Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 4)

by Vincent Zandri

  It’s the backhoe bucket.

  The bucket swings downwards fast, and a pile of dirt and mud splash down over me, covering my face and body. I breathe in and choke on the dirt. Balkis is attempting to bury me alive so he can get rid of my body of evidence along with Clara’s empty casket. Then, he can keep the Lincoln dress for himself. Why the hell didn’t I see this coming earlier? How stupid of me to assume Balkis didn’t know how to operate a backhoe? What a fucking rookie mistake turning my back on him in the first place.

  I roll over, try and steal a breath of fresh air. Try and pick myself up. But my head is still ringing and I’m too weak to lift the weight of my upper body. I hear, and feel, the presence of the backhoe bucket only a few feet overhead. Another load of dirt falls onto my back. The weight of the earth causes me to drop onto the casket. For a second or two, I just lie there, knowing that if I don’t work up the strength necessary to pull myself out of this hole, I’m already a dead man.

  But I’m so exhausted, so dizzy, that I want to lie still, allow the dirt to bury my body. Maybe I was destined to become a permanent part of this excavation. The true occupant of Clara Harris’s grave.

  But I can’t give up. Can’t allow that to happen. Can’t allow Balkis to get away with the dress. Get away with murder.

  In my spinning brain, I see my dad. See him inside that open casket laid up against the wall in the maintenance shed. I see him come alive, his sewn together eyelids opening, his face regaining its original shape and color. His mouth opening.

  “Come on, Chase!” he shouts. “Get the hell up. Get yourself out of that hole and put this thing right.”

  The bucket is raised over the hole once more. It’s about to drop and dump a third load onto my head. A third load which is sure to finish me off. Pulling myself up through the weight of that much dirt will be impossible.

  “Come on, Chase!” Dad insists. “Save yourself already!”

  Sucking in one last breath, I assume push-up position and lift, breaking myself out of the dirt. Bounding up onto my knees and then my feet, I reach up, plant my hands on the ground and heave my body out of the grave.

  I shoot a glance up at the backhoe cockpit, see Balkis’ eyes go wide as if he fully expects me to be dead already. Dead and buried.

  He shifts the bucket over my prone body. The bucket falls. But at the last split second, I roll out from under it, the heavy steel weight pounding the earth beneath me.

  More cannon fire erupts from down in the valley.

  I jump up to my feet, run to the backhoe. But Balkis has already lifted himself out of the seat. He jumps off the backhoe and begins sprinting downhill in the direction of the battle reenactment.

  True to my name, I make chase.

  29

  He’s faster than a man of that weight and physical condition should be. Or maybe I’m still suffering from the effects of being buried alive. As we run, the sounds of war fill the senses. Rifles firing. Cannon rounds exploding. Sabers rattling. Men screaming as though their legs and arms are being blasted off for real.

  After a few seconds, I can make out the battlefield that occupies the acres of unutilized Albany Rural Cemetery green field. A flat plain that exists at the bottom of the cemetery hill that’s now filled with a blue army colliding with a ragtag army dressed all in gray and black—the former holding up the Union Stars and Stripes, the latter waving the Stainless Banner of the Confederate States of America. The morning air is thick with black and white smoke from the cannon and musket fire, the earth no doubt trembling beneath the reenactment soldier’s booted feet.

  As I gain ground on Balkis, I’m not thinking about apprehending him in order to hand him over to Detective Miller. I’m thinking about how absurd it is to find enjoyment in replaying a battle in which hundreds or thousands of young men were either killed outright or horribly wounded.

  “Balkis!” I shout after a time. “You can’t escape!”

  He turns.

  “That dress is mine!” he shouts. “Lincoln crowned himself the king of America and he made the Union the tool to wipe out slavery. The blood of the tyrant is on my hands and my hands only. Sic Semper Tyrannis…Thus always to tyrants.”

  Oh, Christ, John Wilkes Booth is back again…

  All that shouting has winded him even if we are running downhill. He’s only about twenty feet ahead of me when he reaches the bottom and enters into the battle, maybe hoping he can disappear in the smoke and the confusion. But I follow anyway, knowing all it will take is one last sprint on my part and I will be on the son of a bitch like flies on open wounds.

  I’m dodging a column of Union soldiers when I catch sight of one soldier who breaks formation, shoulders his musket and, his thickly black-bearded face filled with a smile, plants a bead directly on Balkis.

  “Bradly!” Balkis barks. Raising up his hands in surrender, “However in the world can we work this out?”

  “We don’t, cheater,” Bradly says with all the coldness of a corpse, before triggering his weapon.

