The Riesling Retribution (25 page)

“Some other time.”

We started walking.

“The reenactment’s that way,” she said. “This is the wrong direction.”

“I thought maybe I’d skip it,” I said. “You go on ahead.”

She gave me a curious look. “I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re not skipping anything.”

She hooked her arm through mine as the rain changed to the steady downpour we’d been expecting all day.

“Shake a leg, will you?” she said. “I don’t want to miss the battle.”

She was the only one who could crack jokes about my infirmity. It was our way of dealing with the accident—the “afterlife,” as I called it, where my world had been turned upside down, but hers remained the same. She’d carried around a weird kind of survivor’s guilt for a long time because she was supposed to be in the car that night, too, until her date fell through. But we’d finally worked through it and it hadn’t destroyed our friendship. The rift of the past few weeks wouldn’t break us apart, either.

“How’ve you been?” she asked.

“I’ve been better.”

“I know it’s been rough for you.” She draped an arm around my shoulder. “We could always share a bottle of wine down at the old Goose Creek Bridge one of these days. Talk about every little thing. Bury the hatchet. Stuff like that.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “I’d especially like to bury the hatchet.”

“About your father,” she said. “I’m sorry, Luce. You know I never meant to hurt you. Never would deliberately hurt you—”

“Leland didn’t kill Beau Kinkaid, Kit. I know that for a fact.”

She stopped walking and turned to face me. “What are you talking about?”

“I know he didn’t do it. But I can’t prove who did.”

“You want to tell me?”

I shook my head. “Not right now.”

I heard B.J.’s voice over the loudspeaker warming up the crowd and announcing that the battle was about to begin.

“Let’s go,” I said. “It’s starting.”

If there was any doubt that the spectators were rooting for the South, the cheering that erupted when the Confederate soldiers came into
view made it clear who the good guys were. I saw Frankie and Gina making their way toward us and waved to them.

B.J.’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “As we all know, the Battle of Ball’s Bluff was the result of faulty intelligence and misguided decisions. It began with the Union falsely believing the Confederates had pulled out of Leesburg and an unfortunate decision by a rookie scouting party of Federals who thought a grove of trees in the moonlight was an abandoned Confederate camp.”

The first battlefield skirmish between a small group of Confederates and Union troops reminded me of rival groups of kids on a playground, daring each other to come closer. Then one of the commanders roared, “Fire,” and the shooting began in earnest. At first it seemed orderly as rows of soldiers fired their guns, then knelt to reload while the rank behind them took their turn.

“My God, look at them,” Frankie said. “They’re just walking toward each other with their guns pointed. They have to know the ones in the front row are going to be mowed down.”

“I thought they were arriving in boats.” Frankie waved her hand in front of her face like she was fanning herself. “Can you smell that gunpowder?”

“They came by boat in the real battle, but B.J. said they’re only going to use the canoes in the last event where Senator Baker arrives and gets killed,” I said.

By now the rows of soldiers had disintegrated and the gunfire became a barrage. Smoke clouded the field in a rainy haze like we were watching something out of a dream.

“How can they see anything through that smoke?” Kit said.

“Unfortunately for the Confederates,” B.J. hollered above the din, “the brave boys of the Eighteenth Mississippi charged into an open area where two wings of Federals waited for them in the woods.”

As he spoke, a group of Confederate soldiers wheeled toward a group of Union soldiers. Gunfire erupted from the woods, along with a cannon blast. More smoke filled the battlefield and above the uproar came the primitive, inhuman sound of the rebel yell.

I heard B.J.’s voice over the loudspeaker again, but this time it was impossible to make out what he was saying.

“What’s going on?” Gina asked.

I pointed to the creek. “I think he’s saying Baker just arrived. See the guy in the red sash?”

A group of Union soldiers pulled a canoe up the creek bank as Ray Vitale, playing the role of Edward Baker, climbed out and made his way to the battlefield.

In the distance, I saw the silver flash of his sword as Vitale raised his arm above his head, gesturing for his troops to advance. There was an explosion of shots, followed by another cannon blast. Vitale dropped his sword and clutched his chest as he fell to the ground. Men in gray and blue uniforms ran toward him as the gunfire continued.

