The Silenced Read online

Later that afternoon, Krewe members gathered around the table in the large meeting room at their office. Everything had changed so swiftly. Matt reflected that he’d predicted a long day, but nothing like this.

  Meg sat beside him, and they listened as Angela used her whiteboard to point out where they were with the case. “We know that Ellery Manheim couldn’t have killed two of the women. His lawyer was smart enough to provide sworn statements and videotaped interviews. The surveillance at Congressman Walker’s house proved that Ellery was still in the house at five o’clock every night. Will Chan has gone over the surveillance footage himself. It wasn’t tampered with in any way. We don’t know exactly what day and time Cathy Crighton disappeared, so we can’t prove who was where when. But considering the fact that Dr. Wong has stated the murders are all by the same killer—and Kat has corroborated this—there was no reason for the judge to do anything other than clear Ellery Manheim.”

  “I do agree with Dr. Wong’s findings,” Kat said. “Same killer.”

  “That leaves us with two theories to follow,” Matt began. “The first is that someone with training in espionage and assassination is trying to oust Congressman Walker. Or, and more likely in my opinion, someone—or more than one someone—in Congressman Walker’s retinue is responsible. Some kind of conspiracy, perhaps. But Walker’s given the authorities complete freedom to search his home, his offices and everywhere else imaginable. Including his cars,” he added.

  “The techs still have the cars,” Logan Raintree said. “So far, no sign of blood or any indication that any of them was used in a kidnapping or murder. We’re working every angle, we’re investigating every argument Walker’s had in Congress, every person who might have a grievance against him. They’re handling a lot of that from the main offices at Quantico. We’ll be doing some of that, too, but we’re concentrating on Walker’s circle. We’re not alone on this case. We have the assistance and cooperation of the Capitol police.”

  There was silence for a minute; they all knew that Walker had enemies. But Lara Mayhew had disappeared after a meeting with Walker and his aides, not with any of his known enemies.

  “We saw Genie Gonzales...briefly.” Meg flushed slightly, as if saying such a thing out loud was still foreign to her. It probably was.

  “In the Krewe, we always maintain hope that the dead will help,” Jackson said.

  “Yes, but it has to be someone involved with Congressman Walker. At least when it comes to Lara. Why would she have disappeared if it weren’t for whatever happened in his office the night she left that message?”

  “We have to look at all possibilities,” Jackson responded.

  “And what about the letter Lara left me?” Meg asked.

  “They’re still trying various methods to restore the writing,” Angela assured her. She went to the table and leafed through her papers and attached another one to the board. “This is their latest attempt. The first sentence is easy enough to read. Unfortunately, the words that explain why she wrote the letter remain blurred. The bard is visible, so we can assume she was writing Hubbard. They’ve cleared another partial word, as you can see here—s-b-u.”

  Matt leaned forward. “G-e-t-t-y-s-b-u-r-g,” he spelled.

  “Well, there’s reason to believe that something is bound to happen there,” Jackson said. “The rest of us will continue the investigation and protection detail. We’ll accompany the Walker party and Mrs. Hubbard. As we planned, Matt, you and Meg need to get up there now. Continue your search for Lara Mayhew. She may well be the key to the truth.”

  14

  Meg was eager to resume their search, so she was glad when the meeting ended. Jackson said they should go by instinct in Gettysburg that night and to get some rest for the days to come. They should do whatever Meg thought they needed to that might lead them to the whereabouts of Lara Mayhew.

  When they stopped at his house to pick up Killer, Matt took her by the shoulders before she could walk inside. “This is going to be difficult. Concentrate on Lara. We’ll be stuck with the Walker camp soon enough, so tonight is the time to let Gettysburg talk to us. Remember everything you two loved there. We’ll do some of those things—and figure out why she wrote what she did in her note to you.”

  Meg smiled at that. “Okay. Road trip. Remember to play the Muppets, and I’ll be okay.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  And he did play Muppet music as they started out. Killer barked with excitement at the first song.

