A woman lay there, blond hair filthy and matted, naked. She was covered in earth and dust.
Lara. Lara Mayhew. She hadn’t gotten herself here. Meg must have done it.
Angela came into the tent and rushed over, immediately checking for a pulse. “She’s alive. High fever. I’m going to get water, cool her down while we wait for the ambulance. Find Meg.”
Matt nodded, whirled around and stepped out of the tent.
At least he hadn’t tripped over her body yet!
But, he thought, I’d know if she was dead! I’d know it.
Meg was alive and she was out there, not far away, running by herself. And she might not have discovered yet what he’d figured out. Might not realize who was after her.
Killer barked.
Matt turned to the dog. “Killer, which way?”
She could have run to the soldiers’ tents; she’d expect to find help there. And whether or not the men had their old guns loaded with black powder, those guns had bayonets attached to them.
But that part of the encampment was across a barren expanse of field. A sharpshooter could easily pick her off.
The same with the road. It, too, would leave her exposed, a target.
He took a moment to do what he always told Meg to do—concentrate. Envision her before him. See her, try to reach out for her.
He thought he heard her speaking...inside his mind. It was as though her mind were connecting with his. He could almost hear her reasoning, weighing her choices carefully.
I’m coming, Meg, I’m coming!
Killer was sitting by the tent, staring toward the woods.
Matt looked over, too. And as he did, figures began to appear before him. Soldiers. Some in Rebel uniforms.
And some dressed in Union garb. They were there by the woods, Private Murphy front and center. They were there, just as if they were assembled for war, except now they were no longer waging war against one another. They stayed on this hallowed field; perhaps they’d learned peace in death, as those who had survived learned peace, after the war, slowly and through the decades that had followed.
They beckoned to him. And he began to run again.
*
Once in the camouflage of the trees, Meg paused to catch her breath, still clutching the oversize boots. She wondered how it had all been pulled off, and started putting together the few facts she was certain of with what she’d begun to figure out. She knew that help was on the way; she could see that an alarm was being raised and that men were beginning to stir at the camp.
She allowed herself a fleeting smile. She could swear that she heard Matt’s voice in her mind, reassuring her.
I’m coming, Meg. I’m coming!
He was out there; he was close. And he wouldn’t be alone. The Krewe was a team. They were a team and they believed in one another.
Yes, help was out there.
But she didn’t dare cry out; the killers were among those who might be seen as rescuers by anyone who happened to come upon them. She had no doubt that, even with other people, they might well have an opportunity to kill her before she could speak. Before she could reveal what they were...
She leaned against a tree and got her feet into the boots. When she’d done that, she moved deeper into the woods. She moved as quietly as she could, trying to keep from cracking branches or giving any other indication of her whereabouts.
She’d gone in about fifty feet when she came through the trees and to a clearing.
“Meg?”
She heard her name whispered by a terrified voice. A female voice.
She didn’t reply; she waited.
Then she heard a soft, frightened sob. “Help me...someone help me, please.” Looking around the trees, she saw that Kendra Walker, muddied and disheveled, was slumped by a tree, tears streaming down her face.
“Help me, oh, Lord, someone...help me!” she wailed again.
Meg was shocked. Had whoever spirited her out of the MacAndrew house taken Kendra, too? Had the killer finally snapped and decided to take out his boss’s wife, along with all those who’d seemed to threaten him?
Or was Walker himself behind it all—and had he chosen tonight to rid himself of another burden?
The cries were heart-wrenching.
Meg crouched low and inched toward her. “Mrs. Walker—Kendra, you have to be quiet. Help is coming,” she whispered, “but we need to be quiet until we see that it’s—it’s the Krewe that has come. Get up, please. We have to get farther into the woods.”
“I—I can’t!” Kendra told her. “My ankle! I had to get away when I realized it was... Joe. Oh, God, it was Joe all along, Joe Brighton!”
“Get up and lean on me. We need to move into the woods, where we can hide until we know it’s safe.”
Meg started toward Kendra but she stopped abruptly. She could see someone there in the night, slowly appearing.
It was the ghost she had seen before. The ghost of Genie Gonzales.
And Genie spoke.
“Don’t trust her!” Genie said.