Last Ghost at Gettysburg (25 page)

“What do you have to do as a drummer boy?”
said T.J., who had an idea where this was all going.

“Well, technically you have to have had
previous experience in reenacting because Gettysburg’s a tough one
to start with, but I know I can get my hands on a ‘how-to’ list of
guidelines of what your duties would be, both in camp and in the
battle. The key question is, can you actually drum at all?”

“Well,” said T.J., wiping away some remnants
of black powder from the back of his wrist that he’d missed while
scrubbing up in the men’s room before lunch, “as it turns out, both
Bortnicker and I played the kettle drum in our school orchestra.
See, every kid in our school has to take music lessons or be in
chorus, because Fairfield is a very artsy town. We decided the
kettle drum would be the least demanding instrument, except maybe
cymbals, so we signed up for it. We’re not that great, but we’re
not horrible, either.”

“Are you saying that both you guys would want
to do this?”

“I can’t speak for Bortnicker, Uncle Mike.
Who knows how he’d feel about this? And, to tell you the truth, I’d
only do it if he was going to do it, too. Don’t want to be the only
one making a fool of myself.”

“I think you two would be great!”

“I’m not so sure. Could I talk to him about
it when we get home?”

“Sure thing. Let’s get outta here.”

As they drove back to Gettysburg Darcy was
bubbling with excitement. T.J. likened his demeanor to a football
coach the week of a big game. Which was, of course, exactly what
Mike used to be. “You nervous about tonight, T.J.?” he asked
finally.

“Yeah. Going shooting actually took my mind
off it, but now the butterflies are creeping in.”

“I understand. Here’s what we’ll do. After
dinner we’ll sit down together and nail down a plan for our
procedures. Try to think of any details we should cover and talk to
Bortnicker ahead of time. He should be home by the time we get
back. That way you can also talk about the reenacting thing. I just
want to make sure nothing bad happens to you kids out there
tonight. You’re really sure you want to do this?”

“We have to,” said T.J. firmly.

“Alright. You guys seem set on this. My job
is to get you in and out of there without being detected. But you
have the hard job. You have to reason with this being and try to
find out if you can help him. That may be asking too much. And
besides, what if he doesn’t show?”

“He’ll show, I know it,” said T.J.

* * * *

T.J. found Bortnicker in their room with his
laptop, a box of saltines at the ready, once again going over the
strategic elements of the Battle of Gettysburg. “How many times are
you going to read that stuff?” he moaned.

“I’m thinking our guy got killed in one of
two places,” said Bortnicker, absently reaching into the box for a
cracker, his glasses riveted to the laptop screen. “It was either
East Cavalry Field, which would make the most sense, or during
Pickett’s Charge.”

“But, wasn’t Pickett’s Charge an infantry
battle?”

“Yeah, with an artillery barrage to kick it
off. But those are the only two encounters on Day Three. Either he
took part in one or the other, or he just plain ran away like it
was rumored. But I don’t think he deserted.”

“Me neither. So, how’d your shopping spree go
today?”

Bortnicker snapped the laptop shut and
plopped himself on his bed. “Man, you won’t believe the stuff they
have for reenactors,” he marveled. “You could spend hundreds or
even thousands getting yourself suited up for battle. I just lost
myself in those places.”

“Places? How many of those stores are
there?”

“Well, there are two major ones, the Battle
Cry and the Soldier’s Supply Depot. Their prices are about the
same. I’m thinking of bringing home a Union infantry cap as a
souvenir.”

“I think you could do better than that,” said
T.J., a twinkle in his eye.

“What do you mean?”

T.J. filled Bortnicker in on Mike’s phone
call from Jack Pelham and the drummer boy offer. He expected his
friend would be sky high at the prospect of participating in the
battle. He was therefore surprised and disappointed when Bortnicker
frowned and said, “Jeez, I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? I would
think you’d be psyched for this! You’re the big Civil War
expert.”

“Yeah, I know, but marching around some dusty
cornfield beating a drum... can I think about it?”

“Yeah, sure,” said T.J., hiding his
annoyance. “Tell you what, let’s get through tonight and we’ll see
what we wanna do.”

“Sounds good.”

“So, you know what you’re gonna ask Hilliard
tonight?”

“Well, kinda. I’d like to run through it with
you first.”

T.J. lay back on his bed. “Toss me a couple
Saltines,” he said. “I’m all ears.”

