“Jackson left Ragnar to get the police going on the house-to-house searches for the video surveillance,” Mark said. “He should be out front any minute.”

  Angela nodded. “Perfect, thanks.”

  She headed out to the gate. She knew the code as well and keyed it in.

  Then pressed her forefinger to the pad.

  The gate opened. Someone changed the code weekly—or whenever the house came into or out of play with temporary guests.

  She stood in front of the house for a minute, glancing at her phone. She had a message. Jackson was on his way to get her. She judged he’d arrive in a minute or two.

  She wondered if she should have stayed behind the gate until he did, but she hadn’t seen anything at the cemetery. Not to mention, the criminal carrying out these murders was unlikely to accost an agent in broad daylight, especially in an area where cameras were set to record every move.

  Yet still...

  As she stood there, she felt strange.

  As if she were being watched.

  The safe house was in a neighborhood of upper-middle-class homes. The yards were decent-sized, and fences or walls surrounded most of the houses. A lot of them were fairly large, offering three to five bedrooms each and garages, and many had pools in the back.

  There were no high-rises on the street. Which meant that no one could be watching her from a window in a tall building.

  Then again...

  There was a park across the street and down a bit. It had trees that stretched high toward the sky, handsome, well-kept bushes, and a playground just beyond. Moms, dads, kids, aunts, uncles, and friends ran about, see-sawing, climbing on the jungle gym, and just having fun.

  It was ridiculous to think that someone had somehow followed them and was watching her from a tree.

  Or a merry-go-round.

  She gave herself a mental shake.

  Debbie’s paranoia was rubbing off on her. Of course, Debbie had a right to feel paranoid.

  And then there was Officer Whittaker.

  They had to find him. Truly. The man had children. He was loved and respected and...

  They would find him. They’d procure footage from a traffic cam, at the least. And with any luck, they would identify the driver of the car in which he had disappeared, using facial recognition.

  Still, the uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away. She stared at the playground again.

  Everything looked so normal.

  Jackson drove up, and she jumped into the car with a smile as she looked at him.

  “Any neighbors with cameras that showed the street?”

  “Yep. And we have traffic cam footage, too. They’re working it now. But I got a call from Megan. We have nothing to hold the writer on, and he’s getting antsy. We’re going to need to see what we can get from him. Now.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  Jackson knew how to drive and maneuver the streets of Northern Virginia and DC as few others did.

  They were halfway back when Jackson’s phone rang. He answered the call through the car speaker, and they glanced at each other as Megan’s voice came through.

  “Hey! I’ve been charming, I swear. I’ve talked about movies, books... articles, history. Great things to love about a book over other mediums. But he grew impatient and said he has a few meetings tonight. I don’t think I can keep him much longer.”

  “Try. We’re almost there,” Jackson said. “Walk him out, keep talking—”

  “Tell him how brilliant he is,” Angela suggested, shrugging as Jackson glanced her way. “Sometimes, that works.”

  “All right. Still...”

  It took another twenty minutes to reach headquarters. They hurried from the car and the parking garage to the office, just as a man was walking out, followed by Megan.

  Megan was a beautiful woman with her soft red hair and fine features.

  And she knew how to flirt—even while married.

  She was being charming as she walked out toward the cars with the man.

  Jefferson Moore.

  He was young, as Patrick had said from seeing his face in the video from the Robertson funeral service.

  Perhaps thirty-two or thirty-three. He was a tall man with sweeping dark hair, dark eyes, a deep tan, and a fit form.

  He wore jeans and a casual beige leather jacket over a shirt that bore several colorful pictures of the late Elvis Presley.

  Music lover?

  “Ah!” Megan exclaimed. “Here they are now, Jeff. I’m so glad they made it back. You’re going to love Angela. She shares your love of history, architecture, and all things old. Especially all those that lead to us in the present. Jefferson Moore, I’m delighted to introduce you to Jackson Crow, our fearless leader, and Special Agent Angela Hawkins Crow, who tends to be our great font of knowledge.”

