Where is Lara Mayhew?

Lara, a congressman’s media assistant, suddenly quits her job—and disappears on the way to her Washington, DC, apartment.

Novice FBI agent Meg Murray, a childhood friend of Lara’s, gets a message from her that same night, a message that says she’s disillusioned and “going home.” To Richmond, Virginia. Meg discovers that she never got there. And bodies fitting Lara’s description are showing up in nearby rivers… Could she be the victim of a serial killer?

Meg is assigned to work with special agent Matt Bosworth, a hard-nosed pro in the FBI’s unit of paranormal investigators—the Krewe of Hunters. They trace the route Meg and Lara took more than once in the past, visiting battlefields and graveyards from Harpers Ferry to Gettysburg. Places where the dead share their secrets with those who can hear… As Meg and Matt pursue the possibility of a serial killer, they find themselves in the middle of a political conspiracy. Is there a connection? If so, has Lara been silenced for good? And whom—besides each other—can they trust?

Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“[Waking the Dead is] not to be missed.”

—BookTalk

“Dark, dangerous and deadly! Graham has the uncanny ability to bring her books to life, using exceptionally vivid details to add depth to all the people and places.”

—RT Book Reviews on Waking the Dead, *Top Pick*

“Murder, intrigue…a fast-paced read. You may never know in advance what harrowing situations Graham will place her characters in, but…rest assured that the end result will be satisfying.”

—Suspense Magazine on Let the Dead Sleep

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“I’ve long admired Heather Graham’s storytelling ability and this book hit the mark. I couldn’t put The Unholy down.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Suspenseful and dark.… The transitions between past and present flow seamlessly, and the main characters are interesting and their connection to one another is believable.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Unseen

“Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

Also by HEATHER GRAHAM

THE DEAD PLAY ON

THE BETRAYED

THE HEXED

THE CURSED

WAKING THE DEAD

THE NIGHT IS FOREVER

THE NIGHT IS ALIVE

THE NIGHT IS WATCHING

LET THE DEAD SLEEP

THE UNINVITED

THE UNSPOKEN

THE UNHOLY

THE UNSEEN

AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS

THE EVIL INSIDE

SACRED EVIL

HEART OF EVIL

PHANTOM EVIL

NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

THE KEEPERS

GHOST MOON

GHOST NIGHT

GHOST SHADOW

THE KILLING EDGE

NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

UNHALLOWED GROUND

DUST TO DUST

NIGHTWALKER

DEADLY GIFT

DEADLY HARVEST

DEADLY NIGHT

THE DEATH DEALER

THE LAST NOEL

THE SÉANCE

BLOOD RED

THE DEAD ROOM

KISS OF DARKNESS

THE VISION

THE ISLAND

GHOST WALK

KILLING KELLY

THE PRESENCE

DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

PICTURE ME DEAD

HAUNTED

HURRICANE BAY

A SEASON OF MIRACLES

NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

EYES OF FIRE

SLOW BURN

NIGHT HEAT

* * * * *

Look for Heather Graham’s next novel

THE FORGOTTEN

available soon from MIRA Books

The Silenced

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dedicated with love and appreciation to Cindy Kremple, Sharon Murphy, Patty Harrison, Janice and Thomas Jones, Pat Walker, Ginger and Larry McSween, Molly Bolden and Kay Levine, Susan and Kevin Cella, and Rebecca Barrett for all the behind-the-scenes help you give so often at Writers for New Orleans.

And with very special thanks to Sheila Vincent and the Hotel Monteleone.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Also by HEATHER GRAHAM

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

Epilogue

Extract from The Forgotten by Heather Graham

Copyright

Prologue

Lara Mayhew held her cell phone to her ear, trying to reach her friend Meg as she hurried along the length of the National Mall. She moved as quickly as she could; she’d never intended to be out so late—or so early, whichever it might be. The buildings she loved by day seemed like massive living creatures at night, staring at her with a strange malevolence. She loved the White House, the Capitol building, the Mall and, maybe more than any of them, the Castle building of the Smithsonian with its red facade and turrets.

They suddenly seemed to be looming hulks of evil. It was the hour, of course.

She told herself she was being ridiculous.

The ringing finally stopped and Lara got her friend’s voice mail. Of course. Why would Meg be up at 2:30 a.m.?

But Lara could at least leave a message that might save her friend from worry when she disappeared.

“Meg, it’s me, Lara. I wanted to let you know I’m going home. Home, as in getting out of DC and heading for Richmond. I’m going as soon as it’s daylight. I’ll talk to you when I can. Love you. Don’t say anything to anyone else, okay? I have to get out of here. Talk soon.”

She clicked the end button and slipped the phone into her bag. Meg was her best friend. They’d both been only children—and they’d both wanted siblings. They’d decided once that they’d be just like sisters. And they were.

She wished she’d managed to get ahold of Meg, that she could’ve heard her voice.

She walked briskly along the dark and empty sidewalk and yet she was certain she could hear all kinds of noises. Furtive noises.

Get a grip, she warned herself. She wasn’t prone to being afraid—not without good reason.

Yet the night...scared her. And for no real reason.

Maybe because what she suspected was bone-chilling?

She considered calling 9-1-1. And saying what? She didn’t have an emergency. She was stupidly walking around on dark city streets, suddenly afraid of trying to make her way home in the early-morning hour.

She reminded herself that she was near the White House, for God’s sake, the Capitol, the Smithsonian buildings—and the Washington Monument. Despite the darkness and the shadows, she was fine.

She’d just never been in the area so late. Then again, there’d never been a night quite like this one. She was so upset about what she suspected that she hadn’t thought about the time when she’d made her indignant retreat. She hadn’t had the sense to be afraid as she dashed out.

She hadn’t thought to call a cab, either, and there weren’t many of them on the streets right now.

She mulled over her fears about what was going on, the situation that had caused her to stay so late, spend so many hours talking. Of course, she and Congressman Walker had often stayed at the office late. Not this late, though. Well, maybe, but he always saw that she got home safely. And most of the time, she’d left feeling exhilarated.

She had adored him. She worked on media and communications, but she was also an adviser, a problem-solver.

It was about a month ago that she’d first begun to feel uneasy. She’d wanted to call Meg then, but hadn’t. Meg had been in the middle of her FBI training. So she’d gone home to Aunt Nancy’s for a day and then done a quick circuit of the things she and Meg had done as children and during their breaks at college. She’d followed what they called their trail. All places that were cheap and historic and wonderful. And she’d left a message in the hollow of the broken marker in the Harpers Ferry graveyard, as they’d done when they were kids. One day—who knew?—she might go back to pick up the message. If her suspicions proved groundless.

She was angry with herself. She wasn’t naive. She’d just wholeheartedly believed in what she was doing. Then she’d begun to realize that there were little erosions in those beliefs—which had become big erosions.

She thought about her friend again, wishing Meg had answered her phone.

They’d been such dreamers. Meg had always focused on law enforcement, she on law and governance. Her love of history and the story of America had made her understand and value the importance of good government, and she still believed in the passion for justice and freedom that had forged her country. There had been painful lessons along the way; among them, a bloody Civil War, which had taught Americans some of those lessons.

Longing to work in DC—to fight for justice and equality herself—she’d found Congressman Ian Walker, who was a dreamer, too.

And an idealist. One who did, however, recognize that in a country where different people had different ideals, compromise was often necessary.

What to do, oh, Lord, what to do...

Today, she’d been shocked, absolutely shocked. Before that, she’d thought she had simply been imagining things. And then today, she was faced with all the talk about Walker’s Gettysburg speech, what he should say—now that Congressman Hubbard was dead.

She should’ve been more careful. She shouldn’t have suggested that she was worried about the fact that such a decent man had so conveniently died.

Leave. Go home. That made the most sense. Get the hell out as soon as possible. Go home to Richmond, figure out the proper thing to do about the situation here, decide what she really wanted to do with her future.

It was crazy, she told herself angrily, to give up her passion because of this.

But she hadn’t given up. She just needed a change for a while; there was still goodness in the world, and lots more opportunity, and she needed to sample some of it. Then, one day, perhaps she’d come back, using her skill with words to champion the right man or woman again.

Once she found safety, should she tell the world her suspicions? She had no proof. She’d be laughed out of court; no lawyer would take her on.

She could always approach her media contacts. Throwing the hint of suspicion out there could change everything.

There was also the possibility of being sued for slander, since she had no proof.

There was Meg, but she had to reach Meg first.

And the faster she walked, the more afraid she felt.

Get out of Washington! It’s a nest of vipers!

She still believed in the dream. In men and women who couldn’t be bought.

But there were other things she could do.

Take a job with a media company or PR firm in Richmond. What about Harpers Ferry? Tourism there grew every year. Then again, Harpers Ferry was small. Maybe Richmond would be best. And she loved Pennsylvania—especially Gettysburg! They’d gone there so often, she and Meg, and made interesting friends.

No! Not Gettysburg. Not after tonight!

She needed somewhere far, far away from DC.

She did love the Blue Ridge Mountains. There were smaller towns out that way, towns that flourished because of tourism. She could find work with a tour company or something. Anything except this.

Baltimore?

Maybe she needed to go much farther afield than the states of Virginia, Maryland or West Virginia.

She looked around the shadowed streets, walking as swiftly as she could. She’d worked very late before now—well, till one in the morning, anyway. She hadn’t been nervous those other nights, not at all. Congressman Walker was a good man; it just seemed now that he was a man who could be swayed, who could be fooled and manipulated into changing his views and his policies—into working with others to undermine what he had once believed in.

But she still felt that he was, at heart, a good man.

