Читать книгу The Silenced - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9
ОглавлениеMeg Murray’s alarm went off with a strident ring that made her nearly jump out of her skin as well as the bed.
She groaned and rubbed her temples. Keeping up with the guys wasn’t easy—not as easy as she’d hoped, anyway.
But she, and Sandra Martinez and Carrie Huang— the two other young women in her academy class—were holding up nicely. And they’d made it. Meg was proud—and relieved. She knew that only one out of every hundred applicants got into the academy.
And not all made it through.
She’d been determined. Just as some kids knew they wanted to grow up to be actors, artists, veterinarians or zookeepers, she’d known she wanted the FBI.
She and her class had learned legal and investigative processes and passed every physical test of strength and coordination. The men and the women in her class had all done well. Meg hadn’t beaten Ricky Grant—considered by most of them, including Ricky, to be the toughest cadet in their class—but she’d kept up with him. In fact, her class had excelled.
They’d graduated; they’d had their ceremony. They were officially agents now, and they’d celebrated.
She wasn’t sure why she’d felt compelled to keep up with Ricky in all things.
She hadn’t gotten wasted last night; she’d been extremely temperate while pretending to imbibe far more than she had. And she wasn’t hungover; she was tired!
The trials, the strain, the classes, the yearning—they were over. It was exhilarating, and it gave them all a flutter of fear. Time to go into the world as rookies. Time to prove themselves.
And, of course, it was time to move out of cadet housing and into places of their own.
That wasn’t a worry for Meg. She’d always believed she’d graduate, so she’d already made arrangements to rent a small town house just down the road from headquarters at Quantico. She was going to be assigned to the criminal division there. They had a few days to clear out and she simply had to switch from housing to her new home.
Awake, she lay in bed, a little dazed. This was really it. She had two weeks before heading in to her first assignment.
Her television, on a timer, sprang to life with the news. Meg paused, watching it, before she went in to shower. Police were still seeking clues in the brutal murder of a Jane Doe discovered by the Potomac a couple of weeks ago. More troops had been killed overseas. A truck had stalled on the beltway, causing a ten-car pileup. Investigations were still under way regarding the death of Garth Hubbard, the indie presidential hopeful beloved by so many that he might’ve been the first man to take the White House on such a ticket. The cause of his death had been deemed natural. He’d been at home with his wife, alone in their bedroom. Paramedics had been called; his family doctor had come, too, and signed the death certificate. But this was Washington, DC, so, of course, there was talk of conspiracy.
“Ah, yes, good morning!” she muttered to herself.
The news anchor—after waiting an appropriate beat or two—offered her viewing public a wide, toothy smile and went on to recount some of the good news of the day. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad morning. An attractive reporter related a story about the heroics of a young man as he dived after a woman, a stranger, who had nearly drowned while tubing in West Virginia. She then had another story about a young girl saved from an abusive teen by the intervention of a stray dog—the dog now, happily, had a home.
Meg realized she was just staring, somewhat hypnotized, at the television.
She had to get going. There was an orientation class she was required to attend and she wanted to get through it quickly so she could concentrate on moving into her little town house before her life began anew.
As she relished the hot water pouring over her in the shower, Meg considered the life she was about to start.
As a child, she’d dreamed of changing the world. That had meant to her that she had to be a policewoman or run for president. Maybe a policewoman—and then the president.
And when she was ten years old, her family had fallen victim to a horrible crime.
She would never forget it. She could still remember that time as clearly as if she’d just lived it. Her cousin, responsible and steadfast, had gone missing. Then the ransom note had come.
But Mary Elizabeth’s body had been found. Meg had known they’d find her before they did. Everything about those days, that experience, had been shattering and devastating, and for a long time, she’d thought she was crazy. But she hadn’t been.
And now...
Now, all she could only hope to do was put away some of the bad guys. Just as they’d put away the man who’d taken Mary Elizabeth.
In her classes, they’d recently had guest speakers, agents and scientists from the behavioral science units. Listening to what man was capable of doing to man had been horrifying, despite what she already knew. The academy classes lost students along the way because sometimes it was too much to bear.
