Last Ghost at Gettysburg (3 page)

Since he’d been laid off at the fertilizer
plant back in Columbia, South Carolina where he’d toiled for the
past ten years, Jamie had realized a lifelong dream: to acquire the
best possible metal detector he could afford, load up his battered
black Explorer, and hit all the major eastern battlefields between
Charleston and Philadelphia. Already, he’d conducted stealth
missions at Petersburg, Appomattox, Chancellorsville, the
Wilderness, Fredericksburg and Manassas. Gettysburg would be the
final, and hopefully the most lucrative, stop on the treasure
trail. By his reckoning he’d found enough buttons, artillery
shells, weapons parts and assorted accoutrements to finance his
trip and still have an ample pile to display and trade with the
other members of his club, who had shortsightedly restricted their
expeditions to smaller regional (and legal) areas like farmers’
fields, snake-infested swamps or forests which bordered the sites
of Civil War conflicts. Not that there were a lot of them left.
Suburban sprawl was turning former battlefields of the South into
Wal-Mart megaplexes and gated townhouse communities at an alarming
rate.

Jamie felt that some of the guys went a bit
too far—spending hours at local libraries or historical societies
delving into dusty military archives to calculate troop movements,
campsites and other such stuff. B-O-R-I-N-G. Weeks considered
himself a man of
action
, and there were many collectors or
Civil War buffs that would pay some serious coin for his finds. But
he had to work fast, figuring he had two more hours max before he’d
have to hightail it out of there. A patrol car made the rounds here
and there, but he’d always see the headlights coming and lay flat
in the military night camos he’d ordered online. It was part of the
thrill he experienced every time he ‘went digging.’

It was probably this extreme focus that
prevented him from sensing the man standing behind him. Instead it
was the smell, as he furtively dug on his knees for some trinket
that tipped him off. Something like a dead animal that’d sat in the
woods for a while. He turned and looked up—and smiled with
relief.

“Lord, son, you had me spooked!” he said,
shifting to a sitting position and removing his headphones. “I
thought you were the Federales or somethin’. Say, that’s some
uniform. What’s your outfit?”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your
pardon?”

“Your regiment. What unit you supposed to be
with?”

The cavalier stood erect. “I serve with
Hampton’s Legion, under the command of General Stuart.”

“Wow. Very authentic, right down to the
material. Or is that a
real
uniform?” He let out a low
whistle of approval. “Boy howdy, that must’ve set you back a pretty
penny. Most reenactors just buy the repro duds and such. You
look...totally realistic. But I gotta tell you, man, that uniform
stinks
. Maybe you can air it out or treat it with some of
that Fabreze stuff you buy at the Winn-Dixie.”

Suddenly a whinnying sound cut the air. Weeks
peered into the gloomy woods. “You’ve got a
horse
, too? I’m
impressed!”

“State your business here,” the soldier said
evenly, seeming ten feet tall in his spurred boots as he towered
over the sitting poacher.

“Well, heh, I’m kinda in the same boat as
you, son, someplace I’m not supposed to be after nightfall. Just
digging some artifacts, not bothering anybody.”

“Artifacts? What artifacts? Please explain
yourself.” The soldier’s smell was becoming annoying, and it was
reflected in the tone of Jamie’s reply.

“You know, buttons, bullets and whatnot.
Artifacts
. What I really want to find is a CSA belt buckle
like the one you got there. Primo piece. How much that set you
back?”

“You are excavating this ground for the
personal effects of dead soldiers?” The cavalier looked both amazed
and disgusted.

“Well, you don’t have to put it
that
way, man. I mean, I don’t begrudge you the right to parade around
in that uniform in the middle of the night. Whatever turns you on,
son. It’s cool with me. Now, why don’t you just jump on your horse
and get back to camp or whatever and let me get in some more work
before it gets light?”

“That isn’t possible,” said the soldier,
drawing his pistol.

“Whoa, now, podna, you got no right to be
pullin’ that piece on me. I got just as much right to be here as
you.”

“I hardly think so,” the man answered. “In
fact, your actions are despicable and disgust me to the marrow. The
men whose effects that you turn the earth for died for a cause you
could not possibly fathom.” He cocked the hammer of the pistol with
his thumb. “And a man of the South as well. My Gawd. It is a
pleasure to cleanse this sacred ground of scum like you.”

