Beaudry's Ghost

by Carolan Ivey

  Bloody Zachariah Harris didn’t disappoint.

  He considered the toes of his stained boots for a moment, then bored his killer eyes into Jared’s. Jared stood under his own power, but he could feel the window of opportunity rapidly closing on him. Not that it mattered. There was little hope that he could actually go through that window, but on the slim chance he finally did, Jared fought to keep air moving in and out around the unseen fist that pounded his chest.

  “Turn him around, Corporal.”

  Jared felt Gulley stiffen, and Follet made a sound like he was going to be sick. Hope burned a little brighter. “Suh?” said Gulley uncertainly.

  “Present his back to me, Corporal. This Yankee is going to die and we might as well give him a view of the sunrise.”

  Gulley clamped down on Jared’s arms, as if to hold him still. Though Jared was quite certain, despite Gulley’s grip, that the only place he was going was straight back to hell.

  “I…can’t do that, Lieutenant.”

  Jared found himself smiling. Taylor had been right. Perhaps Leon Gulley wouldn’t let the ghost of his ancestor use his body to hurt someone else. One hurdle down.

  Harris trembled with barely contained rage. “Are you disobeying a direct order, Corporal?” he said through stiff lips. Apparently Gulley had never before defied his superior officer.

  Gulley stood like a brick wall, speaking with a deliberation Jared had never guessed the hulking man possessed. “I do not object to crossing one more Yankee off the Union rosters. But I will not be a party to purposely dishonoring another soldier. Suh.”

  If he’d had the breath, Jared would have laughed out loud at Harris’s expression. The lieutenant knew that if big Lije Gulley dug in his heels, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. Harris quickly took himself in hand, though, and squared his shoulders.

  Jared locked his eyes with the lieutenant, silently vowing not to blink until death closed his lids for him. By a whisper of a miracle, he had achieved his goal. He was about to die with limbs and honor intact. But the knowledge brought him no joy, no triumph.

  Harris pointed the pistol directly at Jared’s racing heart. Not my heart, he reminded himself grimly. The heart of a man who doesn’t deserve to die. Whatever chance he’d had to regain his honor evaporated under the weight of an innocent death.

  Harris smiled. “I can’t tell you how much of a pleasure it is to kill another one of you Beaudrys.”

  Jared stopped straining against his captors’ hands, dumbstruck.

  Harris laughed. “This one was a particularly troublesome prisoner of mine at Salisbury. Perhaps a relative of yours? Ethan Beaudry?”

  Ethan?

  Nausea gripped his stomach at the thought his little brother had somehow survived to serve the Union, only to suffer in a Confederate prison under the thumb of Zachariah Harris.

  No wonder he never went home. God only knows what this sick bastard did to him.

  He bared his teeth at Harris, a twisted facsimile of a smile, and with the last of his breath threw one last parting shot.

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Lieutenant, but whatever you did to my brother—” To his own amazement, he started to laugh. “You failed to kill him.”

  Harris’s face fell. “I threw his stinking sack of bones into the grave myself. How—”

  “I had a letter from him. Written—” he grunted in a breath “—in his own hand. Received only a few days ago.” The partial lie felt good on his tongue. Then the phantom pain crushed his chest, taking his breath and buckling his knees.

  Time slowed to a crawl as he watched Harris’s face contort in rage, watched the man’s finger squeeze the trigger.

  She wasn’t going to make it. God in heaven, she was too late.

  Her legs churned beneath her, but she wasn’t getting anywhere as she watched Stephen—no, Harris—raise his pistol dead center at Jared’s chest. Gulley and Follet held his arms twisted cruelly behind him, holding firm despite his struggles. She saw blood on his face and felt sick at the thought of how hard he had fought to live.

  All eyes were riveted on the gun, and thanks to the thick patches of mist, Taylor counted herself lucky that no one noticed her toiling along, breathing as loud as a blacksmith’s bellows. If she could just distract Harris…

  The next seconds went by so slowly that later she would recall every detail as if recorded on high-speed film.

  The world went silent, except for the pounding of her heart, as the pistol bucked in Harris’s hand.