In her case...
She was even more determined. She had every reason to be.
Because it hadn’t ended with Mary Elizabeth.
Sometimes she met people who’d been tortured.
And killed.
And she’d wanted to help.
She liked to feel that she’d grown strong. Her superiors and teachers knew about her past—about Mary Elizabeth being kidnapped and murdered. She was honest about her desire to be with the Bureau. She was careful not to dwell on the past in case someone believed that her previous experience might hinder her work.
It would never interfere with her work; she was sure of that.
Dressed and ready for the day, she checked her reflection in the mirror. She wore a blue pantsuit, very regulation. Her shirt was white, but she was allowed pinstripes, thin lines in a pale blue. Somehow, they made her feel a little brighter.
She was young, but at a height of five-ten she was often assumed to be older than her actual age of twenty-six. She had a wealth of thick, nearly black hair, which she’d pulled back into a bun. She almost turned away from the mirror, but then studied her reflection more closely. She thought her mouth was too big, as were her eyes. At least they were a clear, dark sky blue. She studied herself critically and decided she looked presentable. And especially dressed like this, she seemed to exude confidence, maybe even authority.
With a shake of her head, she finally turned away. She really wanted to believe that she had the right stuff. She’d gone through college, studying criminology, become a cop in Richmond for a couple of years and then been accepted to the academy. It was the career she wanted; she’d gone after it step-by-step.
She reached for her phone in the charger at her bedside and realized the message light was blinking.
Lara had called her. She frowned; the call had come in the middle of the night. Lara never called her that late. She listened to the message.
“Meg, it’s me, Lara. I wanted to let you know I’m going home. Home, as in getting out of DC. I’m going as soon as it’s daylight. I’ll talk to you when I can. Love you. Don’t say anything to anyone else, okay? I have to get out of here. Talk soon.”
There was a second call, a second message. But Meg heard nothing—except what sounded like a rush of wind and a muffled thump.
A purse dial?
Perplexed, Meg played the message again and tried to phone Lara back. The call went immediately to voice mail. Her friend had seemed breathless, so she’d probably been walking when she’d made the call.
But she’d sounded distracted—and a little frantic.
Meg left a message herself. “Call me back. You’ve got me really worried. Please, call me as soon as you possibly can.”
Disturbed, she added a last “Please!”
She told herself that Lara had just become disgusted with politics; many people did.
Not Lara! she thought.
Lara had been a media and research assistant in the offices of Congressman Ian Walker. Lara had admired the congressman from his first speeches, when they were still in high school in Richmond. Walker was passionate about equality, whether racial, religious or sexual. He was also critical of irresponsible spending, the unusual politician who managed to be both fiscally responsible and socially liberal. He fought hard for his causes on the house floor.
Why would Lara suddenly decide to go home? It didn’t make sense!
* * *
She lay on the silver gurney as if she were sleeping, and Agent Matt Bosworth believed that she’d once been a lovely young woman.
Death had not been kind. She was now a bloated, pallid corpse, ravaged by the river and creatures of the water. It was difficult to tell where the autopsy Y incision had actually been made; he knew she’d been ripped from throat to groin, disemboweled and stuffed with rocks. But time had caused the rocks to dislodge from their human cave and she had floated to the surface and then the riverbank, where she’d been found by the boat motor of a pleasure sailor on the Potomac.
Matt knew that another woman had been found at the beginning of June—but she’d washed up on the Maryland side of the river.
The woman now lying on the gurney before him had shown up on the DC side. She’d come to the office of the chief medical examiner, or OCME, for the District of Columbia. It was a relatively new, state-of-the-art facility that handled about seventeen hundred cases a year—of death by violence, death unattended by a physician, unexpected death or death with the possibility of spreading disease.
The offices were large and also housed forensic labs, reception areas to provide information to family and friends, and staff who offered counseling. The workers here were often distraught when the public thought—due to numerous television shows—that answers were revealed within the space of an hour.
Death was seldom so easy.