No matter what she’d learned today. No matter what she’d expected. No matter how disappointed she was. She had to believe he was a good man.

Was he really innocent of any knowledge of a man’s death?

She could be wrong; she probably was. But she couldn’t help suspecting that someone in his political camp had wanted Congressman Hubbard out of the picture. It was just a suspicion, she told herself again, and it could be unfounded!

Her fear tonight was simply a result of the shadows and the darkness. By day, tourists and lawmakers crowded these streets. Children laughed and ran around on the grass. The Smithsonian’s Castle stood as a bastion to the past and the country’s rich history—as the USA became a full-fledged country, one that had withstood the rigors of war and knew how to create the arts and sciences crucial to a nation of dreamers.

She could see the Washington Monument ahead of her in the night, shining in the moonlight that beamed down. Yes, she loved Washington, DC, but it was time to leave.

Her heels clicked on the sidewalk, echoing loudly in her ears. She prayed for a taxi to go by.

A beat-up van drew near and seemed to slow down as it passed her. She walked onto the grass verge, suddenly even more afraid. With her luck, she’d be worrying about the fate of the nation—and get mugged by a common thief.

Not long ago, a young woman had been found on the shore of the Potomac River. Naked, her throat and body ripped open. Police and forensic scientists were having a problem because river creatures had played havoc with her body. No “persons of interest” were being questioned in the death; the police feared they were dealing with someone suffering from a “mental disorder.”

Lord, she was stupid, taking off in the middle of the night like this! It was just that...

She’d been so upset, so indignant, so...perplexed that personal danger hadn’t even occurred to her!

She hardly dared to breathe. Why had she stood up and said she no longer wanted any part of it? Why had she taken off the way she had? Get a grip, she told herself again. The hard-core politicians she knew wouldn’t be stalking her; they weren’t suffering from any mental disorders. Wait—not true. Anyone in politics was suffering from a mental disorder!

She tried to laugh at her own joke. No sound came.

She quickened her pace; her feet, legs and lungs hurt. She kept her phone in one hand, trying to look fierce, as if she was ready to press 9-1-1 at a second’s notice.

Her heart was pounding.

It was a van.

Everyone who watched TV knew that evil men in vans caught victims on the street and dragged them in by a side door and then...

The van drove on.

She felt giddy with relief and smiled at her unjustified panic.

A moment later, she saw a sedan in the street. It slowed and she squinted, looking toward it.

“Lara!” The car slid to a halt, and a deep male voice called her name from the driver’s seat. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift!”

She had to know him; she should’ve recognized the voice. It must be muffled by the night air. She was being offered a ride by someone who was obviously official. Someone she knew, someone who knew her.

Maybe Ian had sent a driver out after her. Maybe he’d realized what time it was and that the streets might not be safe.

Her relief made her feel weak.

She dropped her phone into her purse and ran across the street, grateful and shaky.

But the man didn’t get out of the car. And for some reason—perhaps the warning voice inside her that reminded her she now knew too much—she grew suspicious.

Ian’s people would have gotten out of the car, opened the door for her!

She turned to run.

Where? Where should she run? The streets were empty, the Mall was empty...

Lara prayed the beat-up van would come back.

She nearly stumbled.

She paused briefly. She would not trip and fall and look back screaming the way idiots did in horror movies when giant reptiles were coming for them. She took the seconds required to kick off her heels while digging in her bag for her cell phone.

She did nothing stupid.

But that didn’t save her.

He was fast. Surprisingly fast.

He slammed into her and down on her like a tackle in a football game. She opened her mouth to scream.

Who the hell was it? She still couldn’t see him! Did it matter? Escape!

She couldn’t turn her head; he was behind her, forcing her down. And then...she felt his hand coming around her head. He was holding a rag. She smelled something sickly sweet and she began to see black dots. The smell gagged her. She had to keep fighting; she was going to die if she didn’t.

So she fought...

But as the scent overwhelmed her, she thought, Oh, God, no, I really am going to disappear.

The blackness took her.

* * *

He’d studied the information available on serial killers with the same concentrated attention he’d always given textbooks; what had to be done had to be done, and he had to do it the right way. He knew FBI men, behavioral scientists. He was careful never to talk too much, but he was an excellent listener. He never undertook any task lightly.

He’d invented an alter ego for himself, a man he called Slash McNeil. Slash McNeil was now fully part of his personality. Slash? Well, it made sense. McNeil? Why not? It seemed to go well with Slash. Not that he needed a name to sign to confessions or letters to the editors or police. He just liked it.

McNeil had been born off, as anyone who knew this manufactured alter ego would say. Even when he was a toddler, he’d enjoyed smashing bugs. As he’d aged, the bugs became small reptiles; McNeil liked to set snakes on fire. Once he grew older, the animals he tortured became kittens and puppies and then cats and dogs.

When he was sixteen, he committed his first murder. It hadn’t been particularly good, well planned or satisfying. He’d teased ugly Sarah Rockway, letting her think he wanted a make-out session with her, and lured her to a bridge. He’d kissed Sarah—and then tossed her over the bridge. In McNeil’s mind, at least, the girl had died happy.

But he hadn’t wanted Sarah Rockway—nor had he wanted the murder to be so swift. He’d wanted to slash her, cut her, as he had the kittens and puppies.

And he’d really wanted Celia Hampton. Celia, the cheerleader, the leggy beauty who would barely give him the time of day. He wanted her naked, doing anything he asked, begging him for her life.

But murder was an art to be properly learned, and practice improved any art.

It took him another two years to lure Celia Hampton away with him. He’d waited for a frat party. Waited until she was drunk and vomiting and offered her a wet towel—doused with a drug, of course. Then he’d slipped her into his old van and out to the woods in Virginia, far from the city. He hadn’t had to strip her; he’d shown her his knife and she’d done everything he wanted. After that, he’d cut her. First her throat. Slowly. He’d let her bleed out...while he sliced open her gut.

He’d thrown her in a river—weighing her down by stuffing her with stones. By the time she was found...the river had washed away all evidence.

In the beginning he’d been able to live on the memory for years. Then, more recently, he’d felt the need to kill again. But now things were different. The need came faster. He got work that allowed him to travel, and it had afforded him opportunities for murder. He was controlled, always controlled and always careful. He studied his victims. They were never ugly again. They were the pretty ones. But he made sure that when they were found, he couldn’t be. They might know about him—since communications among law enforcement officers were pretty good these days—but they didn’t know who he was.

He always took a souvenir.

The tongue.

Serial killers often took souvenirs. He’d determined that would be his souvenir of choice.

They would recognize his work.

Then again, maybe not; he left his victims in water, weighed down with whatever he could find. And the water concealed any evidence there might be.

Yes, he had an alter ego. And he’d paved the way. Two dead already, just in the past month. Now...this one. And there’d have to be more.

He’d watched the first girl, Sarah, not with malice, but with purpose. He hadn’t done anything out of hatred or viciousness. He’d been inexperienced then, still learning. With Celia, the second girl, it had been easy. It wasn’t that he liked what he’d done. He’d seen the need early on and he did his job as he understood it.

It was just necessary. Like dressing every morning, driving, breathing, eating—making a living.

He wished he could be sorry. He wasn’t.

He did what he needed to do, and that was all.

He’d become Slash McNeil.

For a moment, he paused. It was messing with him this time. He had it figured out—and damned well, too. The girls, the type, the psychology.

But this one...

This one was different. The way he handled her had to be different. And he sure as hell didn’t like it, not one bit.

Still...

He was prepared. He’d prepared for this possibility months ago, and in actuality, there were things about it that were even more appealing than usual. This involved wits and careful machinations and a certain danger that made it all the more exhilarating; it gave him a high that was greater than the rest.

He smiled and thought about the woman—her flair, her grace, her confidence.

And he thought about what she’d be...

When it was all over.

1

Meg Murray’s alarm went off with a strident ring that made her nearly jump out of her skin as well as the bed.

She groaned and rubbed her temples. Keeping up with the guys wasn’t easy—not as easy as she’d hoped, anyway.

But she, and Sandra Martinez and Carrie Huang— the two other young women in her academy class—were holding up nicely. And they’d made it. Meg was proud—and relieved. She knew that only one out of every hundred applicants got into the academy.

And not all made it through.

She’d been determined. Just as some kids knew they wanted to grow up to be actors, artists, veterinarians or zookeepers, she’d known she wanted the FBI.

She and her class had learned legal and investigative processes and passed every physical test of strength and coordination. The men and the women in her class had all done well. Meg hadn’t beaten Ricky Grant—considered by most of them, including Ricky, to be the toughest cadet in their class—but she’d kept up with him. In fact, her class had excelled.

They’d graduated; they’d had their ceremony. They were officially agents now, and they’d celebrated.

She wasn’t sure why she’d felt compelled to keep up with Ricky in all things.

She hadn’t gotten wasted last night; she’d been extremely temperate while pretending to imbibe far more than she had. And she wasn’t hungover; she was tired!

The trials, the strain, the classes, the yearning—they were over. It was exhilarating, and it gave them all a flutter of fear. Time to go into the world as rookies. Time to prove themselves.

And, of course, it was time to move out of cadet housing and into places of their own.

That wasn’t a worry for Meg. She’d always believed she’d graduate, so she’d already made arrangements to rent a small town house just down the road from headquarters at Quantico. She was going to be assigned to the criminal division there. They had a few days to clear out and she simply had to switch from housing to her new home.

Awake, she lay in bed, a little dazed. This was really it. She had two weeks before heading in to her first assignment.