“My God,” Frankie said, “it’s so authentic. My heart’s pounding”

Kit shaded her eyes against the rain and squinted at the battlefield. “Something’s going on.”

“Hold your fire!” B.J. shouted. “Hold your fire!”

We heard more shouting and the pop of sporadic gunfire as the dense smoke now enveloped the battlefield like a shroud.

“Is this how it really happened?” Frankie asked. “Everybody running like that?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

B.J. spoke again. This time his voice sounded anguished and urgent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there’s been an incident on the battlefield. We will not be continuing with our planned activities.”

“What happened?” Frankie asked. “What is he talking about?”

“I’m not sure, but I have a feeling someone just shot Ray Vitale,” I said. “With real ammunition.”

B.J.’s announcement sent the crowd, especially families with children, into a panicked exodus toward the parking lot as word spread that someone had been shot.

“This is crazy,” I said. “There were safety checks. How did someone get on the field with real bullets?”

“No one should leave,” Kit said, as people pushed past us. “It’s a crime scene. We’ve got to try to secure the place until the sheriff’s department arrives. That’s the first thing Bobby would do.”

“Forget it. You are not going to be able to keep a crowd this size here against their will,” I said. “Especially since no one knows who the shooter was and whether someone’s still out there with more live ammunition. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not. Let’s get out of the way before we get stampeded. Frankie, Gina, come on!”

“I’m calling Bobby.” Kit reached for her cell phone as we pushed closer to the yellow “Do Not Cross” tape that had been strung up to keep spectators off the battlefield. With the crowd surging in the other direction, we now had a front-row view as hundreds of soldiers in blue and gray streamed away from the fighting toward the campgrounds.

“Call 911 and have them get word to that cruiser by the gate,” I said to Kit. “He may just think people are leaving because it’s over. Plus tell the dispatcher to send an ambulance. Maybe even the medevac helicopter. There’s enough room for it to land on the field.
I’m going to get to B.J.’s sound system and see if we’ve got any doctors here. Or anyone with medical training.”

“What about Gina and me?” Frankie asked.

“Try to get to the south gate and ask that deputy what you can do to help.”

“Someone’s probably called 911 already from out on the battlefield,” Kit said.

“I wouldn’t bet on it. They didn’t have cell phones in the 1860s. They only way these men could send a message is by smoke signal,” I said.

By now we’d abandoned Kit’s umbrella since it was slowing us down. I could hear her shouting into her cell phone.

“The dispatcher told me they’re sending backup,” Kit said as we made our way to the open-air tent where B.J. had been broadcasting only a few moments ago. “They can’t send the helicopter. Too much rain and wind. They’ve got an ambulance coming.”

B.J.’s microphone was still live, but the tent was empty. He’d probably gone to be with Ray Vitale.

I picked up the mike. “If there are any doctors or anyone with EMT experience here this afternoon, could you please come immediately to the tent with the sound system?”

Kit climbed up on a folding chair and scanned the crowd. “No one’s heading this way,” she said. “Ask ’em again.”

I made two more announcements and then my phone rang. Frankie’s number flashed on the display.

“The parking lot’s insane,” she said. “Once people found out they can’t leave by the gate because the cruiser’s blocking the exit, anyone with four-wheel drive is getting out any way they can. Someone dismantled part of the split-rail fence on the property line.”

“You can’t stop them,” I said. “We’ll deal with the damage later. If you run into a doctor, can you please beg him or her to consider returning? I don’t know how long it’s going to take the ambulance to get here.”

“I’ll try. The officer here told us to take names and license numbers,” she said. “And ask if anyone saw anything. People have been taking pictures. Maybe someone caught something with their camera.”

“Good luck,” I said, and disconnected.

“Thank God,” Kit said. “Here comes Marty.”

Dr. Martin Gamble, dressed in running clothes and a hooded rain jacket, sprinted toward us.

“Hey, ladies.” Marty stepped into the shelter of the tent and took off his hood. “Tina was here with the kids when it happened. She called my cell. Lucky I was nearby. Sorry it took so long to get here, but I came on foot. I’m training for the Marine Corps Marathon.”

