“No, thank you. That was a loose-cannon situation. Someone could have died. Anyway, we’ll get back to our posts. Or rather, I’ll fill out the paperwork while the others get back to their posts.” He chuckled. “I’ll eventually need someone from your office to sign off on the paperwork, too, but I’ll at least get it started.”

  “Thanks.”

  The officer shook his head. “My officers will also make sure that no kids have snuck in, given it’s Halloween time, and they think they have to be cool.”

  Jackson nodded. “Yeah, go figure. Running around in a cemetery. Great fun for Halloween.”

  The officer nodded grimly and moved on.

  “Back to the Robertson tomb,” Angela said. “Or at least near it.”

  He followed her. On the way, they saw the ghost of Colonel George Clayborn hurrying toward them.

  “I leave for the morning, and all hell breaks loose,” the ghost said. “You’re quite all right? The place is a mess of shattered stones. Who did this?”

  “A sad, addicted human—one being used by someone else,” Jackson said.

  “He’s still alive. We’re not sure if he’ll stay that way,” Angela said. “But we have hope. And if he lives, he may be able to help us.”

  “That is good. Excellent,” Clayborn said. He shook his head. “War is bad enough, men and women who just want to raise their children but serve a different crown or country. But killing randomly, this...”

  Clayborn stopped speaking and shook his head. “Such insanity to come to such a place,” he added quietly.

  “We will get to the bottom of it. And hopefully stop it,” Jackson vowed.

  “Yes, I believe you will do all in your power to see the evildoers are brought to justice,” Clayborn said. “And in that regard...”

  “You have something that will help us?” Angela asked.

  “I’m not sure, quite honestly. But I spoke with my friend, Sergeant Mahaffey of the DC police. He joined us here about twenty-five years ago. He doesn’t spend much time at the cemetery, prefers the old mansion where his family lives so he can watch over his adorable grandchild. I’m sorry, I digress. Anyway, Mahaffey told me there were some strange soldiers here, both on the Fourth of July and on Labor Day. He assumed they were honoring our lost service men and women from the early days to the present." He shrugged and continued.

  “Said there were maybe six or seven of them, all dressed as soldiers from different eras in history. Mostly, they stayed by the Robertson tomb and held some kind of service near it. Candles, books. He said one man led the rite or ritual... whatever it was.” He circled his hands.

  “Apparently, they came twice—more the first time than the second. But Mahaffey didn’t think anything of it. Compared to the craziness of Halloween, what could possibly be so strange about people praying and honoring lost soldiers?”

  “The flag,” Angela murmured, looking at Jackson.

  “What flag?” Jackson asked her.

  “Patrick and I saw it earlier. I believe it’s been there a while. I didn’t think anything of it before. I mean, as Colonel Clayborn said, it seems benign next to the goblins and ghouls and witches set up everywhere for this time of year. But I had a strange feeling... It looks like some kind of marker. And there’s a recent grave near the flag.”

  “Show me,” Jackson said.

  “That group could have just set up the flag to honor one of the dead,” Clayborn said.

  “They could have, but this thing may also go a lot deeper than we know,” Jackson added.

  “Ah. I’ve heard a great deal about normally sane people losing their marbles. Still believing the earth is flat, or that outer-space aliens walk among us. Oh! And Martians are the ones really running the federal government. Do you think conspiracy theorists are involved?”

  “Not so, I’m afraid,” Jackson said. “After what just happened, I think the only conspiracy here is getting others to make sure that illegal drugs continue to flood the market. Let’s see this flag.” He turned to Angela.

  Angela led him to the flag. It was store-bought, the kind that went on sale right around the Fourth of July every year and was sold just about everywhere.

  He pursed his lips and nodded.

  “We need to dig,” she said.

  “We’ll get over to the office and let them know, and then I’ll get a crime scene crew out here,” Jackson said.

  “You think we might find more victims?” Angela asked him.

  “I’m sure that’s what you were thinking. Hard to say, though. Someone set up the bodies in the Robertson tomb as if on display. Like some macabre, would-be artist wanted them to be seen,” Jackson said. “If there are bodies here, someone went to the trouble to conceal them.”

  “There was no guarantee anyone would go into the Robertson tomb,” Angela reminded him. “I don’t think the killer planned on Debbie Nolan going to the police and then telling the people at the office what she saw. He barely caught sight of her at the last minute. So, it’s possible his artistry was only for himself. But if it is drugs, Jackson, more than one person may be involved. Maybe our drug dealer finds those who are vulnerable, like the shooter who was here today, and uses them.”

  Jackson nodded.

  “So, you think while the ground was still fresh, they just got rid of those digging in against them?” Colonel Clayborn asked. “All this while pretending to honor the dead.”

  “Quite possibly,” Jackson said and shrugged. He felt his phone vibrating and answered it quickly.

  Patrick, calling from the hospital.

  “Good news or bad news?” Patrick asked as Jackson answered.

  “Go with the bad, putting you on speaker,” Jackson said and hit the icon.

  “No identification whatsoever on the shooter from the woods. I went over every piece of his clothing. Both jeans and T-shirt were from a national department store. Sneakers and socks the same.”

