Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 4) (4 page)

So, here’s what I’m thinking as soon as I pull onto Cherry Tree
Road. Maybe it’s not such a good idea to park right outside the house. For two
reasons. First, if there’s a killer out there and he has his eye on the house,
I’d rather not advertise the fact that I’m inside the place all alone.

Second, I don’t want the Cherry Tree residents to get
suspicious. Last thing I need is nosy neighbors lobbing all sorts of questions
about why I’m looking around the Girvin’s old house all by my lonesome, even if
it is the sight of some wrongdoing.

So, instead of parking outside the house itself, I hang a
right onto Cherry Tree, pull over to the side of the road by a stand of old
pines, and cut the ignition.

I hoof it on foot from there.

Standing outside on the street, the yellow crime scene ribbon
pressed up against my knees, I get my first panoramic glance of the two-story
structure from outside the confines of a motor vehicle. I take a long look at
it’s gabled roof, big French windows, second floor balcony off the garage (a
new edition since the Civil War era), black shutters, and the old maple and
pine trees that surround it. Digging my hand into my jacket pocket, I pull out
the ring of keys Miller gave me, step over the ribbon, and swiftly make my way
along the gravel driveway to the house.

I head around the back of the garage, find a wooded
backyard, the landscaping unkempt and thick. It’s as if during the time it took
me to cover the thirty or so feet from the driveway to the backyard, I went
from a quiet suburban neighborhood of 2015 to an era back in time where it took
an army of keepers to hold back the growth of the upstate New York forest.

Bushwhacking my way through the tall grass, I come to the
back door off the kitchen. It’s an old, wood plank door that’s been painted black,
the wood so thick and old I would not doubt that it dates back to the time of
Clara Harris and Henry Rathbone.

I push the key into the twentieth-century era lock. It takes
some monkey grease to release the latch. That’s when I pull the key back out and
push the door open, the hinges creaking and squeaking. Stepping into the
kitchen, I don’t find the usual stainless steel paneled refrigerator or GE
stove with computer programmable burners and glass countertop. No
state-of-the-art microwave, no wine cooler, and no sign of a wet sink, to which
might be attached a water-filtering spigot that can provide several varieties
and intensity of sprays. No remote control retractable blinds over the windows.
No dimmer switch for any LED track lighting. No digital, remotely programmable,
local APD-connected security system.

There’s no overhead electric lighting at all.

There is, however, a chandelier that sports a dozen or more
candles that have burnt down to almost nothing. In place of a wet sink is a
wooden water bucket that hangs by a pole mounted to the floor by the iron
stove. There’s also a working fireplace, the hearth of which is big enough for
me to stand inside of. The floor is wood plank and warped in places. I breathe
in the air. It smells of burnt candle wax, fire embers, and dust. It’s summer,
but there’s a chill in the air as if the temperature inside the old house
defies the seasons, surviving on its own timeline.

The chill gives me the willies to be perfectly honest. Spend
enough time in creepy places like underground tombs and jungles that still
contain the remnants of head-hunter tribesmen, and you learn to listen to your
gut. And right now, my gut is telling me that this house which seems so cute
and quaint from the outside is not a safe and happy place at all. A place where
blood has not only been spilled but people have died. Violently.

I step through the door opening on the opposite side of the
kitchen and enter into a small alcove. It’s dark, so I pull a small LED
flashlight from my bush jacket pocket, thumb the latex-covered trigger, and
splash the brilliant light onto the walls.

The wood paneling is covered in photos. Old, metal-framed
photos of what I guess to be the Girvin family…the man and wife who purchased
the old home from Henry Rathbone and Clara Harris’s son, Henry Jr. Probably
somewhere around the early 1940s if I have to guess. It’s odd because the
photos aren’t the color glossy you might expect. Rather, they’re old black and
whites that were taken by an old fashioned tripod-mounted box camera that might
have been used by Mathew Brady back in the day. But then, given the information
Miller passed on about the couple dedicating themselves to living the life of a
civil war era couple, I shouldn’t be all that taken aback.

In the first photo I come to, I make out a young Girvin and
his wife at their wedding—her seated in a chair, dressed in a white gown and
extra-long veil. Him dressed in a black suit with a collar buttoned half way up
his neck, an old-fashioned bowtie perfectly knotted. He’s sporting a thick,
handlebar mustache, pork chop sideburns, and neither one of them are smiling
since it would take far too much effort.

Another photo shows the young couple seated out back, the
yard far more groomed than it is now. Girvin is wearing a long-sleeved shirt,
the sleeves rolled up. She’s wearing a long hoop skirt, a frilly blouse, and a
hat covered with garden flowers. She’s also holding a parasol against the hot
summer sun. There’s a third man in the photo. He’s old, hunch-backed, his scalp
bald while a thick white beard covers his face. His eyes are wet, forlorn, and
scream of a man not long for this life. My gut tells me he is Henry Riggs
Rathbone, Jr.

Yet another photo shows the Girvins standing outside the
front door of the house beside a horse-drawn carriage. He’s wearing a dark suit
and she’s wearing a long dress and matching jacket. She’s also wearing long
gloves. My guess is they’re taking a trip somewhere. Maybe downtown Albany,
which, in that horse-powered contraption, should have taken most of the day to
make the round trip.