Her television, on a timer, sprang to life with the news. Meg paused, watching it, before she went in to shower. Police were still seeking clues in the brutal murder of a Jane Doe discovered by the Potomac a couple of weeks ago. More troops had been killed overseas. A truck had stalled on the beltway, causing a ten-car pileup. Investigations were still under way regarding the death of Garth Hubbard, the indie presidential hopeful beloved by so many that he might’ve been the first man to take the White House on such a ticket. The cause of his death had been deemed natural. He’d been at home with his wife, alone in their bedroom. Paramedics had been called; his family doctor had come, too, and signed the death certificate. But this was Washington, DC, so, of course, there was talk of conspiracy.

“Ah, yes, good morning!” she muttered to herself.

The news anchor—after waiting an appropriate beat or two—offered her viewing public a wide, toothy smile and went on to recount some of the good news of the day. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad morning. An attractive reporter related a story about the heroics of a young man as he dived after a woman, a stranger, who had nearly drowned while tubing in West Virginia. She then had another story about a young girl saved from an abusive teen by the intervention of a stray dog—the dog now, happily, had a home.

Meg realized she was just staring, somewhat hypnotized, at the television.

She had to get going. There was an orientation class she was required to attend and she wanted to get through it quickly so she could concentrate on moving into her little town house before her life began anew.

As she relished the hot water pouring over her in the shower, Meg considered the life she was about to start.

As a child, she’d dreamed of changing the world. That had meant to her that she had to be a policewoman or run for president. Maybe a policewoman—and then the president.

And when she was ten years old, her family had fallen victim to a horrible crime.

She would never forget it. She could still remember that time as clearly as if she’d just lived it. Her cousin, responsible and steadfast, had gone missing. Then the ransom note had come.

But Mary Elizabeth’s body had been found. Meg had known they’d find her before they did. Everything about those days, that experience, had been shattering and devastating, and for a long time, she’d thought she was crazy. But she hadn’t been.

And now...

Now, all she could only hope to do was put away some of the bad guys. Just as they’d put away the man who’d taken Mary Elizabeth.

In her classes, they’d recently had guest speakers, agents and scientists from the behavioral science units. Listening to what man was capable of doing to man had been horrifying, despite what she already knew. The academy classes lost students along the way because sometimes it was too much to bear.

In her case...

She was even more determined. She had every reason to be.

Because it hadn’t ended with Mary Elizabeth.

Sometimes she met people who’d been tortured.

And killed.

And she’d wanted to help.

She liked to feel that she’d grown strong. Her superiors and teachers knew about her past—about Mary Elizabeth being kidnapped and murdered. She was honest about her desire to be with the Bureau. She was careful not to dwell on the past in case someone believed that her previous experience might hinder her work.

It would never interfere with her work; she was sure of that.

Dressed and ready for the day, she checked her reflection in the mirror. She wore a blue pantsuit, very regulation. Her shirt was white, but she was allowed pinstripes, thin lines in a pale blue. Somehow, they made her feel a little brighter.

She was young, but at a height of five-ten she was often assumed to be older than her actual age of twenty-six. She had a wealth of thick, nearly black hair, which she’d pulled back into a bun. She almost turned away from the mirror, but then studied her reflection more closely. She thought her mouth was too big, as were her eyes. At least they were a clear, dark sky blue. She studied herself critically and decided she looked presentable. And especially dressed like this, she seemed to exude confidence, maybe even authority.

With a shake of her head, she finally turned away. She really wanted to believe that she had the right stuff. She’d gone through college, studying criminology, become a cop in Richmond for a couple of years and then been accepted to the academy. It was the career she wanted; she’d gone after it step-by-step.

She reached for her phone in the charger at her bedside and realized the message light was blinking.

Lara had called her. She frowned; the call had come in the middle of the night. Lara never called her that late. She listened to the message.

“Meg, it’s me, Lara. I wanted to let you know I’m going home. Home, as in getting out of DC. I’m going as soon as it’s daylight. I’ll talk to you when I can. Love you. Don’t say anything to anyone else, okay? I have to get out of here. Talk soon.”

There was a second call, a second message. But Meg heard nothing—except what sounded like a rush of wind and a muffled thump.

A purse dial?

Perplexed, Meg played the message again and tried to phone Lara back. The call went immediately to voice mail. Her friend had seemed breathless, so she’d probably been walking when she’d made the call.

But she’d sounded distracted—and a little frantic.

Meg left a message herself. “Call me back. You’ve got me really worried. Please, call me as soon as you possibly can.”

Disturbed, she added a last “Please!”

She told herself that Lara had just become disgusted with politics; many people did.

Not Lara! she thought.

Lara had been a media and research assistant in the offices of Congressman Ian Walker. Lara had admired the congressman from his first speeches, when they were still in high school in Richmond. Walker was passionate about equality, whether racial, religious or sexual. He was also critical of irresponsible spending, the unusual politician who managed to be both fiscally responsible and socially liberal. He fought hard for his causes on the house floor.

Why would Lara suddenly decide to go home? It didn’t make sense!

* * *

She lay on the silver gurney as if she were sleeping, and Agent Matt Bosworth believed that she’d once been a lovely young woman.

Death had not been kind. She was now a bloated, pallid corpse, ravaged by the river and creatures of the water. It was difficult to tell where the autopsy Y incision had actually been made; he knew she’d been ripped from throat to groin, disemboweled and stuffed with rocks. But time had caused the rocks to dislodge from their human cave and she had floated to the surface and then the riverbank, where she’d been found by the boat motor of a pleasure sailor on the Potomac.

Matt knew that another woman had been found at the beginning of June—but she’d washed up on the Maryland side of the river.

The woman now lying on the gurney before him had shown up on the DC side. She’d come to the office of the chief medical examiner, or OCME, for the District of Columbia. It was a relatively new, state-of-the-art facility that handled about seventeen hundred cases a year—of death by violence, death unattended by a physician, unexpected death or death with the possibility of spreading disease.

The offices were large and also housed forensic labs, reception areas to provide information to family and friends, and staff who offered counseling. The workers here were often distraught when the public thought—due to numerous television shows—that answers were revealed within the space of an hour.

Death was seldom so easy.

But Matt had faith that whatever could be learned about the deceased would be learned here. All in all, he was glad the FBI was involved—and that everything on these murders would be handled as one case. While Matt wasn’t surprised that it had so quickly become a federal case, he was surprised that the Krewe—a specialized unit—had been called in.

DC wasn’t geographically large, not compared to other major metropolises. But with Capitol police, District police, Maryland and Virginia police and the FBI, jurisdiction might have become a bit confused. However, since these two murders were in Maryland and the District, it seemed logical that the FBI would take the lead. There were dozens of elite units at headquarters that might’ve been called in.

But it had been the Krewe.

Matt hadn’t questioned the details yet. He’d come into work and Jackson Crow had informed him that they were heading out. In time he’d find out what had happened—and what was going on now.

He’d been with the Krewe for about eight months, invited in after he’d explained to his superiors that he’d been “lucky” when he’d wandered into the bar where a serial killer had stalked his victims. It had actually been the ghost of a young victim who’d shown him the way. Matt figured that Jackson—Special Agent in Charge Jackson Crow—and Adam Harrison, Krewe director, had watched his work.

And known that he’d be right for the unit.

Matt had never understood why he saw the dead—or why the dead seemed to talk to him. He hadn’t had a traumatic life; he’d had a good one, with great parents and a solid education. A family friend had assisted in getting him into Virginia Military Institute. He’d served in the military, and after that, he’d decided he wanted the FBI. He’d heard about the Krewe of Hunters and known he wanted in. He also knew that the Krewe invited its agents to join; it wasn’t something you applied for. So he’d waited patiently.

He’d seen and communicated with the dead since he was a kid, but he’d realized that others didn’t. And he’d also realized that if you wanted to be taken seriously, you didn’t tell anyone that you spoke to the dead.

After several years in the FBI and that one particular case, he’d been invited in. He’d been happy to be with the Krewe. No more pretense.

So, that morning, he hadn’t questioned Jackson. They’d find out soon enough exactly what they were looking at.

It hadn’t taken them long to reach the OCME; their offices in Alexandria weren’t that far from it. He liked their new location, a pair of beautiful old row houses that were also host to FBI internet personnel, other agents and some civilian employees. They could easily commute to the Capitol and the facilities at Quantico.

So far, Matt had learned that they’d been specifically called in when the second body was found. While three killings officially called for a serial killer investigation, the brutality done to both women had caused the captain of the Maryland force to alert the FBI. The assistant director at headquarters had called Adam Harrison, and Adam had directed Jackson to take the case.

But while the situation was grim and the perpetrator obviously a heinous killer, there didn’t seem to be much reason for the Krewe to be called in. Nothing seemed to hint at the paranormal; this was murder at its most brutal, but sadly, such killers had existed before and would again. He’d eventually learn the whys of this case. Right now, they needed to learn what they could from the body—and from the DC cop, Carl Hunter, who’d been the detective called to the scene.

“The cause of death was the slashed throat?” Matt asked, after the ME, Dr. Wong, finished listing the injuries to the body. He spoke through a paper mask, as had the doctor. The smell of decay was strong.

Wong was a bright man in his early forties, clear and concise in his manner. He looked at Matt and nodded. “The throat was slashed. It would’ve taken the victim time to exsanguinate, and some of the slicing on the body was performed before death, but she was so heavily drugged that I don’t think she felt anything, including the slash to her throat.”

“I understand it was a right-handed killer,” Detective Hunter said. “That’s correct, Dr. Wong?”

Carl’s voice sounded scratchy. Matt understood. Carl was a good guy; they’d met during a few earlier cases. The man was a dogged investigator, putting in long hours. He was nearing retirement, but hadn’t slacked off in the time or determination he gave a case.

