Last Ghost at Gettysburg (2 page)

“Easy, easy old friend,” the soldier
whispered, soothing the powerful steed. He grabbed the pommel of
the saddle and effortlessly mounted. The sound of a motor came to
him on the wind. There would be more of them, and soon. No time for
the dead. Must leave now. Duty done tonight. He spurred the horse
and galloped off along Cemetery Ridge toward Little Round Top and
the cover of heavy woods. Halfway there, he faded out
completely.

* * * *

Patrolman Rudy Herzog was jolted from his
fragile catnap by the first explosion. Shaking the cobwebs quickly
from his mind, he clearly heard the scream and the second shot,
like the M-80s he used to light off as a kid. Rudy fumbled for the
ignition, at the same time raising HQ on the radio. He was glad Vic
Spence had desk duty tonight. Spence was a thirteen-year veteran
and would know what to do. “Central, central, we have a disturbance
in the cemetery. I’m investigating, over.”

“Where are you, Rudy?”

“Near the Codori Farm off the Emmitsburg
Road. Over.”

“Rudy, any idea what it could be? Do you need
backup? Over.”

By now Herzog was speeding in the direction
of the noises, his lights flashing. “Oh, yeah, I need backup. I
heard two shots, louder’n all get-out, Spence. Like...CANNON,
man!”

“Okay, okay, Rudy. Stay calm. Maybe it’s just
some knucklehead tourists. Proceed cautiously. Keep in constant
touch. Reggie Peterson is clear on the other side of the park. I’ll
get him over to you pronto. Over.”

Rudy stepped on the gas and took off along
the twisting one-lane road that meandered through the ten square
miles of Gettysburg Battlefield Park, past muted parrot guns and
memorials, stone walls and Virginia fences, fields of flowing wheat
once trampled flat under the heels of men at war. He reached the
cemetery from the rear entrance, the familiar 1800s archway flying
by. Heart racing, he jumped out, barely taking the time to put the
cruiser in park, and pulled his Glock. He’d never been so scared in
his life. Four years on the force and the only thing that had ever
happened were a few rowdy disturbances in frat houses on the nearby
college campus. That and the typical nonsense involving the days
surrounding the annual commemoration of the battle, when tourists
and reenactors swelled the town’s population enormously and anyone
who was not directly involved with the festivities or the town’s
commerce went on a cruise or to the Jersey Shore. Rudy flicked on
his high beam flashlight and crept among the gravestones, finally
making out two sack-like forms that were strewn across military
grave markers. He knew at once they were dead. But still, he had to
look. It was his job.

Herzog reached Lenny Moziak first and turned
the light full on his face...except there wasn’t much left. He sank
to his knees and vomited, again and again, until he was retching
air. He barely heard the car radio crackle to life.

“Rudy? Rudy! What’s out there? Come in,
Rudy!”

Herzog staggered to his feet, cast a quick
glance at the other corpse (no reason for examination there) and
stumbled to the cruiser. Breathless, weak and nearly blacking out,
he clutched the mike. Depressed the button. “Vic, this is Rudy.
Over.”

“Rudy, what the devil’s going
on
over
there? Over!”

“Two kids...teenagers...male Caucasian,
dead.”

“You sure?”

“Spence, they have no faces! Their faces are
shot away! Get somebody OUT here, now!”

“Okay, sit tight. Peterson is on the way.
It’s gonna be all right, Rudy. Just stay cool. Over.”

Spence sat back, exhaled deeply. What in the
Sam Hill had Herzog run into out there? He was an excitable kid,
sure...rah-rah high school football star a few years back...but
this was unlike anything Spence had heard of in all his years on
the force. Not ever. He looked at the wall clock. Two-twenty in the
AM. “Ah, jeez,” he sighed, and dialed up the chief’s home
number.

Chapter One

“I can’t believe this is happening.” T.J.
Jackson sat on the edge of the couch, slumped over, head in his
hands, elbows propped on knees. “How could you do this to me?” When
T.J. raised his head, he knew his blue eyes were red rimmed and his
longish brown hair was fanned out in all directions from running
his hands through it.

“Son, you’ve got to cut me some slack here,”
said the man who sat in a chair facing the boy. “I have a chance to
begin a new chapter in my life. I know you don’t particularly care
for Wendy—”

“C’mon, Dad, she’s young enough to be your
daughter!” T.J. blurted.