Marty worked at the Catoctin Free Clinic in Leesburg. We hadn’t seen each other much in the past year since I’d inadvertently discovered he’d been carrying on an affair while I was trying to help one of his colleagues who was also a friend of mine. The revelation, which had stayed a private matter between us, had nevertheless made things awkward when we ran into each other.

“You really are hard-core to be running in a downpour,” Kit said.

His smile was thin as he stared at me. “Takes my mind off things I’d rather forget. Let’s get going. Where’s the victim?”

“On the other side of the creek. We can either hike to the bridge and come all the way back to the battlefield. Or”—I pointed to Goose Creek—“it’d be faster to cross the creek right here.”

“You want to swim across?” Kit sounded incredulous.

“She’s talking about taking one of the canoes,” Marty said. “Aren’t you?”

“If someone will get one of them over to our side first.”

“Are you serious?” Kit asked.

“It’s not the Potomac. They did it at Ball’s Bluff.”

“Piece of cake,” Marty said. “Let’s do it.”

The three canoes, turned over to keep from filling with rain, had been pulled well up onto land on the opposite bank of Goose Creek. Marty, Kit, and I yelled and waved until a teenager in a Union uniform saw us.

“We’ve got a doctor here,” I shouted. “Can you get us over there?”

He cupped his hands around his mouth. “I don’t know. The current’s pretty strong.”

“Please,” I said, “the ambulance won’t be here for a while. Please try.”

The wind had picked up, bending tree limbs and sending leaves sailing through the air like tiny parachutes. All three of us were now soaked through our rain gear, our clothes sticking to us like they’d been glued on. The soldier gestured for someone to help him launch the canoe and a boy in a Confederate uniform joined him.

“Come on, come on,” Marty muttered next to me. “You guys can do it.”

The boys flipped one of the canoes and pushed it into the creek. The Union soldier climbed in and picked up a paddle.

“Damn,” Marty said. “The rain and the current are pushing him downstream.”

“At least he’s making his way across,” Kit said. “We can catch him when he gets in range. Let’s go.”

The canoe bobbed closer.

“Throw us your line,” Marty called. “We’ll pull you in.”

As the boy fumbled for the bowline, the canoe caught a current that buffeted him, shooting the craft farther downstream. Marty waded into the water as the boy tossed the rope and missed. The second time it struck Marty’s shoulder. He grabbed it and began pulling.

“Ladies first,” he said. “I’ll steady it for you.”

Kit climbed in and the canoe rocked crazily.

“Sit down,” he told her, “or you’ll capsize us.”

I went next, using my cane to steady me and moved crablike until I could sit on the seat in front of Kit’s. Marty knelt in the stern, taking a paddle the Union soldier handed him. Rain and creek water that had sloshed over the gunwale filled the hull with about an inch of water. It seeped through the seams of my work boots until my feet felt like two blocks of ice. Kit’s white-blond hair was plastered to her head. I glanced back at her as I brushed my own dripping hair off my face. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be praying.

The battlefield was still shrouded in mist and smoke as rain ricocheted off the water like more gunfire. The Confederate teenager, who had waited for us on the opposite bank, now waded into the water and pulled us to shore. Marty jumped out as we reached the creek bank and sprinted over to the knot of men tending Ray Vitale.

“Lucie!”

I looked up as B.J. strode toward Kit and me. By now the battlefield was nearly empty.

“I watched you two with Marty and that canoe,” he said. “Good thinking. We really needed a doctor. An EMT from the Eighteenth Mississippi did what he could, but Ray’s in bad shape.”

“They can’t send a helicopter,” I said. “An ambulance is coming. Where was he shot?”

“Looks like somewhere in the abdomen,” he said. “He’s unconscious and he’s lost a lot of blood. The EMT’s got his hand inside his gut.”

I swallowed. “You think he’ll make it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Whoever shot him knew where to aim.”