He’d seen a lot.

This was still hard to tolerate.

“Yes,” Wong said. “He was right-handed and very certain in his movements. No hesitation marks at all. The guy’s done this before.”

“Were any organs taken?” Jackson Crow asked.

“The tongue is missing,” Wong said. He cleared his throat. “Bits of organs are missing—but that’s because the ripping of the stomach caused pieces to...fall out.”

Matt leaned forward to see the atrocity Wong showed them, setting a hand on the dead woman’s shoulder as he viewed her ruined mouth.

Her shoulder was cold, cold as ice. It was shocking what the body felt like when life was gone, so still and cold, as if the soul, the very essence of what had been human, had flown and left emptiness behind. “Same as the victim found on the Maryland shore,” Carl Hunter said, turning to Wong. “I talked to Jared Welch from the Maryland force before I came in. People might say that cops are territorial, but we’re both glad as hell that the feds are in. God knows, we might have got into this thing first, but we haven’t come up with anything. Both bodies brought in with no purses, no IDs, hell, no clothes. Just unidentified bodies, naked and ripped to shreds. We don’t have any leads at all and this killer...has to be stopped.”

Wong told them, “I haven’t seen the first body yet, but I have the report. The other victim will be transported here. As you requested, Special Agent Crow, we’re treating them as murders committed by the same perpetrator or perpetrators.”

“Right,” Jackson murmured. “The taking of the tongue—it’s a definite signature. I’m afraid it suggests this killer isn’t finished yet. We’ll need every law enforcement officer in the area on high alert.”

Two dead in less than a month, Matt thought.

“But we haven’t matched her up with anyone?” he asked.

“We’re working on fingerprints and X-rays and hope to have something soon,” Wong replied. “As I said, I didn’t perform the autopsy on the first Jane Doe, but I’ve studied the sheets. To summarize, I can tell you that the murders were performed the same way. I believe both women were taken by surprise—since there appear to be no defensive wounds. They were drugged with an inhalant, and then—” he paused to show them the inner right elbow “—injected with propofol, a drug commonly used in surgery. Actually, our tox reports aren’t back yet, but that’s what was used on the Maryland victim and I’m betting this is going to be the same.”

“Interesting. So you think they were unconscious when they were mutilated?”

Wong nodded.

“That means he didn’t get off on the cutting,” Jackson mused. “And no sexual assault?”

Matt knew that the first victim hadn’t been raped or molested. Not as far as they could tell. While the bodies were badly decomposed, medical science could still provide them with evidence.

Wong shook his head. “No. Probably not. Doesn’t fit what we’re seeing here. I’d say the killer takes them, sedates them, rips them from stem to stern, stuffs the bodies with stones and tosses them. They’re found naked and heavily compromised by immersion in the water. As you can see,” Wong said, lifting the sheet, “she’s been nibbled on by many creatures.”

Matt could see—far too plainly.

“She was about five-six or -seven in life.”

“Long blond hair, five-six and a half,” Wong said.

“Almost identical to the first girl, according to the Maryland reports,” Carl offered.

“So, that’s his type,” Jackson said. “We’ll get the warning out. Press conference. I’ll ask you to handle it, Matt. Dr. Wong, please keep us apprised of anything new.”

They left the autopsy room, discarding their masks in the proper bin. Matt felt as if the smell of decomposition clung to him.

Carl paused in the hallway. “I’m not shirking,” he muttered. “I know this might be my last case, and I’ll be out there, working it as hard as ever. But... God, I hate cases like this. Like I said, we’ve got nothing, and until we get identifications, we don’t even have anyone to question. The killer knew what he was doing, disposing of the bodies. No trace on them—or not any that forensics has found as yet. Dump ’em in the river and you pretty well destroy any clue there might’ve been.” He paused. “We all know that some killers get away with it. I sure as hell hope it isn’t this guy.”

“We won’t let it be,” Matt said quietly.

Hunter nodded, but his expression was uncomfortable. “Gotta tell you, I don’t get the shakes easy. But...”

Matt was curious. Carl was as practical as a man could be. He seemed jittery, though, and Matt sensed that it was due to something other—something more—than the sheer horror of the case.

“What is it?”

“I got this awful feeling that she...that she looked at me when I first got to the scene. Impossible, of course. Her eyes...well, soft tissue. You saw...”

Matt glanced over at Jackson.

He’d touched the body. Whatever soul, whatever essence of life there’d been, was gone.

Carl shrugged. “I’m on it—task force, anything you need. I seem to keep saying this, but I’m glad you guys are in on this one. And no, we can’t let him be the one who got away.” He lifted a hand in farewell and hurried down the hall.

Jackson turned to Matt. “Right now, we have to be careful. Really careful. We need to get on the air, though. Say as little as possible,” he said. “But we need a warning out there. And we don’t know whether he might choose another type, so all women in the District and the surrounding area should be especially careful.”

“You don’t want the media folk at headquarters to handle this?”

“I think we need to take it from the start. I’ll arrange for clearance.”

Matt nodded. Headquarters had a division to deal with the media. But sometimes the Krewe worked on their own. He knew that he was often chosen to give press conferences because, according to Jackson, he had the all-American football player look. He could seem both stern and stoic—and, most important, trustworthy, reassuring to a worried public.

He wasn’t sure how anything about this situation could be reassuring; whether it was their usual kind of case or not, it was exceptionally disturbing.

And now he knew why the Krewe had been called in. Carl Hunter would’ve been careful about what he said and to whom. His own coworkers would have ribbed him mercilessly if he’d said that a corpse had looked at him. But somehow, he’d gotten that information through to the right people.

“When is the press conference?” Matt asked Jackson.

“As soon as we can organize it,” Jackson told him. “We’ll call an emergency task force meeting, bringing reps from the area. Meeting won’t take long. We don’t have anything to say yet. Then we’ll get on the air. You’ll speak, along with representatives from the DC police, Virginia and Maryland. You won’t be on the hot seat alone.”

Matt didn’t care about being on the hot seat; he was used to it. There was the truth—and there was the matter of telling the truth so that it afforded the greatest protection to the public while suppressing enough details to make sure law enforcement knew more than any kooks or would-be psychics out there.

They’d keep a lot quiet, he was assuming. Grotesque details did nothing but stir up sensationalism—and sometimes provide a killer with the notoriety he sought.

Jackson and Matt reached the big black sedan set for their use. Jackson let Matt do the driving. He was one of the best things about the unit, in Matt’s opinion. He was half–Native American and well aware of the diversity of people and beliefs around the country. He also had an aura of calm about him and an ability to listen to those who worked with him. He wasn’t a micromanager, and yet he expected the best from those around him. If he trusted you, it was with complete confidence.

Matt liked to believe he’d earned the man’s trust.

He also liked to believe that he was worthy of it. He thought he was; while their backgrounds were dissimilar, they were also much alike.

He wondered if Jackson’s thoughts were similar to his. Jackson grinned over at him and said, “You still don’t look much like a Native American.” Matt grinned in return. He was, like many, many people in the United States, someone who could actually trace his ancestry back to Pocahontas.

“A heritage sadly diluted by time.”

“Let’s just hope we both have some of that mystic wisdom we’re supposed to have,” Jackson said wryly. “We’re going to need it.”

* * *

The day felt long to Meg as she attended her sessions. At every opportunity, she tried calling Lara’s number.

Her calls continued to go straight to voice mail.

She tried calling Nancy Cooper, Lara’s aunt in Richmond, but Nancy hadn’t heard from Lara, either. Meg ended the call quickly, not wanting to worry her.

She tried a few of the mutual friends they had in the area. She even tried Lara’s ex-boyfriend, Clark Walden, despite the fact that the two had split up at least six months earlier. Clark was in the military; she discovered he’d been deployed overseas a month ago.

She called Congressman Walker’s office and was informed that Lara no longer worked there. No, she’d left no other information.

Despite failing with her calls, it wasn’t until she’d finished for the day and was sitting in the cadets’ lounge that she really began to feel a sense of panic.

And that was when the TV news came on.

A second body had been discovered. She remembered hearing about the first woman, who’d been found a few weeks back. The case had seemed particularly sad to her. Police had discovered a young blonde woman between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. She’d stood about five-seven and, while alive, had weighed approximately a hundred and twenty pounds. She had yet to be identified. There were no suspects in the case, and police had begged the public for any help they could give.

The newscast that came on made her sit straight up and spill her coffee.

The second murder victim had also been about five-six or five-seven. And she’d also been blonde. Because of the condition of the body, forensic scientists were seeking her identity through dental records. Fingerprint identification was being attempted but, once again, the police were seeking help.

Meg’s heart began to flutter with fear.

The body had been discovered that morning.

She stood, stumbled around the lounge until she could grab the remote control and turned up the volume.

She listened to a lieutenant from the DC police issue warnings and inform the public that extra police officers would be on the streets. An officer from Maryland spoke next.

And an officer from Virginia.

And then, a rep from the FBI took the microphone.

He was tall, a striking man with sandy, close-cropped hair, the shoulders of a linebacker and a ruggedly chiseled face. His voice was rich and deep; she assumed he was a regular spokesman for the agency.

