The task force meeting was grim. Kat Sokolov, who’d gone to see the body of Genie Gonzales before coming in to the RPD, spoke with them briefly before they got together with the local officers. Matt then took the lead, telling them about the other two women and what they presumed about the killer from what they’d discovered so far.
“We believe the killer is organized, although it seems he’s grown more careless with Ms. Gonzales. The odd thing about these murders is that he doesn’t seem to get off on the torture inflicted. In each case, the victim was drugged—heavily drugged with a pharmaceutical used in surgery—before her throat was slit and any cutting on the body began. There seems little doubt that we’re dealing with the same man, a serial killer. What makes this an all-points alarm is that the first young woman was killed nearly a month ago, the second just a few days ago and now we have Genie Gonzales. We ask that all officers on the case be extremely careful with the media. We need to keep the more gruesome aspects of these murders quiet. We don’t want to end up with copycats or other mentally defective individuals out there trying to take credit for the murders.”
He went on to take questions, and then Will Chan stepped up to inform them that they’d work on nothing but this case until the killer was brought to justice.
By ten o’clock, they’d finished. There was no additional information they could give, other than the fact that, thus far, the killer had chosen three blonde women—one whose hair had been bleached—and they did seem to be a physical type. Five-five to five-seven in height, age around twenty-seven. Young and pretty.
Matt added, “I also believe that he stalks his victims and knows about them. The two women who’ve been identified were new to the areas they were living in. They were currently unattached. They didn’t have family or friends who’d be checking up on them immediately. If it hadn’t been for her dog’s barking, Ms. Gonzales might have gone several more days without a name.” He paused briefly. “As I suggested earlier, it also seems that her murder might have been rushed. Her body wasn’t as carefully weighted with rocks as the first woman.”
“And no one saw or knew anything?” an officer asked.
“So far, we have no witnesses. We assume the killer is able to clean up before being seen. In this corridor, it’s easy enough to drive into wooded areas near the rivers, perform the deed, dump the body and hop back into a car. I’m guessing he might have clothes in his trunk and that he washes up in the river, then changes his clothes. He’s in an isolated area, so he takes the opportunity to do that.”
“We figure he’s stalking them,” another officer began, “but how does he snatch them?”
“I believe he’s watching them—and since he stalks them, he knows their schedules, their routines. He plucks these women right from the streets, after work perhaps, out shopping, wherever, but he obviously avoids heavily trafficked parts of the city and he’s probably using the cover of darkness. It’s important for every patrolman and law enforcement officer to be vigilant and to ask neighborhood groups to keep their eyes open. All information from the centers here and in DC will be continually shared, no matter how minute. Remember, no detail is too small. The go-betweens from this office are Agents Sokolov and Chan.”
Matt waited, looking around at his audience. “We’re also aware of one missing woman from the DC area. Agent Murray and I are on her trail, hoping to find a living woman and not another victim. It’s crucial that we continue looking at missing-persons reports, since we don’t know how long the killer keeps his victims sedated before killing them or if he carries out the murders quickly. We owe justice to the dead, but our first priority is always the living.” When he finished speaking he heard a little bark and glanced down. Killer was at his feet.
Killer was a big hit at the station. But no matter who had him or where he went, he always came back to sit at Matt’s feet.
Hey, go see Meg! She’s the one who wants you.
The dog wagged his tail. Shaking his head, Matt reached down to pick him up. The damned dog even had an underbite. He felt far too skinny.
“So damned ugly you’re cute, huh?” he asked the dog.
He hadn’t noticed that people in the room were still watching him until he heard laughter and a smattering of applause.
Detective Wharton walked over to him, grinning.
“The story’s traveled, and the dog is a hero. And it seems he likes you best. Don’t know about his judgment, though,” Wharton joked. “I’d be sucking up to Agent Murray.”
Matt glanced over at Meg. The officers on the task force were splitting up to begin their day, and one of the RPD men was asking her questions. She was answering him in a low, modulated voice. She was going to be a good agent, he thought, then immediately qualified that. She was new and it would take a while to be certain, but…
He realized that his reaction had been grudging. He wondered why. He had nothing against female agents; he loved the balance within the Krewe.
Maybe he’d never seen himself training a first-time agent.
Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t be proficient at it.
