Despite his absolute faith in his own people, Matt recognized that they were a small-town force. Before he ever reached Mahoney’s himself, he’d put through a call to Randy Newton, the friend at the FBI who had tested the library floorboard for him.
While he waited for Randy and his team to arrive, Matt followed Thayer around the mortuary, seeing where a screen had been broken in the basement, allowing the thief—or thieves—entry. Mahoney’s desk had been rifled, but it looked like a sloppy job. Nothing had been taken but the hundred dollars from the petty cash box, while Mahoney’s Rolex, a Christmas present from his wife the year before, lay untouched right on top of the desk.
The wooden evidence box, filled with dirt and bones, had been left in one of the viewing rooms, where one of Matt’s men would have picked it up from to drive it on in to Digger at the museum.
Mahoney was concerned, convinced that they were making far too much out of an ancient skeleton, and was concerned that the police would still be around when the Thompsons arrived for their great-aunt’s funeral that night. Matt could only assure Mahoney that he’d do his best to collect what he needed, and be out.
Randy Newton was a tall, well-built guy who had made some of the top scores when he’d been in the academy at Quantico. He’d met Matt while working on a serial killer case in the outskirts of D.C., a truly psychotic fellow who had preyed on impoverished prostitutes. They’d worked together well, and remained friends. Despite the usual peace and tranquility to be found in Stoneyville, northern and central Virginia provided havens for criminals who struck in the bigger cities, and hid out in the countryside. Matt and Randy had kept up a communications system which had served them both well in the past.
Randy looked like FBI. He wore the inevitable suit, and sunglasses, and with his height, build, and dark hair, he emitted an aura of authority. Even Mahoney welcomed him with something like awe.
But when they were alone in the viewing room where the box had been, Randy shook his head. “I don’t get it, Matt. I mean, I can see where you’re angry, but hell. This probably is a fraternity prank. Who the hell would want a bunch of old bones?”
“Randy, there is no guarantee that they’re old bones.”
“I thought that your psychic had been led to them by a ghost in a long, flowing white gown.”
“Yeah—and there are still lots of white flowing nightgowns out there.”
“Really? I don’t remember. I’ve been married too long. Rita wears T-shirts.” He shrugged. “She used to wear nothing at all, and that was pretty cool, but then we had the kids…hey, Matt, you’re not smiling.”
“Because I think this is serious.”
“Do you know how many known murders I have on my plate right now, Matt?”
“I can imagine. But Randy, help me out on this. Get your guys to do the fingerprinting, look for any shoe marks…anything.” He hesitated. “And do me another favor.”
“What?”
“Run your files for me. Look for anyone in your missing persons files who…who just might have disappeared from this area.”
“Matt, I think a bunch of kids stole the bones of a woman murdered so long ago, there’s not a damned thing we can do for her.”
“Randy, help me out here anyway.”
“Did your psychic tell you to bring me in?” Randy asked suspiciously.
“Randy, no. I’m asking a favor.”
“All right. You’ve got it.”
“I need the files as quickly as possible.”
“Drive up to my office tomorrow. I’ll give you everything I can get.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, you’re looking frazzled as hell.”
“Haven’t slept.”
Randy cocked his head to one side. “Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts. Hell, I guess they can keep you awake. Go home. Go to sleep. We’ll take over here. And get out before the funeral. Trust me. Go.”
Matt didn’t argue. He left Mahoney’s, and headed straight home. He could hear Penny in her office when he stepped into the foyer, but he quickly slipped up the stairs, and crashed straight into his bed.
In a matter of minutes, he was sound asleep.
The ride was incredibly pleasant.
They headed out toward the north, following the main road for several miles, then riding into pasture land where canvas tents dotted the fields. They dismounted from their horses and walked around the various living history exhibits, visiting the blacksmith, an officer’s tent, a seamstress, a common soldier’s little plot, and the field hospital. Harry Smith introduced her to dozens of people, but when they came across those who had read about her in the newspapers, he politely but firmly found a way to steer her away.
Carter and Clint were old friends with many of the men as well, and with a few of their friends, they rode on over to the Yankee camp, where they all teased that she belonged.
