Last Ghost at Gettysburg (8 page)

As he caught the Town Trolley, a plan began
to form in his mind. Somehow, he had to catch up to his cousin
before she totally humiliated him with her running prowess, and
tonight he’d put that plan into effect, no matter how much pain it
caused.

Chapter Nine

As he laced his running shoes, T.J. felt a
tingling sense of excitement. Mike and Terri were out to dinner,
and LouAnne was going to be staying late at Charney House
entertaining a large group from the Virginia Daughters of the
Confederacy, who had arrived in town via tour bus that afternoon.
This would be the perfect time to try out Coach Autieri’s workout
without LouAnne’s scrutiny or the oppressive morning heat. And if
he got stopped, he reasoned, he could always drop Uncle Mike’s
name.

After pulling on his light gray Bridgefield
Middle School track suit, he quickly stretched and then set off on
an easy jog in the opposite direction from the first run, crossing
the Hagerstown Road toward Reynolds’ Woods, where the Union general
of the same name was shot from his horse on the battle’s first day.
He thought it was rather cool that the Hagerstown Road also went by
the name of his hometown, Fairfield.

Feeling strong, T.J. spied the outline of the
McPherson Farm’s barn, which had survived the battle, amid a field
of grass that murmured to him in the cool breeze. Why not? He left
the pavement and made for the structure, noting the decidedly
uneven terrain and wondering if his desire to gain an advantage on
his cousin was perhaps foolhardy.

He was within fifty yards of the barn when,
almost as if on cue, he stepped into a chuckhole and tumbled
forward, his hands outstretched to break his fall. T.J. effected a
forward roll and ended up in a sitting position, shaking dirt and
sweat from his hair. He tried to stand but clearly wasn’t up to it,
his right ankle screaming with pain. So he sat back in the long
grass and got his bearings. He could make out the Seminary’s cupola
in the distance from where he’d come, figuring he’d covered at
least a mile and a half. What had he been thinking? Now he’d have
to get back to Uncle Mike’s on his own, where he could hopefully
ice his ankle while concocting some kind of story that wouldn’t
have his relatives regarding him as an irresponsible jerk. But if
he was going to beat them home he’d have to get cracking, bad ankle
or no. Taking a deep breath, he gingerly rose, dusted himself off
and guesstimated an angle that would get him to Seminary Ridge in
the shortest possible distance.

He was approaching Reynolds’ Woods when the
pain became unbearable and he paused for rest, the stubby obelisk
commemorating the fallen general etched against the sky before him.
T.J. lay back against a tree on the woods’ edge, massaging the
tender ankle, and immediately cursed his bad luck. Had he sat in
animal droppings? Or was something dead in his immediate area? He
couldn’t tell, as the evening was becoming increasingly overcast,
but the smell became stronger.

Then he heard hoof beats, unmistakable,
mingled with the sound of metal clinking on metal.
What in the
world?

He looked from side to side into the gloom.
Gotta get moving,
he thought.
Suck it up and GO.
But
as he rose to his feet a figure stepped from behind a tree, so
quickly that T.J., backpedaling, put too much pressure on the
injured joint and went down yet again.

The soldier stood before him, feet planted
wide, gauntleted hands on hips, his head slightly cocked to one
side. T.J. couldn’t tell if this was from amusement or sheer
bewilderment at the tableau of the fallen boy.

“Who...are you?” T.J. managed.

“That is NOT your concern,” the man replied.
“State your business here.” His dark eyes bored into the boy.

“Well, I, er—”

“Spit it out, lad!”

“I was running.”

The tall soldier seemed taken back. “Running?
From what?”

What, indeed?
“I don’t know,” he
said.

The soldier squinted an eye. “Your name?”

“T...Thomas Jackson, Junior, sir,” he
whispered hoarsely, as the realization dawned upon him that this
man’s uniform matched that of the Confederate cavalry officers on
display in the Visitor Center, right down to the plumed hat.

“Thomas Jackson, Junior. Is that a fact?” the
man said. “And I suppose this is your uniform?” he added, flicking
a finger at T.J.’s track suit.