I pull the flashlight away, point it at the living room. A
long couch occupies the center of the extended space, a wood harvest table
pressed up against its back while an old dark wood coffee table is set in front
of it. Beyond the coffee table is a fireplace which, from where I’m standing,
looks like it sports some fresh embers. I’m wondering who would have made a
fire as recently as a few hours ago if the Girvins have been missing for more
than a week.

Aiming the flashlight above the fireplace’s thick railroad
tie mantle, I find a large painting hanging on the wall. It’s a portrait of a
young woman. She’s attractive but sad, her lips frowning, her eyelids at
half-mast. She’s looking forlornly off to the right, not like she’s eyeing
anything in particular, but instead pondering the present condition of her
life. Her hair is pinned up in the back, and she’s wearing a dress with a
flowery collar.

Stepping around the couch, past the coffee table, I shine
the white light onto the small placard located at the bottom of the painting on
the lower slat of the wooden frame. Embossed into the metal panel is the name,
Clara Harris.

Just then I make out a knock…Or a snap.

Something colliding with wood. A foot maybe. A booted foot.

I turn quickly, shine the light out towards the alcove and
the kitchen.

“Who’s there?” I say aloud, my voice sounding strange and
thin inside the seemingly empty space.

I wait, heart beating in my mouth. But I get nothing in
response. Wait some more. But no more knocking sound.

“It’s an old as all hell house,” I whisper to myself. “Just
a mouse.”

It’s as good an excuse as any, I guess. But I wish I had my
.45 with me.

Exiting the living room, I enter into the vestibule which is
covered in a throw rug that bears an American flag embroidered in its center.
The states in the flag are represented by a circle of stars. Maybe twenty of
them. As many states as might have existed during the Civil War. I guess I
should know how many existed back then. But then, remember that C?

Directly above me hangs a chandelier powered by more
candles, years and years of wax having melted and solidified on the wrought
iron arms. Beyond that is a staircase that takes up the entirety of the far
wall. I stand at the base of the stairs, looking up.

The hall at the top of the staircase is dark and foreboding.
To my right is the dining room, a big empty table occupying its center, as are
the ladder-backed chairs that surround it. Shining the LED light into the room,
I make out yet another chandelier and more paintings hanging on the walls,
including one that clearly depicts the Lincoln assassination at Ford’s Theater.

The large rectangular painting draws me into the room until
I stop myself maybe three feet away from its surface. The image is one I’ve
seen probably two or three thousand times since childhood. The kind of
illustration you might find in a grade school textbook. Only now, for the first
time, the picture takes on new significance.

In the frame, we see Lincoln unknowingly seated in the
Presidential box directly beside his wife, Mary. Behind him, John Wilkes Booth
is firing his Derringer. The painting has captured the exact moment in time
that the bullet is escaping the hand cannon and entering into the back of the
President’s cranial vault, the smoke from the exploded gunpowder billowing up
from it. An American flag is draped over the right side of the box, its blue
box of stars representing the “perfect union” providing a bitter backdrop for
Booth while its opposite, striped end representing the thirteen original
colonies, touches Lincoln’s outstretched hand. The flag looks weary, sad, and
defeated as if weeping for the death of her greatest President.

Meanwhile, positioned at the opposite side of the box are
two individuals who, up until now, never gave me a second thought. They are
Major Henry Rathbone and Clara Harris, the original owners of the house I now
occupy. Clara sits beside Mary on her red velvet covered chair. Mary has yet to
register the shot, her right hand holding a fan which is pressed against her
heart. The expression on Clara’s face clearly indicates some kind of confusion.
That the shot has indeed registered with her, but only just slightly.

However, raising himself out of his chair directly beside
her is her fiancé, Henry. Dressed in his uniform blues, he knows precisely
what’s happening. True to form for a man of action, he has bounded up, his left
arm fully extended, his hand trying desperately to reach out for the assassin
as he murder’s the President.

For the first time ever, I feel myself more drawn into the
drama of Clara and Henry than Abraham and Mary if only because of the drama and
sadness they inherited just by becoming victims of tragic circumstances. While
Clara is shocked and even disbelieving of the events happening before her eyes,
Henry, a combat veteran, believes entirely in what he is witnessing and is
doing his best to stop it.

As if to prove it, only a second or two after this moment
captured in time, Henry will lunge after Booth and pay dearly for his selfless
actions with a deep laceration on his arm from elbow to shoulder. But, as I
peer at the illustration and the drama being played out before my eyes, I
finally recognize the significance of the moment captured in time. It’s this
severe wounding of Rathbone that will allow Booth to get away with murder. A
situation that will cause far more scarring to Rathbone than a knife cut ever
could. A situation that will haunt him for the rest of his days to the point of
madness, murder, and suicide.

A curse? Nah, just bad luck…

“Poor, poor, bastard,” I whisper to myself inside the old,
musty home.

Pulling my eyes from the painting, I head back into the
vestibule and face the staircase. Heart pumping in my throat, I start to climb.

