Thinking and walking could be done simultaneously, so I called in the dogs and went back to the cottage. Fifteen minutes later we were back on Glory's End property and headed east this time. The two shepherds ranged ahead while I followed, pushing through knee-high grass and weeds in the plowed fields with a walking stick borrowed from the cottage. The main house was behind me, and ahead was a wooded creek, behind which rose another of those heavily forested ridges. The creek was about ten feet wide, filled with smooth stones, and running a foot deep. The shepherds jumped right in and turned into happy mudhens. I found a shallow area where one of the dirt farm roads had made a ford.
The road on the other side was badly rutted from rain washout. The trees along the banks were a bedraggled mixture of locust and straight-shanked poplars, rising sixty feet or higher out of the rocky ground as I climbed the ridge. At the top I could look back toward the house, now a half mile distant. It appeared I was at about the same elevation as the house. Ahead the farm road dropped down the back side of the ridge into wide meadows flanking both sides of the road. Farther to the left there was what looked like a stone quarry visible through the trees between the farm track and the Dan River. There were two beehive-shaped buildings at the back edge of the quarry, behind which rose steep banks of vividly red clay. At the far, eastern end of the meadow rose yet another ridge, which I believed marked the boundary of the property.
I cut left toward the quarry while crows in the trees warned the wildlife of my approach. The shepherds bounded right down the hill to the edge of the quarry but then stopped. When I got there I saw why: It was completely flooded. The quarry was perhaps two acres in size and roughly square, with straight stone sides dropping into dark blue water. A stone ramp led down into the water on the far side, and there was some rusting machinery along the eastern bank, including what looked like the drum of an ancient boiler. When I walked around I discovered there was a rail spur leading from the machinery area out toward the river in a long curve that suggested it had been joined to the old Civil War railroad at one time. Unlike up on the main line, the rails were still there, buried to their tops in dirt and grass, the ties invisible. I could hear the Dan flowing behind a line of river oaks just beyond the rail spur.
The beehive-shaped structures were brick kilns, and I wondered if they'd been used to fire the bricks used in the big house. The black-mawed furnace boxes underneath the structures were certainly big enough to have been wood-fired. Scrub trees now grew up throughout what would have been the work area around the kilns and the quarry machinery. Mounds of broken bricks surrounded the kilns, and the overgrowth on the mounds suggested these works had been silent for a very long time. Over to one side I found a line of the tiny square depressions that in the South usually indicate slave cabins. They were no bigger than chicken coops. A weirdly leaning stone chimney guarded the tumbled remains of a larger log cabin, which was now home to a mass of poison ivy, tiny birds, and at least one burrowing animal. The shepherds both stuck their snouts into the hole, and I waited for a retaliatory bite, but nothing happened. The remains of a party gazebo occupied the corner opposite the brick kilns.
We walked around to the ramp leading down into the flooded quarry. It had been cut through the raw stone, and then the cut had been lined with cobbles for some reason, possibly to give horses or mules better footing as they dragged up their loads. I saw the rusting remains of beer cans and other debris indicating that this place might be an illicit local swimming hole in the heat of summer. Both dogs ran down the ramp and jumped in. They paddled for a moment, then seemed to sense that there was no bottom within their reach and quickly came back out. I backed away from them to avoid being soaked as they shivered off the cold water.
Which is when I saw the hand.
At least it looked like a hand. It was about three feet underwater, and the fingers were splayed out as if the hand had been reaching for the light. I wasn't about to wade into that icy water, but I changed position a couple of times on the edge of the ramp just to make sure it wasn't some kind of optical illusion. It wasn't; it was definitely a human hand, connected to a darkly blurred shape under the water. I took out my cell phone and found I had exactly one bar's worth of service. I called the Rockwell County Sheriff's Office.
It took a county SUV almost twenty minutes to find us down at the quarry. The vehicle pulled up at the edge of the water, looking like it'd had an interesting time down at the ford. Sheriff Walker got out of the right front seat; a deputy exited the driver's door, and another the backseat. I had the shepherds on a long down over by the rail spur: One of the deputies asked me if the dogs were going to be all right. I told him not to worry, that they'd been fed recently. He didn't look reassured, but Walker told him the dogs were okay. We all trooped over to the ramp, and I pointed to the fluttering white image. The sheriff stared down at it for a moment and then told one of the deputies to get the floater team out.
"You didn't try to pull that out, did you?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Made sure it was what I thought it was and then called you guys."
"Because you know what usually happens, you go pullin' on a floater."
"I do. The dogs jumped in just to get wet, but then they came right back out. I thought it was the depth that scared 'em."
"Could have been," he said. "This thing's easily a hundred foot down, believe it or not. There's a ledge along two sides, stickin' out five, six foot just below where you can see into the water. We've lost three kids here since I've been sheriff, divin' in and hittin' that ledge. Got two of 'em back."
"Could this be the third?"
He shook his head. "This is recent," he said.
