Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 4) (8 page)

The drive to the Albany Rural Cemetery takes only three minutes
at most. What won’t take only three minutes is locating the Rathbone plots. But
then, if the cemetery visitor center is still open, we might be able to scarf a
registry documenting the one hundred seventy years’ worth of men, women, and
children who’ve been buried here, including my dad.

Turning into the main entry gates, I follow the winding,
tree-lined road into the heart of the old, historic cemetery and take it
downhill to the single-story, chapel-like, stone building that serves as its
visitor’s center. Parking the truck out front, Balkis and I then enter the
building through a front, solid wood, six-paneled door that must be at least a
century old.

Inside the cavernous vestibule, I spot a bulletin board
that’s tacked with several announcements, including one for a Civil War
reenactment which is to take place on the lower, undeveloped grounds of the
cemetery property tomorrow morning. Another announcement asks visitors to keep
the grounds clean and to carry out what you haul in, that is, if your idea of a
good time is to enjoy a picnic lunch on top of dead people.

“You supposed to be doing battle tomorrow, Mr. Civil War
Reenactment Aficionado?”

Balkis turns a shade of pale. “I am indeed expected to
participate in the morning. However, my significant other is also expected to
be there. Rather, ex-significant other who fights for the Union Army. It could
all get a little messy.”

“Cavorting with the enemy, Balkis,” I say. “Tsk tsk.”

“Let’s just say I fell in love with someone I shouldn’t
have.”

“The jilted Confederate lover and the Union Yankee meet on
the field of battle. Could there be anything worse? You’d better watch your
back.”

Below the bulletin board is a stack of papers, each one
offers a brief history of the old cemetery as well as a listing of nearly all
the names belonging to the dead people who occupy each of its plots.

“Bingo,” Balkis says, grabbing the sheet. He pats the
pockets on his trousers and his vest. “I don’t have my reading specs,” he adds.

I take the paper from him and begin searching through the
list of names until I come to the name
Rathbone
.

“Henry Riggs Rathbone,” I say. “Plot number ninety-six.
Dad’s plot was number three thousand and six, which tells me the Rathbone plots
must be located in the older part of the cemetery.”

A man enters the vestibule through an interior wood door.
He’s a small, mostly bald, old man who looks like he was employed by the
cemetery back when it opened in 1841. Smoothing out the jacket on his black
suit and straightening his bow tie, he gazes upon Balkis with wide eyes.

“Excuse me, sir,” he says, his voice mild mannered and high
pitched. “But the Civil War reenactment isn’t until tomorrow.”

Balkis stands tall, sucking in his beer gut.

“I am not reenacting anything presently, my good sir,” he
says. “This is my wardrobe of choice.”

“My name is Christopher Kendris,” the old man states. “I am
the cemetery historian.” Then, giving Balkis a look, like he’s met him before,
and perhaps he has, considering the professor’s employment at the university
and his participation in the war reenactments. “Pardon me for saying so, sir.
But you look like John Wilkes Booth…With a couple of extra pounds around the
gut.”

Balkis sneers. Before he backhands the little guy, I step in
between them. Okay, maybe they don’t know one another.

“Excuse me,” I say. “But my friend here and I are researching
a new movie I’m producing on the Civil War and some of its stranger tales. One
subject we’re working on now is Clara Harris and the dress she wore inside the
Presidential Box when Lincoln was shot by Mr. Booth.”

Balkis clears his throat as if still trying to pass himself
off as the infamous Southern actor.

I add, “This man will be playing the role of Booth in the
movie.”

Kendris takes on an expression of relief.

“That makes sense,” he says. “Lots of movies have been
filmed on the cemetery grounds over the years. Especially period pieces having
to do with Civil War era events, or even the Civil war itself.” He sighs. “Many
fallen Union soldiers are buried up on that hill, you know.”