Or maybe it was something even deeper. He had to accept that they needed to watch each other’s backs. Was he worried that she wasn’t capable—or that he wasn’t capable of trusting her?
He forced his attention back to the matter at hand. “Detective,” he said to Wharton, “we have an appointment to speak with the missing woman’s aunt, but if you could give me an hour after that, I’d like to see Genie Gonzales’s apartment.”
“We did a thorough job searching it,” Wharton told him.
“I know you did. I’d just like to get a feel for her.”
“Certainly. Say, about one this afternoon?”
“That’ll be fine,” Matt replied.
Meg was still speaking with the young officer. Matt checked his watch; they should leave. The situation here was covered by Kat and Will.
He walked over to her and gestured that it was time to go.
She nodded and shook hands with the young detective.
Matt paused to let Will know they were leaving, then he and Meg headed out.
“He does walk, you know,” she said.
“What?”
“Killer. He walks. You’re still carrying him.”
“Oh.” That was when he realized that he was still holding the dog and had been for quite some time. In his arms, the animal had barely moved.
He set the dog on the ground. Killer fell into step with him as they made their way to the parking lot. The dog obediently jumped onto Meg’s lap in the passenger seat when they reached the car.
“You may be getting too attached, you know,” he told her.
She shook her head. “Actually, I’m going to ask Aunt Nancy to keep him for me until I get back.”
“Because he’s such a beauty?” Matt asked her. “Such a charming little guy?”
She smiled. “Yes. He has the most beautiful soul an animal could have. Have you ever heard of Greyfriars Bobby? When I was child, my dad told me the story about him. He was a terrier who sat at his master’s grave in Edinburgh for years after his death—and he’s buried near him now. People fed him and cared for him, but he spent his days at his master’s grave. This little guy is a Bobby. So loyal. I knew I wanted a dog when I could, and this is the one. My town house is—Well, it’s really empty right now, but I figure even with furniture, it’ll feel cold for a while. Killer will fix that.”
“Not too fond of the name,” Matt said.
“I’ll think about it. I’m sure Genie named him Killer ironically, because he’s so little and so affectionate. Going against type. But…changing his name doesn’t seem right. Taking care of him does.”
“Whatever you say.” Her dog, he told himself. Sort of. Her decision.
She pointed to a street sign. “Turn here. Nancy has a beautiful old home at the end of this cul-de-sac.”
They arrived at the house and Meg paused, touching his arm before he could turn to get out of the car. “I, uh, spent a lot of time here. Nancy is a very dear and old friend. I call her Aunt, too, although we aren’t related.”
He felt her touch. Her eyes seemed oddly intense.
“And you’re afraid I’m going to be a jerk and make her cry?”
She frowned. “That’s not what I meant…”
“That’s exactly what you meant. Hey, I’m the one suggesting Lara might be alive, despite the fact that you ‘saw’ her. But never mind. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
He got out of the car. As Meg had said, Nancy lived in one of the grand old places that spoke of all that had been good about the Old South—true warmth and hospitality. He smiled. Those were the things he loved about his own home, his own family.
Granted, not everything about the South had been good—certain attitudes, beliefs, behavior.
But kindness and graciousness also abounded.
Yes, he’d be on his best behavior. His mother hadn’t sent him to dance lessons for nothing, he thought with amusement.
Once they’d entered the house, Matt wondered why he’d been so certain that Nancy Cooper would be a fragile old lady.
The woman who opened the door was dressed in workout clothing; she had a small but lean, muscled frame. Her hair, iron gray, was cut stylishly short. She wasn’t the kind of woman to hide her age, but her age didn’t matter—she was lovely. She seemed to glow with energy and intelligence. She welcomed Meg with a warm hug.
She smiled at the dog, taking him from Meg’s arms and putting him on the floor, urging him to run about as if he were at home.
Then she looked at Meg with a question in her eyes, one Meg couldn’t answer.
They clung together again, and Matt remembered that it was this woman’s niece who was missing. She was certainly shaken with worry and dread.
She drew away from Meg at last to shake hands with Matt. She made no pretense of doing anything but assessing him. To her credit, he had no idea what her assessment had been.
“You’ve been with the Bureau long, Agent Bosworth?” she asked.
“Ten years.”
She nodded. “Come into the parlor.”