  “Noooo!” she screamed, wanting to close her eyes but unable to tear her gaze away. She dug her toes into the sand and ran harder.

  She saw the Minié ball leave the muzzle of the pistol and fly toward Jared’s chest. She saw him brace for the impact with eyes wide open, his face etched with an expression of defeat she would never forget.

  In the next millisecond, a blond, black-clad body appeared out of nowhere to hurl himself in front of Jared. In the silence, she heard the smack of the ball meeting flesh. The newcomer grunted, fell to the ground, rolled twice and vanished.

  Jared’s head snapped back and he fell, dragging Follet and Gulley with him. Taylor’s throat ripped with pain as she screamed and raised the butt of her Enfield, aiming for the back of Harris’s head as he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. She had failed to stop the bullet, but she was damned sure going to stop him from slitting Jared’s throat or hacking off any of limbs at the last second. Legend or no legend.

  Now! Taylor planted her feet and let all her forward momentum translate into her arms as she brought the weapon down. Harris dropped like a stone, and Taylor tripped over him and belly flopped onto the sand.

  She landed heavily, tears already streaming from her eyes and raw sobs tearing from her chest. She twisted and turned, trying to locate the man in black who had tried and failed to stop a bullet for Jared. He was nowhere to be found. She mentally replayed the scene in her mind, recalling the man’s lion-colored hair and the wide set of his shoulders. The way he had appeared from thin air and vanished right back into it.

  “Troy!” She sat up to look around her, at the four men lying motionless on the beach. No sound broke the rhythmic slap of waves, except…except… Hoof beats, pattering a rapid tattoo on the wet sand. She looked up and her jaw dropped as a Union cavalryman on a giant black horse raced toward them. A horseman oddly familiar, but with no limbs missing, hat brim hiding most of his face. Taylor curled into a fetal position, feeling herself slowly going mad. The horseman leaned low to one side on the careening horse, nearly out of the saddle. Hanging by one hand and a boot heel, he thrust his free hand out to the side.

  A movement caught the corner of her eye. Jared, the entire side of his head covered in blood, struggled to rise. A cry of joy burst in her throat, only to die as he dragged one arm into the air, reaching not for her but for the approaching horse and rider.

  The sun broke over the horizon, blinding her just as the horseman made contact with Jared’s outstretched hand.

  *

  Stephen Powell opened his eyes—on the fourth try.

  His first sight was a wild-eyed Taylor Brannon standing over him, her brother’s Enfield pointed up his nose.

  He lay perfectly still. If Taylor was having another one of her nightmares, this one was a beaut.

  “Taylor,” he said as calmly as he could manage. Something in her eyes shifted, and she blinked.

  “Stephen?” she whispered cautiously.

  He gave a small, emphatic nod. “Wake up, honey. It’s me. Stephen.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Stephen who?”

  He scowled. “What do you mean, Stephen who? Stephen Powell, for God’s sake! Don’t point that thing at me! You know how dangerous that is, even with a blank cartridge!” He spoke loudly and clearly, as if to a slightly deaf person.

  A spectator ran past, a shocked expression on his face. An instant later Lane appeared at Taylor’s side and gently touched her shoulder.


  Taylor gasped and whirled, and Lane neatly plucked the weapon from her hands. Taylor’s knees buckled. Lane locked her arms around her cousin. He wondered why she looked as if someone had just died.

  “A man’s been shot, Stephen,” she said in an odd tone. “Can you get up? Can you help?”

  “Of course.” He tried to rise. Pain clubbed the back of his head and the world spun. When he raised his hands to brace his head, a hard object bumped him in the nose. He stared dumbly at the pistol in his hand. He looked past the acrid-smelling, still-smoking gun and found a body, clad in Union blue, lying on the sand. The man who’d run past him knelt by the body, fingers of one hand pressed to the neck while he tore at uniform buttons with the other.

  Taylor sank down and sat rocking, rocking, her back to the scene, as if she couldn’t bear to look. Stephen’s field of vision widened. Leon Gulley lay half in the water, snoring peacefully. His sidekick, Stan, retched, doubled over, a few yards beyond. Stephen looked away, afraid he’d be sick himself, and saw his big grey gelding stagger to its feet, sides heaving.