  30

  Ten minutes later I find myself shaking my head at the battlefield scene.

  It looks silly, if not absurd.

  A fully modern EMT van, its LED flashers lit up, its engine idling, its radio spewing forth tinny messages, parked in the middle of a Civil War-era battlefield. It’s like an alien craft has descended upon the place, breaking up the battle for good.

  But the ambulance isn’t really necessary since the steel ball that entered Balkis’ chest and exited his back blew out about a third of his torso, killing him instantly. Making a surreal situation even more bizarre, are the Albany PD cruisers that dot the open field. One of the vehicle’s back seats occupied with a handcuffed Union soldier named Bradly who went just a little too far in his zeal to recreate the Civil War battle by loading his rifle with a real musket ball. But then, that’s not entirely accurate since the man already confessed to Miller about his long-time affair with Professor Balkis who recently ditched him for a far younger model. What occurred on the battlefield had little to do with zeal, but instead premeditated murder.

  Standing there looking into the car at the man’s black-bearded face, I’m reminded of my initial thoughts regarding the lunacy of war reenactments. As if the real thing hadn’t been looney enough. I’m also reminded that love, no matter what form it takes, can truly stink sometimes.

  A tap on the shoulder.

  I turn to see the gray-haired Detective Miller standing tall and stone-faced.

  “You wanna explain to me the idiocy of all this, Baker?” he says as if truly disturbed at men spending their weekend shooting at one another. Even if the guns were loaded only with blanks. All but one gun that is.

  “I was just thinking the same thing, Detective.”

  He clears his throat. “Ummm, you realize, I could bust you right now for digging up that grave without an authorization.”

  “Ummm,” I mumble, “you didn’t tell me not to do it either, Detective.”

  He smiles, breaking the stone hardness of his face. “Good point. But then, if I fail to tell you not to burn down city hall, will you get the matches out?”

  “The dress and the weapons,” I say. “They’re in a safe place?”

  “Presently being delivered to university officials who will place everything under lock and key in the university archeological museum laboratory. They plan on inviting you to the formal unveiling as soon as they can set a date the experts can all agree upon. That is, you’re not off gallivanting in some remote corner of the world.”

  “I don’t gallivant, Detective. I explore…You know, like Dora the Explorer.”

  He laughs.

  “What about the Girvin’s?” I add. “What will happen to them?”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Who knows,” he says. “They’ve been delivered to the Albany Medical Center to undergo observations in the wake of their, let’s call it, graveside altercation. After that, I’m not sure I have a reason to hold them other
than for faking their own disappearance and/or deaths. I suppose I could get them on assault with a deadly weapon. That is, you press charges and send a pair of nutty ninety-year-olds to prison.”

  Making a smirk, I shake my head. “You’re right, they’re old and living on another planet. They just wanted to uncover that dress before they died, curses be damned. When they heard I was coming to town, they cooked up the stupid plot along with Balkis to fake their disappearance. That Derringer and the blood was a nice touch because it looked to me like it connected them directly to the Professor. Naturally, I assumed he was the one responsible for their unfortunate demise.

  “But when they showed up graveside pointing those old pistols at us, I thought Balkis was off the hook and off his rocker. But that was a part of their plan, too. In the end, we all wanted the dress for our own reasons. The Girvins, because they felt they were entitled to it as owner and caretaker of Clara Harris’s and Henry Rathbone’s Cherry Tree house…Balkis, so that his alter ego, John Wilkes Booth, could somehow own and control the ghost of Abraham Lincoln…and finally, myself, because the Lincoln dress is a part of history, and therefore a part of who we are as free and equal Americans.”

  “Wow, Baker, that just about brought a tear to my eye,” he says. “But the good folks at the Ford’s Theater National Historic site have no idea that the Derringer and knife they have hanging on display are as fictional as one of your novels. I’m sure they’ll be happy to obtain the real McCoy’s along with Clara’s dress.”

  “If I write a book about this adventure, I’ll dedicate it to you since I could not have written it without you.” Then, “I trust you won’t forget my payment.”

  Out the corner of my eye, part way up the cemetery hill, I spot the old backhoe I used for digging up Clara’s grave. There’s a flatbed truck parked beside it. The bed contains a casket. My gut tells me that Dad has finally found a new home.

  “My heart swells with joy,” Miller says sarcastically. “I might even read it. And yeah, just forward your bill to me care of the Albany Police Department, South Pearl Street Division.”

  The EMT van pulls away, it’s siren off, but the flashers shining brightly even on a sun-drenched summer morning.

  “Think he knew what hit him?” I say.

