Last Ghost at Gettysburg (21 page)

“Nothing wrong with that. Steely Dan is
classic.
”

“Listen, I’ll admit their music is funky, and
the older stuff has great guitar solos, too, but their more recent
stuff is a little too jazzy for me. I’m more of a rock n’ roll
person. The Beatles, the early Stones, and a lot of other
bands.”

“You sure you’re not just one of those Jonas
Brothers or Justin Bieber fanatics like the girls at my
school?”

“Yuck! If I listen to anything today, its
stuff like Green Day and The Killers. But I’ve got it figured out
why you’re so into Steely Dan, Bortnicker. It’s the lyrics. I don’t
even think
they
knew what they were talking about. Very
mysterious, like you try to be at times.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really. And your second question?”

“Why aren’t you running?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“You? Not run? You sick or something?”

“Nope. But T.J. thinks I am.”

“I’m confused.”

She nimbly hoisted herself to a sitting
position on the counter next to Bortnicker, which made him
extremely uncomfortable. “So,” she began, looking down at him,
“What’s going on with you and my cousin?”

“What?”

“C’mon, Bortnicker, yesterday was a tension
convention between you two, even aside from our after-dinner
grilling from my dad. What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Bull-tweed.”

“What
?”

“I don’t know, it’s something my dad says
when he doesn’t want to curse around me. Like I don’t hear it at
school every day.”

“Listen, LouAnne, everything’s cool with me
and T.J.”

“It better be. You guys are like brothers to
each other.”

“Unfortunately, even brothers don’t always
see eye to eye.”

“Huh. Well, you better get on the same page
quick because we could all get killed if we screw up.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

Aunt Terri saved the day, blowing into the
kitchen with, “Oh, you can hunt ghosts but you need
me
to
make coffee?”

“Coming right up,” said Bortnicker, spooning
in additional grounds.

“LouAnne, you’re not running today? You don’t
feel well?” she said, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

“Well, I didn’t when I got up,” she smiled at
Bortnicker, “but I feel a lot better now.”

* * * *

T.J. burst into the rangers’ office where he
caught his uncle emerging from the rest room.

“Whoa there, Hoss,” Mike said, practically
applying a forearm shiver to stop the panting boy. “What’s got into
you? And where’s your cousin?”

T.J., doubled over to catch his breath,
raised a finger in the air, signaling his uncle to wait a second.
Finally he straightened up, breathing more normally.

“Uncle Mike,” he half-panted, “Nobody ever
saw or heard of this ghost horseman till recently, right?”

“Yeah. I’d put the first shooting at the
beginning of May.”

“Okay, so there’s a good chance Hilliard has
been, like,
dormant
all these years, ‘cause if he wasn’t,
chances are he would’ve been shooting people all over the place,
for whatever reason. I think something happened that made him
appear.”

“Like what?”

“That’s where you come in. Listen, when me
and Bortnicker went to see that Elway guy, he told us of some
remains being found near the railroad cut awhile back by one of the
park rangers.”

“I remember. Boy, did he ever make a big deal
out of that.”

“Of course he would. It’s good publicity for
his business. But see, this park must be under constant renovation
and whatnot, right?”

“Oh yeah. The idea is to gradually take the
landscape back to the way it appeared in 1863. That involves
replanting orchards and clearing some other sections. It’s an
ongoing process. There’s always some area that’s being worked
on.”

“But if the grounds crew finds remains or
whatever, they keep it quiet, don’t they?”

“Well, yeah. I would assume the remains are
discreetly buried in the cemetery. But what makes you so sure this
Hilliard just showed up recently?”

“It’s just a feeling,” said T.J., “like this
is all kinda new to him and he hasn’t figured it out yet. Let me
give you an example. The first time I met him—”

“I thought you were with LouAnne and
Bortnicker.”

“Ah, no. There was a previous time when I
went for a night run.”

“WHAT!” his uncle exploded. “Doesn’t anyone
listen to me?”

“Uncle Mike, please calm down. Okay, I
screwed up and went for a run after dark. It was stupid. But
LouAnne was blowing me away in our morning workouts and I couldn’t
stand a girl beating me.”

Mike sighed, closed his eyes and counted to
five. “Okay, I can relate to that. Continue.”

