Last Ghost at Gettysburg (6 page)

“But—”

“The gun
jammed
, dude! He tried it a
couple times but it didn’t work! So he starts reaching for his
sword, but I grabbed the camcorder and bolted. I ran as fast as I
could till I found the road, screaming at the top of my lungs for
the team¸
anybody
, till I saw the park patrol car top a rise
and I sprinted for all I was worth. And here I am.”

Warren shook his head. “But how do we know
this Confederate ghost soldier isn’t a real human? You know, some
nut running around at night in uniform?”

“Well, he has to be on my video recorder. It
was on the ground, but it was on “RECORD” the whole time.”

“So let’s see it.”

Weinstein reddened. “Could you ah, um, give
me a minute to go to the men’s room? I’ve got to get out of these
boxer shorts. And don’t ask me why.”

“Second door on your right,” said Warren, as
Weinstein embarrassedly slinked off down the hall.

“Gonzo Ghost Chasers
. Good grief,”
Morrison griped, cleaning his glasses.

“Yeah, Bruce,” said Warren, “but I want to
see what this wacko has on tape. This could be a big help. Let us
know what we’re dealing with. He’s lucky he didn’t get his head
blown off like the others.” Warren paused. “Do ghosts’ guns
jam?”

“Search me. We’re in virgin territory on this
one.”

Weinstein returned to Warren’s office,
obviously relieved. “Okay, let’s take a look at this video.” He hit
REWIND, snapped open the viewer, pressed PLAY. Warren and Morrison
watched the blood drain from his face as the seconds passed.

“Well, what is it?” asked the police chief
finally.

“Look for yourself,” said Weinstein
disgustedly, rewinding the tape again.

The perspective was from the ground, angled
slightly upward. In the forefront was Weinstein’s hiking boot, but
beyond that, nothing but the facing boulders of the alcove.
However, the audio was even more perplexing:

Weinstein: What unit? You mean, like, the
army? I’m not with a unit, man. I’m a civilian.

Silence.

Weinstein: I’m lead investigator for the
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
. You’ve seen us on Adventure Channel?
You know, on TV? We’re on every Wednesday. C’mon man, you haven’t
heard of us?

Silence.

Weinstein: What I’m doing is hunting for
spirits from the battle. Especially that guy who’s in the picture.
You know, the Confederate sharpshooter. The question is, who are
you
?

Silence.

Weinstein: What do you mean, disturbing the
ground? Who do you think you... now, wait a minute, dude, don’t get
all worked up over—hey, C’MON MAN, YOU DON’T WANNA—WAIT! PLEASE!
DON’T SHOOT! PLEASE!

Then the picture whirled as the camera was
apparently scooped up. From then on the only footage was bouncy
images of the tops of Weinstein’s shoes, the only sound his raspy
breathing as he ran for his life.

Weinstein pressed STOP and looked up at his
questioners. “So, what are you gonna do about this?” he whined.

“About what?” said Warren. “Even discounting
the fact that you were trespassing on Government property, you got
no video, no audio, and a pair of wet underwear to back up your
story. Not exactly rock-solid evidence, Mr. Weinstein.”

“I know what I saw. He was a real as you or
me, and he—it—couldn’t have been human, or we’d see it on the
video! I just don’t understand. I wish the EVP battery didn’t
drain, we might’ve caught his end of the conversation.”

“Well, we didn’t, so I hate to tell you,
we’ve got squat. Are you leaving town soon?”

“No way. I’m gonna talk the team into hanging
around another few days, though we’re supposed to be at the St.
Augustine Lighthouse later this week for our next shoot.”

“Where are you staying?”

“We’ve booked rooms at the Charney Inn. Heard
there might be spirits there.”

Warren rolled his eyes. “Okay, Mr.
Weinstein,” he said in a measured tone. “We’ll head out to Devil’s
Den first thing in the morning and check for footprints and such.
If we find anything, you’ll be the first to know. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” said the Gonzo Ghost Chaser,
extending his hand.

Warren shook it, as did Morrison.

“Ah, guys, we’ll keep the underwear stuff
quiet, right?” pleaded Weinstein. “Wouldn’t look good for me on
the show if that got out.”

“No problem,” said Warren, suppressing a
smile.

After the ghost hunter exited, Morrison came
over and sat on the edge of Warren’s desk. “Think he’s full of it,
Al?” he asked, fiddling with the police chief’s stapler.