I waited for him to explain that comment, but he seemed preoccupied. One of the deputies spoke into his shoulder mike and then reported that the team would be here in about an hour.
"Out exploring?" Walker asked me.
"Learning the terrain," I replied. "Just in case my ghost problem comes out here to play games."
"Good idea," he said, but once again he seemed distracted. "Deputy Baynes will take your statement now."
Sheriff Walker called me at the cottage that evening as I was finishing up a truly uninspiring TV dinner.
"We got an ID," he said. "Low-level gangbanger from Danville. We had some intel that somebody clipped a barrio capo and threw the body in the river three weeks ago. Apparently they chose the quarry instead."
"Which gangs?" I asked.
"The Salvadorians and some Crip wannabes here in town. At least that's the rumor."
"Crips? Out here?"
"Gangs are everywhere, Lieutenant. Even out here."
"How'd they do him?'
"The body was anchored to a piece of quarry stone with some fence wire. Divers said it looked like they slid the stone far enough down the ramp so that his head just went under. He went in alive, according to the ME prelim. Not a mark on him."
"Sweet," I said. "So they got to watch."
"As did he."
"All for what, some really bitchin' tennis shoes?"
"Or a sideways look at someone's special bitch."
We remained silent for a moment, each of us marveling at the human wastage that was the gang life these days.
"Lemme ask you something," he said finally.
"Shoot."
"Anyone ever called you a shit magnet?"
"What, three dead guys in as many weeks, and you think there's a pattern?"
He chuckled. "Look," he said, "you're reportedly not hurting for money. You might want to invest in a chain-link fence around that quarry as part of your long-range plan. Attractive nuisance, the lawyers call it."
"That thought had crossed my mind," I said. "Of course, it would help if they just stayed off my place."
"Seven hundred acres out in the country has a gravity all of its own," he said. "They know you can't patrol all of it. I'm talking now about the deer hunters, sex-crazed teenagers, hell, you probably even have a marijuana patch or three so
mewhere out there. And did they tell you about the abandoned coal mine?"
I groaned. "Abandoned coal mine?"
He chuckled again. "Oh, yeah, the coal mine. Back in the early 1900s, somebody thought there was low-grade coal under those ridges out there along the Dan. There was this cave, halfway up the ridge from that quarry. The Lees let some wildcatters come in and dynamite their way back into the cave, see what they could see."
"They find coal?"
"Nope," he said, "but they left an unstable tunnel going about six, seven hundred feet sideways back into that ridge. It's still there, although the entrance supposedly was covered by a rock slide. You might want to locate that and do something to seal it properly."
"Great. Any other little treasures I should know about?"
"Well, lemme see," he said. "The Lees lost all their slaves to cholera the last year of the war. There's a mass grave out there somewhere, nobody knows where for sure, but certainly someplace you do not want to put your veggie garden. Then, of course, there's your candlestick ghost in the big house. There's quicksand in the mouth of Bad Whiskey Creek. And did I mention that there's rumored to be a pack of wolves running that place? And--"
"Sheriff?" I said.
"Lieutenant?"
"Say good night now."
"Good night now, Lieutenant."
I hung up with my bad news bear and went to look for Carol Pollard's card. I called her at home.
"I think I'm getting cold feet," I told her.
"Oh, no--what's happened?"
I recounted my recent discovery at the quarry and then threw in the sheriff's joyous intelligence about a whole host of dangerous features at Glory's End. She was not impressed.
"I mean, it's terrible to find a body on your place, but that's hardly your fault. As to the rest, just about every big place out here has abandoned graveyards, brick and stone workings, and swamps where prudent people don't go walkabout."
"What about the abandoned coal mine?"
"If you can find it, and I suspect you can't, all you really have to do is post it and your farm's perimeter. I think the sheriff is messing with you. He likes you, by the way."
"Called me a shit magnet."
She laughed. "That's a new one, but undeserved. Let's meet for breakfast." She named a place in town, and I agreed to meet her at eight.
I hung up the phone and went for some Scotch. When I came back into the main room, both shepherds were at the side window and Frick was growling.
I put down my drink and flipped off the lights, having had enough of being shot at through the windows. I went over to the side window and looked out over the millpond. The night was hazy, but there was a moon. Budding willows framed the silvery water like a Japanese print. On my side of the dam there was a solitary figure on horseback, standing motionless in the moonlight. I felt a shiver go down my back, even as I realized this must be the major. He and the horse were silhouetted by the moon and totally motionless, as if cast in silver and black granite. The visual effect was unsettling.
I went outside, leaving the shepherds by the door. They were not happy with that arrangement. I walked across the lawn toward the dam and stopped about ten feet away.
"Major," I said.
"Overseer," he replied, tipping his head slightly. The horse moved around a bit, but he did something with one knee and the beast stopped moving.
"Out late tonight?" I asked.
He looked over my head in the direction of Glory's End. "Those people," he said in a tired voice. "Those people are approaching from the east and south in their thousands. Sherman and his animal hordes. There's no word from General Lee. I think the end is near."