But as he finished his speech, hotline numbers were flashed on the screen. She heard the assurance in his voice when he added, “We at the FBI will not stop our intense hunt until this killer is apprehended. Until he is, however, responsibility lies with every man and woman out there. If possible, don’t go anywhere alone. As of now, he has selected two blondes. He has seen to it that identification is a difficult process. Keep in mind that his choice of victim could easily change. When Ted Bundy was stalking women, most that we know about had long, straight brown hair. Because of that, many thought they were safe by dying their hair. We have very little information on this killer as yet, and that means everyone could be in danger, blonde or not. Although the killer, whom we’re assuming to be male, has targeted only young women so far, it’s quite possible that women of all ages and descriptions—and conceivably men—could also be at risk. While you shouldn’t panic, you must be vigilant. You’ve been given the call number—any and all suspicious behavior needs to be reported. We are relying on the public for assistance. We need to combine public awareness and the dedication of every law enforcement officer out there. We vow not to hold back any pertinent information—and we’d appreciate it if the media refrained from affording this man a nickname, as a label or a title. He’s a vicious killer and deserves no recognition.”

He went on to thank his audience, which included reporters from various news organizations, and stepped away from the podium. The DC mayor came forward again and began to speak.

But Meg didn’t hear him. Her heart seemed to slam against her chest. She saw that the agent who’d just finished was standing in the background, talking to an elderly white-haired man in a pristine suit.

Adam Harrison.

Meg got up. She had to speak with Adam; she didn’t want to simply call a hotline.

She’d intended to go to him eventually for another reason altogether. She’d always wanted to be part of the Krewe of Hunters—and she felt she belonged there. She’d wanted to graduate and enter the criminal division first, a matter of pride, perhaps. As in, I’ve taken all the right steps. I’ve worked my hardest. I believe I’ve excelled and I believe I have the skills you need...

There was no waiting now.

She had to go to him; she knew he’d help her.

And she desperately needed help. She had to find out about the victim.

Because Lara was a blonde, five-seven, lovely and fit and about a hundred and twenty pounds.

* * *

“Margaret!”

Meg wasn’t sure why Adam Harrison even remembered her. He must have met hundreds of people through the years and she hadn’t seen him in more than a decade.

He was a very dear man. Ramrod-straight, dignified in manner and appearance, he had to be in his late seventies or early eighties. She’d been surprised that the phone number he’d given her all those years ago still worked. Her call to him via that number had gone right through, almost as if he’d been expecting to hear from her. How that could be, she didn’t know.

Years ago, Adam had arrived at her home, although the police and even Meg’s own parents had been skeptical. He’d come with the FBI agents who’d been called in because her cousin’s case had begun as a kidnapping.

While the family worked to put together a ransom, Meg knew that Mary Elizabeth was already dead. She’d known because she’d awakened to find Mary Elizabeth sitting at the foot of her bed. At first, she’d been joyous, certain that her older cousin had been released and come home while she was sleeping. But Mary Elizabeth had drawn a finger to her lips, shaking her head. She’d tried to speak, and Meg had heard a rustling sound. And then she thought she heard her cousin speaking, telling her that she had to let them know the truth—that the family couldn’t go on believing when there was no hope. Her body was in the cemetery, hidden behind a mausoleum. Meg crawled out of bed. The grown-ups were all awake; officers crowded the house, and everyone waited by the phone.

Crying, Meg went to her mother and whispered what she knew. Her mother was horrified, not wanting her dad’s sister and husband to hear. She’d pulled Meg away and chastised her in the kitchen. But the older man who’d come with the FBI people had followed. He’d listened to her story and, back in the parlor, told someone to check the cemetery.

Where they’d found Mary Elizabeth’s body.

At first, Meg’s own mother had treated her as if she’d been possessed by Satan. She’d quickly gotten over that, but Meg would never forget the way her own family had looked at her. Thanks to her, they’d caught the killer almost immediately. Forensic evidence left at the scene made short work of identifying him, since he was a repeat offender and therefore already in law enforcement databases, and of proving his guilt.

She saw her cousin one more time. At the funeral, by the graveside. She’d been beautiful, dressed in the white confirmation gown in which she was buried, shrouded in brilliant gold light. Somehow it had been comforting. And she’d actually comforted her aunt and uncle; her conviction was so strong that Mary Elizabeth was in heaven.

Adam Harrison had been at the funeral. He’d been so kind to her, and Meg had never forgotten.

Standing outside alone, she’d watched while he paid his condolences to her family. When he saw her, she thought she’d start crying all over again. But he came to her and said, “You’re a very brave and special girl, you know.”

“I’m a freak,” she told him.

He shook his head. “No, Margaret, you’re not a freak at all. You’re special,” he repeated.

That made her roll her eyes. Her older cousins liked to tease her and call her “special” when they were making fun of her.

He’d smiled. “No, you really are. You can’t bring Mary Elizabeth back, but you’ve allowed her to be at peace. And the man who killed her, he’ll never kill again. We found her body quickly because of you, and found the evidence we needed to arrest her killer. There are monsters in this world, Margaret. And it takes very special people to stop their power. If you ever need me, call.”

He’d handed her his card. Later, without ever using it, she’d put the number in her cell phone.

Over the years, she’d read everything she could about Adam. He was rich, but he didn’t spend his money on cars or vacations. Without being a member of any police force, he assisted various agencies with what were referred to as “unusual” crimes. He’d been appointed a “directing consultant” with a specialized unit at the FBI.

That was when she’d known she’d wanted to be part of the FBI.

She’d never contacted him; she’d just worked toward her goal.

But now...

When she called him at the cell phone number that was still, miraculously, the right number, he told her to come over.

His home was in northern Virginia, so it hadn’t taken her long to reach him—no more than forty-five minutes—even though she stopped by Lara’s on the way.

“You’ve graduated, Margaret. Congratulations!” he said as he welcomed her into his home.

“You...knew I was in the academy?”

“Of course. I thought maybe you’d find me. If you hadn’t, I would have sought you out. Do you want to be with the Krewe?” he asked her. “Oh, would you like some iced tea or coffee—or a drink?”

She shook her head. “I need help,” she said.

“Oh?” He seemed surprised. She realized he’d assumed she was coming to inquire about becoming part of the Krewe.

“My friend Lara Mayhew is missing. I saw the press conference about the woman discovered in the river. Adam, Lara fits the description to a T.”

He frowned, obviously not expecting this. “It’s a long shot to think your friend might be this girl. When did she go missing?” he asked.

“She left me a message at around two-thirty this morning, about leaving DC. She said she had to get out of there. And she seemed really distressed.”

Adam was silent for a minute. Meg knew he’d lived through a great deal of stress and heartache through the years. “But...if she said she was leaving, it’s quite possible that she...left.”

“There was something wrong with the message, Adam. She didn’t sound all right. She almost sounded as if...as if she planned to go into hiding.”

“Maybe she did,” he said gently.

“I know, but her message scared me.”

“So you’d say she’s been missing, what, about fifteen hours?”

Meg nodded unhappily. She knew that the length of time Lara had been missing wouldn’t fit the official interpretation of “missing.” It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours.

“And you haven’t been able to reach her?”

“No, and I made several other calls, too.” She hesitated, then added, “She was involved in politics. Not that I’m suggesting politicians are evil or anything.”

Adam laughed. “We could take a poll on that one,” he said.

“The whole situation really worries me, Adam. She worked in media relations for Congressman Walker, and I tried calling his office. They seemed to be saying she quit, but I couldn’t get any more out of them. They gave me...the brush-off.”

“I won’t get a brush-off,” he assured her, his voice grim. “Those offices are usually busy, and unless you represent a powerful lobby of some kind... Well, let’s just say that the days when a man could walk into the White House to chat with the president are long gone.” He paused, then offered her an encouraging smile. “Remember, though, your friend may be fine. Try not to stress too much. If she said she was leaving, she might have done just that.”

“Adam, I know that something’s wrong.”

“Ah,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

“I—I need to see her.”

“Of course. You mean you need to see the victim. If she can be identified, it’ll certainly help the investigation. You realize it’s not easy?”

“I went through the academy. I’ve seen all kinds of horrors.”

“Yes,” he said, “but this is the real world you’re entering—not a video of what others have been through or a lecture about what they’ve discovered. This will be up close. And it might well be personal.”

“I’ve been to an autopsy before.”

“However, it may not be your friend at all,” he pointed out.

“But then again, it may be. I can’t reach her, Adam,” she said, even more urgently than before. “I tried repeatedly. I called her aunt. I called other friends. And, as I told you, her office wouldn’t give me any information.”

“So they say she quit?”

“Yes, sometime yesterday or last night, I assume. Actually, they didn’t use the word quit. They used the words no longer here. And they suggested I speak with her if I wanted more information about her future plans.”

Adam was thoughtful for a moment.

“Have you...seen this friend?” he asked her softly.

Seen. As in seeing her ghost or whatever remained of the person who had once been Lara.

“No, but like I said, I’m absolutely certain that something is very wrong. She loved her job. Plus, her message seemed so strange. And there was another call from her phone but no message. I figured at first that she’d redialed by accident.” Meg shrugged hopelessly. “Adam, believe me, I tried all the people and venues I could. I had her landlady check, but Lara didn’t answer the door at her apartment. I checked her place myself on the way here. She didn’t respond. I have her spare key so I went in. She’s not there. Her purse and keys are gone, but she hasn’t packed to go anywhere. I’m aware that she hasn’t been gone very long and yet...her resemblance to the victim is so close.”

“I understand.”

“I just— I need to see the woman they found, Adam.”

“The body is badly decomposed,” he warned her.

“Still... I believe I’d know if it was Lara.”

“I agree that you need to see her,” Adam said.

“I noticed that the Bureau is handling the case.”

“Yes, the Krewe specifically, and yes, I can make the arrangements. Are you ready now?”

She nodded.

“You drove here?” he asked her.

“I did. So we can go to the morgue right away?” Meg asked.