He followed Meg into a handsome room with furnishings from the mid-1800s—all of it polished and well maintained. But this meeting wasn’t a cozy sit-down in the parlor; Matt almost felt as if he had arrived at a war summit. Nancy sat at the head of the table, where a service for tea and coffee was already set. Nancy briskly asked them if she might pour and if they preferred coffee or tea.
When that nicety had been observed, she sat back. “I haven’t seen Lara in the past few days. Nor have I heard from her. As time goes by, I’m more and more concerned. However, I don’t believe she’s dead.”
Meg bowed her head for a moment.
“I pray you’re right,” Matt said. “But is there anything in particular that’s convinced you she’s alive? Has she contacted you in any way?”
“No.” Nancy took a deep breath. “I would know. I’m sure of it. You may think this is silly, Agent Bosworth, but I knew the moment my sister—Lara’s mother—died. She was my twin. They say that twins intuit these things. And I did. Lara’s parents were killed in a horrible car accident more than fifteen years ago when we had that freak blizzard late in the season. At least twenty people in the area were killed in that storm. But I knew. Patricia and I—we often read each other’s thoughts. Make fun of me if you will.”
“I have no intention of making fun of you,” Matt assured her.
“Really?”
“Really,” he repeated. “I’m a big believer in intuition.”
“Aunt Nancy,” Meg said, “I should explain. Matt belongs to a special FBI unit—and so do I, as of yesterday. We’re called the Krewe of Hunters. We all have some…intuitive abilities, I guess you could call it. We see people, like I saw Mary Elizabeth after she was killed.”
Nancy seemed to relax as she studied them both. Then she let out a sigh. “The police are just humoring me, I think. I realize that when a young woman goes missing and she fits the profile of a serial killer’s victim, most people would assume there’s little hope.”
Meg reached across the table and took Nancy’s hand. “Aunt Nancy, I have to tell you—I feared she was dead.”
Nancy turned to Meg, meeting her eyes. “You had one of your visions?” she asked.
Meg glanced over at Matt. “Brief. It was very brief. I’d taken a shower and the bathroom was filled with steam. I cleaned the mirror and she was standing behind me. I turned and she was still there—just for a second or two. I gave up hope—well, you know why. But Matt and some of the Krewe members believe I might have seen her in the mirror because she was reaching out to me…for help. That she might still be alive.”
“She is alive,” Nancy said. “And that isn’t just hope speaking.” She looked at Matt. “My husband and I had no children. Even before her parents died, Lara was like my own child. She’s an idealist, the same way her father was. George was a columnist, and he wrote political essays that pointed out not only the negative, but how it could be fixed. He also worked tirelessly to petition congressmen for bills to benefit education and health care. Lara is a crusader, as well. She works passionately when she believes in a cause.”
“I’m disturbed that, if she did go into hiding, she didn’t try to get back to either you or Meg,” Matt said.
“If she felt she was in danger, she wouldn’t have done so. Lara would never have put me in danger,” Nancy said. “There’s also the possibility that she’s being held somewhere—that she was kidnapped!”
Matt meant to be gentle—but Nancy didn’t seem the type who wanted lies.
“We’re aware of that possibility,” he said. “But I can’t figure out why she would’ve been kidnapped and held,” Matt said. “If she was taken, it’s because she knows something she shouldn’t. She’s an idealist, as you’ve both told me. If she’d learned about a lie or some political scandal, she would’ve stood up against it. So there’d be no reason for anyone to abduct her—and keep her alive. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.”
Matt wasn’t sure what else to say. There was very little that could be tracked that the Krewe wasn’t capable of tracking. Lara’s credit cards hadn’t been used. She’d been in Congressman Walker’s company, left his office late and was never seen again. She hadn’t withdrawn any large sums of money before her disappearance.
He didn’t want to tell Nancy that he hoped there was a reason for her to be held; if not, her chances probably weren’t good.
“You’re going to look for her, right?” Nancy asked, staring at Meg and then Matt. “You’ll look until you find her. If she’s hiding, no one knows where she’d go better than you do, Meg. You two were like little peas in a pod, loving all the same places. I know she’s somewhere, Meg, I can feel it.”
“We intend to look—and we will find her,” Meg promised.
He wished she hadn’t made that promise. Despite his fervent hopes to the contrary, he suspected that if they found Lara Mayhew, the odds were that they’d find her dead. Above all, he didn’t want to introduce a false sense of confidence about Lara’s chances.