After the ambulance had come and gone, Kit and I walked back to the Confederate camp, where the Black Widow’s tent had been turned into a field office for the sheriff’s department. For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening deputies took names and questioned all the reenactors, who were told to produce their rifles and ammunition boxes. Kit and I sat at a table under a nearby dining tent, wrapped in blankets the Widow had lent us.

At dusk the rain let up. Someone found dry firewood and started a campfire. We moved our chairs next to it, trying to dry out and warm up. As it grew dark, a few modern amenities appeared, including battery-powered lanterns and thermoses of coffee. Several whiskey flasks, which I’d thought were strictly forbidden, also showed up. Kit borrowed paper and a pencil from the Widow and began making notes by lantern light. Around us, people struck tents and packed up supplies. Gradually the campground emptied out.

I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my jeans. The battery was nearly empty. I called Quinn, who answered on the first ring.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said. “I drove over there but some deputy told me it’s restricted access.”

“My phone’s about to die,” I said. “And they’re still questioning reenactors.”

“Frankie and Gina are back here. The winery was a madhouse. Everybody wanted a drink. Eli’s there, too.”

“Tell them they can go home.”

“Sure. Call me when they cut you loose,” he said. “I’ll be in the barrel room.”

“Everything all right there?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said as my phone went dead.

Kit looked up from her paper. “Hey, that’s Grace and Jordy Jordan next to the Widow’s tent. They must be looking for Tyler.”

She waved as they caught site of us. Grace’s snow-white hair, usually pulled into a neat chignon, hung wild and disordered around her shoulders. She looked like she’d been crying. Jordy’s face was ashen.

“Do you know where they’re holding Tyler?” Grace asked. “I hope they haven’t taken him away yet.”

“Where who’s holding him? Taken him where?” I asked.

“Is he in trouble?” Kit asked.

“B.J. called us. They found live ammunition in Tyler’s cartridge box.” Jordy put his arm around Grace as she slumped against him. He sounded incredulous. “B.J. says Tyler claims someone else must have put it there by accident. There’s no way he would deliberately—”

Grace interrupted. “He couldn’t see well with those Civil War glasses he had on. I don’t know why he didn’t wear his own.”

“They think
Tyler
shot Ray Vitale?” I asked. “That’s crazy. He wouldn’t—”

Jordy nodded, his face bleak. Tyler was their eldest child. Their only son.

“The safety check doesn’t include the cartridge boxes,” he said. “He’s just a kid, even if he is over eighteen. He probably got all excited and reached for the wrong bullet in the heat of the battle.”

“Then it’s an accident,” I said. “They can’t hold him responsible—”

“He’s responsible for bringing live ammunition to an event like this.” Jordy’s shoulders sagged. “We already called Sam Constantine. Tyler’s going to need a lawyer.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.

Grace nodded and started to cry again.

“Pray,” she said.

It was midnight when Kit and I finally left the campgrounds and returned to our cars in the deserted parking area. Our shoes sank into the tire-rutted mud.

“You going home?” I asked.

“Only to change clothes. Then back to work. I need to write this up. It’s too late for tomorrow’s paper, but it’ll be on the website. Sorry, kiddo. It’s big news.”

I kept my voice light. “Well, I wouldn’t want the
Washington Tribune
to run out of things to write about and go out of business. I do what I can to keep your circulation up.”

“We appreciate it.” Her smile was rueful. “Be my maid of honor?”

“If I make it through this, sure I will.”

She blew me a kiss and got into her Jeep. I followed her down Atoka Road. As I signaled to turn into the main gate to the winery, she pulled alongside me and tooted her horn.

“I’ll phone you,” she called through her open window. “Drink. Goose Creek Bridge. Soon.”

Then she waved and sped into the darkness.

The lights still blazed in the villa as I drove by. Frankie’s car was parked next to Eli’s Jaguar, the only two cars in the lot. What were they doing here together so late? I drove home, got a drink, and called the winery.

Frankie answered.

“I saw your car,” I said. “And Eli’s. Everything all right?”

“The news at eleven said Ray Vitale is in critical but stable condition,” she said.

“The sheriff’s department thinks they’ve got a suspect,” I replied.

“Who?”

“I hope you’re sitting down. It’s Tyler. They found live ammunition in his cartridge box.”