  Megan had obviously been working hard to keep talking. Behind Moore’s back, she made an exhausted face.

  Angela smiled easily as she moved forward to shake the man’s hand. Jackson did the same.

  “Pleasure. I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” Moore told them. “The agent who brought me in led me to believe we could talk right away.”

  “I’m afraid life intervenes at times,” Jackson said.

  “You obviously love music,” Angela said, pointing at his shirt. “’Life is what happens while we’re busy making plans,’” she said. “There’s some argument over who first came up with the quote or exactly how it should be worded, but I hand it to John Lennon. I first heard it came from him. You have our most sincere apologies, and we beg your indulgence for just a few more minutes.”

  He grinned. “Sure. Another music lover. I can give you about ten.”

  “That would be great. Let’s head back to a conference room,” Jackson said. “Better than standing around in a garage.”

  “Ten minutes, one way or another,” Moore said with a shrug.

  They walked in. Megan had already fled. She’d apparently talked all she could to the man. When they had used up their ten minutes, and Jefferson Moore was gone, they could find out if Megan had gained any insights from him.

  Once they were seated, Angela smiled at Jefferson. “I read your article. It was so intriguing. And while small and not as well-known as others, Gordon Town Cemetery is amazing. Your research, though, was wonderfully complex.”

  “Thanks. To be honest, I was most intrigued by the decorations. I mean, the Christmas stuff, the Easter bunnies and eggs, all that seems so nice. So much better than flowers—in my mind at least. But then I heard about the Halloween stuff. Quite honestly, it seems creepy. When I was a kid, I went to grade, middle, and high school in the area. We learned all about Ethan Robertson. The man was amazing. They sent him on all kinds of guerilla missions that he handled with ease. He almost single-handedly held back a horde of men at the beginning of the Battle of Yorktown. The idea of anything other than respectful decorations being at his resting place... well, it just seemed strange.”

  He shrugged and continued. “Then again, it’s been over two hundred years since he died, and the tomb is now filled with other Robertsons and close friends or relations. In my article, I tried to make sure I expressed that history is something living. It teaches us what went wrong before. If we’re lucky, we can use it to stop horrible things from happening again. I admit, I went to that funeral hoping to get a look inside the tomb. I’d tried to get through to Benjamin Robertson before, and his people just kept putting me off. But I was still fascinated. Wanted to see inside. Some old bones in nothing but shrouds, coffins... the passage of every decade can be seen in that tomb.”

  “The history is incredible,” Angela said quietly. “And with your knowledge and fascination regarding the tomb, we’re hoping you might have seen something. Or that—”

  “You’re not accusing me of having anything to do with the murders, are you?” Moore said, horrified.

  “No, of course not,” Angela assured, shaking her head as if in confusion. “No, no. We were just hoping you could maybe tell us something that might help with the investigation.”

  “All right,” he said and leaned forward. “Yes. I can tell you something.”

  Chapter 5

  Jackson frowned, waiting for Jefferson Moore to continue.

  “Okay, thank you,” Angela said. “Please, what can you tell us?”

  “Something’s going on there.” He chuckled ruefully. “I mean, of course, you know that something was going on there—you found the bodies of murder victims in the tomb.”

  “Right,” Jackson said. “But what did you see before the bodies were found? What do you know?”

  “Know?” Moore asked, sitting back. “Well, I don’t know anything. I should have said that. I don’t know. The day I went to find Benjamin Robertson at his father’s funeral... I don’t know how to explain it. I just had a horrifically strange feeling. As if things were going on.”

  “Why is that?” Angela asked. “Was it something Robertson said to you?”

  “No. Robertson was as good as I’d hoped, and it was a tough occasion for him. I knew that. But once I introduced myself, apologized for bothering him, and told him I hadn’t been able to get through to him, he seemed almost happy and relieved to talk about something other than the service that day. He let me into the crypt and promised to meet me later at a local pub—which he did.”