Balkis clears his throat again like the only good Union
soldier is a dead Union soldier. That’s when I step on his foot, pressing down
on his toes with my steel-toed, lace-up, Chippewas utility boots.

“I am aware of that, Mr. Kendris,” I say. “We’re interested
in one family plot in particular. The Rathbones.”

“As in Clara and Henry,” he says. “Buried up in the old
section, their graves are more or less forgotten. I can take you there if you
like.”

“We’d like,” I say.

“I’ll grab the keys to my vehicle and meet you outside,”
Kendris says, entering back through the wood door to some unknown office or
mausoleum.

I turn back to Balkis.

“Hell are you doing, whacko?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“The John Wilkes Booth act. Stop it already. It’s weird and
could get us in a lot of trouble. This is Yankee country after all.”

He smirks. “I’m proud of my southern heritage and Mr. Booth
was a patriot who died on behalf of his beliefs.”

“So did Hitler. And what do you mean proud of your southern
heritage? You’re clearly a northerner.”

His eyes go wide. “I am trans-geographic. I am a Southerner
trapped in a Northerner’s body. You would learn to respect my own particular
brand of individuality if only you spent a little time on my university campus.
Now can you please get off of my foot, Baker?”

I remove my boot. Trans-gender, trans-race, and now
trans-geographic. Holy Christ, the entire world has taken a turn for the
pathological.

Just then, a car horn honks.

“Follow me and keep quiet,” I say.

Together, we exit the visitor’s center through the big wood,
church-like door.

As promised, the old man has arrived with his car. A Model T
Ford that must be closing in on a century. Painted in white block letters on
the black door panel are the words, Albany Rural Cemetery, Est. April 2, 1841.
Taken together with Girvin’s old house, its basement crypt containing the
bodies of Clara and Henry Rathbone, plus Balkis acting out his John Wilkes
Booth fantasy, and an elusive dress that not only contains the precious blood
of Lincoln but that’s also said to be cursed—and all sorts of truths turning
out to be false and fictions turning out to be true—I’m convinced I’ve fallen
down the rabbit hole.

“What a sharp looking vehicle,” Balkis says, clearly excited
about the idea of riding in a piece of ancient history.

“Get a hold of yourself, Professor,” I whisper under my
breath.

We stuff ourselves into the back of the old car.

“Hold on tight,” old man Kendris says before grinding the
floor-mounted gear shift into first and giving the Model T the gas.

We negotiate a maze of narrow gravel roads lined on both sides
with the oldest plots in the cemetery. Some of the graves have been forgotten
and are now overgrown with grass and weeds, their once white marble headstones
now streaked with gray-black grime and leaning precariously to one side, as if
about to drop as dead as the men and women they memorialize. Some of the sites
support mausoleums that likely cost more than my first house. Big stone and
marble cathedral-like monstrosities outfitted with stained glass and mini
chapels meant to honor entire families long since dead and forgotten by
history.

Kendris pulls up to one such grave site which is also
overgrown, its three headstones surrounded by an undersized black wrought iron
fence that’s decayed over the decades since it was constructed. He stares out
the passenger side window and points with extended arm and index finger.

“That one there,” he says. “On the far right. That’s Henry
Junior’s. The others belong to Henry and Clara respectively, his parents. The
other kids are buried in Germany, or so history tells us.”

Don’t believe your history…Not in this case…

Balkis and I exchange glances. For a change, we’re on the
same page. We could say something about the true resting place of Henry and
Clara but that would cause a fuss and mess up our plans for recovering the Lincoln
dress.

We exit the Model T.

“Thanks,” I say to the old man. “We can take it from here.”

“Sure you boys don’t want me to stick around and give you a
little more history of the place for your movie?”

“We’re fine on our own,” I say. “I know where to find you
when we need you.”

“Alrighty then,” he says, throwing the tranny back into
gear. “Have fun with the Rathbones.”

He offers a salute and takes off back down the road.