But Matt had faith that whatever could be learned about the deceased would be learned here. All in all, he was glad the FBI was involved—and that everything on these murders would be handled as one case. While Matt wasn’t surprised that it had so quickly become a federal case, he was surprised that the Krewe—a specialized unit—had been called in.
DC wasn’t geographically large, not compared to other major metropolises. But with Capitol police, District police, Maryland and Virginia police and the FBI, jurisdiction might have become a bit confused. However, since these two murders were in Maryland and the District, it seemed logical that the FBI would take the lead. There were dozens of elite units at headquarters that might’ve been called in.
But it had been the Krewe.
Matt hadn’t questioned the details yet. He’d come into work and Jackson Crow had informed him that they were heading out. In time he’d find out what had happened—and what was going on now.
He’d been with the Krewe for about eight months, invited in after he’d explained to his superiors that he’d been “lucky” when he’d wandered into the bar where a serial killer had stalked his victims. It had actually been the ghost of a young victim who’d shown him the way. Matt figured that Jackson—Special Agent in Charge Jackson Crow—and Adam Harrison, Krewe director, had watched his work.
And known that he’d be right for the unit.
Matt had never understood why he saw the dead—or why the dead seemed to talk to him. He hadn’t had a traumatic life; he’d had a good one, with great parents and a solid education. A family friend had assisted in getting him into Virginia Military Institute. He’d served in the military, and after that, he’d decided he wanted the FBI. He’d heard about the Krewe of Hunters and known he wanted in. He also knew that the Krewe invited its agents to join; it wasn’t something you applied for. So he’d waited patiently.
He’d seen and communicated with the dead since he was a kid, but he’d realized that others didn’t. And he’d also realized that if you wanted to be taken seriously, you didn’t tell anyone that you spoke to the dead.
After several years in the FBI and that one particular case, he’d been invited in. He’d been happy to be with the Krewe. No more pretense.
So, that morning, he hadn’t questioned Jackson. They’d find out soon enough exactly what they were looking at.
It hadn’t taken them long to reach the OCME; their offices in Alexandria weren’t that far from it. He liked their new location, a pair of beautiful old row houses that were also host to FBI internet personnel, other agents and some civilian employees. They could easily commute to the Capitol and the facilities at Quantico.
So far, Matt had learned that they’d been specifically called in when the second body was found. While three killings officially called for a serial killer investigation, the brutality done to both women had caused the captain of the Maryland force to alert the FBI. The assistant director at headquarters had called Adam Harrison, and Adam had directed Jackson to take the case.
But while the situation was grim and the perpetrator obviously a heinous killer, there didn’t seem to be much reason for the Krewe to be called in. Nothing seemed to hint at the paranormal; this was murder at its most brutal, but sadly, such killers had existed before and would again. He’d eventually learn the whys of this case. Right now, they needed to learn what they could from the body—and from the DC cop, Carl Hunter, who’d been the detective called to the scene.
“The cause of death was the slashed throat?” Matt asked, after the ME, Dr. Wong, finished listing the injuries to the body. He spoke through a paper mask, as had the doctor. The smell of decay was strong.
Wong was a bright man in his early forties, clear and concise in his manner. He looked at Matt and nodded. “The throat was slashed. It would’ve taken the victim time to exsanguinate, and some of the slicing on the body was performed before death, but she was so heavily drugged that I don’t think she felt anything, including the slash to her throat.”
“I understand it was a right-handed killer,” Detective Hunter said. “That’s correct, Dr. Wong?”
Carl’s voice sounded scratchy. Matt understood. Carl was a good guy; they’d met during a few earlier cases. The man was a dogged investigator, putting in long hours. He was nearing retirement, but hadn’t slacked off in the time or determination he gave a case.
He’d seen a lot.
This was still hard to tolerate.
“Yes,” Wong said. “He was right-handed and very certain in his movements. No hesitation marks at all. The guy’s done this before.”
“Were any organs taken?” Jackson Crow asked.
“The tongue is missing,” Wong said. He cleared his throat. “Bits of organs are missing—but that’s because the ripping of the stomach caused pieces to...fall out.”