Meg stood. “Nancy, when was Lara here last?”
“About two weeks ago,” Nancy said. “You didn’t know?”
“The academy was pretty intensive. I’d talked to her—but I didn’t know she was coming here.”
“She surprised me. Just showed up one afternoon and didn’t leave until the next morning. Needless to say, I was delighted to see her.”
“Did she stay in her room?” Meg asked.
“Yes, and you’re always welcome to stay there. I’m sure we could accommodate Agent Bosworth, too. It’s a big house.”
“Thanks, but we have to work, and I want to try and go everywhere Lara and I used to go,” Meg said. “Would you mind if I went to see whether she left anything in her room?”
“Of course not!” Nancy replied. “You know where it is.”
Meg headed for the stairs.
“May I?” Matt asked Nancy.
Nancy grinned at him. “I was assuming you’d expect to go up there.”
He nodded, smiling. He liked the old girl. “Thanks.”
He followed Meg up the stairs. Lara’s room was neat and pretty and actually somewhat sophisticated; she’d come here as a child, but if she’d kept posters of rock bands and movie stars on her walls back then, she’d since taken them down. The pictures in her room now were prints of old classics, beautifully framed, many medieval. Her bed was covered in a crimson flower-pattern spread that complemented her drapes. An antique dressing table sat against one wall, while double doors led out to a balcony.
Meg was at the dressing table, carefully opening drawers.
He instantly looked around for a journal and pulled out the drawer on the bedside table.
He was rewarded. There was a journal. He sat and pored through it while Meg continued to search for anything that might give them any clues.
“Listen to this,” Matt said, finding Lara’s last entry. “‘I really long for the days when we were such believers. When idealism meant everything. I was told that government involves compromise and I believe in compromise. I know that there’s no politician who can make everyone happy. What I want to believe in is men and women who are passionate—who are so dedicated to their cause that they aren’t swayed by money or adulation. Have I found that man? Or does everyone eventually buckle?’
“‘They say The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Or wait—better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. I never knew what a confusing maze I was entering! Meg got it right—Go out there to fight for justice, to right wrongs. Ah, what a discussion the two of us had at Harpers Ferry!’”
For a moment, Meg looked stricken. But she’d learned a lot of self-control at the academy, Matt thought. She quickly regained her composure.
“Lara should run herself. She has strong convictions,” Meg said.
“What was your discussion at Harpers Ferry about?”
Meg shrugged. “I told her that the FBI criminal division was just what I wanted. That I’d go after the bad guys. I also told her that half the time we never really know the truth about someone we voted for until they’re in office.”
“Sounds as if you felt you were taking the easier route.”
“Yes. What do you suppose was going on in DC?” Meg wondered. “I guess I don’t follow politics closely enough,” she said apologetically. “Even being best friends with Lara.”
“Politics—it’s pretty damn complicated.” Matt held up the journal. “Will Nancy mind if we take this?”
“Not at all, but we’ll ask her.”
They asked, and she didn’t mind. They were welcome to the book, she said. They were welcome to anything they wanted. As they walked to the door, Killer came running up, wagging his tail. He hadn’t gone upstairs with them; he’d stayed happily enough with Nancy.
“You’re visiting here, little guy,” Nancy said. “Right? You’re leaving the pup with me? What’s his name?”
Meg looked over at Matt.
Apparently, she couldn’t bring herself to tell a woman whose niece was missing while a serial murderer was on the loose that the dog’s name was Killer.
“Kelly,” he said.
“Kelly. Cute.” Nancy smiled.
Matt prepared to leave. “Thank you. We’ll use all our resources, but if you hear from Lara, please call us immediately.”
“Definitely,” Nancy said.
“Even if someone tells you not to call the police,” Matt added.
“I’m not foolish,” Nancy said.
“Many people who aren’t foolish want a loved one back so badly they’re willing to risk anything. But if she has been abducted, you need our help.”
Nancy put her arms around Meg and hugged her again. There were suddenly tears in her eyes.
“Find her, please, find her!” Nancy’s words were muffled and her voice broke as she began to sob.
“We will find her! We will,” Meg vowed.
At their feet, Killer—now Kelly—whined softly.