“Something
scared him, Bruce. Yeah,
he’s a wack job, but I really think he had an encounter with
something, or someone, who’s gonna keep shooting people till we
catch him. So, I say we step up the night patrols on the
battlefield and report even the most minutely suspicious activity.
It’s time to let your rangers in on it.”

“Agreed.”

Warren looked at his desk calendar.
“Commemoration Week’s coming fast. We’re in trouble.”

Chapter Eight

“Ready to rock?” asked LouAnne after she’d
poked her head inside T.J.’s guestroom door. “It’s gonna be a hot
one so we’ve gotta motor.”

“Just give me a minute. I’ll meet you
downstairs,” mumbled T.J. as he shook the cobwebs from his sleepy
head.

“You won’t just roll over and go back to
sleep?”

“Don’t worry.”

“Okay, see you in a few.” She bounded down
the hallway and descended the staircase. T.J. marveled at her
energy this early in the morning. Groggily, he visited the bathroom
and then pulled on his track shorts, Bridgefield Middle School tee
shirt, socks and New Balance 1220s. As he made his way down to the
kitchen he could smell coffee brewing, which made his stomach
growl. LouAnne was reading the morning paper, her long blonde hair
pulled back in a ponytail. She was outfitted much as he, in a baggy
tee with spandex tights underneath her track shorts.

“Anything interesting?” he asked.

“Maybe, but I can’t see a thing,” she
laughed. “Without my contacts I’m blind as far as reading, but it’s
better than those goggles I used to wear. Remember?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Dad had an early meeting this morning so
he’s out of here, but Mom should have some suitable eats waiting
for us when we’re done. So, Cuz, what’s the plan? You have a
workout that you like to do?”

T.J. hadn’t even read Coach Autieri’s
printout yet. “I, uh—”

“Wanna do my workout with me? It may not be
as tough as yours, but at least you’ll get a feel for the roads
around here.”

“Yeah, sure,” said T.J., hoping he’d be able
to keep up with her. There wasn’t one ounce of fat on his cousin’s
shapely legs, and he hadn’t run in a couple weeks.

The two of them went out into the front yard
and thoroughly stretched in the shade. Even at this early hour the
humidity was starting to descend on Central Pennsylvania. “Okay,
Cuz, my cross country workout calls for five miles, more or less.
So what we’ll do is follow Seminary Avenue to Confederate Avenue,
which will wind through the battlefield, past where the old Visitor
Center was, and down to the new one near the rear entrance of the
cemetery. Basically, we’re going to be doing one quarter of the
total battlefield area. Sound good?”

“Sure,” he said, inwardly panicking.

“Then let’s get after it!” She sprang from
her hurdler’s stretch and sprinted off down Seminary Avenue, T.J.
keeping pace. Eventually they settled into a more comfortable gait
as parts of the battlefield drifted by.

“Lots of monuments,” T.J. panted at
length.

“Oh, yeah. They’re everywhere. Mostly Union,
although we’ll be passing the North Carolina and Virginia
Memorials. I mean, it’s understandable that there would be more
Federal monuments, since the battle was a Union victory fought in
the North.”

“It looks so...placid. Just rolling farmland,
with some woods here and there.”

“Yeah, that’s what the locals thought in
1863. They figured there was no way the war would ever touch their
lives. Wrong!”

By the time they’d gone a mile, just passing
Pitzer’s Woods, T.J. felt the beginning of a stitch in his side. He
loathed the idea of asking his cousin to slow down and fought to
stabilize his breathing pattern. But LouAnne was on to him.

“You okay?” she said, looking sideways.

“Yeah, sure, but could we take it down a
notch?”

“No problem.” They slowed their pace, and
soon the stitch worked itself out. “We’re now on Confederate
Avenue, and we’ll be making our way towards Little Round Top. See,
there were two major hills on the battlefield that were good
vantage points for artillery and whatnot. The smaller one, Little
Round Top, was actually the better one. Some of the heaviest
fighting came when both sides were trying to take it.”

“What’s ‘Devil’s Den’?” asked T.J., reading a
marker alongside the road.

“This big clump of prehistoric rocks that
sharpshooters were occupying during the battle. There’s a little
creek we’ll pass nearby called Plum Run. They say that during the
battle it ran red with blood from all the guys getting shot
up.”