Jamie Weeks never had the chance to ask if
the Colt .44 was a repro.

Chapter Four

Chief Al Warren raised himself up, slowly and
painfully, from the knee he’d taken next to Jamie Weeks’ splayed
corpse. It was still an hour or so till daybreak, and the CSI team
had cordoned off the area with plastic yellow tape while Doc
Lamberg, the Adams County coroner, went about his business. This
wasn’t good at all. Three murders in two weeks, and the summer
season was just kicking into gear. Warren brushed off his pants leg
and shuffled over to Rudy Herzog, who was leaning against his
cruiser, shakily smoking a cigarette.

“Okay, Rudy, so let’s go over this,” grunted
Warren, tipping back his hat. “You were about a half mile north of
here and heard a gunshot. And then?” Warren’s meaty arms were
crossed against his barrel chest as he held himself in the
chill.

“Chief, I radioed in the report of shots
fired. Then I backtracked along this trail till I found the victim.
I checked his vital signs, but he was gone. I mean, no duh, half
his head is shot off.” Herzog pressed his eyes closed at the
memory, exhaled, then faced the shorter, blocky chief again. “It
was 12:47. I radioed Spence for backup and searched the area. It
was clean. Nothing. Except... uh...”

“Except
what
, Rudy?” Warren hated
being awakened in the early hours of the morning, and this was
becoming a habit.

“Except I smelled horse.”

“Like maybe the shooter was mounted?”

“Yeah. Now, Chief, I understand it’s dark,
but even with the searchlight I couldn’t find any tracks. I know
it’s been dry lately, but there should be some trace of hoof
prints, right?”

Warren nodded. “We’ll conduct a more thorough
search after daybreak. Soon as they get the meat wagon out of
here.”

As if on cue, Doc Lamberg came up behind
Warren and broke into the conversation. Lighting the briar pipe he
always smoked on such occasions, the spry old gent, who always wore
a shirt and tie, offered his opinion. “Well, time of death was
around twelve-thirty, give or take, like Rudy said. This man was
shot point blank, between the eyes, with a large caliber weapon.
Just like those two kids over at the cemetery.” He snapped his
lighter shut as the tobacco caught, filling the air with its sweet
smell. “Looks like you’ve got a killer on the loose, Al.” Behind
him, a police photographer snapped away.

“So you think when the ballistics report
comes back from Harrisburg it’ll match up?”

“Oh yes.”

Warren cursed his luck. He’d retired as a
captain from the Philadelphia PD to what he thought would be a cush
job as chief in a small tourist town where the greatest danger was
some overzealous reenactor blowing out his eardrums from getting
too close to an artillery battery during the yearly battle
commemoration, or maybe some rowdy students over at Gettysburg
College getting beered up and trying to hijack a cannon. And the
first seven-plus years had worked out perfectly.
Now this
.
He had three murders, a deputy who was quaking in fright, and a
Chamber of Commerce who would have his hide if he even suggested
cancelling the weeklong yearly commemoration of the battle, which
involved thousands of reenactors, tens of thousands of tourists,
and millions of bucks for the local economy.

“Little over a month,” he muttered.

“Beg pardon?” asked Lamberg as he watched the
EMT zip Weeks into a body bag.

“Nothing. I just wonder why grown men like
Weeks would risk getting arrested and fined just to dig up old
junk.”

“Well,” answered Lamberg, “I’m no
psychologist, but I guess there’s a little Indiana Jones wannabe
in all of us. I just don’t think our friend here counted on
this.”

“What I don’t get is, there’s no motive. I
mean, we found his wallet on him with a couple hundred bucks and
some credit cards. Why would someone just execute the guy? Or those
college kids?”

“You’ll figure it out, Al,” said Lamberg
drily, knocking the dottle from his pipe against a tree trunk.
“That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

Chapter Five

“Okay, we’re here,” said Tom Jackson, turning
off the ignition. “We made great time. I’ll pop the trunk. T.J.,
grab your gear while I see who’s home.” With that, Jackson, Sr. and
his girlfriend approached the pale yellow Victorian down the street
from the dormitory buildings on Seminary Ridge. The Lutheran
institution had served as a makeshift hospital during the battle,
as had most buildings in and around Gettysburg, and the cupola of
its main building was used as an observation tower.

