Cam - 04 - Nightwalkers (43 page)

"I remember that," I said. "Jesus H. Christ."

"Yes, the believers think he's a full partner."

"God'll git you for that," I said. "How's Carol, really?"

"Sedated. Burns on her hands and knees, just like you."

I looked at my hands. I hadn't noticed them before. That's because the palms were swathed in white bandages. Now that I was finally paying them attention, they jointly rewarded me with a lance of serious pain in full stereo. I think I whimpered.

"There were rails there," I said. "They were supposed to have picked up all that shit after the war."

"Apparently it was a union job," he said with a straight face.

I closed my eyes for just a minute. An hour later he was back, with two paper cups of coffee. I praised him for being a gentleman and a scholar and gratefully sipped some truly obnoxious yet wonderful black coffee. It was hard, with the bandages.

"We're trying to figure out the headless m-f up there on the tracks."

It took me a moment, but then I remembered that huge horse and the rider with that equally huge cavalry saber. "The major arrived," I said. "Saw the overseer being menaced by a masked Yankee agent. Jumped his horse over that embankment and took said m-f's head right off."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not, and it's worse than you think." I reminded him about Callendar's true relationship to the family at Laurel Grove. That rocked him back a little.

"He killed his own son?"

"No," I said. "Technically, yes, of course, but actually? He saw the overseer being menaced by a stranger with a gun, doubtless an enemy agent, and he acted to defend the Honor of the Glorious Cause."

"Holy shit."

"Exactly," I said. "You need to go sweat those Auntie Bellums. Find out what the fuck this was really all about. It couldn't have anything to do with some bogus will from the dusty past."

He sat back in his chair. My head was clearing fast, and I realized he was well and truly shocked by what I'd told him.

"I want to see Carol," I said.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. I got her into this mess."

"Okay," he said. "This IV thing seems to have wheels."

A different nurse appeared. The room became an angel-free zone that resounded with the words "absolutely not," but the sheriff was a big guy and I was more than just a little determined. Once I swung my legs out from under the covers, however, I realized that Nurse Ratched might have a point. The room moved around for a minute, and I found out that there is a limit to what painkillers can do for you. Then she gave me one of those I-told-you-so looks, and I stood up. Fortunately the sheriff caught me before I fell right on my keester.

"Get a chair," he told the nurse.

"I don't work for you," she retorted.

"Get a fucking chair and do it now!" he thundered, and she just about flew out of the room. A moment later, magically, there was a wheelchair. I tried to sit down with as much dignity as I could muster and damned near missed the chair entirely. That had been some really spiffy lightning. God's halo indeed.

The sheriff pushed me down the hallway while rolling the IV stand alongside. "You're good at this," I said.

"Had lots of practice," he mumbled, and then I remembered what had happened to his wife.
Good going, dipshit
, I told myself.

He rolled me and my IV stand into another room, and there was Carol Pollard, or at least her face. Her very white face. The rest of her looked much diminished under the covers. My heart jumped a little when I saw her. Then she opened her eyes.

"Hey," I said, taking refuge in the universal southern greeting.

"Well, hello, handsome," she said. "Who might you be?"

The next day they discharged me into the custody of my loyal buddies from Hide and Seek Investigations. Once outside in the sunlight they
proposed that I let them check me into a really nice hotel down in Triboro, where they would ensure that I had the best of care. I told them I wanted to go back out to Glory's End.

"You're shitting me, right?" Tony said. "You're not still going through with that, are you?"

"I am."

"Take him back inside," Horace said. "He's still out of it."

"What happened to the mutts?" I asked.

There was some hemming and hawing, and then Pardee said that they had a little surprise for me.

"Where is it?"

"Glory's End," they said in unison. I was glad to see that they knew defeat when it looked them in the eye.

"What is this surprise--they're not hurt, are they?" I couldn't remember why I thought they might be hurt.

"They're okay," Horace said, "and you like German dogs, right?"

"They're German shepherds, last time I checked."

"Great," he said. "Let's roll."

The surprise was real when we got to the house. The sheriff was there, along with the county animal control lady. Sitting on the front lawn were five dogs instead of three. Two shepherds flanking two Dobes, and then Kitty sitting out in front of the pack in the place of boss dog. Frick and Kitty were sporting the stains of veterinary antiseptic spray, as were the two Dobes. It was obvious, however, that they were now all the best of friends. Peace in the valley.

"I give up," I said from the passenger seat in Tony's ride. "How the hell did this happen?"

"The cops down at the river that night were focused on getting you and Carol out of the storm. These guys showed up here the next morning when Horace came to get all the video gear."

"Last I heard it was a war to the death out there," I said.

"Well, they've all got holes in 'em, but there they are. They've been to the vet."

I knew what had happened. It had been war to the death until that lightning bolt, and then instinct had taken over and all four of them had decided to depart the county. My guys came back to get me, and the Dobes had probably discovered their human's remains out there on the track bed. No more orders, no more fight. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

"The question is," the sheriff said, walking up with his animal control deputy, "whether you want them or you want us to take them."

"They seem to have joined forces," I said. The animal control deputy looked disappointed.

"I assume that little formation indicates the pecking order?" he asked.

I nodded. "I'll try it," I said, getting out of the car. "As long as they're not still mad."