  “Good news, Patrick. Please,” Angela said.

  “Well, the good news is that Dr. Banyan, the doctor treating our guy, seems to be top of the crop. Our shooter is still alive, but will be in a medically induced coma for a few days. Hopefully, Banyan will be able to bring him out of it in about forty-eight hours, but his first priority is to preserve life.”

  “Of course. Ours, too,” Jackson said. “So, we’ll speak with him as soon as we can. We’re going to need someone at that hospital—”

  “Already covered. Will is here, and we’re getting a local police officer in, too. I have lots of faith in both teams, but double duty seems to be the order of the day.”

  “Good calls all, Patrick. Thank you.”

  “You’re both still at the cemetery, right?” Patrick asked.

  “Angela and I. And Colonel Clayborn. I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet in person, but—”

  “I will get to meet him before this is over, I imagine. Anyway... Angela, I believe you need to be especially careful.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “I don’t really know. It’s just something our unnamed shooter said when we were out there talking with him. He was surprised, maybe even humbled or touched, that you wanted to help him. He said, ‘You. You of all people.’ And he was talking to you, Angela.”

  “Okay, but...”

  “I think someone sent him out there to target you specifically,” Patrick said.

  Chapter 7

  Angela remained stoic, wishing Patrick wasn’t quite as talented as he was. Why did he have to home in on that possibility?

  She and Jackson had an amazing relationship. Naturally, they loved each other. They adored their family.

  And his respect for her and others was among the many assets he possessed that had made her fall in love with him.

  But now, he would worry.

  She spoke calmly because she refused to be taken off this case.

  “I hear what you’re saying, Patrick. But I also believe they’re after any and all of us who interfere with what’s going on. What we need to do is get to the bottom of this. Now,” she said.

  Jackson looked intently at her as he spoke.

  “We’ll take all that into consideration, Patrick. Right now, I’m afraid we might have found more victims. We need to get a crew out here to do some digging. We’ll be in after. Of greater importance, and I figure you’re on this while sitting around the hospital, how are we doing on tracking the video from the time of Officer Whittaker’s disappearance?”

  “I’m going over the security footage from two neighbors’ homes, but Jordan was headed out to the safe house when she decided to do some more checking on Debbie Nolan’s neighbors. We both intended to take over as guards to protect Debbie, and she’s still headed that way eventually, but she finally found an eyewitness who was at the grocery store earlier and got something. The witness’s name is Betty Newfield, and she lives just two doors down. The woman saw a navy-blue SUV she’d never seen before out on the street in front of the townhouses. And she said that someone was packing things into the back—among them, a large bundle. I’m checking traffic cams on my phone now.”

  Jackson heard rustling over the line. “Ms. Newfield told Jordan more. She believes the man driving was about twenty-five and had shaggy brown hair. Said he looked like a kid.”

  Angela looked at Jackson. “Patrick, that sounds like the shooter from the woods. The guy you’re watching over at the hospital.”

  “It sure as hell does,” Patrick agreed. “If so, there’s probably a navy SUV out in the woods somewhere.”

  “All right, listen,” Jackson told Patrick, “I’m on it. I will send other agents to the hospital and to be with Debbie. I want you and Jordan, Colleen, Mark, Ragnar, and the dogs—all three of them—out here in the woods. Keep in mind that this killer seems to be working, sometimes cheerfully, out in the open. Other times, they’re hidden. Honestly, I believe they’re utilizing the woods as a hiding or staging area.”

  Watching him speak, Angela nodded and wondered again what it was about the Robertson tomb that puzzled her. Something about it haunted her.

  “I’ll make the calls,” Patrick said. “We’ll be right there.”

  “I’ll get the cops searching the woods until you get here, though I’m not sure we’ll find that SUV.”

  “Because our drugged-out fellow wasn’t bright enough or in any mental or physical state to have pulled off the kidnapping of a trained and experienced cop?” Angela said, and Jackson nodded.

  “Someone else is on this,” she continued. “Jackson believes there’s a head on this snake, and a number of others are being used in his operation and disposed of in this cemetery when they’ve worn out their usefulness.”

  The ghost of Colonel George Clayborn watched them as they spoke, shaking his head all the while.

  When Jackson ended the call, leaving Patrick to handle the organization of the teams from the hospital, the colonel spoke quietly.

  “This is... my home. The place I was lovingly laid to rest in peace. I’ve been fine remaining, watching the world grow and change. Sure, watching it sometimes backslide, yet trying to see my descendants grow without it doing so. Hoping I might intercede somehow if there is danger. But this horror has been happening right here, and I have been of little help to you,” he said.

  Angela shook her head. “No, the flag bothered me, but it wouldn’t have meant much of anything without you to tell us about the rituals and the people in military garb.”

  She glanced back at Jackson. He was on the phone again, likely on a conference call with their crime scene units and the cop in charge at the cemetery.

  Jackson was exceptional at quickly and clearly explaining what was needed and why, and this was no exception. He ended the call but only smiled grimly.

  “A team of diggers is on their way out here now. Please, Colonel. Do not berate yourself. You have been a tremendous help.”