The stairs creak with my every footstep as if crying out in
pain. The wood treads are so dry and old it wouldn’t take more than a fleeting
spark to light them up. I glance over my shoulder at the chandelier and candles
that are burned down to almost nothing and I can’t believe this place isn’t
already a pile of charred embers.

Coming to the top of the stairs, I step out onto the landing
and shine the flashlight down the short corridor. With the place having been
shuttered, and minimal air circulating through the upper level, the dust that’s
settled is upset with my every slow step along the narrow, wood plank floor. In
the LED light, the dust looks like a miniature Milky Way of stars revolving
around the sun.

There are only two doors. One to my right and one to my
left.

I open the one to my right and step inside. I spot a
metal-framed bed with metal end tables positioned on both sides, each of which
support a kerosene lamp. A tall dresser of drawers is pushed up against the
wall, and a night table with attached mirror, the glass old and warped, is set
beside it. Placed before the mirror is a wash basin, a washcloth, an old
fashioned toothbrush—possibly carved from ivory, tooth powder, and a comb. I
also make out a straight razor, some cologne, and hair putty. Bill Girvin’s room,
no doubt.

Stepping back out of the room, I cross the hall and enter
into what I take to be Mrs. Girvin’s room…the bedroom that, in my mind anyway,
formerly belonged to Clara Harris. It’s no secret that married couples of the
nineteenth century practiced birth control by sleeping in separate bedrooms. In
the twenty-first century, we have electronically adjustable king-sized beds and
the morning after pill.

Slowly, almost tentatively, I push the door open, careful
not to step inside right away, as if there’s somebody inside waiting for me.
Waiting to pounce on me.

Paranoia?

Maybe.

Or maybe I’m just spooked. Truth is, the more time I spend
in this place, the more spooked I feel. It’s not because of the noise I heard
downstairs…a noise which could be explained by a thousand different things—mice
being the least of them. It’s because the crap detector in my gut is nudging
me, telling me to watch my back, that the sensation of being watched by either
ghost or the real flesh and blood thing (or both) is not just paranoia, but an
all too real possibility.

I step inside, spot Mrs. Girvin’s bed. It’s a sleigh bed,
the frame a dark walnut. The mattress looks almost as old as the frame, the
feather-stuffed mattress sunken down in the center from years of overuse. Maybe
I’m not looking at Mrs. Girvin’s bed at all, but Clara’s. Whatever the case, I
can only imagine the generations of bugs that have assumed squatters rights
inside the thing.

There’s something else occupying the bed.

A blood stain.

In the light from the LED lantern, I can see that the
circular stain is fresh and crimson colored. One, or both, Girvins lost blood
here before disappearing. According to Miller, that is. It dawns on me then
that if one or both Girvins were bleeding that badly, their blood would have
stained the entire house. Drops and smears would be on the floorboards, the
walls, the banister, on the staircase…everywhere. But it’s only on the bed.

I scan the bedroom with the flashlight.

Like her husband’s bedroom, the bed is bookended by kerosene
lamps, the glass shells partially blackened from years of use. To my left is a
dresser of drawers and set beside it, diagonally in the corner is a dressing
table and mirror. There’s a porcelain wash basin and a towel, as well as a comb
made of bone, and a brush.

To the right is the double-hung window, the heavy fabric
drapes closed, the sun’s brilliant mid-day radiance entirely blocked. I find
myself shaking my head. Who in their right mind willingly decides to give up
all modern conveniences for a life of solitude and inconvenience? But then, who
am I to judge? I’ve slept in some strange places myself. A two floor, concrete
block hostel located in the middle of the Amazon Basin comes to mind. My second
floor room contained a ceiling fan and mattress with a sweat stain on it that
mimicked the shape of a human body. The wall behind the bed was covered in
blood spatter as if someone had kicked the door in on some unsuspecting son of
a bitch and sprayed him with lead where he lay.

I shift myself to the right and find the closet door.

My stomach jumps. Heart beats. The built-in crap detector is
smelling something. Something hidden.

The curse…

“This must be the one,” I whisper.

I open the closet door, push aside the clothing that hangs
on the metal bar. Shining the LED lantern onto the back wall, my heart sinks
down to my feet. All that’s visible is an old plaster and lath wall. The brick
wall isn’t here.

“What if it’s in old man Girvin’s room?” I whisper to
myself, crossing the hall back into his bedroom.

I head to the closet, open the wood door. No brick wall
there either.

There are two other bedrooms further down the hall. I head
into each of them, examining the closets. No brick walls.

Out in the hallway, I have a one man huddle with myself.

“Okay,” I say aloud, my voice sounding hollow and odd inside
the empty hall. “According to Balkis and Miller, legend has it that the dress
was hidden behind a brick wall in Clara’s bedroom closet. That closet is now
Mrs. Girvin’s closet and has been for decades and decades. So why then, no
bricks?”

Then it comes to me that I’m simply looking in the wrong
place. That maybe the legend isn’t quite right, as legends have a nasty habit
of being. What if the wall exists, but it’s just not where it’s supposed to be?

That question clearly in mind, I head back into Clara’s
bedroom.