“Oh, silly me, crying when I’m sure everything’s going to be all right!” Nancy said. She eased away from Meg and plucked up the dog. “We’re going to be all right, Kelly. And don’t you worry. I’d keep you myself, but Meg says she’s coming back for you!”
Still holding the dog, she saw the two of them to the door. Matt shook her hand, sorry to see that tears were still brimming in her eyes. Meg hugged her a final time.
“You’ll keep in touch?” Nancy asked.
“Daily,” Meg replied.
Then they returned to the car.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Matt told her.
“What? I shouldn’t have said I’d keep in touch?”
“No. That we’d find her.”
“Why not?”
“You may not be able to keep that promise,” he said.
“But we will find her,” she said stubbornly. “Didn’t you tell me that?”
“Yes, I did tell you we might find her. I certainly haven’t given up hope. But it’s one thing for us to operate on that assumption and another for you to make unwarranted promises to a bereaved relative.”
She paused, scowling at him, her hands on her hips.
“Fine. Then I will find her.”
Matt went around to the driver’s side of the car. “Where are we going?”
“What?”
“Where are we going? This is your hunt, remember?”
She looked at him coolly and slid into the passenger seat. He realized she probably had no real idea. How did you hunt for a missing person who might have been abducted—or who might have gone into hiding?
She dug into her bag while he revved the car but remained parked. She brought out Lara’s Richmond journal and read aloud, “‘Sometimes I want to go back. Way back to the days of innocence when we truly believed. Follow the trail as Meg and I did when we were students. Richmond to Sharpsburg, on to Harpers Ferry where we were home, and Gettysburg, where we learned that ideals are everything, and that good men may fight for different causes.’”
She turned to him. “Hollywood Cemetery. One of her favorite places. It’s on…”
“I know where it is,” he said curtly. She closed the journal and he drove to the cemetery.
“I don’t really think she’d be hiding here, would she?” he asked.
Meg was gazing straight ahead. She didn’t reply.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.” She turned again and looked at him. “No, she won’t be hiding there. She won’t be there if she’s…alive. But if she’s dead…” Her voice trailed off.
Matt wondered what she meant. That if Lara was dead she’d show herself to Meg in a place she loved?
* * *
Meg wasn’t sure what she was doing. If she was going to give any credence to the words in Lara’s journal, she had to think of them as a sort of map. And then, all she could do was follow that map—without really knowing if her friend was dead or alive.
As a native of Richmond, she was proud of the graceful state capitol building with its rotunda statue—claimed to be the only one for which George Washington had actually sat. She loved the Confederate White House and was deeply moved by the sad history of Jefferson Davis’s family when they’d lived there, losing a son when he’d fallen from the balcony. She’d once read to Meg from Varina Davis’s memoirs about the day she’d lost her little boy. The president of the Confederacy had held his dead child while his generals had begged him for orders. Jefferson Davis, his wife and family were buried at Hollywood Cemetery. Conceived and created as a “rural garden” cemetery, it had winding trails and beautiful, poignant stones. It truly was a garden with its sloping lawns, little hills and graceful old trees with gentle, shading branches that swayed in the breeze. The monuments included many marble angels—angels in glory and angels weeping, their emotions somehow visible in their stone poses. A great pyramid was a memorial to the Confederate war dead. But Hollywood Cemetery wasn’t just a sad reminder of the lost Southern “cause.” All manner of men were buried there, some who’d been moved long after their deaths, when other cemeteries had fallen into disrepair or urban progress had forced them to close. Teachers, lawyers, generals from almost every war the nation had ever fought, even the war against itself, were buried here. Long-grieving wives, many of whom had outlived their husbands by twenty to sixty years, now rested beside the men they’d loved.
The cemetery was huge, sprawling and lovely. While there were twenty-two Confederate generals buried there—along with thousands of soldiers—Meg headed first to an area where she knew she’d find one of Lara’s favorite graves, that of Varina Davis, first lady of the Confederacy. She was, naturally enough, next to her husband, the one and only president of the ill-fated Confederacy. Monuments and stones and statues honored the men who’d fought for what they believed was a just cause. History—and human decency—had proved them wrong.
But while they stood by the obelisk that marked the graves of Varina and Jefferson Davis and his family, Meg felt nothing.
There was no sign of Lara. No sign of anyone.