  “Dog isn’t so bad,” Matt muttered.

  * * *

  Congressman Ian Walker and his party had rented the old MacAndrew farmhouse, not far from the national park visitor center. Both Matt and Meg knew the place, although neither had stayed there before. Angela had called to tell them that they wouldn’t be able to get in until the following night, however; the remaining room was rented to another family.

  Meg suggested they go to a nearby bed-and-breakfast where she’d often stayed with Lara, and Angela took care of the booking.

  Meg was friendly with the people who owned it; one of them, Charlene Sayers, wouldn’t have a problem keeping Killer there. And if they encountered a problem after that, she knew of a doggy day care in town.

  They didn’t arrive until eight—although eight that evening felt like two in the morning.

  Peter Sayers, who owned the bed-and-breakfast and ran it with his niece, Charlene, greeted them when they came in. Peter had lived in the area his entire life and had purchased the bed-and-breakfast when the previous owner had died. He’d added baths to every room, air-conditioning, and glassed in the back porch to allow for a sunny breakfast room.

  Their host was a jovial man of about fifty, a widower with no children but a fondness for his college-age niece, a young woman just as enthusiastic about local history as her uncle.

  Peter was a reenactor, glad to take on the role of his own Confederate ancestor for numerous reenactments, from Sharpsburg to Cold Harbor and on to the North.

  “Meg, I was delighted to hear your name when the young woman called for your reservations tonight!” Peter said, greeting her with a hug. “But two rooms—and you’re not here with Lara?” he asked. “Ah, I see you’re traveling with a new friend?”

  “Actually, Peter, Lara’s gone missing. And we’re hoping maybe we’ll find her here or come up with some idea as to where she might be.”

  “Is this her dog?” Charlene asked, coming around to meet Killer.

  “No, he’s—he’s my dog,” Meg said. She realized that yes, he was her dog now.

  “He’s adorable!” Charlene crouched down to pet him.

  Matt laughed. “Adorable might be stretching it.”

  “I say he’s adorable,” Charlene insisted.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about Lara,” Peter told them. “Are you afraid she’s—well, it sounds odd or clichéd, but—met some kind of foul play? We’ve seen the news up here. Horrible what’s going on in the DC and Richmond areas with all those murders.”

  “Yes, it is. And I pray she’s all right—and that we’ll find her soon,” Meg said. “So I’m trying to follow some of our past footsteps, and then, tomorrow night, we’re moving on to help with security for Congressman Walker.”

  “He’s bringing in a crowd that’s even bigger than the customary summer hordes!” Peter said. “Oh, my God! After the news from Washington today, the phone didn’t stop ringing. People can’t wait to hear him speak. In fact, it’s pretty splendid that you happened to come here for tonight. I’m sold out after this until the middle of fall. But tonight, it’s just us and Mr. and Mrs. Avery—fellow reenactors, except the old buzzard plays a lieutenant in Pickett’s division. His ancestor was in on Pickett’s Charge...and survived. Go figure. I’m really glad that tonight worked out. I’d have hated to turn you away, Meg. And you, too, Mr. Bosworth,” he added politely. “But..
.security. Are you still a cop, Meg?”

  She shook her head. “I’m with the FBI now, Peter. So is Matt.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry!” Peter said. “So you’re Agent Bosworth or...”

  “Matt is fine,” Matt assured him. “And we’re thrilled to be here.”

  “You have the two ground-floor connecting rooms. You know them, Meg. It’s where we always put you and Lara.”

  “Great,” Meg said, smiling.

  “Would you mind suggesting a place for dinner where Killer would be welcome?” Matt asked.

  “I think you should go to the Dobbin House Tavern.” Charlene turned to Meg. “You and Lara took me once, remember? Meanwhile, I’ll be happy to keep this little scamp with me. He is adorable—no matter what you say!” she told Matt.