“Hey, Tom,” Mike Darcy said as he opened the
front screen door and warmly embraced his brother-in-law. Still in
his khaki park ranger uniform, he was as broad and burly as T.J.
remembered him, with a graying blond military flattop and neatly
trimmed goatee. “And this must be Wendy. Welcome!”

Tom’s girlfriend, a shapely redhead with
friendly green eyes, gave a quick wave before she, too, was
engulfed in a Darcy bear hug. “You didn’t tell me she was a movie
star, Tom!” crowed the ranger as Wendy, visibly relieved, allowed
herself to be crushed.

All of which was making T.J. want to retch as
he hefted his suitcase and gym bag with his running stuff over his
shoulders. But then Mike was making a beeline for him like a
linebacker—which he had been at Michigan State—attacking a power
sweep.

“T.J.! My favorite nephew!” Mike stopped
short and held the teen at arm’s length. “Oh boy, you look...” he
started tearing up... “more like my sister every time I see you.”
This, of course, was followed by another crushing hug. Uncle Mike
was, T.J. remembered, one of those touchy-feely people. “Terri!”
Mike called out, “The gang’s all here!”

T.J.’s Aunt Terri, a tiny, dark woman with a
cheerful smile, emerged from the house, drying her hands on her
apron, smelling of apple pie. “You’re just in time for dinner,” she
said, offering quick hugs. “Let us feed you before you scoot off to
the airport.”

“Sounds great,” said Tom. “What do you say,
babe? Our last American meal for a while? Terri’s an amazing
cook.”

“Sounds great,” parroted Wendy and they all
went inside.

Mike pointed T.J. up the stairs. “Guest
room’s the second one on the right, big guy. There are two beds,
pick the one you want. You can throw your stuff in the bureau later
on. Let’s eat!”

By the time T.J. washed up and made it back
downstairs, the dining room table was awash with conversation and
food: fried chicken, mounds of mashed potatoes, fresh vegetables
from Terri’s garden, and dinner rolls hot from the oven.

“So, Wendy,” Terri said as she passed the
pitcher of iced tea, “you must be so thrilled. I mean, Paris!”

“Yes, it’s pretty exciting,” Wendy agreed,
barely containing her enthusiasm.

“It’ll be a great trip,” Tom said, placing
his hand atop hers on the checkered tablecloth. “But I’m not sure
you’ll keep T.J. busy here.”

“No problem with that,” Mike said, beaming as
he shoveled a forkful of green beans into his mouth. “He can help
Terri out with some of the chores and all, but there’s lots to do
in town. We’re approaching the height of the tourist season and the
annual battle.”

“Battle?” asked Wendy, frowning.

“Oh, yeah, every year we have the
commemoration of the Battle of Gettysburg. Hundreds of Civil War
reenactors from all over the world take part. I mean, there are
entire units, both Union and Confederate, from various states and
they come in big old trailers with artillery, horses, wagons, you
name it. There are events every day of Commemoration Week all over
town. The armies have designated camps where they stay, but for a
week you have all these guys—and women—roaming all over town in
their 1800s garb. Of course, these events draw tourists by the
thousands, so the motels, campgrounds and restaurants are mobbed
beyond belief. You can’t find a parking space anywhere in
town.”

“And where’s the battlefield?” asked Wendy
innocently.

“You’re on it,” said Mike with a wave of his
fork. “This whole area, over six thousand acres including the
center of town, was a battlefield from July 1 to July 3, 1863. In
three days, more men died here—”

“Mike, you’re not giving a tour,” chided
Terri.

“Sorry. You’re right, hon. Force of habit.
Anyway, even residential areas like this sit right on the site of
the battle, side by side with official national park sections. You
can’t get away from it. It is what it is.”

“Hey, Uncle Mike, where’s LouAnne?” asked
T.J., totally annoyed at Wendy’s ignorance of American history.

“Oh, my! I never mentioned LouAnne! What a
lousy host I am. She works over at the Charney House Inn downtown.
See, the Charney House is an original building from the Civil War
era that served as a temporary Union headquarters during the
battle. It changed hands a few times—as did most of the buildings
in town—and got pretty shot up, but it survived and today is a
restaurant and B&B. Everything there—the stuff on the menu, the
furniture, the costumes of the wait staff—is just like it was in
1863. People like to eat there to get a real feel for the era,
instead of Mickey D’s and KFC.