“Well, yeah, uh, yes, sir. I guess you could
call it that.” Even as he spoke T.J. made the connection.
Bridgefield Middle School’s colors were gray with red and blue
piping, the same colors as the Confederate Stars and Bars.

“And am I to believe that you are actually
the son of Thomas Jackson?”

“Yes, sir, he’s my father.” What was up with
this guy? How could he possibly know his dad? And where was that
ungodly smell coming from? He heard the sound of a horse nickering
in the woods behind them.

“Brutus, hush!” the soldier commanded and the
animal silenced.

T.J. was frightened, yet fascinated. The
specter before him was powerful, even regal, though darkly
menacing. He felt he must keep a conversation going or
this...whatever he was, might cause some serious harm. His mind
raced...and then, for some reason he thought,
what would
Bortnicker do?

“I have two questions,” he said, trying to
eliminate the waver in his voice.

“And they are?”

“Well, first, are you real?”

“Do I seem real to you, boy?”

“I guess so. I think. I can see you.”
And
I can sure smell you,
he thought.

“Your second question.”

“Well, uh, why are you here?”

“It is my home,” he said firmly.

“You live in town, then.” Thank God, T.J.
thought, this guy just likes dressing up and riding around at
night.

“No,” he said, “I live
here.
” He made
a grand sweep of his arm, suggesting that the general landscape was
his home.

What the heck?
“How long have you
lived here?” T.J. attempted.

“Time has no meaning for me,” was his
answer.

Back to square one.
“Are you going to
harm me?” T.J. asked in the most mature tone he could muster.

“I should,” the man said evenly. “You have no
business being heah at this time. This is sacred ground.”

At that moment a passenger jet broke through
the clouds above, the drone of its engines barely discernible, its
red wing lights blinking. The soldier looked skyward, his eyes
widening.

He doesn’t know what an airplane is,
thought T.J. He took a deep breath and said, “You’re right, sir. I
don’t belong here. I just stopped because I was injured.”

“You are wounded?”

“No, not like, shot or anything. I turned my
ankle a ways back near that barn. I’m trying to make my way back to
Seminary Ridge.”

“I see.” The cavalier seemed conflicted over
what to do. From the woods came the sound of his horse restlessly
pawing the ground. The man took a step forward, causing T.J. to
shut his eyes in fear, then dropped to one knee and examined the
ankle, his smell eye-watering. He touched the bone, and T.J. almost
screamed in fright. It was like being touched by something dead and
dark and otherworldly.

“There is no break,” the soldier concluded.
He rose and adjusted his gloves as T.J. quietly exhaled. “Well,
young Master Jackson, if that is indeed your name, you may carry
on. But I warn you, this is not the place to be at night. Other
transgressors have paid for their thoughtlessness and regrettable
behavior. I would not want to include you among their number. And
so, I take my leave of you.” He bowed slightly then strode towards
Reynolds’ Woods, his spurs jangling. When he crossed the tree line,
the sound faded out with the rustling of leaves. T.J. was left to
contemplate his tenuous hold on reality and whether he could even
share this occurrence with another human being.

He slowly pushed himself up and realized that
much of the pain in his ankle was gone.

How is that possible
?
Is it because
he touched me?

T.J. tentatively bounced up and down on the
balls of his feet. No doubt, he was much better. Not risking
re-injury, he began a brisk walk back to Seminary Ridge, hoping
he’d arrive before those who would ask questions he could not
possibly answer.

Chapter Ten

“Okay, settle down, everyone, I don’t want
this to take too long,” Bruce Morrison said, his spectacles
reflecting the conference room’s overhead lighting. “Chief Warren
wants to brief you about a serious situation we’ve got on our
hands, and I want you to understand what we’re dealing with. I
apologize for not letting you in on every detail, but that’s why
we’re here, to get on the same page. Al?”

The assembled national park rangers edged
forward in their seats, including Mike Darcy. There were nine
permanent rangers, including Mike, and nine seasonal rangers who
represented a cross section of gender, age, and color, their one
true denominator, a love and respect for American History. Rumors
had been flying, and they were both relieved and curious as to what
was really going on in their place of work.