  “Up to you,” Matt murmured to Meg. “It’s still your search.”

  “That’s lovely, then,” Meg said. “Thank you.”

  The Dobbin House Tavern was beautiful and far older than the great deciding battle in American history that most people came to Gettysburg to relive or understand. The Reverend Alexander Dobbin had come to the area to start his new life during the Revolutionary era, and built his house to stand the test of time. The tavern offered all modes of dining, from elegant to casual. Matt said he’d never been before and he listened to the waitress when she explained just how old the house was and how wonderful it was to work there.

  “Nice,” he told Meg when they’d placed their order. “So you came here a lot?”

  She nodded. “We both loved it—and my parents love the place, too. It was a stop on the Underground Railroad, you know. There’s a crawl space where runaway slaves could hide. This area had a lot of nonviolent protesters before the war. There’s a rich Quaker heritage, part of William Penn’s legacy. There are so many layers of history here, although of course Gettysburg is most commonly associated with the Civil War and that pivotal battle.”

  “I haven’t been here recently, but I have seen reenactments,” he said.

  “My parents would approve. They think everyone should come to Gettysburg and see a battle reenactment—although now, of course, we see men fighting and dying on battlefields in our news coverage. But it’s still astounding to see guns pointing right at the men—and to watch them walk into the fire, anyway. That, combined with Lincoln’s speech...well, it reminds us all what it means to be an American and how we need to preserve that dream so many of our forefathers believed in. And fought for.”

  “I understand their feelings,” Matt said. “There really is something hallowed about these fields, about knowing what happened there in July 1863—on the very ground where you’re standing.”

  “When we leave here, can we drive around the parts of the battlefield that are open at night?” Meg asked.

  “You lead, I follow,” Matt said.

  “Somehow, I doubt that’s the way you usually feel,” she told him drily.

  “Hey, I’m an excellent team player.” He rested his fingers on hers. “Don’t you agree?” There was mischief in his eyes, and she found herself wondering if it was right that he could make her smile and laugh—and more—when everything in their world seemed to be at such a critical point. And yet, for a moment, she was tempted to suggest they head back to their beautiful old bed-and-breakfast and start their search in the morning.

  But she also felt an urge to go out that night. To—as Matt had said—see what this place had to say to them. Gates at the national park were closed after dusk, but it was still possible to stand by the fences surrounding many of the sites.

  Some of the bloodiest sites.

  In the end, they went down West Confederate Avenue. Meg asked Matt to stop, and they both got out of the car. The moon was just beginning to wane; it hadn’t been a foggy night, but mist seemed to spread across the field beyond the picket fence.

  “I remember reading that the battle waged through the town and beyond,” Matt said, “with the Confederates pushing the Union back the first day. And then reinforcements poured in from the south and the east. By day two, the Confederates were struggling. And by day three, Pickett’s Charge proved to be catastrophic for the Rebels. It was the first major battle Lee had to fight without Stonewall Jackson.”

  As Matt spoke about the war, Meg wondered if a place actually could speak to someone. She thought she saw shapes, figures in the mist. She hadn’t noticed them before. These days, the field was lovely, green and sweeping; she knew that during the battle, there’d been trees, brush, scraggly rocks. She imagined soldiers, silent and grimed and bloodied, moving through, weary from the fighting.

  Then a man stopped and looked right at her. She’d seen him before, years ago.

  “Private Murphy,” she whispered.

  “You know him?” Matt asked quietly.