* * * *

At about the same time T.J. and Bortnicker
were reviewing their plans for the upcoming evening, Al Warren
heard a tapping noise on his office window and looked up to see the
smiling face of Doc Lamberg, who reminded him of Orville
Redenbacher, the popcorn guy. He motioned Doc inside and told his
secretary to hold all calls.

“I was just in the area, Chief, and thought
I’d drop by. Haven’t heard from you in a while,” said Lamberg,
settling into a chair and pulling out his pipe. “Mind if I light
up?”

“No, go ahead,” said Warren. “I apologize for
not keeping you up on things since the Weeks shooting. All in all,
it’s been quiet, as far as any violence goes.”

“Which means what, exactly?” said Lamberg
wryly as he fired up his pipe.

“We know who the shooter is, because he’s
made two more appearances.”

“Then, you’ve picked him up?”

“Not yet.”

“Is he under surveillance?”

“You could say that, yes.”

Lamberg puffed away, then took the pipe from
his mouth and pointed the stem at Warren. “You’re being very vague
here, Al,” he said. “It’s not like you.”

“Doc, I’m just trying to keep this quiet
until after Reenactment Week. Then I’ll have a better handle on
it.”

“I see,” said Lamberg, somewhat miffed he’d
been left out of the loop. “Don’t you think it’s odd that these
three murders were committed with period ammunition?”

Warren’s mouth nearly dropped open. “How did
you find that out?” he asked.

“Oh, come on, Al. You don’t think that when I
leave a murder scene I lose all interest in the crime, do you? I
have a friend at State Police HQ in Harrisburg who clued me in.
Who on earth goes around shooting old ammo like the rounds they
took out of those guys? Where do you even buy stuff like that
nowadays?”

“Well, I’m sure some of the war relic places
around here have them,” said Warren.

“Al, those old bullets were fired from a
period .44, as you well know. Don’t a lot of those reenactors use
period weapons?”

“Not many, actually,” said Warren. “Most use
reproduction rifles and pistols.”

“So I would assume you’ve asked every shop
owner in the area who sells Civil War bullets and the like if .44
calibers had been purchased lately?”

“Of course, Doc. It took weeks, too, because
everyone and his mother sells that stuff. I mean, they found
barrels and barrels of bullets in ammunition warehouses at the end
of the war. If you add in all the stuff that’s been dug up over the
years, you have a seemingly never ending supply.”

“Yes, but how many places around here sell
the pristine, ready-to-fire bullets?”

The answer was only a few, and although he’d
implored those proprietors to call him immediately if any .44
purchases were forthcoming, it seemed moot now because Warren truly
believed the shooter had brought his Civil War ammo with him—fresh
from 1863.

“Doc,” said Warren patiently, “believe me
when I tell you that we’re close on this,” though he wasn’t sure of
that at all. “When the case breaks I’ll call you right away.”

“Alright then, Chief,” said Lamberg, slowly
rising. “Good luck to you then. I’d hate to be you this week. The
idea of Gettysburg being flooded with hundreds if not thousands of
firearms, both real and reproduction, this coming week must be
keeping you up nights.”

“You have no idea, Doc,” answered Warren,
walking the old coroner to the door. “Hopefully, I won’t have to
call you again in the middle of the night.”

They shook hands. “Call me anytime, Al,” said
Lamberg, trailing a cloud of pipe smoke behind him as he strolled
away down the hall. “It’s all the excitement I get these
days.”

As soon as Warren returned to his desk he
summoned his secretary, Officer Jo Vigorito, to his office. She
was new to the job but thorough and direct, which was just what he
needed now. “Call these five stores, Jo, and remind them that I
need to know
immediately
if someone tries to purchase live
.44 caliber bullets.”

“I’m on it, Chief,” she replied, snatching
the list from his hand and retreating.

When she left Warren slumped forward onto his
desk and rubbed his eyes. He knew something was going to happen,
and was almost as certain he wouldn’t be able to prevent it. As far
as he was concerned, there was only a remote chance of the shooter
being human. Speaking of chances, they were taking a huge one by
keeping this thing quiet. Everyone from the Mayor on down to the
newspaper people and park rangers who knew the very existence of
their town rested on the success of the upcoming week, especially
in these troubled economic times. It was a great roll of the dice,
and Warren had no doubt who the scapegoat would be if the horseman
struck again.