  “What happened here?” Stephen demanded, scowling up at Lane. Her face was a pale, stark contrast to her black hair. Then he looked past her shoulder at the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, unmistakable with its black-and-white, candy-stripe paint design. “How in the hell did we get clear down here?” he thundered.

  Lane left Taylor where she was and crouched beside him, helping him to rise. In the distance, wailing sirens approached. “There’s not much time, Stephen,” she said urgently. “This man over here is—”

  “He’s gone,” interjected Taylor in monotone.

  “—hurt, and you’re a doctor, right?”

  Stephen swayed to his feet and dusted at his pants, staring again at the smoking gun in his hand. “I’m a veterinarian, Lane. You know that. But I’ll…oh my God.” He looked from the gun to the still figure, and blanched. “Did I…what have I…”

  Lane tugged at his arm. “That’s not important now! Hurry!”

  “He’s gone,” repeated Taylor faintly, still rocking, still staring out to sea with sightless green eyes. He began to be truly afraid for Taylor’s sanity. He took a step toward her.

  “I think you’d better come check this guy out,” called the man who crouched by the body, the strong offshore wind kicking up his long, dark pony tail.

  The urgency in his tone prodded Stephen into action, and he and Lane sprinted toward the pair on the ground. Lane planted one hand firmly on the man’s chest and pushed.

  “Thanks, Vince, we can take over now,” said Lane. Vince gave way, reluctantly, Stephen thought. She positioned herself at the man’s head, preparing to do her part to give CPR if needed.

  Vince ran a hand down his face. “We weren’t in time,” he muttered. “We weren’t in time.”

  “Yes, we are,” insisted Lane, jaw tight. “Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it, Stephen?” That was Lane, Stephen thought with distant amusement. As if just saying the words would make it be true.

  He bent over the downed man’s body, carefully probing around his torn scalp where the bullet had apparently grazed. Nasty, but not life-threatening.

  “Anybody know this guy’s name?” asked Stephen as he worked.

  “Taylor said it was Jared Beaudry,” said Lane.

  Stephen snapped his head up, jaw agape. Jared Beaudry? The stuff of Leon Gulley’s legends?

  “Don’t ask,” she said dryly. She leaned in to have a closer look at Beaudry’s wound, then her eyes flew to Stephen’s in alarm. “This man isn’t breathing.”

  Every muscle tense with dismay, Stephen pressed his fingers to the prostrate man’s neck.

  “No pulse,” he clipped. “Lane, you take the airway. I’ll do the compressions. Ready? One, two, three, four, five, breathe!”

  Something warm touched the side of Taylor’s face. The sun, she thought absently, and shivered. No amount of sun would ever make her warm again. Slowly, because her shoulder and head ached abominably, she turned toward the warmth.

  She pointedly avoided looking at Stephen, Lane and another man, who were all crouched over someone’s body. She prayed that Leon or Stan, whichever one they were working on, would make it. She was pretty sure, at this moment, that she herself wouldn’t.

  Another puff of warmth caressed the back of her neck. Breathing faster, Taylor dredged up a little more strength, pushed herself to her feet and turned around.

  “Troy!”

  Simultaneously they reached for each other, but Troy’s hands passed right though hers. Taylor gasped and tried again, meeting no solid flesh but a curious, dry warmth, like a pocket of sun-heated air.

  “I’m—”

  “—sorry.”

  Taylor laughed, wiping tears, clenching her hands to keep from trying to connect with her brother again. Her gaze fell to the hole in his chest, a livid reminder of how he had died, and she gasped softly. He brought one hand up to cover it, and it surprised and pained her to see panic in his eyes.

  “Where… where have you been?” She couldn’t hold back the question, nor keep the plaintive tone out of her voice. “I’ve been trying to…you know, make this thing work but—”

  “I know. Believe me, I’ve been trying to get to you. But I kept getting…lost, somehow. I can’t explain it right now. I haven’t quite figured it out myself. Then when I finally got to you…” He gestured to his chest. “I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea for you to see this.”