Matt leaned forward to see the atrocity Wong showed them, setting a hand on the dead woman’s shoulder as he viewed her ruined mouth.
Her shoulder was cold, cold as ice. It was shocking what the body felt like when life was gone, so still and cold, as if the soul, the very essence of what had been human, had flown and left emptiness behind. “Same as the victim found on the Maryland shore,” Carl Hunter said, turning to Wong. “I talked to Jared Welch from the Maryland force before I came in. People might say that cops are territorial, but we’re both glad as hell that the feds are in. God knows, we might have got into this thing first, but we haven’t come up with anything. Both bodies brought in with no purses, no IDs, hell, no clothes. Just unidentified bodies, naked and ripped to shreds. We don’t have any leads at all and this killer...has to be stopped.”
Wong told them, “I haven’t seen the first body yet, but I have the report. The other victim will be transported here. As you requested, Special Agent Crow, we’re treating them as murders committed by the same perpetrator or perpetrators.”
“Right,” Jackson murmured. “The taking of the tongue—it’s a definite signature. I’m afraid it suggests this killer isn’t finished yet. We’ll need every law enforcement officer in the area on high alert.”
Two dead in less than a month, Matt thought.
“But we haven’t matched her up with anyone?” he asked.
“We’re working on fingerprints and X-rays and hope to have something soon,” Wong replied. “As I said, I didn’t perform the autopsy on the first Jane Doe, but I’ve studied the sheets. To summarize, I can tell you that the murders were performed the same way. I believe both women were taken by surprise—since there appear to be no defensive wounds. They were drugged with an inhalant, and then—” he paused to show them the inner right elbow “—injected with propofol, a drug commonly used in surgery. Actually, our tox reports aren’t back yet, but that’s what was used on the Maryland victim and I’m betting this is going to be the same.”
“Interesting. So you think they were unconscious when they were mutilated?”
Wong nodded.
“That means he didn’t get off on the cutting,” Jackson mused. “And no sexual assault?”
Matt knew that the first victim hadn’t been raped or molested. Not as far as they could tell. While the bodies were badly decomposed, medical science could still provide them with evidence.
Wong shook his head. “No. Probably not. Doesn’t fit what we’re seeing here. I’d say the killer takes them, sedates them, rips them from stem to stern, stuffs the bodies with stones and tosses them. They’re found naked and heavily compromised by immersion in the water. As you can see,” Wong said, lifting the sheet, “she’s been nibbled on by many creatures.”
Matt could see—far too plainly.
“She was about five-six or -seven in life.”
“Long blond hair, five-six and a half,” Wong said.
“Almost identical to the first girl, according to the Maryland reports,” Carl offered.
“So, that’s his type,” Jackson said. “We’ll get the warning out. Press conference. I’ll ask you to handle it, Matt. Dr. Wong, please keep us apprised of anything new.”
They left the autopsy room, discarding their masks in the proper bin. Matt felt as if the smell of decomposition clung to him.
Carl paused in the hallway. “I’m not shirking,” he muttered. “I know this might be my last case, and I’ll be out there, working it as hard as ever. But... God, I hate cases like this. Like I said, we’ve got nothing, and until we get identifications, we don’t even have anyone to question. The killer knew what he was doing, disposing of the bodies. No trace on them—or not any that forensics has found as yet. Dump ’em in the river and you pretty well destroy any clue there might’ve been.” He paused. “We all know that some killers get away with it. I sure as hell hope it isn’t this guy.”
“We won’t let it be,” Matt said quietly.
Hunter nodded, but his expression was uncomfortable. “Gotta tell you, I don’t get the shakes easy. But...”
Matt was curious. Carl was as practical as a man could be. He seemed jittery, though, and Matt sensed that it was due to something other—something more—than the sheer horror of the case.
“What is it?”
“I got this awful feeling that she...that she looked at me when I first got to the scene. Impossible, of course. Her eyes...well, soft tissue. You saw...”
Matt glanced over at Jackson.