Naturally, she reminded them who had won the war.
“Of course,” Carter said. “The North had to win. I mean, what were those fellows thinking, that any man had the right to own another? It’s crazy now. But history.”
“And history we shouldn’t forget,” Clint said. “Things that were horrible have to be remembered. Hopefully, we learn from our mistakes. What is that saying? Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it?”
“Very true,” Harry Smith said. “I fought in the very early stages of Viet Nam. Any man who has really gone to war knows how terrible it is. Generals usually do their best to avoid conflict—politicians are the ones who are most eager for it. Anyway, don’t get me started. Dusk is coming soon. We ought to get back. Let’s take the back fields.”
“Sure you want to do that? We may have some fences in the way,” Clint reminded him.
“I know the way,” Harry said.
The ride back was far more beautiful. They never touched a main road, but traveled around farm fields and pastureland. After one massive cornfield, they came up a lovely little stream, with the water dancing over small rocks and boulders.
“Some of the heaviest fighting took place there, in the cornfield. Just like it was at the battle of Sharpesburg, men and corn alike were mowed down,” Harry said. As they rode, the stream widened. They came upon a beautiful whitewashed wooden bridge, spanning the stream between fields and the dirt trail they rode.
“The bridge is new. The original was destroyed during the fighting. Dozens of men crashed through it, and died, broken and battered, on the rocks below,” Harry said sadly.
Darcy could well imagine. There was an aura here, one of great sadness. She closed her eyes for a moment, and heard the heartrending cry of a wounded man. The lucky ones died instantly, she thought, because the others had lain with broken bones, in agony, while the fighting had continued.
She quickly opened her eyes. The memory of pain here was deep.
Harry winked at her. “There’s some activity in this area tomorrow. But we don’t destroy the bridge anymore. Too expensive.”
“I can imagine,” Darcy said.
“Still, you’ll enjoy it, I promise!” Carter told her.
“Darcy, you should dress up,” Clint said.
“I’m not a native,” she told him.
Clint waved a hand in the air. “Half the Southerners today are from New York. Who cares? And there’s still a romance about the Southern Cause. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I have great friends who are true loyal Yanks! But it doesn’t matter, we’re reenacting history. Dress up, and ride with us. Not in the actual battle, of course. But you can be one of our wives. It’ll be great.”
“Or she can belong to all of us,” Carter said with a wink. “Camp follower, you know.”
“Carter, really!” Harry said with indignation.
“I’m sorry—prostitute. Penny did correct us, right?”
“That’s not the point. Darcy is far too…dignified to be a camp follower!”
“It’s a reenactment!” Clint said, laughing. “We’re not really going to put a ‘for hire’ sign on her, or anything.”
“We’ll see,” Darcy said, laughing. “I think I’m fresh out of camp follower clothing, though.”
“Penny can set you all up,” Clint said cheerfully.
“Let’s ride on,” Harry said. “It’s getting dark.”
Matt had been soundly sleeping when he felt the fingertips moving down his cheek.
Then he woke with a vivid start.
The room was mostly in shadow, with dusk upon them, and yet he knew, instinctively, who it was.
“Lavinia!”
He bolted out of the bed and turned on the light. She was still seated on the side of the bed, smiling.
“What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?” he demanded.
She pouted, something she did very well. “What a greeting! When I took the first plane down from New York just to show myself.”
“That was great of you, Lavinia, really. But did you ever hear of knocking? Who let you up here?”
“No one let me up. I told Penny I’d run up and see if you were awake.”
“You could have knocked.”
She waved a hand in the air. “I know my way around.” She smiled. “Look at that! I think you’re getting a touch of gray in your hair.”
“Time does go by.” And it had. It had been years since he had seen her. With the initial shock of her arrival over, he had to admit, it had been pretty decent of her to come. He was actually going to enjoy seeing Darcy’s face when she met Lavinia. “But you,” he said magnanimously. “You look great.”
She did. Her hair was still long, red, and shining. She seemed to have acquired more of a lithe, hourglass figure.
She stood. “You think so.”
“Yep. You’re even more…voluptuous than ever.”
She grinned. “Okay, so I had a boob job. They did great work though. Want to see?”
