Ghosts of the Past (5 page)

After brushing his teeth, he pulled on the jeans hanging on bathroom door hook and ripped off a sweatshirt from a hanger in the closet. The Kentucky Wildcats hat went on the head to mask the two hours of sleep damage to the hair. Slipping on a pair of Cole Haan loafers that were waiting by the door to the garage, he was out of the house in just under ten minutes from the time he hung up the phone.

He would have roughly another ten minute drive from his house off Elmwood Lane in the St. Matthews area to the Jefferson Manor nursing home about eight miles east on Herr Lane. Ferguson punched the overhead garage door button as he exited the house, climbed in and started up the Eddie Bauer Explorer, backed out into the street and drove away in the quiet darkness of the morning.

Ferguson turned on the radio, and inserted the CD protruding from the slot. Otis Redding’s
Sittin’
on
the
Dock
of
the
Bay
came on soothingly, allowing him to relax and think about how he was going to handle the inevitable.

Taking care of his great Uncle Max Hignite had been pretty much Ferguson’s responsibility since Max had been sent to the nursing home late last year. However, that was fine with Matthew Hignite Ferguson. Sharing his great uncle’s name had always provided Ferguson with a kindred bond with Uncle Max, and when he had finished graduate school at the University of Kentucky, and moved to Louisville to enter the working world, Ferguson found it easy and rewarding to spend time with the old man.

Ferguson’s mother, Uncle Max’s niece, had died several years prior from a short and intense battle with cancer, and his father had moved to San Diego to try to pick up the pieces. He had since remarried, retired, and spent most of his time never leaving the golf course and southern California. Ferguson’s older brother was still trying to step into reality, moving from Aspen ski instructor during the winter months to building houses in the Denver area as warmer weather set in. Neither had time for Uncle Max, and neither did any of his other nieces and nephews scattered around the states. Uncle Max had never married, and Virginia, his live-in significant other for the last fifteen years, died two years ago, prompting his move into the nursing home.

Eight weeks ago, Uncle Max had suffered a stroke, and the lingering effects coupled with the inescapable reality of old age placed the end in sight. It was a finality that both Uncle Max and Ferguson had accepted, although it was still a bitter pill for Ferguson, since he had truly come to love Uncle Max.

Ferguson pulled into the parking lot at 2:27 on the dashboard clock, parked and quickly hustled inside, waving at the night duty receptionist on his way down the west hallway. Nurse Tackett was waiting at the nurse’s station as he made the right-hand turn into the last corridor. He knew in an instant that he was too late.

“I’m so sorry Matt!” She reached out to give him a hug.

The tears welled up in Ferguson’s eyes, but the huge deep breath kept the emotions from exploding. After an almost never-ending exhale, he regained his composure. He certainly did not realize his reaction would be so intense. He had told himself on the ride over that Uncle Max had had a long and very fruitful life, and that it had come to an end peacefully. Moreover, as Uncle Max had said repeatedly, ‘Don’t shed a tear for me, for my time on this earth has been long and my life has been full.’ Nevertheless, the tears were destined and they came naturally.

“Thank you Judy!” Ferguson gratefully accepted the hug. “I know he meant a lot to you, too! He cared about you very much, even though he tried very hard to be a pain in the ass.”

Nurse Tackett nodded her head appreciatively and then cocked it with a pained expression. “He was talking about the treasure again… right before he passed away. He had been harping on it for the last couple of days. I couldn’t tell if he was delirious or not.”

“Yeah, he’d been talking to me a lot about it lately, too. He had all sorts of names for it. ‘Antiquities in the Alps’, ‘the treasure of the lost souls’ . . . buried in a wall of rock. As senile as he was getting, there still appeared to be some serious truth in what he was saying.”

Ferguson averted his eyes from nurse Tackett’s and stared off blankly down the hall toward Uncle Max’s room. “He was always ashamed to talk about it, kind of embarrassed and always talking about being responsible. He told me over and over that he could never go back for it. He could never have it. It did not belong to him. ‘Too many ghosts of the past’ he’d say.”

Tackett broke his reflection, “He kept repeating that you have to start with the flight jacket. The treasure… you have to look in the flight jacket. Does that make sense?”

Ferguson turned back around to face her, his eyes squinting from the strain of deliberating the instructions. “I don’t know,” he said almost apologetically.

He spent the next ten minutes reciting what he knew from conversations with Max and his mother and father, about Max’s last flight. How he had crashed in the Swiss Alps toward the end of the war. The manner in which he was discovered by a pair of farmers, severely injured, half frozen, and not far from death; his lengthy recovery at a hospital in Zurich, and subsequent transfer to another hospital in the United States for additional rehab. There he was reunited with his family, who helped nurse him back to health.

Uncle Max’s memory of the events always remained fragmented. He would struggle mightily to remember the details, but it would never come in total. The crazy story of a plane buried inside a cave behind a mountain cliff, full of treasure, full of original artwork. However, the one thing he always recalled was the other pilot. The one he tried to save and didn’t.

Ferguson left the nursing home thirty minutes later after spending a last few moments with Uncle Max alone.

The funeral was two days later. Very few people attended. There was one old card playing buddy from the Pendennis Club, another lone survivor of the golf group from Harmony Landing Country Club, several elderly friends from St. Francis in the Fields church, and two of Ferguson’s cousins that he didn’t recognize, but claimed to be related to Uncle Max in some far-reaching capacity. Ferguson assumed they were there to advance the possibilities of laying claim to some inheritance. After it became obvious all his worldly possessions had been left to Ferguson, they could have cared less about sticking around to reminisce.