She felt Matt watching her, occasionally pausing as if he, too, were searching the area for what most people wouldn’t see—but which some might feel.
“It’s a beautiful place.” He spoke quietly, but she sensed that he was impatient. That he thought they were on an impulsive and ill-conceived mission.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t be,” he said. “I never mind coming here.” He smiled at her suddenly and recite:
“If life and death be things that seem
If death be sleep and life’s a dream
May not the everlasting sleep
The dream of life eternal keep?”
She laughed softly. “John Bannister Tabb, Confederate soldier, priest, poet and I don’t remember what else,” she said.
“Wow. I’m impressed,” he told her. “You weren’t even born here, steeped in this history.”
“Harpers Ferry, not that far, and even more steeped in history,” she responded. “When you go downhill toward the national park and the river, you can practically turn back time. Especially on a dark night when the fog is falling.”
“I know from everything you’ve said that Lara loved history—and that she saw it as an important path to what the country is today,” he said quietly.
“Yes.” Meg sighed. “She’s not here.”
“You sure? It’s a big place. We haven’t begun to cover it.”
“I’m sure. And I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“It’s good. I told you before, Meg, she might still be alive. This could be a sign.”
Meg realized that he was looking beyond her. She turned, but at first she saw nothing. Then, slowly, she did. There was an older woman sitting on a gravestone not far from them. She wasn’t in Victorian attire; her clothing was more recent. Meg recognized the long skirt, the buttoned-up bodice and belted waist of a dress that might have been worn in the 1930s. The woman’s hair was in a bun and she wore a knit capelet over her shoulders, despite the fact that it was a bright, warm summer’s day.
And Meg realized the woman was sitting on a stone that was part of a Confederate section; many who were buried there were veterans who had survived the conflict and died at a later date.
Matt walked past her. He went straight to the woman—and spoke to her.
* * *
Slash had heard that plenty of people were dubious about this so-called “special” unit of the Bureau known as the Krewe of Hunters.
They liked to tease that those agents were a little nuts. That they were the psychic division and that they communed with the dead.
Yeah, yeah. Well, he for one didn’t buy it.
Bosworth looked bat-shit crazy, that was for sure. He was just standing there, talking to a gravestone.
Slash chafed at the time he was wasting. Ridiculous, following these two all this way. But he’d seen them at the graveyard.
He knew they were handling the case.
So…
Still, this wasn’t fun. This wasn’t like choosing victims, researching them, watching their movements.
That was enjoyable. The hunt. To his own mind, he resembled the greatest of jungle cats, light on his feet, never moving until he knew that he needed only to run and leap and he’d have his prey, helpless, in his hands, at his mercy.
There was no mercy. A jungle cat had to kill.
So did he.
For a moment, he felt a strange discomfort.
Yes, he enjoyed that kind of kill.
It involved cunning and cleverness and care—and then the pounce.
As to the other kind of killing…
That, too, required cunning, he told himself.
It was far more subtle and dangerous and took even greater care and cleverness.
But it was…
Business.
These two really had to go, he thought. He formed his fingers into the shape of a gun and aimed it at Bosworth. Then he turned to Agent Meg Murray, still standing just a few feet from him.
Maybe she thought Bosworth was bat-shit crazy, too!
He watched her.
No, he was wrong; she didn’t.
Killing her might be business. But business could also bring its own fun.
She had to go.
He didn’t want to shoot her.
He wanted a slow kill…
He wanted to see her eyes. See her eyes in that last moment—before she knew what had happened, before she knew what was going to happen. See her eyes…
When she knew she was going to die.
He’d been worried at first. She carried a gun. She had training. Thing was, nobody would suspect him. No one was ever on guard.
Except she was mostly with the other agent, the big-ass experienced one.
Slash smiled. There could be a way. If only Bosworth could die, too. It all had to look right, though.
That’s what it was all about. Optics. An accident could always happen. A fatal accident. But first…the girl.
Slash watched. She seemed to be talking to the air now, too.
They were both bat-shit crazy.
They thought they talked to the dead.
Slash almost laughed aloud. And then he sobered. He stepped back behind a memorial obelisk and frowned, startled by how scared he suddenly felt. What if…?
What if there was the slightest possibility that they did talk to the dead?
He needed to get rid of them, just in case.
Because…
What if?