Last Ghost at Gettysburg (12 page)

“Like
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
?” asked
T.J., thinking back to his encounter with the bewildered Mike
Weinstein.

“Oh,
them
,” sniffed Elway. “It’s TV
shows like theirs that give paranormal science a bad name.”

“How so?” asked Bortnicker.

“Well,” said Elway, “and this is not for
publications, boys, but those guys are rank amateurs. How can
anyone take seriously a bunch of pumped-up twentysomethings in
skin-tight tee-shirts screaming admonitions to ghosts to ‘come out
or else’? And do you notice not an episode goes by that they don’t
get some kind of response, usually unintelligible garble on their
EVP recorder that they claim is a disembodied spirit intelligently
answering their queries? And if one more of those morons mistakes
dust particles for energy orbs...”

Elway noticed the boys staring at him and
immediately composed himself, again the smiling academic. “Well, it
could be worse,” he joked. “At least they’re not as bad as those
yahoos over in Britain. You’d think they’re having a weekly ghost
convention on
their
show, getting scratched, kicked,
possessed and whatnot.”

“So, if one of those
Gonzo Ghost
Chasers
told you he saw a real apparition out there, you’d just
disregard it?” asked T.J. “Because they were in town a week
ago.”

“Yes, yes, I know that,” snapped Elway, a bit
testily. “I’d take anything they said with a grain of salt. No, a
bowling ball of salt.”

“So, what you’re saying,” Bortnicker
ventured, “is that you, personally, have yet to see a full-bodied
apparition that’s more than a silhouette or some whitish gas?”

Elway’s congeniality faded immediately, his
lips forming a straight line. He absentmindedly pulled at the
bottom of his beard.

“Yes,” he answered evenly, “in my case. But
other witnesses have seen actual soldiers.”

“Just not anybody who happens to be among
your competition,” said Bortnicker, polishing his glasses
casually.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Of course, Mr. Elway,” said Bortnicker.

“If you two are doing a newspaper article,
how come you haven’t written down a word I’ve said? Or produced a
tape recorder?”

Bortnicker slid his glasses back into place
with great care, looked Elway in the eye, and tapped the side of
his shaggy head. “No worries,” he assured the ghost hunter, “it’s
all in here.”

They strolled out together, Bortnicker
quipping, “Like
The Dan
, I have seen the glory of ‘The Royal
Scam.’ ”

Chapter Fourteen

Later that day at General Meade’s
Luncheonette on Steinwehr Street, Carlton Elway looked up from his
egg salad sandwich to see Chief Al Warren slide onto a nearby stool
and pluck a laminated menu from its chrome holder on the counter.
He picked up his plate and moved next to him, trying not to spill
his iced tea in the process.

“Hope the rain stops for tonight, Carlton,”
said the chief as he slipped on his reading glasses. “Your ghost
tour customers are going to be pretty soggy. How’s the egg salad
today?”

“Go with the meatloaf. And don’t worry, Al,
we’ll be out there, rain or not.”

“Yeah, I guess ghosts don’t know the
difference anyway.”

“Very funny.”

Warren chuckled at his own joke then ordered
the meatloaf with extra gravy on his fries. Out of the corner of
his eye he spied Elway watching him. “Something on your mind,
Carlton?”

“Well, kind of,” said Elway, brushing some
egg salad off the lapel of his Gettysburg Official Ghost Tours
windbreaker. “I had a weird visit today.”

“Who was it? Lee or Grant?”

“You’re a riot today, Al. No, seriously,
these two teenagers came to question me about the business and
whatnot. Said they were with a high school newspaper, but I think
that was a bunch of crap.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Well, they were asking about paranormal
stuff I might have seen out on the battlefield and all—”

“That’s to be expected, considering your
widespread fame.”

“Can you give it a rest, Al? The thing is,
the one who did most of the talking was a real geeky kid I’d never
seen before. But the other one is Mike Darcy’s nephew.”

“The park ranger, Mike Darcy?”

“One and the same.”

The counter waitress arrived and placed
Warren’s meatloaf and steaming mug of coffee in front of him. The
chief took his fork, lifted the slab of meat’s corner from the
plate underneath, and frowned. “So the kids are asking questions.
So what?”