The Reverend Robin Jennings was dutiful and kind in his remarks, and Ferguson left the church accompanied by Uncle Max’s remains, which had been neatly reduced to several pounds of ash stored in a simple sterling silver urn. His wish of having his ashes spread over the Oldham county countryside from an airplane would have to be settled at a later date. Ferguson’s curiosity over the dying remarks of the treasure and flight jacket had provided for two nights of fitful sleep, and he was determined to investigate the pronouncement to unravel the enigma once and for all.

Uncle Max’s home, soon to belong to Ferguson, was a quaint three bedroom, two bath, one-story log home located just off Rose Island Road in Oldham County. It was just minutes away from the church, and Ferguson had no problems arriving there shortly after the service.

The inside was in disarray from the abandoned labor of remodelers that had postponed their efforts after the news of Hignite’s death. They had kindly informed Ferguson they would not return until they had been paid for work already completed, and would be happy to finish the job if the money continued to flow. He made a mental note to contact them on Monday.

Ferguson loved ‘the cabin’, as Max had referred to it. He was very grateful that Uncle Max had noticed his affection for the place, and decided not to sell it when he had to move into the nursing home. Max had made it clear it was to be his when he passed away.

It sat on almost two acres of land that had been meticulously cared for by the adjoining neighbor. Uncle Max had seen to it that he was more than adequately compensated for keeping the grounds nice.

Everything should be in order and safely stored away Ferguson thought, so his main goal was to track down the flight jacket and start with it. However, what was he supposed to be looking for?

It took less than twenty minutes to track down the jacket, neatly stowed away in a zippered plastic hanger bag tucked into a remote corner of the master bedroom walk-in closet. Ferguson removed it from the hanging rod, walked it out of the closet, and laid it across the king-size sleigh bed.

He meticulously scanned the outside of the old, worn, World War II vintage, Luftwaffe flight jacket, and then began warily reaching into the pockets. All of them were empty except for the left inside pocket, which produced an unsealed envelope folded in half. He removed the single sheet of paper inside, and began reading the hand-written contents while sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Matt,

This
letter
will
guide
you
to
a
safe,
built
into
the
wall
behind
the
antique
mirror,
found
in
the
master
bedroom.

The
combination
to
the
safe
is
18-35-7.

May
God
Bless
You,

Max

Ferguson glanced up at the massive, gold-framed mirror occupying the far corner of the room. He stepped over to it, ran his hand down the right-hand side and discovered the hidden latch halfway down. A quick flip of a switch and the eight-foot tall mirror easily swung back on left-hand hinges to reveal a safe half the height.

Following a couple of botched efforts at dialing in the listed combination, the third effort yielded an open door exposing a leather handle attached to the end of a small gray trunk. Deeper inside were two wood crates, each about the size of a seat cushion, stacked on top. He pulled all three pieces out via the trunk handle. He felt intimidated by the sense of history he was about to open up.

While on his knees, the latches on the trunk opened easily and the top lifted up with a slight creak. Lying on top inside was an old piece of paper, discolored with age. Ferguson was in awe as he lifted it out of the case and gingerly laid it on a lamp table to the side. His mouth dropped and the chills ran down his spine as he slowly started to lift up one-by-one the rest of the military life of Major Max Hignite.

The uniforms, the boots, hats, the albums of old black and white photos, and the shoe boxes containing various pieces of jewelry, insignias, patches, and a myriad of other assorted trinkets. Lastly, at the bottom was a leather case, that once opened, revealed the iron cross with clusters and a handful of other various medals. Ferguson knew he could spend hours wading through the memorabilia, but he returned his focus to the single sheet of paper.

It appeared to be a letter and a list. Unfortunately, it was all in German, and Ferguson did not have a clue as to how to speak, much less read German. He scanned it briefly, noting how legible the typed portion and even the hand written checkmarks next to each of the numbered items in the list were. At last, he glanced at the letterhead insignia at the top and was able to read the embossed name of Riechmarshal Hermann Goering.

Ferguson held the paper gently between his fingers, intrigued by the discovery. He flipped it over, and it got even more interesting. All over the back where hand written notes and some crude drawings. The handwriting was unmistakably Uncle Max’s.
This
is
it.
This
has
to
be
it.
This
is
the
link
to
the
so-called
‘treasure’.
But
what
the
hell
is
it.
I
can’t
read
it!

He re-packed the trunk exactly as he had found it. However, the letter stayed with him. He found a freezer size, zip lock bag in one of the kitchen drawers and the letter went in it for safekeeping.

He returned to the bedroom and decided to see what was in the wood crates. The wood was very old and grayed in color. He carried one of the crates into the kitchen and found a hammer and large screwdriver in a junk drawer. He spent the next five minutes removing the nails holding the wood shell together, eventually releasing one of the flat horizontal planes on one of the sides. He lifted it away and peeled back the canvas cover protecting the contents. His hands started to tremble as he exposed a beautiful gold leaf frame surrounding a magnificent oil painting of a young girl sitting on top of a wood fence in an open meadow. Ferguson was no expert, but he recognized the impressionist style from the broken brushstrokes of bright, mixed colors and lack of detail.
Holy
mackerel!

Fighting the urge to open the other crate, Ferguson knew immediately he was holding in his hands a very valuable piece of art and an incredible piece of history, and undoubtedly, the other was more of the same. The next step was to find someone who could read German. He had to get someone to translate the letter, front, and back, as soon as possible. He would deal with the art later.
The
University
of
Louisville
was
certain
to
have
someone
who
could
read
German.