedan drove off. There were rows of cars between them, and just when she might have had her chance, the Pekingese and its owner walked right past her. But she suspected that if she
had
seen the license, it would’ve been encrusted in mud.

Matt returned, carrying two paper cups of coffee. She thanked him as she took hers and then said, “A black sedan just went by, slowed down, then kept going. Tinted windows.”

“You think someone is following us in a black sedan?”

“Remember the one outside my town house yesterday? It pulled away when Angela and I saw it.”

“Look in the parking lot,” he told her.

She turned to see five cars in the lot fitting that description.

“Hmm.”

“Maybe they’re so popular around here because they’re so...official. If someone
is
following you—or us—he’s hiding in plain sight. Practically everyone around here has a black sedan,” Matt commented.

“So you think I’m paranoid or seeing things that don’t exist? That I’m trying to create a mystery?”

“Things are what they are, whether you want to create a mystery or not,” he said. “And there’s nothing wrong with paranoia—sometimes it can save your life. But, of course, you’re thinking black sedan because of Congressman Walker’s office.”

“Yeah. Congressmen tend to be driven around in them. Their aides use them. Lobbyists use them.”

“Like I said, just about everyone in Washington uses them. The question is do you really think you’re being followed?”

“I—I’m not sure why anyone would follow me.”

“Because you’re on the hunt for Lara Mayhew,” he said. “Anyway, you ready to go?”

They’d only been back in the car for a minute when Matt’s phone rang. He said the word “Answer.”

It was Angela. She told him they had a reservation at a small local hotel within walking distance of the historic area, a place that accepted dogs.

He said nothing as he hung up. She sat there uncomfortably, holding the dog and sipping her coffee. Finally, she spoke, hoping she sounded nonchalant and businesslike but still appreciative.

“Thank you.”

“Huh?” He glanced over at her; she realized that he must’ve been deep in thought.

“The dog. You were right. I shouldn’t have taken him.”

“As long as you
know
I’m right.”

“Why do you do that with everything?” Meg demanded, speaking before she had a chance to weigh her words—and stop them.

“Do what?”

“I said I knew I was wrong. You could’ve just said, ‘Thanks, that’s okay.’”

“Doesn’t matter. The dog’s with us now. That’s the way it is. So, we’ll accommodate.”

Meg fell into silence. Every time she thought he was actually proving to be human, he went and turned it around. Fine.

She finished her coffee, curled her arms around the dog and leaned against the side of the car. She hadn’t slept much lately.

“Taking a nap?” he asked.

“You’re doing the driving,” she said.

She didn’t really sleep but she must have dozed. The next thing she knew, they were drawing into Harpers Ferry, her home, a place where the rivers had flooded the land, where George Washington had gone, where John Brown had staged his famous raid and Civil War soldiers had fought time and time again.

Where ghost stories abounded in the often fog-shrouded valley low by the river.

Home. A place where Lara Mayhew might easily have come to hide.

* * *

Matt was familiar with Harpers Ferry. He figured it would’ve been nearly impossible to grow up in Richmond, attend military school and not know Harpers Ferry. The munitions here and the strategic placement of rivers and mountains led to its being valuable in war. Nowadays, it thrived on tourism. There was the history of the Civil War to be experienced; there was rafting and tubing on the river. Visitors could enjoy interesting shops and great stories told by the Rangers; there were reenactments, and all manner of entertainment. He didn’t, of course, know the town as well as someone who had lived here. As well as Meg Murray probably did.

Angela had done a wonderful job finding the kind of place they needed. From their hotel, they could ease right down to the John Brown firehouse. A climb up the hill would take them to Harper Cemetery and Jefferson Rock—where you could look down over the valley and the river and see for miles.

And the place allowed dogs.

He liked animals, although he didn’t have one because he traveled so frequently. He’d toyed with the idea of an independent cat, but hadn’t gotten around to adopting one yet.

Killer...

Damn, the mutt was ugly.

Still, there was something about him. Maybe the loyalty that had brought him to the morgue where his owner lay within. Matt figured if they ever encountered Genie’s ghost, the dog would come in handy.

He trusted his gut. Intuition was, he thought, akin to his ability to see the dead.

He found it somewhat irritating that Meg had insisted on bringing Killer, but as he’d said himself, the dog was with them now. They had to make it work.

The place they were staying was called the General Fitzhugh Lee Hotel. That was something of an exaggeration; it was more of a bed-and-breakfast, but for their purposes, just about perfect. They were greeted at a counter in the parlor by an older woman who recognized Meg immediately.

“Margaret Murray, child, how are you? When I saw your name I was so pleased. We miss you and your folks around here. I haven’t seen you in years!”

“Hi, Mrs. Lafferty,” Meg said, returning a hug from the woman, who’d walked around the counter to embrace her.

“Look at you,” Mrs. Lafferty exclaimed. “All grown-up and official! I don’t mean to ignore you, Mr. Bosworth, but it’s been ages since I’ve seen Meg!”

“Quite all right,” Matt assured her. It was totally enjoyable to watch Meg squirm and wonder what he was thinking. Still, the more time he spent with her, the more he admired her—despite the occasional flash of annoyance. She was young, she was new, she was raw. But she was passionate and determined. And undeniably attractive—tall, lithe, with her large blue eyes and generous mouth. He wasn’t a fool; he’d immediately responded to the sexual attraction she exuded. And she loved dogs. His grandmother used to say that you could tell who people were by the way they treated animals. Those who were good to animals were usually good human beings—and she always warned him to be careful of those who weren’t.

Then why be so hard on Meg? It wasn’t the new...or the raw.

Maybe it was the way he’d felt when she’d touched him that first day at the morgue. He’d pulled back because she’d been so warm, so filled with life, even with tears in her eyes. And a moment like that wasn’t the time to feel anything but empathy for another human being.

Meg immediately asked Mrs. Lafferty if she’d seen Lara Mayhew lately.

Mrs. Lafferty had not.

They were given rooms next to each other on the ground floor; that made it easy with the dog.

Mrs. Lafferty loved Killer right off the bat.

Matt realized that they were again using the dog’s original name. Killer.

They didn’t have far to go from the parlor to their rooms. He was glad to see that Meg traveled as lightly as he did—one overnight carry-on and an over-the-shoulder bag.

When Killer started to follow him, Meg urged the dog into her own room.

The “hotel” predated the Civil War by three decades; it was furnished with period pieces. Matt found a wall plaque in his room informing him that it had been inhabited by generals from both sides of the “Great Conflict” and, since then, all kinds of ambassadors, attachés and visiting military. When he’d set his bag on the rack, Matt looked out the window onto the Shenandoah. The view was spectacular, even by night. A full moon had risen. And from his vantage point, he could see the river, brilliant and shimmering in the moonlight. He caught glimpses of the old houses and shops perched at an angle along the slope of the hill, and he knew where the park was, as well as the firehouse where John Brown had staged his famous—and infamous—raid.