When the Union forces had rolled through, Northern doctors had worked with the Confederate ones and the injured Union and Rebel forces had lain side by side. The Rebels would become prisoners, but many had forged friendships with their Northern doctors and fellow patients that would last all their lives.
The farmhouse was large, with eight bedrooms upstairs and four more on the second level of the old barn, which was now a gathering place. Apparently, Congressman Walker’s people would be in the main house, along with two members of the Capitol police, their own retinue, Matt, Meg, Angela and Jackson Crow. Other security would stay in the barn; there were four guard stations set up around the house itself, one on either side of the road, one in front of the house and one behind it.
It seemed impossible that anyone could get at Congressman Walker—not while he was at the MacAndrew house, at any rate.
They were met there by Larry Mills of the Capitol police, who’d already taken over; Maddie Hubbard had specifically requested that Meg be in the upstairs bedroom that connected to hers.
Matt would be across the hall, and Kendra and Ian Walker would be next to Maddie.
Larry Mills seemed to be a serious and competent man. He had a buzz cut and looked weathered and fit, thanks to eight years as a navy SEAL, he told them.
“They’re not due in until eight,” he said. “As you saw, I have the stations set up, and rooms assigned. They’re bringing their security with them. A few of your unit are in the party, so I’m assuming you’re in communication?”
Matt assured him that they were—and that they’d be back at the house before the congressional party arrived.
“That ain’t much of a dog,” Mills said, pointing at Killer. “He isn’t a security canine of some kind, is he?” he asked dubiously.
Meg didn’t really answer, but said, “You’d be amazed. He’s got a great bark.”
“Does he know the right people to bark at?” Mills asked.
“Oh, I think he does,” Matt replied. “Trust me, he’s an asset.”
Mills grinned. “A German shepherd, a rottweiler—that’s an asset. Him? He’s an accessory.”
They laughed politely and Mills scratched Killer’s head.
Then Matt and Meg left for what remained of their free time.
*
Aside from Gettysburg, Adams County offered a number of “stations” on the Underground Railroad. As they got in the car again, Meg reminded Matt that one of them might be where Lara was hidden... Matt saw how anxious she was. Meg was now convinced that Lara was alive, but that she wouldn’t be if they didn’t find her soon.
“It’s not going to be anywhere obvious, Meg,” he told her. “Not a place that’s on a tour. This has to be something very different. Obscure.”
He’d just gotten in the car when Angela called. He immediately put her on speaker.
“We’re heading out soon,” Angela said. “We’ll be riding in Walker’s car. I estimate our time of arrival to be somewhere between seven and eight, but I’ll keep you posted along the way. I’m calling you now because I found something you were looking for. Congressman Walker is the majority owner of a corporation called PTP, or Preserve the Past. They’re not nonprofit, but they work closely with historic boards. PTP has bought and restored a number of places in Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia—and Pennsylvania. PTP purchased ruins in Gettysburg about six months ago. The old farmhouse was condemned, and I’m assuming the corporation plans to build a re-creation of the home. There’s also the ruin of an old mill nearby. Thought you might want to check it out. Carefully—and discreetly—of course.”
“That’s it!” Meg cried.
“Can you give me the address?” She did and he rang off, then turned the car around in a handy driveway and veered in the right direction. “Do you know the place?” he asked Meg.
“Not really, but I’m sure I’ve been by. But if it’s just some ruins in a field and it’s privately owned, we might not even have noticed it.”
“Probably not,” Matt agreed. “There’s still a lot of farmland around here. A lot of history and tourism, but a lot of farmland, too.”
As they approached the address Angela had provided, he saw that there were lines of cars parked on the road leading up to another farm, practically next door to it. There were all kinds of tents pitched out in the fields, while paddocks in front of an old farmhouse were filled with horses.
“The camp!” Meg said.
“Yeah, the living-history camp Sylvia mentioned. A Union camp,” Matt said. “That’s where the medical reenactments she was talking about must be taking place.”
He drove slowly, looking across the acreage. Men sat by the tents cleaning rifles. A command tent had been set up, and he could see a group of men in Union officers’ clothing at a table. Spectators milled around, watching them. There was a blacksmith shoeing a large draft horse and cooks worked around campfires.