“Thanks, Bruce,” said Warren, placing his
Smokey hat on a nearby table. “Rangers, I’ll cut to the chase.
We’ve got a killer loose in the area and we have no leads as to
whom he is, his motive for this violence, or when he might strike
again.”

An audible gasp came from the assemblage.

“Just listen while I tell you what we know,”
said Warren, his hands outstretched in a calming gesture. “What
you’re going to hear will sound bizarre, but I don’t have to tell
you that you absolutely must keep this confidential. This town’s
livelihood depends on it.”

Many of the rangers, including Mike, nodded,
knowing full well the reliance of Gettysburg’s economy on the
tourist trade.

“Okay, then. A few weeks ago two Gettysburg
College students were shot to death in the cemetery, at night. Both
were boarders; one was from Maryland, the other from Idaho.
Apparently, they were partying amid the gravestones, oblivious to
their setting or anything else, it seems, when someone blew them
away at close range with what appears to be an army issue, 1860 .44
caliber pistol.”

Many of the rangers turned toward each other,
eyes wide. Warren paused to let his words sink in. One fortyish
female ranger with short brown hair began to raise her hand, but
Warren stopped her. “Not yet, Ma’am, let me finish. Unfortunately,
there’s more. A couple weeks later we had a relic hunter from down
South digging near Spangler’s Spring around midnight, armed with a
metal detector, night camos, the whole nine yards. He became victim
number three. Same murder weapon. And the bullet matched the other
two homicides.”

What Warren had purposely left out, however,
was even more stunning. Not only did the bullets from the two
shootings match—the State Police in Harrisburg had confirmed
it—
but the ammo itself was old, of 1860s vintage.

Out of the corner of his eye Mike Darcy could
see Bruce Morrison giving him a look. Morrison knew that Mike owned
the exact pistol being discussed, and that he often went shooting
with his buddies. And while it was true that the two rarely saw
eye-to-eye because Mike considered Bruce an over-officious jerk at
times, he couldn’t conceive of his boss having suspicions of him.
Or could he?

“Okay, I’ll take questions,” said Warren.

The same female put up her hand and he
acknowledged her. “So what you’re saying, Chief, is that we have no
witnesses?”

“Not exactly.” Warren looked briefly at the
ceiling as if searching for words. “We had one other incident. A
man, once again in the park after dark, somewhere near Devil’s Den,
was, he says, threatened by a male Caucasian, over six feet, with
longish, dark, curly hair, dressed in full Confederate cavalry
uniform.”

“WHAT!” burst forth from the mouths of more
than a few of the rangers.

“Please, please people, calm down,” cautioned
Morrison.

“This is a positive I.D.?” asked a portly
male ranger who resembled the comedian Jonathan Winters.

“Well, near as we can tell,” said Warren,
“and he might be...mounted as well.” He paused to let this extra
bit of information wash over the gathering. Some just sat there
with mouths agape; others were thinking hard, trying to process
this incredible revelation.

A young African American female ranger raised
her hand. “Does the Mayor know about this?” she asked
uncertainly.

“Yes, Ma’am, we discussed the situation in
depth just last night and he asked if we should call in outside
help. I had enough faith in my department— and yours—to request
that he let us handle it.

“So what I’m telling you folks is this: we
all know the high season is here, and reenactment week is coming on
fast. My officers are doubling up on nightly patrols and will
really, I mean
really,
crack down on anybody entering the
park after dark. Be vigilant and professional, and above all,
keep this quiet.
Hopefully this guy will slip up or get
spooked when he sees a heavy police presence.”

“Is there anything you’re
not
telling
us?” asked Mike.

“That’s all you need to know right now, sir,”
was Warren’s cryptic reply. He reached back for his hat as Morrison
said, “Okay, folks, we have tourists waiting. Let’s have a good day
out there.”

As they filed out Mike could see Warren and
his boss deep in conversation. He hoped his name wasn’t part of
it.

Chapter Eleven

The next morning T.J. was the first to
awaken. His sleep had been fitful, filled with crazy dreams of
cavalry charges and blowing bugles. He gingerly swung his legs over
the side of the bed and touched his injured foot to the floor,
anticipating a sharp pain, flinching in advance.