Balkis and I take a moment to gaze upon the old plots. Or maybe
I should say, the plots take a moment to gaze upon us. At least, standing there
alone in the old overgrown portion of the cemetery, it feels as though a dozen
sets of eyes are gazing at us. I’m not one for believing in ghosts, but if I
did believe in them, I’d say this place was full of them. My dad’s included.

“Something just dawned on me, Baker,” Balkis says.

“What is it?”

“What if Henry Junior’s coffin is as empty as Clara and
Henry Senior’s most certainly are?”

If I were plugged into an electrical outlet, a lightbulb
would have just lit up over my head.

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day, Professor.”

“It is?”

I step up to the gate of the old iron fence, push it open.
Its rusted hinges cry out in pain. Crossing through the tall grass to Clara’s
awkwardly leaning headstone, I read her short inscription.

Here lie the remains of Clara Harris Rathbone.

Witness to President Lincoln’s Assassination.

September 4, 1834 - December 23, 1893

I glance at Henry’s false grave, his death date also listed
as December 23. Then I take a look at the son, Henry Junior’s, grave. His
marker inscription lists him as deceased in March of 1946.

“You see, Balkis, I can bet dollars to donuts that after he
found his parents bodies down inside that sub-cellar in 1893, young Henry
Junior didn’t dare touch the bodies because, like I already said, that would be
like disturbing the ghost of Lincoln himself or at the very least, disturbing
the curse. Instead, he buried the source of the haunting. The source of the
curse.”

“The dress,” Balkis says. “He buried the dress in Clara’s
grave. After all, it’s her dress. And had he held onto it until his own death,
he would have been incapable of burying it inside his own casket.”

“That’s right. The dead aren’t capable of accomplishing a
whole lot after they’re dead.” I turn back to him while glancing at my watch.
“It’s nearly sundown. We wait until full dark. Then, we borrow the cemetery
backhoe and solve this puzzle once and for all.”

By the time we walk back to the truck parked outside the
visitor’s center, it’s already dark. The maintenance shed is located not far
from the center, so I simply make the short drive to the brick building and
park around back.

Time check.

8:32 PM on a warm summer night.

“We need to wait a while, Balkis,” I say. “This operation
needs to be conducted not only under the cover of darkness but late night when
all the nosy busybodies are fast asleep. Capice?”

“Si, senior,” he says, his tone sarcastic. “So, what shall
we do in the meantime? Chat it up?”

“Gonna be a long night,” I say. “I suggest you get some
sleep while you can.”

I rest the back of my head against the seat back, close my
eyes. I listen for the sound of Balkis doing the same thing, which he does.
Maybe a minute goes by before I begin to hear the familiar sound of snoring.

“That didn’t take long,” I whisper, knowing full well that
I’m not about to sleep a wink with that rattle coming from his overworked
lungs.

Three hours later, I’m still awake but somewhat rested.
Reaching out, I poke Balkis in the ribs.

“Time to go to work, Professor,” I say.

Startled, he wakes wide-eyed.

“Told you I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” he says.

“Oh, yeah,” I say fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “You
must be exhausted.”

Exiting the truck we walk around to the front of the
building and try the door set beside a big, metal, roll-up door. Naturally,
it’s locked.

“Serious adventure man like you won’t let a locked door get
in his way,” Balkis says, as though issuing me a challenge.

Glancing upwards, I make a quick check for security cameras.
None to be seen with the naked eye anyway. But then, judging by the cemetery’s
seeming commitment to the old and antiquated, I can bet they haven’t yet
entered the modern era of digitally enhanced security systems.

Reaching into the pocket on my bush jacket, I once more pull
out my Swiss Army knife. Opening the big blade, I slip it between the closer
and the hollow metal frame and jimmy the door open. Chase the highly skilled.

We both step inside, closing the door behind us.

“Lights,” I say.

Balkis feels along the wall, flips a switch which powers up
the overheads.

And that’s when I see him.

My dead dad.