Last Ghost at Gettysburg (9 page)

Nothing.

Had it all been a nightmare? Had he really
gone for the night run, encountered the soldier, and barely made
it home to bed before the Darcys returned? T.J. crept over to his
crumpled track suit on the floor. The pants were still dirty,
especially in the seat, from when he’d fallen backwards. There was
still grass and burrs stuck to the fabric.

It wasn’t a dream. It had happened. The
question was,
what was he going to do about it
?

He never got a chance to come to a decision
because there came the familiar knock-knock-knock and LouAnne’s
“Rise and shine, Cuz. Time to get after it!”

As they stretched he asked if they could go
the opposite way today, basically so he could get a look at last
night’s route in broad daylight.

“Sure, why not?” she replied. “Besides, you
haven’t been that way yet.”

You have no idea, Cuz
, he thought.

They took off, chatting about LouAnne’s
interactions with the Daughters of the Confederacy, who apparently
were poor tippers, and her upcoming day of babysitting. The whole
time his mind was elsewhere, retracing his movements of the night
before. They passed the monument to General Reynolds, the red barn
visible in the distance. It all looked so serene, so...normal.

Do I tell her? And if I do, how’s she gonna
react? Will she understand? Or think I’m some kinda nutcase?

The last thing he wanted to do with this girl
was seem frightened, or even worse, immature. Uncool.

“This is a nice stretch coming up,” said
LouAnne. “We’re gonna follow this to a loop where there’s the
Eternal Light Peace Memorial at the top. Then we’ll take it on
back. Sound good?”

“Fine. Lead the way.”

They glided through the last mile, T.J.
recognizing a minimal improvement in his stamina.

“What’cha got on tap today, Cuz?” LouAnne
huffed as they climbed a hill.

“Bus tour, I think.”

“Jeez, T.J., I never thought you’d get into
it like you have. I mean, you’re taking tours, hitting all the
museums. Dad said you were all over it yesterday.”

“Well, you’ve gotta admit, there isn’t much
else to do here except watch TV. I can help your mom with the minor
chores, but that only kills a couple hours. But, hey, I don’t mind.
I’m learning a lot.”

“Well, as long as you’re not totally bored. I
just feel bad I’m working all the time.”

“Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. Tell
you what. I’ll come by the Charney House tonight and keep you
company.”

“Sounds great.” They pulled up in the front
yard and immediately began their post stretch. The day was again
drenchingly humid, the trees barely stirring. LouAnne assumed a
hurdler’s position and slowly slid forward, face down, until she
had grabbed her front foot with both hands. She held it for
fifteen seconds then gracefully switched sides. The morning sun
glinted off the platinum highlights in her hair. Could she possibly
be more beautiful?

That afternoon he climbed aboard a
double-decked tour bus and moved to an inconspicuous railing seat
near the rear. Though this would not be the more intimate
ranger-led tour he’d skipped the previous day, it would serve as
the initial excursion. Since he was a single he’d had no problem
just walking on today, but these busses booked up fast. A friendly,
middle-aged gent in a white golf shirt manned the microphone and
began his spiel as the bus pulled out of the parking lot and
cruised toward the first point of interest on the ninety-minute
ride.

T.J. settled back, making note not only of
the sites and monuments pointed out by the guide, who’d obviously
done this thousands of times, but of any places on the vast
battlefield where a horseman could possibly hide. There were old,
standing barns here and there, the buildings of Gettysburg College,
the Seminary, the numerous farms in the surrounding area. The
soldier could be anywhere.

That is, if “he” was an actual human being.
But what if he wasn’t? What if T.J. had stumbled upon a genuine
ghost? How could he possibly prove this had happened? Well, he’d
have to go back. At night. But not alone.
No way, José.
He’d
have to tell his cousin. If he broke it to her the right way, she’d
understand. Probably. But he couldn’t tell Uncle Mike. Not yet.
Because his uncle might react badly, and not just yelling at T.J.
for being in the woods at night. Maybe “Maddog Mike” would want to
go after the ghost. Not good, because as tough as Mike Darcy was,
he was no match for a malevolent being packing what appeared to be
a very large, mean-looking horse pistol, which T.J. sensed he’d
used before.

He’d tell LouAnne tonight at the restaurant.
It was the only way to go. Together they’d figure it out.