Tom Jackson, Sr., undeterred, continued, “Our
age difference isn’t what’s important here, T.J. What’s important
is that I begin living again. It’s been three years since your mom
passed and I’m, well, lonely.”

“But we get along fine!”

“That we do, but you’re old enough to
understand that a man needs female companionship. And I also
believe you want your old man to be happy. Don’t you, son?”

“But
Paris
? You have to take her to
Paris
for the summer?”

The senior Jackson sighed, running his hand
through his stylishly cut gray hair—which, by the way, was looking
a little darker lately, his son noticed. “T.J., we’ve been over
this. I have a great opportunity to design a state-of-the-art
shopping complex that will open up new opportunities for my company
worldwide. The Paris people want me to oversee the early stages of
the project before I hand it off to their reps. Wendy is merely
coming along so we can get to know each other better. And you told
me you would have no interest in going. Am I right?”

“What would I do all day, Dad? Throw on a
beret and paint sidewalk scenes? Eat croissants at some chic
bistro?”

“Exactly. Which is why I’ve arranged for you
to spend the summer at your Uncle Mike’s in Pennsylvania. Fresh air
and home cooked food!”

“Yeah, but I’ll still miss captain’s practice
for cross country. You know I want to make the team as a freshman
next year. I’ll have no shot if I’m away all summer.”

“T.J., you’ll have miles and miles of quiet
country to run through, and I’ll tell you what. I’ll call Coach
Autieri over at the high school and explain the situation. I’ll
tell him you’ll be training on your own and to send over a workout
program. That way he’ll remember your name come fall.

“Son, you’ve gotta help me out here. You know
Uncle Mike and Aunt Terri would love to have you, and you’ll get to
spend some time with your cousin LouAnne—”

“Who’s not even my cousin!” T.J. hissed,
grasping at straws.

“Whoa, c’mon, that’s not fair. True, she’s
adopted, but Uncle Mike’s raised her like his own since she was a
baby. You guys are around the same age. You can hang out.”

“And do what? Milk cows? Plow the fields?
While you two are gallivanting around the Eiffel Tower?”

“One question, T.J. Have I tried my best to
give you a good life? You live in a huge house with every possible
convenience. The two of us do loads of stuff together. I let your
friends come and go every weekend. But now I need you to do this
for me. I don’t ask for much, son.”

T.J. was dead in the water and he knew it.
His father
was
the best guy in the world, and had worked his
butt off to make a good life for them after Mom had died from
ovarian cancer.

“Okay,” he muttered. “This one time.”

His father came over, sat beside him and
draped an arm around his shoulders. T.J. could smell his Cool
Water aftershave. “I’ll be back before you know it. Thanks, son,”
he whispered.

Now both of them were crying.

Chapter Two

“As
The Dan
once said, ‘you’re looking
bad, my funky one. Has your superfine mind come undone?’”

“You could say that,” said T.J., rummaging
through his dresser.

“What I wouldn’t give to trade places with
you, ya lucky dog,” Bortnicker said with a sigh as T.J. tossed a
pair of athletic socks into his suitcase. “I mean, a whole summer
to explore Gettysburg! You’ve stepped into it, man.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve stepped into
something
.” T.J. looked across the room to where Bortnicker
perched on his haunches atop T.J.’s computer desk chair. That was
just one of Bortnicker’s quirks. He didn’t sit. He perched. Like
some squirrel up a tree. Or maybe an owl, with those Coke-bottle
glasses and scraggly, unkempt hair that drooped into his eyes. No,
wait. He was too skinny to be an owl. What was he, then?

A guy so weird that the nerds at school
wouldn’t even hang out with him. Who didn’t watch TV at all except
for the History Channel. Whose sole hobby was his humongous model
train set. Who quoted obscure lyrics from Steely Dan songs to fit
every conceivable occasion.