He’d touched the body. Whatever soul, whatever essence of life there’d been, was gone.
Carl shrugged. “I’m on it—task force, anything you need. I seem to keep saying this, but I’m glad you guys are in on this one. And no, we can’t let him be the one who got away.” He lifted a hand in farewell and hurried down the hall.
Jackson turned to Matt. “Right now, we have to be careful. Really careful. We need to get on the air, though. Say as little as possible,” he said. “But we need a warning out there. And we don’t know whether he might choose another type, so all women in the District and the surrounding area should be especially careful.”
“You don’t want the media folk at headquarters to handle this?”
“I think we need to take it from the start. I’ll arrange for clearance.”
Matt nodded. Headquarters had a division to deal with the media. But sometimes the Krewe worked on their own. He knew that he was often chosen to give press conferences because, according to Jackson, he had the all-American football player look. He could seem both stern and stoic—and, most important, trustworthy, reassuring to a worried public.
He wasn’t sure how anything about this situation could be reassuring; whether it was their usual kind of case or not, it was exceptionally disturbing.
And now he knew why the Krewe had been called in. Carl Hunter would’ve been careful about what he said and to whom. His own coworkers would have ribbed him mercilessly if he’d said that a corpse had looked at him. But somehow, he’d gotten that information through to the right people.
“When is the press conference?” Matt asked Jackson.
“As soon as we can organize it,” Jackson told him. “We’ll call an emergency task force meeting, bringing reps from the area. Meeting won’t take long. We don’t have anything to say yet. Then we’ll get on the air. You’ll speak, along with representatives from the DC police, Virginia and Maryland. You won’t be on the hot seat alone.”
Matt didn’t care about being on the hot seat; he was used to it. There was the truth—and there was the matter of telling the truth so that it afforded the greatest protection to the public while suppressing enough details to make sure law enforcement knew more than any kooks or would-be psychics out there.
They’d keep a lot quiet, he was assuming. Grotesque details did nothing but stir up sensationalism—and sometimes provide a killer with the notoriety he sought.
Jackson and Matt reached the big black sedan set for their use. Jackson let Matt do the driving. He was one of the best things about the unit, in Matt’s opinion. He was half–Native American and well aware of the diversity of people and beliefs around the country. He also had an aura of calm about him and an ability to listen to those who worked with him. He wasn’t a micromanager, and yet he expected the best from those around him. If he trusted you, it was with complete confidence.
Matt liked to believe he’d earned the man’s trust.
He also liked to believe that he was worthy of it. He thought he was; while their backgrounds were dissimilar, they were also much alike.
He wondered if Jackson’s thoughts were similar to his. Jackson grinned over at him and said, “You still don’t look much like a Native American.” Matt grinned in return. He was, like many, many people in the United States, someone who could actually trace his ancestry back to Pocahontas.
“A heritage sadly diluted by time.”
“Let’s just hope we both have some of that mystic wisdom we’re supposed to have,” Jackson said wryly. “We’re going to need it.”
* * *
The day felt long to Meg as she attended her sessions. At every opportunity, she tried calling Lara’s number.
Her calls continued to go straight to voice mail.
She tried calling Nancy Cooper, Lara’s aunt in Richmond, but Nancy hadn’t heard from Lara, either. Meg ended the call quickly, not wanting to worry her.
She tried a few of the mutual friends they had in the area. She even tried Lara’s ex-boyfriend, Clark Walden, despite the fact that the two had split up at least six months earlier. Clark was in the military; she discovered he’d been deployed overseas a month ago.
She called Congressman Walker’s office and was informed that Lara no longer worked there. No, she’d left no other information.
Despite failing with her calls, it wasn’t until she’d finished for the day and was sitting in the cadets’ lounge that she really began to feel a sense of panic.
And that was when the TV news came on.
A second body had been discovered. She remembered hearing about the first woman, who’d been found a few weeks back. The case had seemed particularly sad to her. Police had discovered a young blonde woman between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. She’d stood about five-seven and, while alive, had weighed approximately a hundred and twenty pounds. She had yet to be identified. There were no suspects in the case, and police had begged the public for any help they could give.