As the tour guide droned on, T.J. regarded a
little girl across the aisle from him eating a chocolate cone, the
sweet goop dripping all over her hand and shirt as she struggled to
keep up with the rapidly melting ice cream. She caught him smiling
at her and frowned. “It’s not funny,” she grumbled. But nothing was
going to dismay T.J. He had a plan.

Thus, he kept smiling throughout Aunt Terri’s
spaghetti and meatballs dinner, until Uncle Mike cleared his
throat. “Uh, LouAnne, before I take you to work, I’ve got to
discuss something important. We’re having problems in the
park.”

“Such as?” inquired his daughter, arching an
eyebrow.

“I’m not at liberty to say. Not yet. What I
can tell you is that it’s become downright dangerous at night, and
I have to remind you both again to stay away.”

“A man of mystery,” cracked Terri, attempting
to lighten the mood. A sharp look from her husband put an end to
any such levity.

“Okay, Uncle Mike, no problem,” said T.J.

“Good. At least my nephew understands when
I’m being serious.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go, babydoll,
you’re gonna be late.”

They left as T.J. helped his aunt clear the
table. “Any idea what’s up?” he attempted, trying to be
nonchalant.

“He won’t even tell
me
,” was her
answer. “Which is very unlike your uncle. I hope he’s not banging
heads with his boss again. Bruce Morrison can be difficult, and
your uncle is known to be a bit hardheaded himself, so they
sometimes clash.” She sighed as she loaded the dishwasher. “Let’s
hurry up, and we can watch
Wheel of Fortune
!”

“Sounds good. Hey, Aunt Terri, I’m going to
walk down to the Charney House a little later on, okay?”

“Sure. Just skirt the battlefield, like Mike
says. Take an umbrella, though. They’re predicting rain for later
on.”

“Okay, sure.”

They watched
Wheel of Fortune
, and a
few more shows as well, Aunt Terri taking breaks from her
needlepoint to peer over her reading glasses at the TV. T.J.
counted the minutes until he could get out of there. Uncle Mike had
returned and was clanking weights out in the garage. No way was he
going out there, taking a chance on slipping up and blabbing.

Finally, 9:00 P.M. arrived. T.J. scooped up a
blue Totes umbrella and headed down Buford Avenue towards town,
almost jogging. Thunder rolled in the far distance. A ghost tour up
from Baltimore Street crossed the town square, a couple of the
teenaged girls waving at him coyly as their mothers fanned
themselves in the evening heat. Maybe a good rain would cool things
off.

He entered the Inn as the last patrons were
streaming down the stairs from the garret. LouAnne followed a few
steps behind, giving him a little wave. When she reached him she
quickly squeezed his hand and said, “I’m parched. You want to have
a Coke at the bar?”

“Can we?”

“The place is empty, silly. And I’m pouring.
Let’s go.”

The bar was tiny, more for waitresses to pick
up table orders than for a cocktail hour setup. LouAnne, quickly
shedding her 1860s outfit and hanging it in a back room, slipped
behind the bar, loaded two glasses with ice, and filled them with
cola from a spray nozzle before dumping in a few cherries. They
clinked glasses and tipped them back. The moisture was welcoming to
T.J.’s throat. He had no idea how to start. But, as usual, LouAnne
beat him to the punch when she said, “So what’s bothering you, my
darling cousin?”

“How do you know something’s bothering
me?”

“Puh-leeze. Girls know these things. What’s
up?”

“Something you’re probably not gonna
believe.”

“Love problems? That Katie Vickers babe
dumping you long distance?”

“What? Who?” T.J. stammered, momentarily off
balance. Katie Vickers was the
last
thing on his mind. He
couldn’t even believe LouAnne had remembered her name. But he put
aside any possible implications of her question and said, “I think
I know what your dad was talking about at dinner.”

“How so?” she said, the different colored
liquor bottles on the shelves behind her creating a surrealistic
frame for her curious smile.

“Okay, I’ll tell you, but please don’t laugh
at me.”

“I won’t,” she said, her voice barely a
whisper. She reached across the bar and put her hand on his.