“We’ll stop there first, although we probably don’t have to. I’m sure that if this is your friend, her fingerprints are in the system, since she works on the Hill. I believe the corp—the young woman was not... Well, it may take them time to get prints, but I can find out where the ME is with that.”

He made the calls as she drove. They reached the OCME and a receptionist was waiting to let them in. Adam was familiar with the morgue and led her down a hallway.

They were met by the man she’d seen on television. She was tall, but he seemed to tower over her. She tried to remember the name she’d heard on TV. Agent...Boswell or something like that.

It didn’t matter. Adam introduced them. He was Special Agent Matthew Bosworth. He was polite but restrained during the introduction, and assured Adam that Dr. Wong was already there, prepared to show the body.

Meg was brought into the room where the woman lay. The air was pungent with the combined scent of disinfectant and decomposing flesh. She swallowed fiercely to fight her gag reflexes. She’d seen death before, but never like this.

It was difficult to view the body...

She had to. She began to shake. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Is it your friend?” Agent Bosworth asked her.

2

Matt had long been accustomed to the horrors in this world and yet every time he saw the handiwork of a killer he felt as though his heart and soul had been torn apart. All that made it bearable was the fact that he confronted those monsters. Someone had to, and perhaps because of his own past, he was more determined to confront them than others.

Yet watching Meg Murray as she stared at the dead woman seemed more wrenching than dealing with death himself.

He wondered if she really could make an identification—the corpse was so mottled and distorted with swelling and decomposition.

Even Dr. Wong, who spent far too many hours gazing upon the horrors inflicted on one person by another, seemed moved as he studied the young woman. But Wong didn’t usually get to observe, up close, what seeing the ravaged body of a victim did to those who had cherished that victim in life. Making the whole situation even harder was the fact that Meg was one of them now. And she had a past with Adam Harrison, although Matt knew very little about it.

Wong cleared his throat.

As he did, Matt remembered when it had been his turn to stare down at the dead, dreading the possibility that the remains would belong to someone he loved.

He glanced over at Adam, who was looking back at him.

Matt set a hand on Meg Murray’s shoulder. “Is it your friend Lara?” Meg was straight and tall—and shaking. She had enormous and striking blue eyes. She blinked hard, trying not to betray emotion. Watching her was painful; she was beautiful but seemed fragile, yet she also had the rigid stance and stoic control of a hardened law enforcement officer.

He forced himself to be just as impassive. The seconds ticked by.

He wondered if she’d heard his question.

“No.”

She was shaking even more badly now.

She turned suddenly, almost colliding with him. He was afraid she’d fall and awkwardly tried to comfort her, holding her upright, patting her back.

“No, no,” she said. “It’s...it’s not Lara.”

Her hair smelled sweetly clean. For a moment, when she clung to him, her body racked with emotional spasms, he felt as if they’d been transported from the decay of the morgue to the realm of daylight and life.

“You’re sure?” he asked huskily.

She nodded.

“You realize that the face and body have been badly...compromised,” he began.

“It’s not her. I’d know Lara.”

She took a huge breath and steadied herself, shoulders straightening as she moved back, and shrugged with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I just...”

“It’s fine,” he said.

“I was so afraid...” Her voice shook. “I should have better control.”

“We should never have complete control. We wouldn’t be human,” he said.

Matt had never met her before tonight, but he’d heard about her. Unless circumstances brought them a perfect candidate for the Krewe, Adam and Jackson introduced prospective agents they’d heard about to the rest of the group—and then the possibility of an interview was broached. They were a tight clan.

They spoke freely among one another.

But just one another.

They were closemouthed, careful to smile casually when other agents teased them about being the supernatural crowd. If they responded, it was merely to say that they considered all possibilities on a case. He’d first heard about Meg—or Margaret Colleen Murray—in a meeting. Adam had mentioned that a “prospect” was coming through the academy.

If she was on Adam’s radar, there had to be a reason.

“Well, then, there’s hope,” Adam said. “Meg? Don’t you agree?”

She’d been looking at Matt with an expression of relief mixed with horror. She turned to Adam and shook her head. He stepped forward with her, urging her closer to the corpse.

“You’re sure?” he asked, just as Matt had.

Meg seemed frozen for a minute or two, then reached out and gently touched the dead woman’s arm. “Yes...”

“My heart bleeds for this poor girl,” Adam told her quietly, “but as Matt said, at least there’s hope for your friend Lara.”

Matt sent Adam a silent question, gesturing toward the door.

“Shall we go?” Adam suggested. “Dr. Wong, thank you.”

Matt followed Adam and Meg out to the hallway, thanking Wong for coming back in at a moment’s notice that night.

“It’s difficult, huh?” Wong shook his head. “I’m very glad for Agent Murray—but it means other people out there will mourn this woman. I wonder sometimes what I was doing when I decided to become a medical examiner. There’s an old joke about doctors who go that route. As an ME, you can’t make fatal mistakes—because your patients are already dead. But...I like to think that at least we speak for the dead, that we’re a voice. The voice that may lead to justice.”

“Yours is the voice that leads to justice,” Matt declared.

Wong nodded slowly. “There’s something off about this. I can’t quite figure out what it is.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “When I have both bodies here, maybe I’ll see it.”

“Keep me posted.”

“You heading this one up?”

Matt glanced at Adam and Meg as they moved down the hall toward the exit. “So it seems. Jackson Crow officially, but definitely our unit.” Jackson Crow spent long hours in the office. He was in charge of supervising the Krewe and overseeing the unit in New York. He coordinated data searches that came to them, organized specialized work as needed and kept his expert eye on every case in motion.

Since Matt had been summoned to the morgue that morning, he assumed he was now responsible for this one.

“I’ll call you immediately with anything I have,” Wong promised him.

Matt thanked him and hurried after the other two.

While Jackson Crow did the real supervisory work, Harrison was the creator of their unit and the overall head; Harrison dealt with the Bureau chief, mayors and other law enforcement—paving the way for Krewe members when that was needed. Adam and Jackson made a good team; Adam Harrison left Jackson Crow free to concentrate on the work at hand.

Matt had thought Adam and Meg would leave, but they were waiting for him, speaking quietly.

When he reached them, they left the building.

“What made you think your friend might have been one of the victims?” Matt asked.

“I received a strange message from her, saying that she was going home,” Meg replied.

Matt couldn’t help it; he raised his eyebrows at Adam. He said, in what he hoped was an even tone, “Then, perhaps, she has gone home.”

Meg Murray stiffened. He almost smiled. His reaction might be a whimsical one, but he felt she had the look of a dark-haired pagan queen—not a fledgling agent—at that moment. She might become a force to be reckoned with, if she wasn’t one already.

“She didn’t go home. I called her cell phone, her landline and her home in Virginia. She always has her cell—and she’s not answering it. Her parents have both passed away, but I’ve spoken with her aunt, who hasn’t heard from her, either. And now, of course, she’s worried, too.”

“But she might have taken a longer route...”

“Home could mean two other places,” she broke in, “aside from her apartment, and she’s definitely not there. Harpers Ferry is where she spent half her time, or it could mean Richmond, where her aunt lives. There is no route to Richmond or Harpers Ferry long enough to take all day,” Meg said tightly.

At least her anger with him had stopped her shaking. There wasn’t a thing about her that seemed fragile now.

“Thank you for making these arrangements, Agent Bosworth. I won’t trouble you again.”

She turned and headed for her car. Adam Harrison watched her stalk off, a concerned frown on his face. “She has good reason to be worried,” he said.

“And that reason would be?”

“I don’t know the whole story yet. For starters, we need to have that phone message analyzed. Her friend Lara Mayhew worked for Congressman Walker. Lara called Meg very late—as in 2:30 a.m. Lara was upset. The kind of upset that worried Meg,” Adam explained. “And Lara used these words—I have to get out of here.”

“But this call only came in last night, or rather, early this morning,” Matt pointed out. “I’m not trying to be skeptical. I’m merely playing devil’s advocate.”

“I’ve heard the message. Well, messages,” he said.

“Messages?”

“Two of them,” Adam told him. “I’ll have her play them for you in the morning. The second one sounds like an accidental call—just background noise. Might have been wind. We’ll need to have it analyzed, as well.”

Matt mulled that over. “So, there could be trouble. It could mean someone took the phone away from her, for instance. But it could also mean that her friend’s gone into hiding, which is what the first message implied.”

Adam nodded. “She could have, but I know Meg. And Meg... Well, you should understand. Sometimes people just...know,” he said.

“Yes, I remember you had your eye on her when she was in the academy.”

“And now she’s out. Her graduation ceremony was yesterday. She’s been assigned to the criminal division. Anyway, I’ll make the appropriate arrangements and bring her in.”

“You think this is a real case? This business about Lara Mayhew? Adam, we do have two savaged bodies. And Meg’s friend wasn’t one of them.”

“But her friend has disappeared. There’s a killer out there. And I don’t like the idea that Lara was working for a congressman. I hate to say it, but...”

“Yes, scandal has erupted in those circumstances before.” Matt frowned. “But if there’s ever been any scandal around Congressman Walker, I’ve never heard it. His wife is gracious, a well-known hostess and fundraiser for assorted charities. And Walker’s been in office so long his kids go to school in DC. Does Meg Murray—do you—believe that Ian Walker has done her friend in over a sex scandal?” Matt was skeptical. Not that congressional scandals didn’t exist and not that appearances couldn’t deceive, but as he’d said, Walker’s reputation was that of an honest, upstanding family man.

“Meg hasn’t suggested that her friend was saying anything negative about Ian Walker. Then again, you never know.” Adam sighed. “She’s worried. And her friend and the two dead girls fit the same description. She might be this killer’s type.” Adam looked away for a minute. “I’m bringing her into the Krewe. She has...instincts. We’re going to help her find Lara.”