  “I think Balkis died exactly the way he would have wanted to go. Just like John Wilkes Booth one hundred and fifty years ago when he was slain by a Union soldier’s round. Too bad Balkis’ bullet had to come from his jilted lover. I guess sometimes truth is far stranger than fiction. You couldn’t have written it any better, Baker.”

  Out the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the abandoned Confederate flag that now sits on the torn-up ground like a discarded dish towel.

  “The final shot has officially been fired in the war between the states. Balkis is the final casualty. May the Union and its free men and women live on forever and ever.” My eyes, shifting towards the hill. “If you’ll excuse me, Detective, I need to bid a special person a final goodbye.”

  Reaching into my pockets, I pull out Balkis’ phone and his wad of cash.

  “The professor’s personal effects,” I say, handing them over to the detective.

  “Keep the cash,” he says. “You earned it and from what I’m detecting, you could use it. At the very least, buy yourself a steak dinner.”

  “No thanks,” I say. “It’s probably cursed.”

  I start walking away from the battlefield, towards the cemetery hill.

  “I’ll be in touch, Baker,” Miller says. “There’s still the issue of those skeletons down in the Cherry Tree basement.”

  Glancing at the cop over my shoulder.

  “Leave them be,” I say. “Close up the opening for good. Fill it in with concrete. Sometimes a skeleton in the closet should remain a skeleton in the closet.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Baker. Maybe, in this case, the right thing to do is to leave history to the worms.”

  Epilogue

  The maintenance team is just about ready to seal Dad’s brand new, dark brown, aluminum alloy casket when I finally make it back up the hill.

  “You mind giving me a minute, fellas?” I say as the two workers back-step away from the flatbed.

  “Take all the time you need, Mr. Baker,” one of them says.

  I go to the flatbed, disengage the casket lock by twisting it counter-clockwise, and open the lid. I look down upon the body for what will certainly be the final time. I take in the dark blue suit, the faded white shirt, the neatly tied tie, the dark hands, one placed atop the other, the skeletal-like face, the sewn shut eyes that no longer have any shape now that the eyeballs have dried up, the pinned carnation that still exists after all this time even if the flower petals have dried and withered to a brown/black death no different than the man they adorn. A body of the earth about to become a part of the earth once more and forever. A body with its soul long departed, but a body that still belongs to my dad.

  “Well, Dad,” I say, “I guess this is it. I hope you like your new home. It overlooks the valley, and you’ll get the morning sun rising from out of the East. You always liked waking up at dawn before heading off to dig something up. Gave you some peace, I think.”

  Dad’s been gone going on six years now, but I feel my throat closing in on itself and my eyes welling up. I guess I miss the old guy more than I thought. I will keep on missing him too. That’s what happens to the ones left behind. That’s history’s bittersweet gift. No amount of earth or concrete covering or worms can ever take that away.

  Reaching out, I straighten the old, dried up carnation as best I can without breaking it. Then, lowering my fingers, I touch Dad’s hands once more. They’re cold and feel like plastic. Not like when I was a kid and he’d hold my far smaller hand in his while we stood together at the ice cream shop window. Somehow, the touch of his lifeless skin transports me back to a time that was so long ago, but that seems like it transpired in the blink of an eye.

  Closing the casket lid, I twist the lock clockwise and seal my father inside for all eternity. Tossing a “thank you” nod to the workers, I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and head down the cemetery hill, the bright morning sunshine warm on my face.

  THE END

  If you enjoyed this Chase Baker Thriller, please explore The Shroud Key (Chase Baker No.1), Chase Baker and the Golden Condor (Chase Baker No. 2), and Chase Baker and the God Boy (Chase Baker No. 3)

  NOTE: The author has exercised more than a few liberties when it comes to the facts behind the saga of Clara Harris Rathbone and her husband, Henry. For the real story behind their tragic lives and deaths, click here.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Winner of the International Thriller Writer’s Paperback Original for 2015, Vincent Zandri is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than sixteen novels, including Everything Burns, The Innocent, The Remains, Orchard Grove, and The Shroud Key. He is also the author of the Shamus Award nominated Dick Moonlight PI series. A freelance photojournalist and solo traveler, he is the founder of the blog The Vincent Zandri Vox. He lives in Albany, New York. For more, go to http://www.vincentzandri.com/.

  Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse (A Chase Baker Thriller No. 4)

  Vincent Zandri © copyright 2015

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Bear Media LLC 2015

  4 Orchard Grove, Albany, NY 12204

  http://www.vincentzandri.com

  Cover design by Elder Lemon Art

  Author Photo by Jessica Painter

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published in the United States of Ame
rica