“Well anyway, I’d turned my ankle in a
chuckhole near Reynolds’ Woods and that’s where he found me. So
while he’s talking to me a jumbo jet flies overhead and he just
stopped what he was doing and stared at it like he’d never seen one
before. Makes me think if he’d been around for a long time that
wouldn’t even distract him for a second.”

“Makes sense. So how can I help you?”

“Well, do you know the person who’s head of
maintenance or whatever?”

“Yes. Frank Staltaro. His son Pat played
defensive tackle for me over at the high school.”

“Think he’d tell you if, and more
importantly,
where
any remains might have turned up in early
May?”

“I think I could get him to share. He should,
I got his kid a full scholarship to Rutgers, and the boy wasn’t
exactly a genius.”

“Great. Maybe we could all touch base over
dinner later?”

“Sounds good. Meanwhile, let me run you home
so I can get back for my first tour.”

“I was hoping you’d offer. I’m pooped!”

* * * *

Mike laughed and walked out of the building
with his hand across his nephew’s shoulders, unaware that his
superior had witnessed, but not heard, their entire encounter from
behind the glass door of his office.

Bruce Morrison trusted Mike Darcy, but
figured it was time for a check-in with Al Warren anyway, and
dialed him up. The receptionist at the police station put him
right through.

“Chief Warren. Is that you, Bruce?”

“Hi, Al. Got a question.”

“Hope I have the answer.”

“It’s pretty simple. Anything happen the past
few nights on the battlefield?”

“Not involving the horseman, and believe me,
our patrol cars have been out. But something curious did occur.
Couple nights ago I personally picked up our friend Carlton Elway
loaded down with an assortment of ghost-hunting equipment,
supposedly on his way to some battlefield night mission.”

“Oh yeah? Where was this?”

“On Seminary Ridge, ‘bout a half mile from
Pitzer’s Woods.”

“Near Mike Darcy’s house?”

“Well, in the area. What’s he got to do with
this?”

“I can’t tell exactly. But Elway and Darcy’s
nephew and his buddy and even Darcy himself are all connected
somehow. I’ve spoken to Mike myself and, I don’t know, I get a
strange vibe.”

“Think I should pay an official visit to our
esteemed ghost hunter? ‘Cause he wasn’t saying squat when I picked
him up.”

“It’s your call, Al.”

“Okay. Thanks for the heads-up, Bruce.”

* * * *

After a shower and a somewhat hurried
breakfast T.J. and Bortnicker caught a ride into town with Aunt
Terri to make their appointment, dropping off LouAnne at Mrs.
Spath’s on the way.

“Call me on my cell if you learn anything!”
she said as she exited the car.

“I’m running a ghost hunter car service,”
lamented Aunt Terri.

They barely made it to Dr. Landon’s office in
time. She was just making them comfortable when the phone rang
promptly at ten. Landon exchanged pleasantries with Ms. Thibodeaux,
punched the conference call button, and left the office to attend
to her duties.

“Mistuh Jackson, Mistuh
Bortnicker, good morning!
Is it as hot in Gettysburg as it
is here in Charleston?”

“It’s pretty brutal, Ma’am,” answered T.J.
politely.

“Yes. Well. My staff burned the midnight oil
looking for our Major Hilliard, and we did have some success,
though the findings are somewhat disturbing. Mr. Jackson, I
neglected to ask you and Mr. Bortnicker if the major is a relation
of yours?”

“No, Ms. Thibodeaux, neither of us,” said
Bortnicker.

“Oh, then I feel so much better about sharing
this information.

“Hilliard’s career pretty much mirrored his
superior’s early on. Hampton’s Legion first saw combat in 1861 at
the First Battle of Manassas, also known as Bull Run, where their
maneuvers bought time for Stonewall Jackson to reach the field and
turn the tide the South’s way.

“It was during this battle that Hilliard made
a name for himself. Hampton was wounded for the first of five times
during the war while leading a charge against a Federal artillery
position, and Hilliard, though only a lieutenant, made an
instinctive, reckless, spur-of-the-moment decision to step in for
his superior and continue leading the men forward. According to
eyewitness accounts his uniform and hat were shredded with
grapeshot and two horses were shot from under him, but he
steadfastly carried on and helped win the day.

