Gatekeeper (6 page)

Theo looked as if he were trying to absorb it. “Are you telling me some kook dressed up like a soldier kidnapped your sister?”

“No. No. The soldier was…is…a ghost.”

Theo stared.

Jillian’s fingernails dug into the velvet. “He witnessed the abduction. He told me.”

“He
told
you?”

“I know how crazy this sounds. But you, yourself, told me I had a sixth sense. Well it’s true. I do. I just…I just haven’t…used it in a long, long time. I’m not comfortable with it the way Amy is. But I
did
see Amy. She’s buried somewhere…”

Theo snorted. “I said you were a good profiler. I didn’t mean for you to go goofy on me.”

“
Please
. You of all people have got to believe me. I talked to the ghost. Right here. Right there at that table.” She pointed.

He shot a wary glance at the Ouija board. “With that thing?” He pointed at it.

Jillian shook her head. “No. He was here. He sat in that chair and told me what he had seen.”

“A Civil War soldier?” He was clearly skeptical.

She stood and paced, her heels sounding on the wood floor. “I know it’s crazy. I know it is.” She looked at the button in her hand. “He told me he saw someone hit Amy on the head and drag her away. He told me he tried to warn her. And then I…I saw her myself—well, in my head—in a grave. The ghost said he’d help me find her.”

“This ghost told you that?”

She nodded.

“Where is he now?” He looked around.

“I don’t know.” God, he thought she was crazy. And the more Jillian talked, the crazier it sounded to her.

Theo took a deep breath and then blew it out slowly. “Do you want to know what I think? I think I made a mistake in calling you. I think the strain of this is too much for you. And I think if it were anybody but me, Jillian Drew, the finger would start pointing to you.”

“Me?” Jillian was incredulous.

“Yes. I mean, look at the facts. First you stole evidence from a crime scene. And then while you’re the only person in this house, in broad daylight someone waltzes up to the front door and tapes a big mess of your sister’s hair to it. It doesn’t look good.”

Jillian opened her mouth and then closed it. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Theo knew her better than that. Her mind fumbled for something—anything—to make him believe her. The idea of Amy in a grave was unthinkable. Outside, an entourage of police cars lined the driveway.

“Give me that button before someone else sees you with it and charges you with a crime.” He snatched it out of her hand before she could protest.

She gasped. “Theo, I need that.”

He shook his head. “I have to turn it over to the crime lab.” He drew a plastic bag out of his pocket and slipped it inside. “Not a word about this to anyone. Understand?”

She took a breath, intent on objecting but he cut her off. “You’ve already contaminated evidence that could be the key to finding your sister. Now pull yourself together and go home. We’ll call you.”

“But…” She watched with utter gut-wrenching dismay as the one thing connecting her to Amy disappeared inside Theo’s pants pocket. She grasped his arm. His gaze fell to her hand and then lifted once more to her eyes. “Theo, promise me you’ll consider asking Lynn to profile.”

“All right.” He gave her a paternal look and then joined the others. “Now, go home.”

Investigators filed in and began scouring Amy’s house for evidence. One studied the sidewalk out front. Another dusted the door for prints. Others searched the house.

Jillian sank back down on the sofa. At least Theo was going to consider bringing her partner in on the case. But what was she going to do without the button? How could she contact the spirit again without it? She’d been stupid to show it to him. Stupid!

She inhaled. There was only one thing to do now. She had to get it back. She had to talk to that ghost again.

* * * * *

Jillian found a Civil War relic shop in nearby Franklin. A bell rang when she opened the door. “Come on in,” a voice called from behind the counter.

Long wooden muskets and rifles with rusty bayonets lined one wall. Tarnished swords lined another. Her ghost had worn a sheathed sword around his waist. Tingles skittered down her spine at the memory of him, so close, touching her. She inhaled. Never in her life had she been so terrified. And she would never revisit the experience but for the fact her sister’s life was in jeopardy.

One glass case was filled with
carte de visite
photographs, tintypes and daguerreotypes. Jillian scanned them. Many of the men depicted in the photos had the same style of moustache and spade beard as her ghost but as she guessed, none of the photos were actually of him.

Boo curiously poked her little black head out of Jillian’s brown leather Fendi bag.

Dusty old books crowded a shelf near the counter. Heavy, weathered old cannon balls rested on the floor. The whole place smelled old, like a quaint mixture of cedar wood and lemon oil.

“Excuse me?” Jillian said, craning in an attempt to see the man behind the counter.

He stood and laid a well-thumbed biography of Pat Cleburne on the counter. Slightly disheveled, with a gray crew cut, unkempt Vandyke beard and wearing a tattered Radiohead concert T-shirt, he looked out of place in a Civil War relic shop. One of his eyes had been blacked and was shadowed with an angry purple bruise. He looked like a thug. But the fact was not lost on Jillian that she looked even more out of place here.

“Can I help you?” At least he was friendly.

“I’m looking for a button.” She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. “About this big around with the letters CSA on it.”

“Do you want dug or non-dug?”

Jillian bit her bottom lip. “I’m not sure.”

“Dug means it was dug up. Out of the ground. Most likely from a battlefield site. Non-dug means it was passed down—or robbed from a grave.” He winked with his good eye. “Those are usually in better condition.”

Robbed from a grave? People actually did that? Jillian shuddered and an ugly image of Amy bound and unconscious intruded into her head. She pushed it away. “I think I’m looking for a dug button.”

“That’ll save you some cash.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a box. Inside, several gilt buttons were displayed on a red velvet cloth. “Most of these were dug right here in Franklin,” he said proudly. Although he had gray hair, he had the enthusiasm of a teenage boy about him.

Jillian searched the box for one like she’d found mixed among the contents of Amy’s purse. There were several. She pointed at one which most resembled the one Theo had taken. “What about that one?”

