South of Shiloh (41 page)

60

Mitch’s eyes popped open. LaSalle stood over him, put the toe of his boot in his side. Looked down. The relief in his voice was forced. As was his smile. “Get up, let’s get this over with so I can go home.”

“Okay, okay,” Mitch mumbled, looking up and shading his eyes. Something in the way LaSalle looked down at him? Yesterday’s hope scattered like cockroaches under a bright panic. Cave closing in.

“C’mon. Time to meet your cousin Dwayne. Now sit up, get your shoes on and put out your hands.”

As Mitch pushed to a sitting position, pulled on the battered leather shoes, and tied them, he noticed the black butt of an automatic pistol jammed in LaSalle’s waistband. The handcuffs clamped on with a dull click. Then the iron ring shifted on his ankle as LaSalle fiddled with the lock. LaSalle’s eyes settled on the almost-empty bourbon bottle lying on its side next to the air mattress. The sheen of sweat on his face sparkled, at odds with the masklike, calm smile on his lips. LaSalle couldn’t quite disguise the ruthless deadbolt set of his brown eyes.

More than Ellie’s paid help. He moved with the efficient purpose of a man discharging a mortal obligation.

Mitch wanted to plead, Hey, LaSalle, buddy, if I woulda been there in Baghdad I would have pulled you from the fire. Honest.

Except he wasn’t there and now LaSalle had returned from the fire with a twitch in his brain and scars on his arms and face and today he was wearing his tight black skin like an executioner’s hood.

Everything Ellie said was more sedative.

Jesus, God—they were going to kill him.

Then he blinked and it was like he woke up for real and the paranoia receded like a last ripple from the Demerol vibrations. He exhaled and remembered Marcy’s voice on the phone.

Okay. Better now. LaSalle’s face had lost its sinister aspect.

“What’s that for?” Mitch asked, nodding at the pistol.

“Shit man, maybe Miss Kirby trusts Dwayne Leets on the phone but she ain’t going alone in the woods with him,” LaSalle said and Mitch almost grinned, because that injected some healthy reality. Yes it did.

They walked down the narrow passage for the last time. Good-bye, cave. When they were in the shed, LaSalle pointed out the doorway to his truck.

“Sorry we don’t have better transportation but you’re going to have to lay in the passenger foot well. I’m gonna cover you with a tarp and tie your legs.”

Mitch managed to get out one “Hey?” before LaSalle tied a rag over his eyes. The near panic returned when he heard the sound of tape tearing and then the sticky grip of adhesive slapped across his lips.

The air on his face changed from musty and moldy to a soft breeze, and he was outside. A stillness and a tickle of cool morning mist. His clumsy shoes slipped on wet grass, and then crunched on gravel. A car door opened.

Then he was lifted and pushed into a fetal position in the cramped space. Something looped and tightened around his ankles. Felt like a bungee cord. Stiff, rubbery folds descended over him. He heard LaSalle get in the truck, the engine start, and then the whir and rattle of road noise beneath him. Mitch pressed his manacled hands against the bandage on his cheek, using the stabs of pain to back off the panic. Listen to them, Marcy said. He concentrated on getting his breathing under control.

Maybe half an hour passed that way and then the truck went off road and bumped over muddy ruts and stopped. LaSalle got out and a moment later opened the passenger door. Mitch wasn’t ready. He made his body into a tense pretzel, fighting the strong hands that were methodically prying him from his fragile sanctuary.

“C’mon now, we’re almost there,” LaSalle said patiently, like a man soothing a skittish dog. The reasonable tone of his voice untangled the sweaty slipknots of panic and Mitch relaxed to catch his breath. His feet were untied and he was helped from the truck. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it,” LaSalle said.

Walking now, propelled forward by a steady grip on his elbow. A familiar mush of leaves squeegeed under his shoes, the damp snap of dead sticks and the swipe of branches. Mitch heard a mourning dove, the scamper of a squirrel. They were in the woods. This all started in the woods.

“Got to hand it to you, you’re quite the ladies’ man,” LaSalle said in that voice, like a cold, slow burn. “You’re the only guy in the world who could get Miss Kirby and Marcy Leets to sit down and put their heads together to sort out this mess you made.”

A metallic pop, a flare of igniting gas and tobacco.

LaSalle said, “Now, I’ll remove the gag and give you a smoke. You start making a ruckus I’ll slap the tape back on. Nod your head if you want the smoke.”

Mitch nodded his head and the tape was pulled gently from his mouth. LaSalle placed the cigarette in Mitch’s lips and he puffed gratefully.

“Thing about women,” LaSalle ruminated as they continued walking, “they make up the rules as they go along. We used to have this discussion over in the sandbox. You know, all the gals they got in the line of fire now. Like can they handle it? And this one doctor had a theory that the army was making a big mistake jumping over too many generations of culture and shit like that. Women don’t have all the macho posturing that goes with sports and jive like fighting on the playground, huh? What they got is maternal instinct, you dig? When push comes to shove they’ll just plain
obliterate
you.”