“Wonderful.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty grim. Hey, y’know what you
should do to get a better idea of the whole thing, stop by the
Visitor Center. It was just rebuilt a couple years ago and it’s a
real improvement on the old one. They have maps, displays, tons of
museum cases. You might even run into my dad if he’s between tours.
I’d come with you, but I babysit this little girl down the street
from mid-morning to 4:00 P.M. most weekdays. One of my many
jobs.”

A few minutes later they came to an area
designated “The Wheatfield.” Monuments and markers were everywhere.
“Some of the heaviest fighting went on here,” LouAnne said. Then
she added, “Various people have actually claimed to see ghost
soldiers marching through this field.”

“You believe in that stuff?” huffed T.J.

“To be honest, I don’t know. See, if you buy
into that paranormal stuff, you’ll believe that in places where
people’s lives were ended violently and prematurely, restless
spirits would remain. Well, this is a primo location for that.
There’s been documentaries about it on TV, and there’s three
different outfits in town that do ghost tours. You saw some of the
groups last night when we were walking home, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s another inn on the same block as
mine that actually has a ‘mourning theater’ in the basement where
this husband and wife team in undertaker’s outfits give
presentations about all the haunted parts of town. The room’s made
up to look like an 1800s funeral parlor. Mucho creepy.”

“Wow,” T.J. replied with a wince, his
side-stitch recurring.

“Even my place of employment is said to be
haunted. I think a Rebel sharpshooter was picked off up in the
garret where I do my talks. Some scientific research team did a
black-light analysis of this big old spot on the floorboards and
said it was human blood that had soaked in and then dried out.”

“And you’re not scared up there?”

“Of what? It’s not like some ghost is gonna
grab me or something, Cuz.” She smiled and readjusted her ponytail
scrunchie without missing a step.

“LouAnne?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we dial it down a bit?”

“Sure thing.”

They slowed to a brisk walk. “Put your hands
behinds your head and take deep breaths,” she advised. “It’ll open
up your airway.”

“Don’t know what’s wrong with me,” said T.J.
awkwardly.

“No big deal. The humidity’s a killer. Plus,
the terrain here slopes up and down so gradually that it deceives
you.” She smiled, trying to ease his embarrassment.

“One thing I’ve noticed,” he said, breathing
more evenly now. “The monuments are all so different. Some are
just etched blocks of granite, some have a plaque attached, some
are bronze statues of soldiers or cavalry guys on horses, some are
big Greek and Roman-looking things. How come?”

“Depends. See, they commemorate different
regiments, states, or even generals, some of whom got killed here.
In the end, each particular monument’s as big as the state who
built it could afford. Most went up in the late 1800s, I
think.”

“It seems like they’re everywhere.”

“They are, just like all the cannons that
were placed wherever there were artillery units. There’s a cannon
or two on my block, if you noticed. I’ll tell you, though...at
night, when the sun’s going down, the bronze soldiers seem almost
lifelike. It’s spooky.”

“But you’re not supposed to be in the
Battlefield Park after dark, right?”

“Technically, yeah,” she said with a wink.
“But that doesn’t mean I’ve never gone for an evening jog. It helps
if your dad’s a ranger. You feeling any better?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. We’ve just passed the Peach Orchard.
Tell you what. There’s a little over a mile from here to the
Visitor Center. Let’s make that our goal, and hopefully Dad’ll be
around to give us a lift home when he has a break. I think he’s on
cemetery duty today.”

“Cemetery duty?”

“The National Military Cemetery, silly. You
know... Abe Lincoln? Gettysburg Address? Four score and seven
years ago? It’s a fairly short walk from the center, though the
rangers get to use a golf cart to go back and forth. You up for
that?”

T.J. couldn’t say no. “Sure, let’s do
it.”

They took off again, T.J. determined to keep
pace with his obviously athletically superior cousin. Woods and
fields alternated until they reached Cemetery Ridge, following the
Union line of defense. They pounded up the blacktop lane, passing
dozens of statues, monuments and cannons laid out in a row, facing
back towards Seminary Ridge.

“Stop here,” said LouAnne suddenly. T.J.
thankfully slowed to a walk again. “See this little angle in the
line? Where those couple of trees are? That’s the point in the
Union line where the Confederates almost broke through. You’ve
heard of Pickett’s Charge?”