  “Our people know where to come, right?” Angela asked.

  Jackson nodded.

  “Okay, well, I’m ready to start digging myself—”

  “Something done much more easily when one has a shovel.” Jackson smirked.

  “Good point. But there are some broken stones around here. Though if we’re not going to dig, we could head back to the woods and start looking for whatever trails there might be that could accommodate a car. Or determine if whatever is being done starts at the state road. People don’t pay much attention to cars just parked by the side of the road.”

  “We’ll have a lot of help here soon. We can go wherever you want.”

  “I know where all the possible trails are,” Clayborn said.

  “Then lead away,” Jackson told him.

  Clayborn nodded, and they retraced their steps back to the woods. Thankfully, their shooter earlier had not hit any human beings, but he had shattered and chipped many a historical tomb.

  The groundskeepers would be busy for days to come. But that mattered little when they were still barely scraping the surface of what had gone on. And while the Robertson tomb itself had been used for a horribly heinous crime, Angela thought that Jackson likely felt the way she did: there was far more out there. Somewhere.

  Perhaps in the woods.

  They paused in a tiny clearing once they left the cemetery boundary. Jackson looked around. The foliage was heavy, and the trees abundant.

  Back in the days before the European occupation of North America, the Indigenous peoples had made this area of Virginia home. And while they hadn’t built churches, graveyards, or cemeteries in the area, they had lived in and hunted the woods.

  Some of the pine-covered trails had been etched out of the wilderness by foot as the Algonquian people hunted and lived, making use of the rich timber to be found here, as well as the wildlife that provided food and clothing.

  Decade after decade, nature lovers kept the trails intact. Some had been broadened, and others had been reclaimed by the trees and brush.

  Following behind, Angela hoped she could get service and pulled out her phone. She watched her step, but she pulled up information on the architect of the Robertson tomb, Gervais Conte, that Colleen had sent over.

  The man had designed many a historical home in the area, but when she perused the information on him, the first thing mentioned was their current crime scene.

  Before designing the mausoleum for the Robertson family, Conte had never designed such a piece before. He had been known for home design in the Richmond area. And, pre-war, he had created mansions for the nobility and gentry alike, along with office buildings for some of the up-and-coming towns and cities of his time. He spent the years of the American Revolution back in France, and didn’t return until the last days of the war. According to his daughter, who had accompanied him back to the then-Colonies, he had been honored to design the tomb for a man he admired so greatly. Someone who had helped to create the nation he would then call his home.

  Angela glanced up from her phone. Jackson had paused to speak to someone on his phone. She knew he would tell her what was going on when he completed his call.

  She looked back at her screen.

  After the war, relocated permanently to northern Virginia himself, Conte went back into the business of designing homes. He was said to have created beautiful places, but the war was barely over, and the land was scarcely civilized. He created lookout posts at the homes he designed, as well as some of the country’s earliest escape routes and bell-trigger alarms.

  “Interesting,” she murmured quietly.

  “Angela,” Jackson said.

  She looked up and saw that he and Colonel Clayborn had stopped directly ahead of her.

  “You were right,” he told her.

  “About what?”

  “That was our crime scene unit. They found remains in the ground. Ones that don’t belong there. Chuck Downing said that while he isn’t a medical examiner, he believes the two bodies found might have been in the ground for a little more than three months. If he’s right, and the ME coming in confirms it, the kills—if they are murders—likely took place at about the same time as or just before our John Doe number one went into the mausoleum.”

  “My God,” she murmured. “Trust me. I didn’t want to be right that someone has been on a murder spree. No bodies were discovered until those in the tomb, so our victims were still considered missing persons.”

  “We’ll get them now,” Jackson assured her. And she loved that even though they both knew that wasn’t a guarantee, he sensed her need for reassurance and, like always, gave her what she needed.

  “Tire tracks. Right here,” he said, pointing. “I saw them when I stopped to get the phone. We will rip the woods apart. The killer has likely been using the trail. Creating diversions in plain sight and bringing in what he’s wanted and needed from the woods.”

  His phone rang again as he spoke to her. He answered it while sweeping out a hand to better show her the tire tracks he had discovered.

  He listened intently to whoever was on the call, frowning. He thanked the caller and ended the call to look at her.

  “Kat just got information back on our first John Doe. It was Wyatt Lange.”

  “Wyatt Lange?” she repeated, surprised. As far as she knew, he was doing time in a federal prison. He’d shot a guard while taking part in a bank robbery eight years ago, nearly killing the man. The Krewe was called in when the three robbers took off with hostages. They had been instrumental in finding the robbers’ hideout. Angela had testified at the trial and had been the one to play head games with him during the negotiations, attempting to get him to release the young woman he held. As she begged, pleaded, and reasoned to buy time, Jackson managed to slip in from behind and disarm the man.

  He’d had a good defense, convincing his attorney that he’d been forced to take part in the robbery and that two other men had held him at gunpoint until the very end. He hadn’t known then that they’d both been killed, and thus failed to convince a jury.

  “Dead three months, and we didn’t even know he was somehow out of prison?” she asked skeptically. “Is it really him? Did Kat... double-check everything?”