* * * *

Mike Darcy looked across the now-cleared
dining room table at the three dark-clad teens as his wife busied
herself in the kitchen, too nervous to even be a party to what she
considered a half-baked scheme. “Cell phone?” he said.

“Check,” answered LouAnne.

“Charged?”

“Check.”

“Flashlights?”

“Check,” said T.J.

“Tape recorder?”

“Check,” said Bortnicker, “Though if our
encounter is anything like Weinstein’s, nothing’ll come out.”

“List of questions?”

“They’re all in here,” said Bortnicker,
tapping the side of his head. “T.J. and I went over them this
afternoon.”

“How long do you think you’ll have?” said
Mike.

“No idea of knowing,” said T.J. “If nobody
bothers us, we could be there a while. But, you know, he might not
want to do a lot of talking.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy, the three of us will
keep him on track till we get what we want to know.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

“How and where he died, of course,” said
Bortnicker.

“How much realization he actually has of his
situation, whether he knows he’s, uh, dead,” offered T.J. “And,
personally, I’d like to know what being dead’s like.”

“LouAnne?”

“I want to know if he has such a thing as a
future plan, or if there’s a way we can free him from Gettysburg,
or if he wants to leave at all.”

“He’s gotta want to leave,” said T.J.

“How do you know, Cuz?” she retorted. “He may
feel like it’s his responsibility to stand guard over the
battlefield or something.”

“Maybe so,” T.J. admitted. “I just hope we
don’t blow it.” They all turned toward Bortnicker, who looked
hurt.

“What? You think I’ll tick him off or
something? You want me to stay in the car with Mr. D.?”

“No, nothing like that,” said LouAnne,
placing her hand over his clenched fist. “As long as we all stay
calm and forget about how utterly bizarre the whole thing is, we’ll
be okay.”

“But also remember,” cautioned T.J., “from
what we’ve learned, we know he has a mean streak. For that reason I
think we should keep the premise going that I’m Stonewall Jackson’s
son.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” agreed Darcy. “It will be
dark in a half hour,” he said, checking his watch. “We’ll give it
another hour on top of that, and then I’ll drop you guys at the
Taneytown Road entrance. We’ll be taking Terri’s Accord because
it’s navy blue and because everybody around here knows my
truck.”

Suddenly, Terri appeared in the dining room
doorway, a tray of brownies in her shaking hands. “Dessert,
anyone?” she managed.

“I’ll have one of those, hon, and a big cup
of coffee,” said Mike.

“Make that four coffees,” said Bortnicker
with authority. “I think it’s gonna be a long night.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

After receiving hugs from Aunt Terri, Mike
Darcy and the ghost hunting team piled into Terri’s Accord for the
short ride across town.

“Stay low in your seats in case we pass
anybody,” cautioned Mike. All three slid down, quiet as a mouse. As
they approached the Taneytown Road Mike reminded them, “Once you’re
at Devil’s Den, shoot me a text so I know you got there. After
that, just let me know if you need me.”

“Okay, Daddy,” answered LouAnne.

“And if it looks like this guy’s becoming
unreasonable or belligerent, just get out of there without angering
him any further.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said T.J. “We’ll be
gone in a flash.”

Mike stopped the car in a secluded area near
a park entrance in the general vicinity of Little Round Top. “So,
what you’re going to do is skirt the base of Little Round Top.
You’ll pass Plum Run and Devil’s Den will be right there. Should
take you about twenty minutes. Keep to the woods and away from the
paved roads. The moon is in and out, so you’ve gotta be careful. If
you see any car headlights, get into the underbrush till they
pass.”

“Yes, Daddy,” said LouAnne earnestly, and
kissed her father through the driver’s side window.

T.J. flicked on his flashlight. “Let’s do it,
then,” he said quietly, and they were off. They moved as quickly as
was possible through the wooded areas, tripping occasionally on
tree roots or rocks, but making steady progress. Bortnicker quietly
whistled Steely Dan songs through his teeth as he picked his way
along, but this was no time to play “Name That Tune.” Finally, they
crossed over Plum Run, which was barely a trickle in spots, and
entered the monolithic boulders which comprised Devil’s Den, which
had been a stronghold for Confederate snipers during the battle.
They made their way into a fairly sized natural alcove where the
rocks rose to twenty feet around, totally obscuring them from the
battlefield plain and, more importantly, the road that wound
through it. The only sound was an occasional mosquito, which the
teens warded off by earlier spraying themselves with OFF.