My guys were all over me, even Frack, who got knocked down a couple of times in the commotion. The Dobes never moved. I finally put my shepherds on a down and then walked over to the Dobermans. They were both impressively muscled females, and thankfully, they were immediately submissive. We made our introductions, and then the sheriff said we needed to talk.

I yelled, "Find it!" at the shepherds, who took off in all directions, followed by the Dobermans. It would take them a while to realize that they didn't know what they were looking for.

We settled into the porch chairs while all the mutts spiraled around the yard looking for God knows what and the squirrels worried. There were some cardboard boxes with the electronics gear piled to one side, but otherwise the house looked just about the same.

"So," I said. "Does anyone know what this was all about?"

The sheriff put up a hand. "I conducted an extensive interview with Hester and Valeria Lee," he said. "Had the ADA with me, and they had a lawyer from Chapel Hill with them."

"Mexican standoff?"

"No, actually. Once I laid out the details of what had happened
that night, Valeria broke down, and Hester just seemed to melt into the floor like that wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz. It seems that this was really all about two important secrets."

"I'm all ears," I said, even though I was still having trouble hearing anyone over the ringing.

"The first was that the original Callendar Lee's son was in fact the inside man of the train robbery that night. He'd been a clerk in the Richmond treasury, and he'd learned something important about that train. Which brings us to the second secret."

"Gold," I said.

"No," the Sheriff said. "Something actually more useful. Bearer bonds."

"What's a bearer bond?" Tony asked. Horace put a hand up; he was the financial guru at H&S.

"A piece of paper," he said, "usually in certificate form, that tells any bank to pay the bearer, hence the name, the sum of money or, commonly, stock, denominated on the face of the bond."

"Correct," said the sheriff. "It seems that in the final year or so of the Confederacy, Jeff Davis's secretary of the treasury was concerned about the safety of their gold hoard. He made an arrangement with the companies who bought whatever cotton could be smuggled out across the blockade to pay for it in bearer bonds on the Bank of England. That way, if they ever had to move the capital, which became increasingly likely once U. S. Grant started down through Virginia, a trunk full of bonds was a whole lot simpler than several tons of gold bars."

"The bonds were on that train?"

"Apparently so," he said. "Buried among all the government documents were one or two trunks of bearer bonds."

"And Callendar Jr., the clerk, knew which ones they were," I said.

"That's what she told us. There was also some gold, but not very much. The original Callendar Lee hired the roughnecks to come in and hold up the train. They got the gold. They were never told about the bonds."

"So the Lees got the bonds."

"What good were they?" Tony asked. "The government was defeated."

"That's the beauty and, of course, the vulnerability of bearer bonds. They might have been issued to the Confederate government, but a bearer bond doesn't say anything about who owns it. The bearer, the guy who has the piece of paper in his hot little hands, he owns it. If he or she shows up at the Bank of England's teller window and requests payment, he or she gets the money. Which is what the Lees did for the next several decades."

"Wow."

"That's why they became illegal in most states here," Horace said. "Especially once the states started imposing income taxes. A bearer bond was a great way to make money with no paper trail whatsoever."

"As long as whoever issued the bond was still solvent, yes," the sheriff said.

"Naturally," I said, "the Lees' precious family honor couldn't stand a hit like this. Both for Callendar's involvement in the massacre as well as the fact that they stole a part of the Confederate treasury."

"Okay," Tony said. "I hear all that, but what's it got to do with this place?"

The sheriff looked at me. "For one thing, this explains what that inscription says down there on the mantel: Callendar killed them all."

"Well, hell, she must have known that was there. Why not take the damned stone down and pitch it in the river?"

"Have you seen that mantel?" I asked. "It must weigh two, maybe three tons. No, what they did was cover it up with plaster."

"Still," Pardee said, "I'd have burned the house down years ago and just not worried about it."

"I can understand that," I said. "This house, this property, part of their so-called glorious heritage. None of them could bring themselves to do that. It was easier to control who lived here, you know, the
so-called right kinds of people. That probably wasn't so hard, what with all the Lees in the courthouse, the local law offices, and so on."

"Maybe there's another explanation," Horace said. "The bonds are still here."

That comment produced a moment of profound silence, but then Tony shook his head. "Too long, man," he said. "Too many generations of Lees living off those things. What they've managed to do over time is convert the bonds into two point five mil worth of property, which is another reason not to burn the house down, when you think of it."

I agreed. Except now they'd never get it. Besides, in this day and age, I wasn't sure that anyone presenting a nineteenth-century bearer bond in London would get the time of day, except maybe to discuss it as a collector's item.

"Did Hester admit she sicced her baby boy on me?"

"Nope," the sheriff said. "Hester admitted nothing regarding the events here or in Summerfield. Knew nothing about any of that. Valeria just kept crying, which is as good a way to avoid answering questions as any."

"So what's going to happen to them, then?" I asked him.

"The Lees? Well, that's an interesting question, and you will play some part in the outcome." He stopped there, waiting to see if I would work it out.

"Lemme see," I said. "Callendar, the guy who shot the dog trainer, and probably my original ghost, and who tried to air-condition my house--he's dead. He, in turn, was killed by an insane old man, who happened to be his father. I can attest to that fact. So can Carol."

"No, she can't," the sheriff said, and, of course, he was right. Carol had lost her memory. They had had to tell her what her own name was.

He sat back in his chair with an expectant expression on his face. "Of course, they were all in on it," he said. "Even Cubby Johnson, to a certain extent. You know that and I know that--but proof?"