“These are running around four hundred fifty bucks but I can give you ten percent off if you pay cash.”

She hadn’t thought of that. It would be prudent to pay in cash so there wouldn’t be a paper trail. All she had was her debit card but she didn’t have time to run to the bank. She couldn’t believe she was considering doing something illegal. But exchanging this button for Amy’s was the only way she could get back in contact with the ghost.

“I only have a debit card.” She fished it out of her brown leather wallet and handed it to him.

“That’ll work.” He swiped the card, returned it and began drawing up a handwritten receipt. “What’s your interest in the war between the states?”

She started to tell him that she hadn’t been much of a history student but then thought he might be of help in finding her ghost’s identity. “I…I was at Shy’s Hill earlier.”

“Oh yeah.” The guy’s eyes lit up, giving the black eye an odd, macabre glow. “Battle of Nashville. December 16, 1864.”

“You’re a Civil War buff?” She slipped the debit card back into her wallet.

He scowled. “I’m no buff. I’m Matt Gregory. I’m a military historian.”

“Great,” Jillian said and deposited her cumbersome bag on the countertop. “Jillian Drew.” She shook his hand—then instantly regretted telling him her real name.

“Who’s your buddy?” he asked, giving Boo a pat on the head.

“That’s Boo,” she said shortly. There was no time to explain. “I’m trying to find out information about an officer.”

“An officer? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“An officer wouldn’t have worn buttons like this one.” He pointed to the one with CSA on it.

“No?” That didn’t make sense. Why was her ghost attached to it then? “Maybe he isn’t an officer. He has three stars on his collar.”

“Wreathed?”

Jillian tried to remember. She closed her eyes and an image of the surly soldier flooded her thoughts. She focused on the stars. “Wreathed. Yes, they were wreathed and the one in the center was somewhat larger.”

“He’s a brigadier.”

“A general?”

Matt nodded.

“But he looks so young,” she unintentionally mused aloud.

Matt studied her for a moment. “You keep talking about this guy in the present tense. It’s like you saw his ghost or something.”

Jillian debated her reply but the man continued.

“That’s cool,” he said. “I’ve seen a few myself over at the Carnton Plantation.”

“Really?”

He nodded. Something in his light blue eyes told her he was sincere. But before she could comment, he turned and pulled a book down from the shelf. “If you’ve been to Shy’s Hill, I may have a picture of your guy.”

He flipped through the pages. “Here. Look at this.” He laid the book on the counter, spun it around and pushed it toward her.

Jillian gasped. Staring up at her from the yellowed page of the book was her ghost in grainy black and white. The same dark, wavy hair. The same moustache and spade beard. But gone was the rough-hewn look of a soldier. Instead, he was posed and very polished. Even without smiling he looked cocky, smug. The memory of his fingers trailing down her neck gave her a shiver. And the sight of him—real, alive—in a photograph made her go weak in the knees.

“That him?”

Unable to speak, she nodded. He was as handsome in the photograph as he had been as a ghost, almost timeless in his attractiveness but with all the romantic appeal of a nineteenth-century-novel hero. Something warm and sinuous unfurled inside her. Uncomfortable with the feelings the sight of him evoked, Jillian shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

“That’s old Thomas Benton Smith.”

Her gaze briefly left the page and she looked into Matt’s eyes before returning her stare to the photograph. Her ghost was hardly old but the name was familiar. Where had she heard it before? “Thomas Benton Smith.” Just uttering it caused a warm blush to creep up the front of her neck.

“Folks who knew him called him Benton,” Matt said. “Hence, Benton Smith Road. You had to have driven on it if you went to Shy’s Hill.”

That’s right. She remembered now. She touched the photo. “Benton Smith.” The heat of the blush intensified.

“He was killed there.”

A shudder swept through Jillian. She recalled the bloodstain on his shoulder “How?”

“The Confederates got surrounded and Smith assessed the situation as hopeless. He surrendered but not before an assload of Union soldiers died trying to take the hill. After that, they were marched down the hill and one of his men made a smart-alecky comment to a Federal colonel that the whole hill was blue with Yankee dead. Smith had already handed over his sword to the colonel and when he got in between his man and the colonel, the colonel killed him with his own sword.”

She swallowed. A sense of pity welled inside her. “Did he stab him in the shoulder?”

“No. The head.” Then Matt’s eyes narrowed. “But how do you know about the shoulder?”

She touched her own shoulder where Benton’s jacket had been discolored. “There was a dark stain on his coat.”

“That makes sense.” Matt’s eyes widened with interest. “He took that wound at the Battle of Stone’s River—where his brother was killed.”

Jillian’s heart tightened. She knew all too well what it felt like to lose a loved one.

“So, you saw Benton Smith’s ghost, ’eh?” Matt chuckled. “I can tell you why he appeared to someone like you.”

Jillian was beyond curious. “Why?”

Matt squinted at the photo again. “Benton Smith had a reputation as quite the ladies’ man.”

She smirked. He’d told her he had given up on ladies. She ignored a nagging twinge of resentment. So she was right in her assessment that he’d broken many a Southern belle’s heart.

“Oh yeah,” Matt continued. “There were several women after him but the story goes that he got himself engaged to a Williamson County woman by the name of Hattie. But after his brother died, he mysteriously broke off the engagement. She got all pissed and married a private under Smith.” He scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. “Nobody knows for sure why he dumped her. Rumor has it she married the man just to spite Smith. But I know another historian who says it was because she had a premonition of Smith’s death.”

“Was she…psychic?”

Matt arched an eyebrow as if that thought had never occurred to him and fascinated him as some new historic theory he might ferret out in the future. “I don’t know about that.”