  “Yes,” she answered. “When we were about sixteen... We haven’t talked about it since. Lara and I were here, and we were discussing the battle and the fact that so many of the men, and especially the generals, had been friends before the war. It was late on a gloomy fall afternoon and we wondered if what we were seeing was real. You hear about ‘residual’ hauntings, people reliving a great trauma over and over again. We were just lying on the grass, and this soldier stopped—and it was him. Private Murphy. He could tell that we’d seen him. And he asked that I bring flowers to his little girl’s grave. She died in Richmond and is buried at Hollywood Cemetery. Of course, the first thing we did back in Richmond was look for her grave. I never knew whether it was really his daughter’s or not, but we found a grave for a Rosy Murphy, who’d died at the age of three in 1862. We didn’t see Private Murphy again—and there are dozens of graves with the name Murphy in Richmond.”

  Matt took her arm and they moved a short distance. Private Murphy came to the fence; he hardly seemed aware of Matt. His face was seamed with dirt and sweat, but his smile was as sweet and sad as it had been a decade earlier. She’d thought him old when she’d originally met him. Now she knew he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six when he died.

  “You’re all grown up, miss,” he said.

  “Private Murphy.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  He’d been a handsome young man, strong and fit—and brought down by war.

  “We brought the flowers to Rosy,” she told him.

  “I knew you would,” he said. “You’ve come to find your friend.”

  “She’s...here? You’ve seen her?” Meg asked. Her heart sank. It had to mean Lara was no longer alive.

  But Private Murphy shook his head. “I’ve felt her near...but not among the dead. I feel her, as if she is calling for help. And now you’re here. I pray that you find her.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “My company is moving on.”

  He reached out to touch her face. Meg didn’t know quite what she felt, whether it was something cold, or something so warm that it stretched across time and life and death. And then he turned and began to trudge wearily with the others, marching on to fight again—perhaps his last battle.

  Matt pulled her back into his arms. “We need to get some rest. Now. Maybe tomorrow, we’ll understand what he was saying.”

  “He was real,” she said urgently. “You saw him. You heard him, too.”

  “I did. And I think we need to look at this another way now, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we need to consider the possibility that she’s being held somewhere. And because of what happened yesterday, she could be in real danger. We have to find her before Congressman Walker gives his speech—and we’re going to need help.”

  “What kind of help?” Meg asked.

  “Angela Hawkins help. Krewe help. If she’s being held, it’s someplace where there are no windows, where she has no chance of getting out. Where she has no way of com
municating. Except through the power of her mind, which may be how you saw her. But we’ll be no good to anyone if we don’t get some sleep. Time to go back,” he said, leading her to the car.

  Meg wondered how she was ever going to sleep with so many thoughts—and fears—rushing through her mind. Matt was quiet, too, as they returned to the bed-and-breakfast. When they entered, they could hear Killer barking excitedly. Charlene met them at the door, smiling, a book in her hand.

  “Boy, that dog knew you two were here the minute the car pulled into the drive!” she said. “Did you have a nice dinner?”

  “Yes, very. I love the tavern,” Meg said.

  “Well, I guess I’ll head off to bed. You locked the main door?” Charlene asked.

  “I did,” Matt replied.

  They went down the hall toward their bedrooms. Killer trotted beside them, and as Matt started to go in one door and Meg in the other, he stood there, confused.

  Matt laughed. “I think he wants us together. Clever little thing. Even if he is ugly.”

  “Stop that. He can hear you.”

  Matt bent down. “But you’re wonderful,” he told the dog.

  Meg smiled, then escaped into her room; Killer apparently made up his mind and followed her.

  She had to shower. All she could remember for a moment was the horror of the dried-out tongue, still bearing dried-out blood, and the muck and blood of the ethereal soldiers as they trooped back across the war-torn fields.

  She showered quickly. She was so tired and yet, everything, all her emotions, felt...so new. She’d never experienced this intense need to be held.

  She was so deep in her thoughts that she didn’t expect to see anything, and yet when she came out of the shower, with the mist steaming from the bathroom, she did.

  Genie Gonzales was back...seated on the foot of her bed, Killer curled up beside her, gazing up at her adoringly.

  “Genie, please try... Can you tell me what happened to you?”

  The apparition faded and flared—like a bad hologram. And then grew more solid again.