Last Ghost at Gettysburg (15 page)

T.J., determined now, said, “You bet.”

“Okay, we’ll alternate. Watch me.” The boy
marveled at his uncle’s control as Mike calmly stepped forward,
raised his arm and fired, all in one motion.

“Got ‘im in the shoulder, Ranger Mike!”
yelled Bobby, who obviously had brought binoculars.

Mike gave T.J. a quick wink and handed back
the gun. “See? It’s not hard. Just relax and hold steady.”

And so, they passed the rest of the morning,
T.J. improving to the point where he actually hit the target a
couple of times. He even became somewhat proficient at loading the
weapon.

Afterwards, the group retired to a diner in
the heart of Bonneville for some burgers and fellowship. All the
men agreed that T.J., with some practice, could become a decent
marksman, which made the boy feel good. “I have a question, though,
guys,” he said finally. “A pistol, er, revolver, is meant for close
combat, right? Not long range stuff?”

“Yup,” agreed Matty, glopping more ketchup on
his double bacon cheeseburger. “Up close that sucker of your
uncle’s would tear a guy’s head off.” Darcy’s pals giggled.

T.J. looked over at Mike, who stared at his
food, deep in thought.

“Uncle Mike, you okay?” said the boy.

“What? Oh, yeah, sure, T.J. Finish your
lunch, and let’s get home before we’re missed.” Uncle Mike was much
more subdued on the ride back.

* * * *

Just about the time T.J. was squeezing off
his first round at the firing range, Bortnicker straightened up
from his hands and knees and looked to the skies. “Lord, Lord,
deliver me from these weeds!” he implored, arms dramatically
upraised.

“Bortnicker, we’ve hardly gotten started!”
admonished LouAnne, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She was
wearing a pink man-tailored shirt with the sleeves cut off and a
pair of snug, patched-up jean shorts.

“Better watch that you don’t get sunburn on
those arms,” cautioned Bortnicker, whose own Boston Red Sox tee
shirt was darkening with sweat around the collar. He had to keep
removing his glasses to wipe them down.

“Thanks for the advice, Lawn Doctor,” laughed
LouAnne. “Now get back to work!”

“How much more of this do we have to do here?
Not that I’m complaining.”

LouAnne looked around. “How about we finish
this patch here and call it a day. I’ll make you some ice cold
lemonade. Sound good?”

“Heavenly.” He went back down on all fours
and started pulling.

“Say, Bortnicker, I’ve got a question.”

“Ask away, my dear.”

“Does T.J. really dislike his dad’s
girlfriend?”

“Big time. See, he thinks his dad’s acting
all weird around her, like the guys in those ‘Just for Men’ hair
cream ads. I mean, she is kind of attractive... I don’t know how
much brain matter there is between her ears, but...”

“He really misses his mom, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yeah. Talks about her once in a while,
but you can tell she’s on his mind all the time.”

“Uh huh. Must be tough. Plus, he’s away from
his girlfriend.”

Bortnicker turned to face her. “Girlfriend?
What girlfriend?”

“You know, that Katie Whatshername.”

“Vickers? Katie
Vickers?
”

“Yeah.”

“Are you kidding? That stuck-up babe doesn’t
even know he’s alive! She’s going out with some tenth-grader.”

“You mean Katie lies? Can you see it in her
eyes?” she said with a twinkle.

“Good one,” said Bortnicker, catching the
Steely Dan reference to “Doctor Wu.” “But seriously, he told you
she’s his
girlfriend
?”

“I must have misunderstood. Let’s change the
subject,” said LouAnne, embarrassed.

“If you say so,” said Bortnicker, as he
continued weeding while pondering the intricacies of his best
friend’s mind.

* * * *

That evening the three teens strolled around
town, stopping for an ice cream cone. LouAnne ordered the chocolate
frozen yogurt while T.J. opted for black cherry. Bortnicker, of
course, chose the special, “Pistachio Fantasia Surprise.”

“What’s it taste like?” asked LouAnne.

“Hard to describe,” said Bortnicker. “Want to
try it?”

“Sure.” She lifted her hair from the side of
her face, leaned in and took a lick, Bortnicker all the while
smirking at T.J. with eyebrows raised. “Tastes like plain old
pistachio,” she decided. Turning to her cousin, she asked, “So how
did you like going shooting with the Hee Haw Gang?”