As neighbors from across the street since
they were toddlers, T.J. and Bortnicker had grown up together, if
you could call it that. Bortnicker was floating somewhere between
perpetual childhood and senior citizen sensibility. The guys at
school ragged on T.J. for being his friend. Girls mouthed, “He’s so
weird,
” behind his back. Teachers would either sigh with
exasperation or rolled their eyes when Bortnicker went off on one
of his tangents in class. He was at his most deadly in social
studies, where he relished debating virtually every point the
teacher made. This past year had been especially trying, with Mr.
O’Neill literally cringing every time Bortnicker’s hand shot up and
he uttered his dreaded prologue, “I have TWO questions.” To T.J.,
whose personality was so reserved that it bordered on timid,
Bortnicker could be flat out uncomfortable to be around.

But it was Bortnicker who had talked him down
from the ledge when T.J.’s mom had been diagnosed, and then died,
all within a hellish six months. Bortnicker’s own parents had split
when he was only two. He lived with his mom, Pippa, who counseled
upscale housewives in converting their homes into harmonious havens
of feng shui. And they paid her big bucks for this! In fact, if
Bortnicker wasn’t happily accompanying her on a weeklong feng shui
seminar in Boston the next few days, T.J. had actually considered
staying with him for the summer, to which Bortnicker would have
gratefully agreed.

“So when do you leave?” asked Bortnicker,
cleaning his fingernails with T.J.’s letter opener. Yuck.

“Tomorrow. Dad and
Wendy
are driving
me down to my Uncle Mike’s, dropping me off, and flying to Paris
out of Philly.”

“How many hours from here?”

“’
Bout five or so from
Fairfield.”

“Wait a minute!” shouted Bortnicker. He
frantically plopped down onto the chair and his fingers flew over
the computer keyboard. “Yep,” he said with satisfaction, “Just as I
thought. I
love
MapQuest!”

“What?”

“Well, if you take the Merritt Parkway south,
cross the New York border and pick up 287 West, go over the Tappan
Zee Bridge to Jersey, take the Garden State Parkway to the Jersey
Pike to the Penn Pike, you’ll pass through Lancaster County on the
way!”

“So?”

“The Strasburg Train Museum’s there! One of
the best model train exhibits in the world!”

“I think I’ll pass on that. Besides, Dad and
Wendy
have a plane to catch. I’m wondering if they’re even
gonna stop the car to drop me off at my uncle’s or just open the
door and push me out.”

“You’re being too harsh, Big Mon. You just
don’t realize what a great opportunity this is. And what did you
say your uncle does down there?”

“He’s a ranger at the Battlefield Park.”

“Too cool! You’ll have the run of the place.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And wasn’t there the mention of a young
female?”

“You mean my cousin, LouAnne? Please. I
haven’t seen her since Mom’s funeral, but I can tell you, she’s
about as geeky as—” He stopped short, aware of his face
reddening.

“As me? As geeky as
me
, T.J.?”

“Nah, man. That’s not where I was going.”

“It’s okay. I just have this feeling that
you’re gonna have a great time. Remember to bring your laptop so we
can stay in touch. Hey, did you know that in the Battle of
Gettysburg the Confederate Army approached from the north and the
Union Army from the south?

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Civil War Journal
. Great show.”

T.J. filled his cheeks with air, blew them
out. Tossed a pair of track shorts in his suitcase. “This is gonna
really
suck,” he muttered.

Bortnicker shook his head in disagreement,
then smiled and offered, “Remember what
The Dan
said. ‘If
you’re a Major Dude, you tell your friend that if his world breaks
apart, it’ll fall together again.’”

“Profound,” T.J. replied as he rifled a
running shoe at Bortnicker’s scraggly head.

Chapter Three

Jamie Weeks adjusted the knobs on his metal
detector and repositioned the cushioned-fit earphones over his camo
cap. Man, this Coinstar 4000XL model was worth the $750 he’d
shelled out for it. If there was any precious metal between here
and
China
, it was going to show up on the screen. His
‘phones’ had been pinging like crazy for the past half-hour and
he’d dug some neat stuff with his army surplus collapsible spade.
Though it was pitch black in the woods near Spangler’s Spring, he
could make out one of the items he’d unearthed—a Georgia state
button from a Confederate soldier’s tunic. It was hard to
determine the condition because, well, it was half-past midnight.
And he was here at half-past midnight because he was committing the
illegal act of hunting for artifacts on protected national park
grounds. There was always the chance he’d get caught by the police
or park rangers or whoever patrolled these woods after dark, but
what the hay. Jamie was on a personal treasure quest.