  “So, what makes you think something was going on?” Angela asked.

  Moore shrugged. “I know this sounds crazy, but I had a strange feeling around the tomb. Like a dark feeling. Something that made me think...”

  “You thought the place was haunted?” Angela asked.

  Moore shook his head. “It wasn’t like a feeling of being haunted. I mean, I’ve never seen a ghost, but I’ve felt the presence of history, I guess you could say. The feeling of loss and sadness when you’re standing on the battlefield at Gettysburg, that kind of thing. Well, at least I feel it.”

  “Many people do,” Angela assured him.

  “I’m sure this sounds crazy, but I just felt something... dark. Right.” He sighed. “I mean, how much darker can you get than a battlefield? But war is one thing. Horrible, of course, and still man killing man. But in a war, few soldiers want to go out and kill and be killed. But they are fighting for their nations. Maybe violent death is violent death. But there is something especially heinous about cold-blooded murder,” Moore said.

  “But you didn’t see anything in the tomb?” Jackson asked.

  “Well, rotting Robertson dead,” he told them. “But no... uh, no victims hanging or lying anywhere. No fresh kills. I still felt uncomfortable in the place. Had a strange feeling something ugly was under it all. I wasn’t surprised when I heard what you‘d found.”

  “But the first victim we found, at least according to the ME’s educated estimation, arrived right at the same time—or just after—that funeral,” Jackson said.

  “Do places have a foreboding of what is to come?” Moore wondered aloud. “I don’t know. And maybe it was silly and ridiculous. But, hey, I served my stint in the service. I’ve seen some ugly stuff, and I’m not easily—”

  “Scared?” Angela said softly.

  Moore grimaced. “I guess that is the word. Anyway, I’m sorry. Really. I don’t actually know anything. I just had a strange feeling, and I still feel that way when I’m at the tomb. Almost as if...”

  “Yes?” Jackson pressed quietly.

  “Almost as if there is something I should see but don’t,” Moore said. He appeared to give himself a mental shake and then shuddered. “Sorry. Crazy, maybe. Or just the imaginative feelings of a writer.” He checked the clock. “Now, I really must go—”

  “One more quick question,” Jackson said. “You got this feeling. But was there anyone at the funeral who appeared suspicious? Behaving curiously or just strangely?”

  Moore winced. “Me, I guess. There were a lot of people there. Everyone approaching him, of course—Robertson, I mean. Giving him their condolences. As far as being in the crypt... well, it was just him and the priest. Everyone else stood just outside. He was kind enough to let me walk in with him when I told him that I wanted to write an article that explained what they did for others along with making sure that I noted the historical significance of the cemetery.”

  “And you’ve approached him again,” Angela noted.

  Moore nodded. “What was found there... well, I want to give him a chance to vindicate himself and clear his name. People assume he must be the main suspect. Is he? I guess he must be. But you don’t say suspect, do you? Person of interest.”

  Jackson smiled. “Everyone associated with the Robertson tomb is a person of interest.”

  “Oh! Oh, me because of the article. I assure you—”

  “Mr. Moore, you’re not a suspect—I’ll just go ahead and use that word,” Jackson told him. “But we would sincerely appreciate hearing about anything else you may think of. Maybe looking back you’ll remember someone who seemed especially interested in the tomb or the construction of it. Don’t hesitate to contact us if you think of anything at all, even just more of those feelings you had in any particular place. And keep in mind, we may be seeking your help again at some point.”

  “Of course, of course. Feel free to call me anytime. But I think I am way over my ten minutes now. I really do need to go.”

  “That’s fine,” Angela said, rising.

  Moore and Jackson stood, as well.

  Moore made a strange face. “Hey, thank Megan for me, will you? She was trying so hard to be so perfectly fun and pleasant in order to keep me here. She was good. Really good.” He grinned and shrugged. “Too bad she’s married—and to an agent.”