“Ah, they’re not so weird,” said T.J. “It was
kinda fun, and I didn’t do too badly. Took a lot of time to wash
up, though.”

“Told you. That black powder’s nasty.”

“So, Dr. Bortnicker,” challenged T.J., “what
have you ascertained so far about our mystery rider?”

“Well, based on what we know about the
battle, the Confederate cavalry, led by General Jeb Stuart, was
basically a no-show till the third day of the battle. In fact,
there are some who kinda blame him for the Confederates getting
beat.”

“How come?” asked T.J.

“Well, Stuart was like Lee’s right hand man
after Stonewall Jackson got killed.” He turned to T.J. “That would
be your father, I believe.”

“Very funny,” T.J. grumbled as LouAnne
stifled a laugh.

“And as his cavalry chief, Lee expected him
to totally scout out the Union forces they would be going up
against for this battle. So, Stuart, promising to keep in constant
contact, took off with his eight thousand or so men and proceeded
to ride all around the Army of the Potomac without ever reporting
back to Lee until the evening of the second day. By then it was too
late to help his commanding officer.

“Now, the last day Stuart’s force got into a
big exchange with the Federals.”

“On East Cavalry Field!” LouAnne cut in.

“Right you are, my dear. Old Jeb wanted to
make things right with General Lee for going MIA by whipping the
Yankees, but it seems the Union cavalry had this young commander
you might’ve heard of, George Armstrong Custer.”

“From the Little Big Horn?” asked T.J.

“One and the same. Yeah, they had a pretty
intense encounter that went back and forth. It was pretty much a
standoff, not the outcome Stuart had wanted.

“I figure our mystery guy had to be part of
Stuart’s cavalry force. But I have no idea of his division, though
we’re kinda sure he’s an officer from T.J.’s description of the
uniform.”

“So when are we going?” pressed LouAnne.

“When’s your next night off from the Charney
Inn?”

“Wednesday.”

“Then Wednesday it is.”

They walked back toward Seminary Ridge,
satisfied to have finally chosen a course of action.

Chapter Eighteen

Rudy Herzog dropped the transmission of his
police cruiser into DRIVE and left his parking spot near the Rose
Farm, where in 1863 some Confederate dead had been dumped in a
shallow grave so they would not have to be moved too far from where
they had fallen. He was trying to hit a lot of different sites,
parking in secluded areas for ten or fifteen minutes at a time then
moving on. His four-hour surveillance gig was almost over, and he
couldn’t wait to get home to his house in Hagerstown for some real
sleep.

Since the murder of the relic poacher, things
had been quiet, if one omitted the TV ghost guy. Herzog had his
doubts as to the sincerity of the man’s account even though Chief
Warren was fairly convinced the guy had seen
something
.

The car radio crackled with Spence’s familiar
voice. “Anyone out there tonight, Rudy? Over.”

“Nah, pretty quiet. I’m passing the Trostle
Farm and I’ll be getting on the Taneytown Road. Over.”

“Okay, see you in a few. Over.”

“Can’t wait.” His eyes were getting heavy. At
night, particularly when the moon was in and out, your eyes could
play tricks on you in this place. Especially some of those
equestrian statues. A few of them, like the one of General
Longstreet, were set so low that if you looked quickly you’d swear
it was a real mounted soldier.

Herzog was just about to turn left onto the
Taneytown Road when he topped a rise and saw the horseman. Or was
it a monument? He went through his mental rolodex of statues and
came to the realization that the only markers in this area were of
the granite block variety, with a couple cannons here and there. So
who—or what—was this?

Rudy slowed the car so it was pointed at the
figure, which stood upon a hummock near a small copse of trees
about fifty yards away. Taking a deep breath, he flipped on the
roof-mounted searchlight. What he saw shocked and awed him. The
magnificently clad Confederate cavalier sat astride a coal black
horse, one of the most imposing he had ever seen. The soldier
turned in his saddle and faced the light as though he had not the
slightest grain of fear in being detected.

“Stay where you are!” Herzog barked over the
cruiser’s PA system. “You are illegally trespassing on government
property! Do not—”

But that was as far as he got because the
horseman spurred his steed and took off on a diagonal that would
have him passing to Herzog’s right. As he gunned the engine and
spun the wheel with one hand, his left grabbed for the intercom to
HQ. “Spence! Spence! I’ve got a sighting! He’s...oh my God he’s by
me already! I’m in pursuit! Over!”

