LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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