T.J. took a deep breath and then, as calmly
as he could, told her everything about his adventure in Reynolds’
Woods, right down to the miraculous recovery of his injured ankle.
LouAnne listened carefully, chewing on her ice cubes, her brow
furrowed, never interjecting, even when he confessed why he was out
there in the first place and, thankfully, never laughing. By the
time he was finished his tee shirt was soaked, though the air
conditioner was cranking.

“Oh...my...gosh,” was all his cousin could
muster. There was the crack of thunder outside, followed seconds
later by the beating of rain on the windows.

“The thing is, I don’t know what to do now,”
he confessed. “Part of me says to just leave it alone and be happy
I got out of there alive. But I also kinda want to know what the
deal really is, and if he’s like, a ghost, maybe I can, like, find
out if there’s another side.”

“Another side?”

“You know, the hereafter. Heaven.
Whatever.”

“Does this have something to do with your
mom?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He thoughtfully chewed
on a cherry. “The other thing is, whether this guy is real or not,
I think he’s dangerous. Like, so on edge he could snap at any time.
Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I
get what you’re saying, dude,” said
a voice in the shadows. T.J.’s head snapped around and LouAnne
squinted into the gloom at the rear of the dining area. Under a
portrait of General Robert E. Lee a young guy dressed in solid
black, his gelled hair askew, sat slumped over a tumbler of amber
liquid. As he raised his head T.J. could make out sunken,
red-rimmed eyes looking out from his somewhat familiar face. “I
know
exactly
what you’re saying.”

* * * *

T.J. and LouAnne huddled together under the
tiny umbrella, her arm around his shoulder to conserve space, which
he didn’t mind at all. They’d just left a still shaking Mike
Weinstein, who’d finally be joining his film crew in St. Augustine
the next day because his flight out of Philly had been delayed due
to severe thunderstorms. After their conversation with him, LouAnne
had phoned a very concerned Mike Darcy, giving the excuse that the
teens had been pressed into service setting up tables for a
luncheon to be held the next day.

As the rain pelted down, LouAnne broke the
silence once again. “You think he’s on the level, Cuz?” she asked.
“He was pretty wasted.”

“And scared.”

“Yeah, that too. It’s funny; I’ve seen the
guy’s TV show a few times, and I know reality TV isn’t really real,
but wouldn’t you think he could handle the situation better? I
mean, I give him credit for being honest, but he was literally
quaking in fear. Not exactly the macho image he projects as a
Gonzo Ghost Chaser
.”

“He said he hung around a few extra days to
see if anything else went down in the Park, but it looks like I’m
it, basically. The thing is, why was the soldier willing to spare
me after trying to blow Weinstein away?”

“You don’t know?” she said, blinking away
some stray raindrops.

“’
Cause I’m a kid?”

“Kids your age served on both sides in the
Civil War, T.J. No, what saved you is your name.”

“What?”

“You honestly don’t know? What, were you
asleep during your eighth grade Civil War unit? Your name is Thomas
Jackson, Junior. Well, there was another Thomas Jackson of note.
General Thomas Jackson of the Army of Northern Virginia. His troops
called him—”

“Stonewall.”

“Ah, maybe you weren’t asleep the whole time
after all.” She smiled. “By the time the Battle of Gettysburg
rolled around, Jackson was dead, accidentally shot by his own men
during the Battle of Chancellorsville. Maybe our Confederate
soldier boy is a history buff who wouldn’t dare murder the namesake
of a Southern saint. Or, if you believe Weinstein’s story, he’s a
ghost stuck in July of 1863 and he genuinely thinks you may be the
son of his fallen leader.”

“He did seem confused about how to treat me,”
T.J. said, shivering slightly as he recalled the soldier’s
touch.

“Well, there you go.” A few blocks away, the
headlights of Mike’s truck turned a corner toward their direction.
LouAnne bit her lip for a second then added, “And that’s why you, I
mean
we
, have got to go find him again. But we can’t tell my
dad, for now. He’d have a canary, and then he’d put us on 24/7
lockdown.”

“You got that right.”

“The thing is,” she said, “I just don’t know
if we’re knowledgeable enough to get to the bottom of this. If we
do meet up with this...being, I’m not sure I’ll know what to ask
him, or if he has questions, what to
tell
him.”

“I think I can help on that one,” said T.J.
as Mike pulled up and threw open the passenger door.