“But should we be chasing someone who might want to stay hidden? Whose disappearance might be entirely unconnected? Sir, we have the makings of a serial killing spree here. One more will make it three.”

“Yes, and her friend just might be the one to raise the body count to three,” Adam said. “I’m going to let Meg focus on this situation until it’s solved. And, Matthew, you’ll work with her. My office, first thing in the morning, if you will.”

* * *

Was she dead?

Lara Mayhew saw nothing but a world that was black. Maybe it was limbo, maybe it was purgatory.

If so, death came with all the pain of life. Her limbs hurt; her head pounded. Opening her eyes seemed to be a Herculean task.

Death. Did death come with thirst and hunger and cold, too?

No.

She wasn’t dead, but she was in hell. Hell on earth. She could smell the soil around her; she could feel a damp chill seeping into her.

Buried! she thought. Buried alive.

A sound escaped her lips and she knew that before death came the ability to feel fear. Terror. She tried to move and found that she could. She stretched out her arms and felt the hard dirt beneath her. Yes, buried alive.

She rose to her knees and felt around her.

Scream? Don’t scream? Was the killer nearby?

On her hands and knees, she crawled forward—until she struck hard rock. She felt the pain in her knuckles. Yes, that proved she was alive!

She backed up and started moving in a different direction, inch by inch.

And then she hit a wall. Earth, more earth. Earth all around her. And stone, and metal.

She began to scream and cry out.

She was buried underground, and the dirt walls seemed to swallow her screams.

She screamed and screamed...until she could scream no more.

* * *

Meg had spent her last four months living dorm-style on campus at Quantico with the rest of her class. She was lucky, however, to have a small room to herself. She’d had a roommate who’d dropped out after their first week. Glenda had thought she was up to it, that the academy was what she wanted. But the physical training, along with some of the graphic videos they’d seen, had changed her mind. Forensic art had been her forte; Glenda was going to leave and work as a consultant for her local police.

Arriving in her room at the complex, Meg switched on her iTunes and fell onto the bed, emotionally worn out and physically exhausted.

She was glad she’d made it through the most grueling part of the training already; she wasn’t sure she would’ve been up for it after seeing the girl on the gurney tonight.

She was still surprised that Adam Harrison could change things with the snap of his fingers—or so it seemed. She’d expected to start working for Supervisor Marshall Dunn on Monday of the following week. Tonight, with Adam, she learned that she’d been assigned to Jackson Crow’s unit by special request.

She’d never forgotten Adam, and she’d had her heart set on eventually working for one of his units. She certainly hadn’t imagined that he’d remember her.

Or that he’d instantly take her into the Krewe.

Or even that he’d believe that this situation with Lara could be important. An emergency!

While she was grateful, she wasn’t at all sure why she’d been assigned to work with a man who evidently believed she was an alarmist. Special Agent Matthew Bosworth. He was extremely attractive—and confident. But the man looked at her as if she were more than green. As if she were an outright burden.

And she was humiliated at the way she’d fallen apart, so relieved not to have seen Lara on that gurney, she’d nearly collapsed. Maybe if he hadn’t come across as the most seasoned and superior agent in the entire world, she wouldn’t have felt so...yes, green, when she’d fallen apart.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself. She wanted to find Lara. Regardless of what her friend had said, she wouldn’t just have disappeared without getting in touch with Meg again. Without a phone call, at least, to say she’d arrived safely.

Meg was seriously worried. Thank God that Adam believed her—and believed in her.

“I would’ve waited,” he said as she drove him home, “given you a chance to meet some of the Krewe. But I’m convinced we’re dealing with unusual circumstances. Tomorrow you’ll report to my office. You and Special Agent Bosworth will trace Lara’s movements, interview the people she was working with and talk to any other friends.” He paused. “I’ve followed you, you know. Your education, your career.”

And Meg was glad. It was like learning she’d had a guardian angel watching over her through the years. She grimaced as she recalled the unfortunate incident with Agent Bosworth—and the fact that she’d informed him she wouldn’t bother him again.

Adam must have more agents, many more! Why did she have to work with this one?

She’d deal with it. She had to.

The important thing was that now she didn’t have to drive herself insane wondering and worrying about Lara—and end up looking like the worst agent ever after doing so well. She would’ve spent all her time obsessing over Lara’s fate, her whereabouts, when she should’ve been giving her all to the new job. But now Lara was her new job.

Was it better to know the fate of a loved one? People always said it was. And yet it could also mean the end of hope.

Years ago, knowing that Mary Elizabeth was dead hadn’t eased the pain of her loss.

But perhaps seeing justice done did create what they called closure. Her aunt had known that her daughter’s suffering was over. That her killer was locked away. Actually, he wasn’t locked away anymore. He’d been killed in a prison brawl.

Her aunt had told her that the killer’s death shouldn’t have made anything better for her. But it had. Christian or not, she’d said, it had brought her some resolution. She hoped he’d suffered.

And now...

Now Lara was missing, after leaving a cryptic message.

Maybe she’d gone into deep hiding. But if she had, she’d done it for a reason. And the only way to find Lara was to find out what that reason could be.

Meg sat up, considering the possibilities, trying to sort out where Lara could be. Probably not in Richmond, or at least not at her aunt’s house. But Lara had a small house in Harpers Ferry, left to her by her parents when they’d passed away. She and Lara had often visited during their college years, both in love with hiking and tubing on the river. They hadn’t been in quite a while; she didn’t think Lara had been out there recently, but she’d hired a service to handle maintenance and security, and she even rented it out now and then.

Maybe she was there. It was a direction to pursue, at any rate.

After a minute, Meg rose and walked into the bathroom. Time to get ready for bed.

She liked to shower first thing in the morning. It seemed to start the day right, really wake her up. But since she’d begun training, she’d discovered she needed a night shower, too—in order to be able to sleep.

Tonight, the odor of the morgue seemed to linger on her. She didn’t just want a shower to sleep, she needed one.

She took a long shower, with very hot water and lots of soap and shampoo.

Wrapped in a towel, she got out her toothbrush and toothpaste. The mirror was heavily fogged, and she wiped it with the edge of her big beach towel.

She looked thin, she noted. Thin and haggard. Well, nothing she could do about that right now.

She studiously brushed her teeth, glanced in the mirror again—and froze.

The mirror was misty once more and yet she could see her own face. And another. Behind her.

Lara’s face.

Lara’s mouth worked; her eyes seemed filled with pain. No audible words came to her lips, and seconds later she began to fade away. And yet Meg thought she knew what Lara had tried to say.

Not help me, but find me. Find my remains.

Meg whirled around just in time to see the last vestige of her friend disappear into the soft swirl of fog left by her very hot shower.

* * *

“I met Margaret when she was a child,” Adam was saying to Matt. “The Krewe didn’t exist back then, but local law enforcement in West Virginia called me in. They knew I could find the right people to help us discover the truth. I was also friends with an agent working kidnapping cases for the FBI.” He sat behind his desk, a cup of coffee in front of him, his hands folded on the desk. He raised them as he said, “There was hope that it was a ransom case, that the missing girl would come home. But her little cousin knew. She told me, although she wouldn’t tell anyone else, that she saw Mary Elizabeth sitting at the foot of her bed. She was gone, Meg told me, and she could be found in the cemetery. It changed the case. We found the body before the ransom drop, and because of the forensic evidence at the scene, her killer was easily caught. So I’ve kept tabs on Meg. I was going to wait until she’d graduated and taken a position at the academy and then introduce her to Jackson and the Krewe, but...well, life intrudes and changes everything. Life—and death.”

Matt nodded, well aware of the truth of his words.

He looked out the window onto the beautiful old street. He loved their location in Alexandria, and he was glad the Krewe had left the modern building where they’d once had their offices. There was something about looking out at the old row houses that seemed good for the soul; history had marched through these streets. The houses had been there when the nation struggled for freedom. They’d continued to serve as homes during the bloody conflict of the Civil War. Alexandria was so close to Washington, DC—yet it had been part of the Confederate state of Virginia.

Of course, he loved the Capitol, too. He was no romantic when it came to war, but the history of his nation’s struggle was both powerful and heartbreaking to him. He was fascinated by the life of Abraham Lincoln. He was equally interested in the lives of men like Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee.

When he was young, his parents had purchased an old tavern west of Richmond. In a roundabout way, it had been owned by Thomas Jefferson, who’d purchased the place for a cousin and been repaid over a period of years. Matt had dreamed that he could sneak into the parlor area at night—and find Jefferson sitting by the fireplace.

He never did see Jefferson. He did, however, encounter the spirit of his cousin, Josiah Thompkin. Thompkin had regaled him with tales of famous congressmen, battles, the Underground Railroad and more. Matt’s parents had thought he spent too much time with his books and that he—like many children—had an invisible friend.

One of his great-aunts had known, however, and when his mother had spoken to him about her concerns, Genevieve had winked at him and told him that “imaginary” friends could be the best. They mirrored the soul, she’d said, and furnished the mind with information.

Great-Aunt Genevieve was long gone now, but he always remembered her with a smile. She’d made it to ninety-five, full of laughter and vigor to the end.

She’d assured him she wasn’t coming back. She’d lived a long life—and she knew the light was waiting for her.

“You and Meg have similar pasts,” Adam said, returning Matt’s mind to the present.

Had Meg grown up with imaginary friends, as well? Unlike Meg and him and the rest of the Krewe, Adam’s background was somewhat different. His son, Josh, had been granted the gift—or the curse—of precognition; he’d known what might happen. He’d known what people were thinking. He’d been ill throughout his life, and he’d died young. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason when it came to paranormal ability. Matt felt sad that there were people worldwide who kept their secret, trying not to give themselves away in case the world considered them crazy.