Elway let his voice drop to a whisper.
“Listen, Al, something’s going on around here, I can feel it.
Rumors are starting to fly.”

“Like what?” said Warren, dabbing gravy from
the corner of his mouth.

“Like stuff going on at night on the
battlefield, that’s what.”

“Do tell.”

“C’mon, Al. We went to school together way
back when, before you went off to Philly. If there’s an opportunity
out there—”

“Opportunity? What are you talking
about?”

“You know, like...paranormal investigation
stuff.”

Warren rolled his eyes. “You’ve been watching
too many of your own documentaries, Carlton.” But secretly he was
worried. Was Mike Darcy blabbing confidential information to his
nephew? He’d have to find Bruce Morrison, and fast.

“Well, are you going to let me in on anything
if it does come up?” persisted Elway.

“Oh, yeah, Carlton, you’ll be the first one
I’ll tell. We might even make a documentary out of it. What are you
up to by now, part six?”

“Thanks for nothing, Al. You know, I’m vice
president of the Chamber of Commerce. I have a right to know
anything that might affect my livelihood.”

“You want some info?” said Warren. He
looked both ways then whispered, “Don’t order the meatloaf. That
stuff’ll kill ya.”

Chapter Fifteen

The next morning Mike Darcy followed his
usual ranger routine, preparing for the first of five days on,
followed by two consecutive days off, on a rotating schedule. He
rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn, performed a series of
stretches designed to loosen up his chronically stiff back then did
three sets of sit-ups, crunches and leg lifts to combat the onset
of a middle age spare tire. Darcy managed to work out three times a
week on a weight machine he’d installed in a gym he’d built in the
garage. As for his legs, they got all the work they needed from the
continuous walking he did performing his daily duties at the
battlefield.

Mike showered, filled a travel cup with
coffee that Terri had prepared in the percolator the night before
and went outside into the light of a promising June morning. The
previous day’s rain had taken the edge off the humidity for the
time being and birds were singing in the trees. As he entered the
driveway beside the house he could hear Bortnicker’s snoring from
the second story bedroom. Lord, that boy could saw wood. But he
was happy to have the kids visiting. They provided a diversion for
his daughter, whom he sometimes felt worked too hard during her
time off from school.

As he started the truck he thought about his
nephew. T.J. was a good kid, but there was this kind of melancholy
and lack of self-confidence that always seemed to be trailing him.
The death of his mother had been devastating and his father’s
girlfriend had become a divisive force. Maybe Mike could spend some
quality time with him this week.

Before he knew it he was pulling into the
Visitor Center lot. Lifting his still-hot coffee from its
cup-holder, Mike entered the rangers’ office door, went to his
locker and opened it. Inside were taped small photos of Terri and
LouAnne, and one of himself circa 1974 in his Michigan State home
green jersey, scowling at the camera. He was staring into space
when he felt a tap on the shoulder.

“Hi, Mike. Got a minute?” said Bruce
Morrison.

“Sure, Bruce. Something the matter?”

“I’m not sure. Come into my office.”

Mike didn’t know what it was, but Bruce
Morrison’s room always reminded him of the principal’s office of a
school: degrees and commendations filling the walls, photos with
visiting dignitaries. There was no doubt that his boss knew his
stuff; he was featured on virtually every modern historical
documentary about Gettysburg, but Mike found him dry and pedantic,
not the enthusiastic teacher/coach type he’d been in his previous
career. As a result, the two sometimes clashed over inconsequential
things, though there remained an underlying respect for the
knowledge each possessed about the Civil War and Gettysburg’s role
in it. Perhaps their mutual discomfort stemmed from the fact that
Mike was a “townie” who had grown up on his family’s property on
Seminary Ridge, while Morrison was an interloper from South
Dakota, where he’d overseen the Little Bighorn massacre site for a
few years in the ‘80s before moving up to the most prestigious
battlefield park in the land.

Morrison gently closed the door behind them
and moved to his desk. “Glad the humidity broke,” he said to get
things started.

“No doubt,” agreed Darcy. “It’s been brutal
out there lately.”

