“And that’s why you’re Krewe,” she said.
“I wasn’t like you. I didn’t know right away that this is what I should be doing, where I should be working. But yeah, I figured a dead girl had talked to me, so I needed to do what she said. First, I went to the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington—a long-standing family tradition—and then did a stint in the service.” He paused. “Deployed to Iraq.”
She didn’t move; he didn’t betray any emotion and yet she knew his time in the service must have been very hard. He spoke again.
“Then I joined the FBI. Things have changed, of course, since 9/11. The FBI is much more active overseas now and I was assigned to the Middle East for a while. After that, I went back to school for behavioral science and finally landed at Quantico—and then with Adam.”
“He is an incredible man,” Meg murmured.
“That he is. I learned how to profile, and to put the results together with what I’d learned about the dead. And from the dead, from those who stayed. I’ve watched and observed and I discovered that some ghosts won’t talk to everyone, and some are better at talking than others. Some are so real you’re convinced you can touch them, some can’t quite learn to be ghosts—like the way I couldn’t learn to ice-skate. They’re the hardest to communicate with, these almost-ghosts.”
Meg realized that she was smiling.
“What?” he asked warily.
“You really can’t ice-skate?”
“Total fool on the ice. I fall all over the place.”
“Well, we should be okay,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s summer!”
“There you go,” he said lightly.
Meg saw that they’d traveled a good distance already; they were headed west now, skirting DC.
Killer sat quietly in her lap, like an angel.
When they came to a rest area, Matt pulled onto the ramp. “We can take him out for a minute,” he said, indicating Killer.
“He hasn’t barked or whined or anything.”
“He’s a dog. I’m not taking any chances with this car.”
Matt parked near a small lot for dog-walking. Meg got out, setting Killer on the ground and looping his leash around her wrist.
“Need a break? Want coffee?” he asked.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Okay. I could use more coffee. I’ll leave you two and be right back.”
As he headed into the concession area, Meg called to him. “Bosworth.”
He turned.
“If you’re getting coffee, anyway, I guess I’ll have one. Thanks.”
He nodded and moved on. He wasn’t running or even hurrying; he had a very long gait and naturally moved fast.
Meg took Killer to the dog park. He stayed by her side, sniffed a little and did his business. A Pekingese, seeing him, barked wildly. Killer ignored the other dog and resumed sniffing the grass.
Waiting with him, Meg idly watched the traffic. She frowned, noticing a black sedan with tinted windows sliding into the rest area. It didn’t park.
It merely slowed, then entered the lane that led back to the highway.
She tried to get a look at the license plate as the sedan drove off. There were rows of cars between them, and just when she might have had her chance, the Pekingese and its owner walked right past her. But she suspected that if she had seen the license, it would’ve been encrusted in mud.
Matt returned, carrying two paper cups of coffee. She thanked him as she took hers and then said, “A black sedan just went by, slowed down, then kept going. Tinted windows.”
“You think someone is following us in a black sedan?”
“Remember the one outside my town house yesterday? It pulled away when Angela and I saw it.”
“Look in the parking lot,” he told her.
She turned to see five cars in the lot fitting that description.
“Hmm.”
“Maybe they’re so popular around here because they’re so...official. If someone is following you—or us—he’s hiding in plain sight. Practically everyone around here has a black sedan,” Matt commented.
“So you think I’m paranoid or seeing things that don’t exist? That I’m trying to create a mystery?”
“Things are what they are, whether you want to create a mystery or not,” he said. “And there’s nothing wrong with paranoia—sometimes it can save your life. But, of course, you’re thinking black sedan because of Congressman Walker’s office.”
“Yeah. Congressmen tend to be driven around in them. Their aides use them. Lobbyists use them.”
“Like I said, just about everyone in Washington uses them. The question is do you really think you’re being followed?”
“I—I’m not sure why anyone would follow me.”
“Because you’re on the hunt for Lara Mayhew,” he said. “Anyway, you ready to go?”
They’d only been back in the car for a minute when Matt’s phone rang. He said the word “Answer.”