“Where are you?” Spence demanded.

“Past the Weikert Farm! I’m going right
through the fields! Spence, it’s a mounted Confederate, full
uniform, I’d say over six feet. He whooshed by me going the other
way and my windows are open and I can SMELL him, just like that
Weinstein guy said! Over!”

“Stay on his tail. The other cruiser’s all
the way over by Seminary Ridge! You’re own your own! Don’t lose
him! Over!”

The police car bumped over ruts in the earth,
rocks and tree branches. Herzog wove the vehicle in and out of
monuments big and small which would suddenly loom out of the
darkness. Every time he closed to within fifty feet the rider would
zig or zag, the magnificent stallion leaping over any obstructions,
the rider never looking back, as if he were on a spirited Sunday
jaunt.

“He’s making for Little Round Top!” Rudy
screamed into the radio as the first boulders at the base of the
promontory flew by. “He’s climbing the hill!”

Herzog again pushed the car harder up the
paved road that led to the crest, the distance between them
gradually shrinking as the horseman was forced to stay on the
narrow shoulder. Rudy lost sight of his quarry for a second as he
rounded a bend. He was almost past the parking area and then the
downhill slope, where the advantage would be his. He smiled. “Got
you now, you no good—”

And that was when he clipped the temporary
road work barricade that a maintenance crew had put in place just
that afternoon to surround a pothole in the pavement. Herzog fought
to stay in control of car, swerved, and crashed through the tree
line just below the rocky crest of the hill. Fighting for control,
he sideswiped a boulder and finally came to rest not three feet
from the edge of the precipice from which Union artillery had raked
the Confederate forces below in Devil’s Den and the Slaughter
Pen.

After the dust cleared and he made sure he
was in one piece, Rudy snatched the radio transmitter off the floor
and said, wearily, “Spence, this is Herzog. I lost him. Wrecked the
car, too. Over.”

“Where are you? Over?”

“I’m going to find out. Over.” With that he
slid across to the passenger door and shouldered it open, as his
driver’s side was hemmed in. He half-rolled out of the vehicle upon
one of the stony crags of the hill. Had the trees and boulder not
slowed his momentum, the cruiser would have rocketed over the edge
into the boulder-strewn gorge below. Above him the statue of
General Gouverneur K. Warren silently scanned the battlefield. It
was Warren who had saved the Union’s bacon on Day One when he
scaled Little Round Top, ascertained its advantageous location,
and frantically ordered Federal artillery to occupy the hill as
quickly as possible. Herzog sank down at the foot of Warren’s
statue’s pedestal, head in his hands, still shaking from his
near-death experience. Above the nearby crickets he heard hoof
beats, tailing off in the distance, lost on the cool midnight
breeze.

Then, for no reason he could explain, he
stood up and screamed, “WHO ARE YOU!”

The sound of crickets was the only reply.

Chapter Nineteen

“C’mon, admit it,” huffed T.J., bent over
with hands on knees, “If it was a race I would’ve beat you.”

LouAnne, gasping herself from the last
one-hundred-yard sprint of their run, grudgingly conceded that he’d
have beaten her. “But not by much, Cuz,” she added. “Tomorrow
you’re mine.”

“Says you.” He smiled, proud of how far he’d
progressed.

After a much-welcomed shower they gathered at
the breakfast table where Aunt Terri and Chef Bortnicker were
whipping up a Pennsylvania favorite, eggs with scrapple.

“What’s scrapple?” said T.J., eyeing the
gelatinous hunk of brown matter at the end of his fork.

“It’s a sausage-like product made of meat
scraps, spices and whatnot,” said Terri, pouring herself a cup of
coffee.

“Some things are better left unexplained,”
cautioned Bortnicker. “Just try it. It’s really not bad.”

“By the way, boys,” added Terri, “Mike wanted
to know if you’d like to join him on a cemetery tour today. He
knows you’ve done it already, but today he’s supposed to meet a
platoon of Iraq war veterans there. He thought it might be
memorable.”

“Sounds cool,” said Bortnicker, and T.J.
nodded.

“Rats, I’ve got to babysit,” LouAnne said
with a frown.

“So I’ll drop you guys at the Visitor Center,
and you can ride over with him on the golf cart.”

“That would be great, Aunt Terri,” said T.J.,
appreciative that he wouldn’t have to walk after the taxing morning
race with his cousin.