The newscast that came on made her sit straight up and spill her coffee.
The second murder victim had also been about five-six or five-seven. And she’d also been blonde. Because of the condition of the body, forensic scientists were seeking her identity through dental records. Fingerprint identification was being attempted but, once again, the police were seeking help.
Meg’s heart began to flutter with fear.
The body had been discovered that morning.
She stood, stumbled around the lounge until she could grab the remote control and turned up the volume.
She listened to a lieutenant from the DC police issue warnings and inform the public that extra police officers would be on the streets. An officer from Maryland spoke next.
And an officer from Virginia.
And then, a rep from the FBI took the microphone.
He was tall, a striking man with sandy, close-cropped hair, the shoulders of a linebacker and a ruggedly chiseled face. His voice was rich and deep; she assumed he was a regular spokesman for the agency.
But as he finished his speech, hotline numbers were flashed on the screen. She heard the assurance in his voice when he added, “We at the FBI will not stop our intense hunt until this killer is apprehended. Until he is, however, responsibility lies with every man and woman out there. If possible, don’t go anywhere alone. As of now, he has selected two blondes. He has seen to it that identification is a difficult process. Keep in mind that his choice of victim could easily change. When Ted Bundy was stalking women, most that we know about had long, straight brown hair. Because of that, many thought they were safe by dying their hair. We have very little information on this killer as yet, and that means everyone could be in danger, blonde or not. Although the killer, whom we’re assuming to be male, has targeted only young women so far, it’s quite possible that women of all ages and descriptions—and conceivably men—could also be at risk. While you shouldn’t panic, you must be vigilant. You’ve been given the call number—any and all suspicious behavior needs to be reported. We are relying on the public for assistance. We need to combine public awareness and the dedication of every law enforcement officer out there. We vow not to hold back any pertinent information—and we’d appreciate it if the media refrained from affording this man a nickname, as a label or a title. He’s a vicious killer and deserves no recognition.”
He went on to thank his audience, which included reporters from various news organizations, and stepped away from the podium. The DC mayor came forward again and began to speak.
But Meg didn’t hear him. Her heart seemed to slam against her chest. She saw that the agent who’d just finished was standing in the background, talking to an elderly white-haired man in a pristine suit.
Adam Harrison.
Meg got up. She had to speak with Adam; she didn’t want to simply call a hotline.
She’d intended to go to him eventually for another reason altogether. She’d always wanted to be part of the Krewe of Hunters—and she felt she belonged there. She’d wanted to graduate and enter the criminal division first, a matter of pride, perhaps. As in, I’ve taken all the right steps. I’ve worked my hardest. I believe I’ve excelled and I believe I have the skills you need...
There was no waiting now.
She had to go to him; she knew he’d help her.
And she desperately needed help. She had to find out about the victim.
Because Lara was a blonde, five-seven, lovely and fit and about a hundred and twenty pounds.
* * *
“Margaret!”
Meg wasn’t sure why Adam Harrison even remembered her. He must have met hundreds of people through the years and she hadn’t seen him in more than a decade.
He was a very dear man. Ramrod-straight, dignified in manner and appearance, he had to be in his late seventies or early eighties. She’d been surprised that the phone number he’d given her all those years ago still worked. Her call to him via that number had gone right through, almost as if he’d been expecting to hear from her. How that could be, she didn’t know.
Years ago, Adam had arrived at her home, although the police and even Meg’s own parents had been skeptical. He’d come with the FBI agents who’d been called in because her cousin’s case had begun as a kidnapping.
While the family worked to put together a ransom, Meg knew that Mary Elizabeth was already dead. She’d known because she’d awakened to find Mary Elizabeth sitting at the foot of her bed. At first, she’d been joyous, certain that her older cousin had been released and come home while she was sleeping. But Mary Elizabeth had drawn a finger to her lips, shaking her head. She’d tried to speak, and Meg had heard a rustling sound. And then she thought she heard her cousin speaking, telling her that she had to let them know the truth—that the family couldn’t go on believing when there was no hope. Her body was in the cemetery, hidden behind a mausoleum. Meg crawled out of bed. The grown-ups were all awake; officers crowded the house, and everyone waited by the phone.