“LaSalle,” Mitch mumbled, “where we going?”

“It’s cool. We’re almost there. You just smoke your cigarette and listen. This ain’t what you call a conversation.”

Mitch nodded, stumbled, and was pulled back upright.

“See,” LaSalle said, “the thing wrong with that doc’s theory is women don’t go for the fight first thing like a guy. They’ll, what you call it? Ask for directions when they’re lost, you follow me?”

“I guess,” Mitch said. The nicotine, the delicious morning air on his cheeks, and LaSalle’s conversational tone had a calming effect. It made sense, Ellie washing her hands and kicking him down the line to Dwayne. Then they stopped walking and LaSalle took him by both shoulders and shuffled him back against a tree.

“You know, it didn’t have to be this way, Mitch,” LaSalle said. “You think back over the last few weeks, since the old man went into decline, Miss Kirby kept inviting you to participate in the next step, huh? Like talk to the folks at the bank and the lawyers about plans for the estate? But you was too busy making your own plans, I guess?”

And Mitch heard a long, low roll of drums building in the distance, bouncing and echoing through the trees and the pitch of the ground. But not that far away. And the drumsticks felt like they were beating in his chest.

61

A LITTLE STIFF FROM SLEEPING ON THE GROUND,
Rane woke with surprising lightness to the smell of horses and the slap and jingle of McClellan Saddles being hoisted and girth straps being cinched. The rattle of sabers and carbines mixed with soothing soft drawls as the troopers talked the bridles over muzzles and set the bits into foamy yellow teeth. Clouds of steam jetted from flared nostrils. Rane looked into a sidelong equine eye.

Beeman handed him a cup of camp coffee and explained that the cavalry unit was mounting up for their traditional Sunday-morning canter around the battlefield. As the horsemen wheeled into line to be addressed by their commander, Beeman and Rane did up their packs, looped their leathers over their arms, picked up their rifles, and hiked, sipping coffee, toward the parking area across from the Confederate Memorial.

The sun was out, for a change. Delicate streaks of orange and purple layered the sky above the trees on the east side of Hurlbut Field. Rane started the Jeep so Beeman could charge his cell. He discarded the Reb clothes and then changed into his blue sack coat and cap. Beeman took his leathers aside and flipped the USA insignia upright. With Beeman momentarily distracted, Rane fiddled with his camera as he slipped his hand into his duffel, found the spare packet of rounds, loosened the wrapping, and tucked the ten bullets into his right trouser pocket. The percussion caps in his cap box would work on the Sharps.

As he tucked the Nikon back in his haversack, he spied the security team assembling by the road next to the brown van. They looked like they’d lost their edge this morning, after pulling shifts all night and the false alarm with Darl yesterday.

Then he watched Beeman, who stood staring at the blue coat and hat he’d brought. Slowly, Beeman shook his head. “Damned if I will,” he said under his breath. “Ain’t wearing blue going past those burial trenches. Not at Shiloh.”

Rane withheld comment. Whatever it takes.

They left their packs and overcoats in the Jeep, to travel light, then, after Beeman slapped a fresh battery into his radio, they started walking up the Corinth-Pittsburg Landing Road toward the National Cemetery on the Tennessee River. The security van fell in behind and the undercovers tramped the field to the right.

Beeman pointed to the road on his Shiloh Park map and said, “You’re in character this morning, dressed in blue. This is the direction the Yankees ran like hell the first day of the battle.”

Rane slung the Enfield over his shoulder and declined to take the bait. Beeman deserved his drama and Rane felt no need to complicate the day by arguing the history. Let him massage his lucky buckeye as his eyes darted into the trees that, this morning, were exorcised by beams of slanting sunlight. Let Beeman have his moment, carrying a Yankee rifle, seeking the enemy of his blood on the battlefield of his ancestors.

But if shit starts going downrange I will get my hands on that rifle.

They veered off the blacktop down a leaf-strewn muddy trail lined with vehicles and horse trailers; license plates from Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama. Then the path branched, and they came to a small clearing where cannonballs outlined a rectangle of ground. Beeman removed his slouch hat and Rane likewise doffed his cap respectfully, thinking absently: this was one of four Confederate burial trenches on the north side of the battleground, which Sherman’s division had helped fill up as they ran like hell.

Beeman screwed up his lips. “Just threw them in here and left ’em. Never had a proper burial or words said like the Yankees they moved to the bluff. Gotta get permission from the Park Service to lay flowers.” He glanced at Rane. “Same government that burned down Japan and Germany and built ’em back up. Reagan over there at Normandy, put a fuckin’ wreath on Nazi graves.”

Like with the snake and the lawyer, the open manholes were back in Beeman’s eyes. Well why not? Might need all the edge he had, pretty soon.

“Okay, here we go,” Beeman said, putting his cap back on and giving it a determined tug down over his eyes, “let’s bushwhack through the woods and lose them in the thick stuff. Hook up with Darl before they spot us.”