“Listen, Mike,” said Morrison, absently
toying with a paperclip, “I’ll get right to the point. You’ve been
a great asset to our ranger community. Nobody outworks you and you
manage to, as they say in sports, ‘bring your A game every day.’
And I appreciate that, though I sometimes wonder if you care that I
do.”

“It’s much appreciated, Bruce,” Mike
replied.

“Well, good. But we might have a situation
here, I don’t know. I’d like your input.”

“Shoot.”

Morrison winced at the word. “Funny you
should say that. As I understand it, you’re rather a local
authority on black powder guns. You’re part of a shooting club and
all?”

“Well, not a formal club, per se. It’s more
of a group of enthusiasts who get together and practice at the
firing range over in Bonneville.”

“Are these guys collectors? Reenactors?”

“Some of them. I just happened to come by my
firearms by chance. You see, my grandfather’s family purchased the
property in 1880, and when he was a young man he was given a Sharps
rifle and a Colt pistol by an elderly neighbor who claimed he’d
taken them from the woods in the days just after the battle. For a
long time they were stored in the attic. Then, after my dad died
and we were sorting out his stuff, my mom led me upstairs, opened
this long wooden box and there they were, not much the worse for
wear.

“I was still teaching and coaching back then,
of course, and I had no idea I’d end up getting so involved with
the town’s history again or end up a park ranger.

“But in the early ‘90s I started researching
the pieces and found out they were quite valuable. I took them to a
local gunsmith who offered me a nice buck for them, which I
could’ve used on my teaching salary, but I simply had him refurbish
the mechanical parts. Another teacher at my school who later passed
away was a black powder shooter, so he showed me the ropes and
that’s how I met the guys. We try to get out every few weeks. It
beats playing golf, I guess. And, I think it gives me better
insight into the people I talk about every day in my job. Sometimes
when I’m shooting...I don’t know, this sounds corny, but I can
almost imagine myself as a soldier on the field, staring down the
barrel at an oncoming enemy charge.” Mike stopped talking,
wondering if he’d let his tongue run away with him. This was
already the longest conversation he’d ever had with his
superior.

“So, you, above all of us, must understand
the damage that was inflicted upon the victims of these
shootings.”

“Of course. At close range a Colt .44 cavalry
pistol is devastating.”

“And that’s the model you own?”

A realization was beginning to dawn in Mike
Darcy’s mind. “Bruce, you don’t think...that I could be involved in
all this!”

“No, no. What’s happened here is purely
coincidental. But I wonder if you’d care to explain why your nephew
and his oddball friend were in Carlton Elway’s office yesterday
pumping him for information about nighttime activities on the
battlefield?”

“I guess it’s ‘cause that’s what Carlton
does,” Mike reasoned.

“So what you’re saying is you haven’t
breathed a word of our staff meeting to your family? And that your
nephew’s questions were just another coincidence?”

“Must be,” was Mike’s reply, though he
couldn’t fathom T.J.’s actions, either.

“Well then, I guess we’re done here, Mike.
You wouldn’t mind me coming to you if I have any further weapons
questions?”

“No, that would be fine, Bruce.”

“Okay then, have a good day out there.”

And with that, Mike Darcy walked out of
Morrison’s office, his simple summer day not quite as bright.

* * * *

That same morning, about the time Mike Darcy
was arriving at the Visitor Center, there came a light tapping on
the guest bedroom door. T.J., never a sound sleeper, was confused.
The night before, they’d filled in LouAnne about their meeting with
Elway and Bortnicker had cracked, “If he’s a bigtime ghost hunter,
I’m Brad Pitt.” The cousins had agreed that a day off from running
was in order. LouAnne sometimes suffered from shin splints and
didn’t want to overdo it. T.J. gratefully agreed. So, he was
surprised when Aunt Terri poked her head in the door. “Are you
decent, T.J.?” she whispered.

“Yes, Aunt Terri. What’s up?”

“Your father’s on the phone from Paris.”

“Oh, okay. Give me a sec.” He pulled on a
pair of sweatpants and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where his
aunt handed him the phone.

“Hey, big guy, what’s doing?” asked Tom
Jackson, Sr.

“Not much,” yawned T.J. “What time is it
there?”

“We just finished lunch and we’re back at the
apartment. I’m looking out my window at Notre Dame Cathedral as we
speak.”