Crying, Meg went to her mother and whispered what she knew. Her mother was horrified, not wanting her dad’s sister and husband to hear. She’d pulled Meg away and chastised her in the kitchen. But the older man who’d come with the FBI people had followed. He’d listened to her story and, back in the parlor, told someone to check the cemetery.
Where they’d found Mary Elizabeth’s body.
At first, Meg’s own mother had treated her as if she’d been possessed by Satan. She’d quickly gotten over that, but Meg would never forget the way her own family had looked at her. Thanks to her, they’d caught the killer almost immediately. Forensic evidence left at the scene made short work of identifying him, since he was a repeat offender and therefore already in law enforcement databases, and of proving his guilt.
She saw her cousin one more time. At the funeral, by the graveside. She’d been beautiful, dressed in the white confirmation gown in which she was buried, shrouded in brilliant gold light. Somehow it had been comforting. And she’d actually comforted her aunt and uncle; her conviction was so strong that Mary Elizabeth was in heaven.
Adam Harrison had been at the funeral. He’d been so kind to her, and Meg had never forgotten.
Standing outside alone, she’d watched while he paid his condolences to her family. When he saw her, she thought she’d start crying all over again. But he came to her and said, “You’re a very brave and special girl, you know.”
“I’m a freak,” she told him.
He shook his head. “No, Margaret, you’re not a freak at all. You’re special,” he repeated.
That made her roll her eyes. Her older cousins liked to tease her and call her “special” when they were making fun of her.
He’d smiled. “No, you really are. You can’t bring Mary Elizabeth back, but you’ve allowed her to be at peace. And the man who killed her, he’ll never kill again. We found her body quickly because of you, and found the evidence we needed to arrest her killer. There are monsters in this world, Margaret. And it takes very special people to stop their power. If you ever need me, call.”
He’d handed her his card. Later, without ever using it, she’d put the number in her cell phone.
Over the years, she’d read everything she could about Adam. He was rich, but he didn’t spend his money on cars or vacations. Without being a member of any police force, he assisted various agencies with what were referred to as “unusual” crimes. He’d been appointed a “directing consultant” with a specialized unit at the FBI.
That was when she’d known she’d wanted to be part of the FBI.
She’d never contacted him; she’d just worked toward her goal.
But now...
When she called him at the cell phone number that was still, miraculously, the right number, he told her to come over.
His home was in northern Virginia, so it hadn’t taken her long to reach him—no more than forty-five minutes—even though she stopped by Lara’s on the way.
“You’ve graduated, Margaret. Congratulations!” he said as he welcomed her into his home.
“You...knew I was in the academy?”
“Of course. I thought maybe you’d find me. If you hadn’t, I would have sought you out. Do you want to be with the Krewe?” he asked her. “Oh, would you like some iced tea or coffee—or a drink?”
She shook her head. “I need help,” she said.
“Oh?” He seemed surprised. She realized he’d assumed she was coming to inquire about becoming part of the Krewe.
“My friend Lara Mayhew is missing. I saw the press conference about the woman discovered in the river. Adam, Lara fits the description to a T.”
He frowned, obviously not expecting this. “It’s a long shot to think your friend might be this girl. When did she go missing?” he asked.
“She left me a message at around two-thirty this morning, about leaving DC. She said she had to get out of there. And she seemed really distressed.”
Adam was silent for a minute. Meg knew he’d lived through a great deal of stress and heartache through the years. “But...if she said she was leaving, it’s quite possible that she...left.”
“There was something wrong with the message, Adam. She didn’t sound all right. She almost sounded as if...as if she planned to go into hiding.”
“Maybe she did,” he said gently.
“I know, but her message scared me.”
“So you’d say she’s been missing, what, about fifteen hours?”
