Free Last Ghost at Gettysburg by Paul Ferrante Page A

corner of his eye Mike Darcy could
see Bruce Morrison giving him a look. Morrison knew that Mike owned
the exact pistol being discussed, and that he often went shooting
with his buddies. And while it was true that the two rarely saw
eye-to-eye because Mike considered Bruce an over-officious jerk at
times, he couldn’t conceive of his boss having suspicions of him.
Or could he?
    “Okay, I’ll take questions,” said Warren.
    The same female put up her hand and he
acknowledged her. “So what you’re saying, Chief, is that we have no
witnesses?”
    “Not exactly.” Warren looked briefly at the
ceiling as if searching for words. “We had one other incident. A
man, once again in the park after dark, somewhere near Devil’s Den,
was, he says, threatened by a male Caucasian, over six feet, with
longish, dark, curly hair, dressed in full Confederate cavalry
uniform.”
    “WHAT!” burst forth from the mouths of more
than a few of the rangers.
    “Please, please people, calm down,” cautioned
Morrison.
    “This is a positive I.D.?” asked a portly
male ranger who resembled the comedian Jonathan Winters.
    “Well, near as we can tell,” said Warren,
“and he might be...mounted as well.” He paused to let this extra
bit of information wash over the gathering. Some just sat there
with mouths agape; others were thinking hard, trying to process
this incredible revelation.
    A young African American female ranger raised
her hand. “Does the Mayor know about this?” she asked
uncertainly.
    “Yes, Ma’am, we discussed the situation in
depth just last night and he asked if we should call in outside
help. I had enough faith in my department— and yours—to request
that he let us handle it.
    “So what I’m telling you folks is this: we
all know the high season is here, and reenactment week is coming on
fast. My officers are doubling up on nightly patrols and will
really, I mean really, crack down on anybody entering the
park after dark. Be vigilant and professional, and above all, keep this quiet. Hopefully this guy will slip up or get
spooked when he sees a heavy police presence.”
    “Is there anything you’re not telling
us?” asked Mike.
    “That’s all you need to know right now, sir,”
was Warren’s cryptic reply. He reached back for his hat as Morrison
said, “Okay, folks, we have tourists waiting. Let’s have a good day
out there.”
    As they filed out Mike could see Warren and
his boss deep in conversation. He hoped his name wasn’t part of
it.
     

Chapter Eleven

    The next morning T.J. was the first to
awaken. His sleep had been fitful, filled with crazy dreams of
cavalry charges and blowing bugles. He gingerly swung his legs over
the side of the bed and touched his injured foot to the floor,
anticipating a sharp pain, flinching in advance.
    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