  “Ah, well, I’m glad you two had a nice conversation while waiting. Thanks again,” Angela said. “Come on. I’ll see you out.”

  She grimaced, smiled at Jackson, and left with Moore. When she was gone, Patrick walked into the room.

  “We’ve got something,” he told Jackson.

  “Great. What?”

  “We found a connection between Jane Doe and John Doe number two,” Patrick said. “Jordan got back from Boston an hour ago, came straight in, and decided she might best help down in tech, sifting through phone records. They made some discoveries. Just days before she was killed—by the ME’s educated guess on timeline, anyway—Mercy Cartwright was in touch with Arnold Kern. The team dug deeper into their past and discovered that calls between the two went back several months. What we need now, which is understandably difficult for the MEs, is an identification on our first victim.”

  “Right. At least we know now that those two knew each other. Any voice messages?”

  “None.”

  “We don’t have text messaging between them?”

  “Ah, yes, I was getting to that. Just one. Mercy Cartwright texted Arnold Kern,” Jordan said. “The message was initiated a day or so before she was killed.”

  “And?” Jackson asked. “What did it say?”

  “Three words,” Patrick said. “I want out.”

  Angela walked back into the room then and glanced over at Jackson.

  “Bring her up to speed,” Jackson told Patrick.

  Patrick did.

  “Okay. We now know they were into something together. And whoever our first victim was, he might well have been in on whatever Mercy wanted out of, too. We need an ID on the first person killed and left in the tomb,” Angela said.

  “We have people sifting through missing persons reports from all over the country. The body was in an extreme state of decomposition, strangely rotting and almost mummified at the same time. I’m afraid my medical knowledge is sadly lacking,” Jackson said, glancing down at his phone. “I just got a text. Kat has been working this and thinks she can find something. Says she’s gotten the body to a point where she can maybe pull a print.”

  “She had to re-hydrate the corpse,” Patrick said.

  “I say we head to the morgue. Jackson?” Angela suggested. “And then... would you go back to the cemetery with me, Patrick? Maybe...”

  “I’m not great at reading the minds of the dead,” Patrick said dryly.

  “I know. But we made a friend—a soldier from the Revolution.”

  “And he never saw anything?”

  “Not that he knows. But with your degrees in the medical field and experience delving into the human mind... I mean, he’s dead, but his mind and soul are keen. Maybe you can help him remember something he doesn’t know he knows.”

  “I’ll head to the morgue,” Jackson said. “You and Patrick get on over to the cemetery. Daylight only lasts so long.”

  “All right. Megan is reading through the article that Jefferson Moore wrote on the cemetery. Maybe she’ll get something from between the lines. When Angela and I get back, Jordan and I can take over watching Debbie at the safe house. Computers work there, and we can keep on an information trail,” Patrick told him.

  Jackson nodded. “Good. We need to know how Mercy Cartwright and Arnold Kern met. Understanding their social lives could give us something and might help us.”

  “We’ll get on every site out there,” Patrick promised.

  “Okay, back to the cemetery,” Angela said. “Patrick...”

  “Hm?”

  “I’m tired. You’re driving,” Angela told him.

  Patrick laughed. “You got it.”

  They all left together, heading to separate cars. Angela waved as she slid in next to Patrick. Jackson waved in return, settled into his car, and headed to the morgue.

  He was greeted warmly in the austere reception area. He thought that it was kind of sad that he was known so well at the morgue. But he knew that what they did saved lives and brought justice for the dead.

  He understood that the words rest in peace had real meaning.

  The receptionist directed him to head down the hall. The first John Doe’s corpse was in examination room three, and he suited up and headed inside.

  Kat grinned when he arrived. “I knew you’d show up.”

  “I should have called to tell you I was on the way,” he said and smiled at her. Kat was extraordinary. She was a petite blonde, smart as a whip, and while she maintained her medical certifications, she had excelled at the academy. She was also a crack-shot, and an excellent agent in every way.