Rane shrugged, fell in step, and shook out his senses. A minute later the shoulder mike rasped. “Hey Beeman, we’re losing you. Angle up toward the road where we can see you.”

Beeman keyed the mike. “Roger that.” Then he reached down to the radio clipped under his jacket and switched it off. “You up for a little cross-country?” he asked.

They set off at a trot, holding their rifles at port arms, equipment swinging and jangling, weaving through the trees and gullies. Then they slowed to climb the tangled slope of a broad ravine, recrossed the empty road, and plunged through more thickets until they worked up the side of a slope toward rows of black cannons.

“This is where Grant set up his last line,” Beeman said, breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his forehead. Moments later they emerged from a path into a grassy area where twenty or so soldiers in blue stood around a campfire, sipping coffee next to a triangular canvas tent. One of them in particular raised a curious eye as they walked past; a mixed couple in blue and gray. Rane presumed he was an officer, because he wore a sword. Then the man returned to discussing the battle with a group of early-morning spectators. Rane overheard him say something about a General Peabody deserving a Congressional Medal of Honor for pushing out the recon company that detected the Rebel advance.

“Bingo,” Beeman said, nodding toward the brick park building across the road on the bluff of the Tennessee River, next to the cemetery. Darl Leets pushed off the shadowed west side of the building in a camo hunting jacket, a tractor hat, and jeans. Darl inclined his head to the west along the road, so Beeman and Rane turned left and slipped back into the trees. They’d traveled a hundred yards when Darl crossed the road and joined them.

Darl glanced back toward the small Union camp, satisfied they’d lost the security detail. “Okay,” he said, taking out a park map. “You go due west through the thick stuff, cross Tilghman Branch, and come out here.” His finger tapped a black triangle monument marker captioned
OGLESBY
/
HARE
. “Then you cross Highway 22 and head toward this picnic area.” He tapped the map again. “This side of the parking lot there’s a long field screened by trees with a cannon at the north end. If he’s going to show he’ll meet with Dwayne in the trees past the cannon on the west side of that field.”

“You going to take us in?” Beeman asked, studying Darl’s face.

Darl shook his head. “This is far as I go. Dwayne finds out I been talking to you…” He bit his lip and let his flitting downcast eyes fill in the rest. Then he looked at the rusty Sharps. “Jeez, Bee, hope you got more than that?”

“Why’s that? He out there with a deer rifle?” Beeman asked softly.

“Don’t know what he’s out there with. You gotta take your chances, I guess,” Darl said, his face blank.

“Okay. Fair enough,” Beeman said, hitching up his leather belt, as his eyes turned to the thick western woods. Then Darl handed Beeman the park map, pursed his lips in a relieved expression, turned, and hurried back toward the road.

Beeman watched him go and then said, “Well, this is it. What’s your fate card tell you, John?”

“We’re walking into an ambush, eyes wide open,” Rane said, slightly amazed at the calmness in his voice.

“Yep. For somebody. They could all be out there,” Beeman said, gnawing on his lower lip. “Or maybe I been maneuvered in to clean up a done deal. Only one way to know for sure. You ready?”

More than ready. Rane floated into the tangled brush, his step light. He was almost oblivious to the heavy toy rifle in his hands, the strapped equipment, or his camera swinging in the sack at his left hip. This, finally, was what he came here for: to see if the lost roads of his life would converge ahead. He eyed the rusty Sharps swinging on Beeman’s shoulder. Roll the dice. Be the man in the open this time.

They moved fast through a deep ravine choked with brush, jumped a creek, and stumped up the other side. Rane inhaled his woolly sweat, felt and heard the tickle and whisper of insects. They both came to a trembling halt when a woodpecker drummed a loud tattoo. Sunlight punched through the clouds, broke on the trees, and scattered a shadowy mosaic of Southern stained glass down the forest floor.

Panting, Beeman rasped, “Slow down, John. Talk to me. How should we handle it?”

“We get a look at the ground. Try to spot him first.” Rane removed his cap and wiped sweat from his forehead. “If it is him, we lose in a long-range shooting contest. So we avoid the open and stay in the trees, fix him and then work in tandem. One drawing fire, the other shooting,” he shrugged laconically, “make fewer mistakes than he does.”

They cleared the underbrush, exited the woods, and walked across a broad field toward a triangular stack of black cannonballs. An earnest light now animated Beeman’s face; part condemned man, part executioner. He swung the Sharps off his shoulder and snapped it up, practicing his sight picture. Then he checked the cap on the nipple, his thumb caressing the half-cocked hammer. With a subdued pop, he unfastened the snap on his cartridge box. Then the cap pouch. Rotated his eyes back and forth.

They were out here all alone.

Rane slid his hand in his pocket and squeezed the card as he walked.

They jangled alert at a long, hollow roll of drums coming from the direction of the Confederate encampment. Rane’s pulse quickened and then, spontaneously, they lurched into a run, crossed the highway, and ducked into the shade of the trees.