There was a knock at the door. Agent Murray was certainly punctual.

Matt remained by the window, staring out as Adam invited her inside. He turned, curious about the young woman. She could be no more than midtwenties, but she carried herself with a grace and poise that belied her age. Her dark hair was pulled back and she seemed even more attractive than he had realized. Today she was wearing a medium-length business skirt and matching jacket, and he couldn’t help noticing that her legs were wickedly long and well shaped. There was an unselfconsciousness about her, and he sensed that she had no idea of her own appeal.

“Meg, come in. I have a few more of our local Krewe working this. They’ll be getting onto research, credit card trails and the like. I think you and Matt should start at the source. Head over to Congressman Walker’s office. I’ve arranged that he’ll be ready for you at ten,” Adam said.

“She’s dead,” Meg told him.

“You know that?” Adam asked.

Meg nodded, glancing at Matt as if she didn’t want to speak in his presence.

“I know she must be dead, yes.”

“You saw her?” Adam asked.

Meg glanced at Matt again and lowered her head in a nod.

“It’s all right, Meg. You can speak freely. Don’t worry, Matt has friends around the city who only appear to him. I’m just so sorry that we won’t find your friend alive,” he said very softly.

She’d been crying, Matt saw. He felt a tug of sympathy.

It hurt so badly to lose people.

“You’re absolutely sure?” he heard himself say. He didn’t mean to doubt her; he sincerely hoped she’d been wrong. His voice sounded rougher than he’d intended.

She turned to him. “Agent Bosworth,” she said coldly. “I never say that someone is dead unless I believe it to be true.” He could tell he’d offended her. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; anger helped dissipate pain.

“Until we find her, you can’t be certain,” he said, then asked, “You’ve never had a living person in desperate trouble try to reach you?”

“No,” she said, the one word like a cube of ice in the room.

“Did she speak to you, Meg?” Adam asked.

Meg hesitated. “She couldn’t quite manage to speak, but...I think she asked me to find her. And I—I believe she wants us to find her body.”

Matt felt that Meg Murray had no intention of giving his opinions any credence, but he didn’t feel the need to respond. He’d been around for a long time—as an agent and as one who knew the existence of a sixth sense. She’d learn.

The other agents arrived then.

Adam rose to make introductions. Jackson Crow had come in with Angela Hawkins, Will Chan and Katya Sokolov.

“Agent Murray will be joining this office,” Adam said. “This, as you can appreciate, is a difficult time for her. Meg, everyone’s been briefed on the situation with Lara Mayhew and the two murders. Agent Crow is your boss and I never interfere. Okay, I seldom interfere. Agent Hawkins sorts through our many requests and tries to send out the right people. Since we’re near Washington where everything seems a bit unusual, we’re quite busy here. That was a joke—or an attempt at a joke, anyway. Agent Sokolov is a medical examiner as well as an agent. She’ll visit Wong today and inspect the bodies.”

Meg solemnly shook hands with everyone. She asked Will Chan, “What’s your specialty?”

Will smiled. “I was an illusionist,” he told her.

“I see,” Meg said in a pleasant tone that nonetheless relayed her confusion.

Will’s smile grew wider. “My specialty is film, sound, cameras—and now and then, a bit of a performance if necessary. Although occasionally we all have to perform. In any case the team you see here will be working with you on this particular case.”

“Can you play the message your friend left?” Matt asked, not meaning to be churlish, but they weren’t at a getting-to-know-you cocktail party.

“Yes.”

She pulled her phone out of the black leather tote she carried and set it on speaker. They heard a woman’s voice.

One that sounded breathless—and scared.

“Meg, it’s me, Lara. I wanted to let you know I’m going home. Home, as in getting out of DC and heading for Richmond. I’m going as soon as it’s daylight. I’ll talk to you when I can. Love you. Don’t say anything to anyone else, okay? I have to get out of here. Talk soon.”

Meg played the message twice.

Jackson cleared his throat. “She did say she was leaving in the morning.”

“And I wanted to believe it,” Meg said.

There was an awkward silence. Matt wasn’t convinced, but Adam had faith in her conviction.

And they all had faith in Adam.

“So, you see,” Meg said, “something happened during the day or that night that made her want to...run.”

“And meet up with our killer?” Will murmured.

“Or another fate,” Matt replied.

“In other words, you think there might’ve been a different motive to get rid of Lara Mayhew—and she was killed by a different perp?” Angela asked.

“Entirely possible,” Matt said. “But Ian Walker isn’t known for being...”

“Slimy?” Kat supplied.

Matt looked at Meg. “Did she ever suggest that there was anything going on between her and the congressman?”

“No. But... I haven’t spent much time with her since I started at the academy. We talked every other day, but I’ve only actually seen her twice. As far as I knew, Lara adored him, as a father figure. She lost her parents when she was eleven. I think she saw Walker as a fine man, the way she’d seen her dad.”

“Maybe Walker will solve the mystery,” Jackson suggested.

“Doubtful,” Will Chan said.

“And...” Kat began, before hesitating.

“And?” Adam repeated.

“To the rest of the world, the idea that something’s wrong is...mere supposition. She’s a young woman who became disillusioned with politics and left DC.”

“There’s another message,” Adam reminded them.

Meg pressed her phone again. All they heard was a whooshing sound—like the wind—and then a thump.

And the phone went dead.

“I’ll check with her cell phone company,” Angela said. “Meg, I’ll need your phone for the next few hours. We’ll have techs try to decipher those sounds.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll be with Matt if we need to reach you for any reason. We’ll get the recording and return your cell as soon as possible.”

“Whatever it takes,” Meg said.

“And you’re off to see Congressman Walker!” Angela looked from Meg to Matt. “I don’t envy you. Interviewing a politician. I don’t think many of them are capable of telling the truth, even when they’ve got nothing to hide!”

Matt liked Angela. She was down-to-earth, pleasant under the most trying circumstances—and skilled at figuring out past sins that might have emerged in the present. Attractive, in her early thirties, she was light-haired and light-eyed. She was married to Jackson. Matt hadn’t been around when they’d done the deed; they’d slipped quietly away for a small private wedding. In this “special” unit, agents being married to each other was acceptable. Will and Kat were a couple, too.

They all had to work so closely together that Matt felt they were more a family than a workforce. He wondered how their new member was going to fit in.

Of course, when he’d joined, the others had wondered if he’d fit in.

“Your work sounds intriguing,” Meg said.

“It’s different,” Angela agreed. “It’s a million hours a week most of the time. It’s travel when you’re tired of going places. It’s seeing a lot of what can only be described as evil. That would be true whatever position you took after graduation, but then you’ve been through the academy. You know that.”

“Yes,” Meg said. She added a little hesitantly, “I’m grateful to be here. I was going to apply when I was able to. This is all...faster than I expected.”

“Meg is certain that Lara is dead,” Adam said flatly.

There was silence for a minute. Matt realized that Meg was doing a worthy job of hiding her grief. And yet he wasn’t certain that she was right about Lara’s death. He walked over to her. He wasn’t sure why he placed his hands on her shoulders except that he wanted her full attention.

She seemed to draw herself up, stand taller, but didn’t move or back away.

“Meg, are you positive? Maybe you saw her, but she was in your mind, asking for help.”

She still didn’t back away. “I don’t see people who step out of my mind, Agent Bosworth. Do you?”

“Actually, I have. The dead can reach out, as we all know. But sometimes the living can, too, from a distance.”

She slipped away from him and he was almost sorry he’d spoken. She lowered her head. He thought she might have had an expression of hope on her face.

“I haven’t had that experience. I honestly believe that she’s dead.” He asked himself how true that was. He had the impression that she and Lara had often read each other’s minds.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” Jackson said. “Very sorry. Adam, I have some news. We have a match for our first victim. Her name was Cathy Crighton. She worked at the Big Fish down in Georgetown. Her boss assumed she just took off. Apparently, the pay isn’t very high and he has a large employee turnover. Not only that, he considered her a fairly unreliable employee, showing up late and so on. Turns out a friend in Oklahoma, who’d been trying to reach her, reported her as missing. The report took a while to get to us. I’m making inquiries about her last movements.”

“Anything about the girl who was found yesterday?” Adam asked.

“No, not yet,” Jackson answered. “We’ll be cross-referencing all the victims we have on record and missing-persons reports, seeing if we can come up with a common denominator.” Jackson looked over at Matt. “I’ve emailed you all the particulars I have so far.”

Adam turned to Meg. “Make sure you have everyone’s cell phone number.”

“I’ll get started on the digital,” Will said, leaving the room.

Kat was going off to the OCME, while Jackson and Angela left to research Congressman Walker. It was time for Matt to head out with Meg Murray.

“We’ll make a stop at Lara’s apartment first,” he said.

Meg bit her lip, eyes closed. He could only imagine what she was fearing—that they’d enter her friend’s apartment and find her there. Dead.

“It has to be done,” he told her calmly.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ve already been to the apartment, though. I have a key. Lara isn’t there.”

“Wasn’t there,” he pointed out.

“Yes...”

“Chances are you’re right, but we’ll take another look, anyway. I’ve called the landlady. We’ll have her let us in officially—and start fresh. Maybe the landlady will have something useful to say,” Matt added.

“Fine, you two get on that, and then go over to the congressman’s place. We don’t want to lose this first session with him.” Adam paused, smiling at Meg. “Scariest part of the job,” Adam said lightly as they left the office. “Politics! Scary as hell.”

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