“For his heroism under fire Hilliard received
a battlefield commission to captain and, as a token of appreciation
from his friend Hampton, a beautiful stallion.”

“BRUTUS!” cried Bortnicker.

“Why, yes, that was his name. How could you
possibly know that?”

“Uh, I think I read it somewhere,” he managed
before Thibodeaux continued.

“Anyway, this horse of his, like his master,
was known for its unflinching fearlessness in the face of enemy
fire. By all accounts Brutus was a magnificent animal, as
comparatively large in stature as Hilliard, who stood at 6’2”
without his riding boots. We have his measurements from the records
of his personal tailor, who crafted what was by all accounts a
rather flashy uniform that mirrored his sense of dash and
drama.

“Hilliard participated in the Peninsula
Campaign of 1862, again stepping up when Hampton was wounded in the
foot at the Battle of Seven Pines. His next promotion came in the
winter of that same year when he distinguished himself in a series
of cavalry raids behind enemy lines that captured numerous
prisoners and supplies with minimal losses. So, by the time Lee
went north to Gettysburg, he was a highly decorated, and popular
major.”

“Wow,” said T.J.

“Wow, indeed,” she answered primly. “But here
is where it gets hazy.”

“How so?” said Bortnicker.

“Well, he came through with distinction at
the Battle of Brandy Station, the war’s largest cavalry battle, but
he was also a part of supreme cavalry Commander J.E.B. Stuart’s
ill-advised ride around the Union army.”

“Which he took a lot of criticism for,” said
Bortnicker eagerly.

“Young man,” snapped Ms. Thibodeaux, “though
General Stuart has been made a scapegoat for the Southern defeat at
Gettysburg, it should be noted that Hampton’s Legion were merely
carrying out their orders and were the vanguard of many of Stuart’s
glorified campaigns!”

“Yes Ma’am, sorry,” Bortnicker mumbled as
T.J. mouthed the words
Shut up!

“To continue, Hampton’s Legion, as part of
Stuart’s cavalry, did not join the fight at Gettysburg until the
third day, at what is today known as East Cavalry Field. There
they fought to a draw with cavalry led by George Armstrong
Custer.

“But the regimental ledger we have from the
battle that lists the wounded, killed or missing displays an odd
notation next to Hilliard’s name. Two words, both followed by
question marks: Desertion and Cowardice. And that’s where all
traces of Crosby Hilliard end. In his official battle report for
Gettysburg, Hampton, who had himself sustained a saber wound during
the conflict, wrote, ‘One of my most valuable and valiant
subordinates, Major Crosby Hilliard, disappeared at the most
desperate moment of the engagement, never to be seen again.’

“And that’s all we know, gentlemen. Of
course, Hilliard’s family was mortified, and his father even made a
pilgrimage to the battlefield a few weeks later to find some trace
of his son. This was, however, a fool’s errand, as all the dead
were by that time buried. Unfortunately, as could be expected,
there were some tongues wagging in and around Charleston, most
notably of Miss Mary Londoner, that nothing less than cowardice
could come from someone who would murder a defenseless man in a
duel he had himself proposed. With that, Major Crosby Hilliard
passed into history, until you decided to find him. That’s all the
assistance I can offer in this matter.”

“Ms. Thibodeaux, you’ve done more than
enough,” said T.J.

“Glad to help. If you uncover any more
information, I’d love to heah about it.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you will. Just one
question, though. Do
you
think he was a coward?”

“Mr. Jackson,” Thibodeaux said sweetly,
“always remember that what you learn in history depends upon who
was writing the books. Have a good day.”

* * * *

Al Warren entered Carlton Elway’s Gettysburg
ghost emporium and took in the racks of DVD’s, books, and assorted
paraphernalia that constituted his growing empire. Frowning, he
approached Tiffany at the front desk. “Mr. Elway in?” he asked
casually.

The receptionist, who was buried in a
Harlequin paperback while twirling her hair, looked up sleepily,
saw the uniform and sat up straight. “No, Chief, he’s out of town
today for a speaking engagement.”

“Oh, too bad. I needed to talk to him about
some paranormal-related matters.”

Tiffany dramatically looked right and left,
then leaned forward and whispered, “Is this about the guy on the
horse?”