As a native of Richmond, she was proud of the graceful state capitol building with its rotunda statue—claimed to be the only one for which George Washington had actually sat. She loved the Confederate White House and was deeply moved by the sad history of Jefferson Davis’s family when they’d lived there, losing a son when he’d fallen from the balcony. She’d once read to Meg from Varina Davis’s memoirs about the day she’d lost her little boy. The president of the Confederacy had held his dead child while his generals had begged him for orders. Jefferson Davis, his wife and family were buried at Hollywood Cemetery. Conceived and created as a “rural garden” cemetery, it had winding trails and beautiful, poignant stones. It truly was a garden with its sloping lawns, little hills and graceful old trees with gentle, shading branches that swayed in the breeze. The monuments included many marble angels—angels in glory and angels weeping, their emotions somehow visible in their stone poses. A great pyramid was a memorial to the Confederate war dead. But Hollywood Cemetery wasn’t just a sad reminder of the lost Southern “cause.” All manner of men were buried there, some who’d been moved long after their deaths, when other cemeteries had fallen into disrepair or urban progress had forced them to close. Teachers, lawyers, generals from almost every war the nation had ever fought, even the war against itself, were buried here. Long-grieving wives, many of whom had outlived their husbands by twenty to sixty years, now rested beside the men they’d loved.
The cemetery was huge, sprawling and lovely. While there were twenty-two Confederate generals buried there—along with thousands of soldiers—Meg headed first to an area where she knew she’d find one of Lara’s favorite graves, that of Varina Davis, first lady of the Confederacy. She was, naturally enough, next to her husband, the one and only president of the ill-fated Confederacy. Monuments and stones and statues honored the men who’d fought for what they believed was a just cause. History—and human decency—had proved them wrong.
But while they stood by the obelisk that marked the graves of Varina and Jefferson Davis and his family, Meg felt nothing.
There was no sign of Lara. No sign of anyone.
She felt Matt watching her, occasionally pausing as if he, too, were searching the area for what most people wouldn’t see—but which some might feel.
“It’s a beautiful place.” He spoke quietly, but she sensed that he was impatient. That he thought they were on an impulsive and ill-conceived mission.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t be,” he said. “I never mind coming here.” He smiled at her suddenly and recite:
“If life and death be things that seem
If death be sleep and life’s a dream
May not the everlasting sleep
The dream of life eternal keep?”
She laughed softly. “John Bannister Tabb, Confederate soldier, priest, poet and I don’t remember what else,” she said.
“Wow. I’m impressed,” he told her. “You weren’t even born here, steeped in this history.”
“Harpers Ferry, not that far, and even more steeped in history,” she responded. “When you go downhill toward the national park and the river, you can practically turn back time. Especially on a dark night when the fog is falling.”
“I know from everything you’ve said that Lara loved history—and that she saw it as an important path to what the country is today,” he said quietly.
“Yes.” Meg sighed. “She’s not here.”
“You sure? It’s a big place. We haven’t begun to cover it.”
“I’m sure. And I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“It’s good. I told you before, Meg, she might still be alive. This could be a sign.”
Meg realized that he was looking beyond her. She turned, but at first she saw nothing. Then, slowly, she did. There was an older woman sitting on a gravestone not far from them. She wasn’t in Victorian attire; her clothing was more recent. Meg recognized the long skirt, the buttoned-up bodice and belted waist of a dress that might have been worn in the 1930s. The woman’s hair was in a bun and she wore a knit capelet over her shoulders, despite the fact that it was a bright, warm summer’s day.
And Meg realized the woman was sitting on a stone that was part of a Confederate section; many who were buried there were veterans who had survived the conflict and died at a later date.
Matt walked past her. He went straight to the woman—and spoke to her.
*
Slash had heard that plenty of people were dubious about this so-called “special” unit of the Bureau known as the Krewe of Hunters.
They liked to tease that those agents were a little nuts. That they were the psychic division and that they communed with the dead.
Yeah, yeah. Well, he for one didn’t buy it.
Bosworth looked bat-shit crazy, that was for sure. He was just standing there, talking to a gravestone.
Slash chafed at the time he was wasting. Ridiculous, following these two all this way. But he’d seen them at the graveyard.
He knew they were handling the case.
So...
Still, this wasn’t fun. This wasn’t like choosing victims, researching them, watching their movements.
That was enjoyable. The hunt. To his own mind, he resembled the greatest of jungle cats, light on his feet, never moving until he knew that he needed only to run and leap and he’d have his prey, helpless, in his hands, at his mercy.
There was no mercy. A jungle cat had to kill.
So did he.
For a moment, he felt a strange discomfort.
Yes, he enjoyed that kind of kill.
It involved cunning and cleverness and care—and then the pounce.
As to the other kind of killing...
That, too, required cunning, he told himself.
It was far more subtle and dangerous and took even greater care and cleverness.
But it was...
Business.
These two really had to go, he thought. He formed his fingers into the shape of a gun and aimed it at Bosworth. Then he turned to Agent Meg Murray, still standing just a few feet from him.
Maybe she thought Bosworth was bat-shit crazy, too!
He watched her.
No, he was wrong; she didn’t.
Killing her might be business. But business could also bring its own fun.
She had to go.
He didn’t want to shoot her.
He wanted a slow kill...
He wanted to see her eyes. See her eyes in that last moment—before she knew what had happened, before she knew what was going to happen. See her eyes...