Free Last Ghost at Gettysburg by Paul Ferrante

one knee and examined the
ankle, his smell eye-watering. He touched the bone, and T.J. almost
screamed in fright. It was like being touched by something dead and
dark and otherworldly.
    “There is no break,” the soldier concluded.
He rose and adjusted his gloves as T.J. quietly exhaled. “Well,
young Master Jackson, if that is indeed your name, you may carry
on. But I warn you, this is not the place to be at night. Other
transgressors have paid for their thoughtlessness and regrettable
behavior. I would not want to include you among their number. And
so, I take my leave of you.” He bowed slightly then strode towards
Reynolds’ Woods, his spurs jangling. When he crossed the tree line,
the sound faded out with the rustling of leaves. T.J. was left to
contemplate his tenuous hold on reality and whether he could even
share this occurrence with another human being.
    He slowly pushed himself up and realized that
much of the pain in his ankle was gone.
    How is that possible ? Is it because
he touched me?
    T.J. tentatively bounced up and down on the
balls of his feet. No doubt, he was much better. Not risking
re-injury, he began a brisk walk back to Seminary Ridge, hoping
he’d arrive before those who would ask questions he could not
possibly answer.
     

Chapter Ten

    “Okay, settle down, everyone, I don’t want
this to take too long,” Bruce Morrison said, his spectacles
reflecting the conference room’s overhead lighting. “Chief Warren
wants to brief you about a serious situation we’ve got on our
hands, and I want you to understand what we’re dealing with. I
apologize for not letting you in on every detail, but that’s why
we’re here, to get on the same page. Al?”
    The assembled national park rangers edged
forward in their seats, including Mike Darcy. There were nine
permanent rangers, including Mike, and nine seasonal rangers who
represented a cross section of gender, age, and color, their one
true denominator, a love and respect for American History. Rumors
had been flying, and they were both relieved and curious as to what
was really going on in their place of work.
    “Thanks, Bruce,” said Warren, placing his
Smokey hat on a nearby table. “Rangers, I’ll cut to the chase.
We’ve got a killer loose in the area and we have no leads as to
whom he is, his motive for this violence, or when he might strike
again.”
    An audible gasp came from the assemblage.
    “Just listen while I tell you what we know,”
said Warren, his hands outstretched in a calming gesture. “What
you’re going to hear will sound bizarre, but I don’t have to tell
you that you absolutely must keep this confidential. This town’s
livelihood depends on it.”
    Many of the rangers, including Mike, nodded,
knowing full well the reliance of Gettysburg’s economy on the
tourist trade.
    “Okay, then. A few weeks ago two Gettysburg
College students were shot to death in the cemetery, at night. Both
were boarders; one was from Maryland, the other from Idaho.
Apparently, they were partying amid the gravestones, oblivious to
their setting or anything else, it seems, when someone blew them
away at close range with what appears to be an army issue, 1860 .44
caliber pistol.”
    Many of the rangers turned toward each other,
eyes wide. Warren paused to let his words sink in. One fortyish
female ranger with short brown hair began to raise her hand, but
Warren stopped her. “Not yet, Ma’am, let me finish. Unfortunately,
there’s more. A couple weeks later we had a relic hunter from down
South digging near Spangler’s Spring around midnight, armed with a
metal detector, night camos, the whole nine yards. He became victim
number three. Same murder weapon. And the bullet matched the other
two homicides.”
    What Warren had purposely left out, however,
was even more stunning. Not only did the bullets from the two
shootings match—the State Police in Harrisburg had confirmed
it— but the ammo itself was old, of 1860s vintage.
    Out of the