  “It’s all right, Troy. It’s not as if anything else I’ve seen in the last few days is any worse than that.”

  “This doesn’t…scare you?” He clenched his hand over the spot.

  “Only if it means you suffered. Did you?”

  He shook his head. “No, I didn’t. And I died doing what I’d always wanted. Look, I only have a few seconds. I just wanted you to know I have no regrets. About anything. Least of all, you. I just wanted you to know that.”

  Taylor drew a shaky breath. “About what I said to you before you left…”

  “I said some pretty nasty things, too, T-bird.”

  She couldn’t help it. She stepped forward and reached for him. She could feel the exact instant her hands passed from cool morning air and through the transclucent shape of his arms. They were warm. Just like flesh. But at the same time, not quite…there.

  She pulled her hands back, puzzled. Reached again. The line of heat between his body and space around him was as distinct as sticking her hand into a bucket of warm water.

  “Troy, this is…weird. Something doesn’t feel right about this.”

  Troy looked down, watching as her hand passed through his arm. He frowned. “I could swear almost I feel that.”

  She stepped back, rubbing at her streaming eyes. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”

  He smiled at her tenderly. “It’s better than despair. Look, T-bird,” his voice cracked, “you’ve got to—” He stilled and closed his eyes, tilting his head. “Uh oh.”

  His image flickered, but stilled again when he shook his head and his face tightened as if in extreme concentration. She thought she heard thunder rumble. “What? What is it?” she said frantically, reaching again for him but finding nothing for her fingers to grasp.

  His eyes flew open and he laid his hand along where it should have touched her face. “I’ve gotta go,” he said urgently. “Something’s gone wrong and if I don’t fix it, I’m dead.”

  “What?” she half-laughed. “You’re already—”

  “I love you, T-bird, always will. And if I can fix what I’ve just screwed up, I’ll be back.”

  “Troy, wait! What’s going on?”

  He glanced over her shoulder and grimaced. “You’ll find out,” he said grimly.

  Troy melted away from under her hand. The morning sun warmed her face. Thunder roared.

  Jared hung on to John’s gauntleted hand in a steel grip, but his hold slipped as death sang all around them. He didn’t remember that he’d passed through this
dark place when he’d taken over John’s body three days before, but they were certainly mired in it now.

  Weird lights flashed. Wind like a thousand banshee voices, and pounding thunder assaulted him, drowning out any attempt to communicate. John managed to grab his collar and pull him close enough to hear.

  “Let go!”

  “No! Not until I’m sure of where you’re going!” Jared yelled back. At this point, he didn’t care where he ended up, as long as John found his way home. Together they stumbled through the whirling darkness, not sure of up, down, left or right. Something had gone terribly wrong, and they could both be lost in this maelstrom forever. Punishment for his tampering with another man’s soul.

  John began to work his hand free of the gauntlet. Jared made an animal sound and took a fresh hold, determined this man would not be lost. Determined this man would not do penance for his crimes.

  The screeches in the wind turned into screams of laughter as the gale corkscrewed, picked them up and whirled them around, trying to twist them apart. Jared called on all the strength he had left in him, but it wasn’t enough. Pain ripped up his arms as he lost his grip. The darkness swallowed John up like a stone dropped into thick, sticky tar, but not before Jared got one last look at his eyes. Jared knew those eyes would haunt him for whatever remained of his life.

  The ensuing silence was so profound, Jared at first thought he’d gone deaf. Breath shuddering in his lungs, he lifted his head and looked around. Two lights shone in the hushed darkness. Distant, steady, like the glow at each end of a long tunnel. From one end drifted the sweetest music he’d ever heard, and familiar voices called to him. Jared, come home. We’re waiting for you. From the other end, frantic calls for help mingled with a woman’s hopeless sobs. Jared, come back. I love you.

  Troy appeared at his side, a heartbeat too late.

  “Where is he?” Troy hauled him up by the shoulders.

  “I don’t know,” Jared gasped. “One minute I had him, and the next…”