Meg nodded unhappily. She knew that the length of time Lara had been missing wouldn’t fit the official interpretation of “missing.” It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours.
“And you haven’t been able to reach her?”
“No, and I made several other calls, too.” She hesitated, then added, “She was involved in politics. Not that I’m suggesting politicians are evil or anything.”
Adam laughed. “We could take a poll on that one,” he said.
“The whole situation really worries me, Adam. She worked in media relations for Congressman Walker, and I tried calling his office. They seemed to be saying she quit, but I couldn’t get any more out of them. They gave me...the brush-off.”
“I won’t get a brush-off,” he assured her, his voice grim. “Those offices are usually busy, and unless you represent a powerful lobby of some kind... Well, let’s just say that the days when a man could walk into the White House to chat with the president are long gone.” He paused, then offered her an encouraging smile. “Remember, though, your friend may be fine. Try not to stress too much. If she said she was leaving, she might have done just that.”
“Adam, I know that something’s wrong.”
“Ah,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
“I—I need to see her.”
“Of course. You mean you need to see the victim. If she can be identified, it’ll certainly help the investigation. You realize it’s not easy?”
“I went through the academy. I’ve seen all kinds of horrors.”
“Yes,” he said, “but this is the real world you’re entering—not a video of what others have been through or a lecture about what they’ve discovered. This will be up close. And it might well be personal.”
“I’ve been to an autopsy before.”
“However, it may not be your friend at all,” he pointed out.
“But then again, it may be. I can’t reach her, Adam,” she said, even more urgently than before. “I tried repeatedly. I called her aunt. I called other friends. And, as I told you, her office wouldn’t give me any information.”
“So they say she quit?”
“Yes, sometime yesterday or last night, I assume. Actually, they didn’t use the word quit. They used the words no longer here. And they suggested I speak with her if I wanted more information about her future plans.”
Adam was thoughtful for a moment.
“Have you...seen this friend?” he asked her softly.
Seen. As in seeing her ghost or whatever remained of the person who had once been Lara.
“No, but like I said, I’m absolutely certain that something is very wrong. She loved her job. Plus, her message seemed so strange. And there was another call from her phone but no message. I figured at first that she’d redialed by accident.” Meg shrugged hopelessly. “Adam, believe me, I tried all the people and venues I could. I had her landlady check, but Lara didn’t answer the door at her apartment. I checked her place myself on the way here. She didn’t respond. I have her spare key so I went in. She’s not there. Her purse and keys are gone, but she hasn’t packed to go anywhere. I’m aware that she hasn’t been gone very long and yet...her resemblance to the victim is so close.”
“I understand.”
“I just— I need to see the woman they found, Adam.”
“The body is badly decomposed,” he warned her.
“Still... I believe I’d know if it was Lara.”
“I agree that you need to see her,” Adam said.
“I noticed that the Bureau is handling the case.”
“Yes, the Krewe specifically, and yes, I can make the arrangements. Are you ready now?”
She nodded.
“You drove here?” he asked her.
“I did. So we can go to the morgue right away?” Meg asked.
“We’ll stop there first, although we probably don’t have to. I’m sure that if this is your friend, her fingerprints are in the system, since she works on the Hill. I believe the corp—the young woman was not... Well, it may take them time to get prints, but I can find out where the ME is with that.”
He made the calls as she drove. They reached the OCME and a receptionist was waiting to let them in. Adam was familiar with the morgue and led her down a hallway.
They were met by the man she’d seen on television. She was tall, but he seemed to tower over her. She tried to remember the name she’d heard on TV. Agent...Boswell or something like that.
It didn’t matter. Adam introduced them. He was Special Agent Matthew Bosworth. He was polite but restrained during the introduction, and assured Adam that Dr. Wong was already there, prepared to show the body.
Meg was brought into the room where the woman lay. The air was pungent with the combined scent of disinfectant and decomposing flesh. She swallowed fiercely to fight her gag reflexes. She’d seen death before, but never like this.
It was difficult to view the body...
She had to. She began to shake. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Is it your friend?” Agent Bosworth asked her.