"Well," I said. "Perhaps it's time."
"Nevuh, suh!" he exclaimed. I held my peace, wondering if I should even continue with this charade. Yet, surreal as it was, the setting rather supported it. Up to our left was the gray shape of the big house, looming among its protective oaks, its ground-floor windows glimmering with candlelight. There was no traffic out on the two-lane to spoil the illusion. For just a moment, with the moon casting a broad ribbon of light across the millpond, it wasn't that hard to slip into the time warp.
His face was in total shadow, so I could not read his expression, but the horse moved nervously again, as if sensing that something bad was coming. He clucked to the animal and then adjusted himself in the saddle. His long cavalry sword clinked against some part of his tack.
"Keep watch," he said. "If they come this way, they will hang people like you, suh, and the slaves will help them do it. Are you armed, overseer?"
"Well, yes," I said, even as I realized that I'd left my trusty SIG in the house. Had to stop doing that.
"Very good," he said. "Remain vigilant, then. Trust no one and report all strangers. These are parlous times indeed. I must return to camp."
I did not know what to say to that, but he had already nudged the big horse into a slow trot up the drive toward the big house, the horse's shoes snapping the occasional spark off the gravel. Once he'd gone I wondered if I hadn't imagined the whole thing.
An owl called from the other side of the millpond, its throaty hooting amplified by the still water. Perfect, I thought and went back inside. The shepherds kept watch by the door for a while, but there were no more night visitors, at least that I knew about. I kept the .45 on the bedside table, just in case, and Kitty slept in her now customary position, in my bedroom doorway.
Carol and I met at the local breakfast joint on the main street of town. It was a full house, and we ended up sitting at the counter, surrounded by a high volume of conversation laced with a surprising amount of cigarette smoke. This was tobacco-growing country, and the locals were apparently remaining loyal to that side. I told her about my encounter with the mad major, and she just shook her head.
"It sounds as if he's frozen in that one period of time," I said. "He keeps replaying it in his mind."
"Spooky," she said.
"I'll tell you what," I said. "It was spooky out there. It was like talking to a ghost, except he was real, and so was the horse."
She stirred her coffee for a moment. "You do know," she said, "that you're the only person I know who's actually seen the major?"
"Oh, c'mon," I said. "The sheriff told me about him. Cubby takes care of his horse daily. He told me he locks up the tack room at night to keep him from going out on the road at night."
"That may be what Cubby says, but I've never met anyone outside of the Laurel Grove estate who's actually seen the major. And what was he doing out there at night if Cubby locks things up?"
"Hell, I don't know. You think I'm seeing things?'
"No-o," she said, "but I'd be careful, if I were you, about telling people these stories about encountering the major. Most folks here in town think a lot of that is a tall tale, you know, the lunatic relative chained up in the attic at Laurel Grove, where, oh, by the way, they dress up in early Victorian clothes, ride in a horse and buggy, don't use electricity, and read by candlelight."
I sat back in the booth and looked at her. "Tell you what," I said. "Come out to Glory's End today and I'll show you where I first encountered the mysterious major. It's a campfire site, and it's obviously been in use for a long time. I can also show you the fresh pile of horse apples on the dam, from last night."
"Don't get upset, Cam," she said. "I believe you."
"Okay, then, come on out. Just let me show you. I haven't been on scene long enough to fake this, nor do I have any motive to make this stuff up. Like I said last night, I'm beginning to have second thoughts about the whole project."
She sighed audibly and looked around the crowded cafe. "I know this is difficult for you, coming up from the city," she said. "People here are mostly longtime residents. Their families have been here for generations. They think they know everything about everybody. Now there's a drug dealer pulled out of what has long been a county swimming hole, and you're having conversations with the legendary major of Laurel Grove. I'm ju
st saying--"
"That since I've arrived in the county and acquired one of the historical properties, bad shit's been happening."
She looked uncomfortable, but then she grinned. "Yes and no," she said. "Some of us are, what's the word, rather fascinated? You're like a cue ball, cracking into the triangle on a pool table, and everything that's been just-so for years is crashing around."
"Is that a good thing?"
"It might be," she said. "This county's motto is 'Preserving the past, embracing the future.' Lots of people here are all about the past, but not that many really embrace the future. I guess what I'm saying is, please don't bail out just yet."
"Then come with me to Glory's End. Seeing is believing."
"Will you stop talking about ghosts bearing dead babies in the grocery store?"
"If they stay away, I will."
She smiled and said okay.
We finished breakfast, and then she followed me back to the plantation. An hour later and after an arduous climb through the old croplands and up the ridge, we arrived at the circle of rocks. The blackened stones were still there, and even Carol could see that they had been used for a long time. I was able to find hoofprints in the dirt behind the boulders, and there were blackened coffee grounds in the surrounding grass. Frick tried to eat some and then made a bad face.
"I make my coffee in the cottage, and I don't boil the grounds," I said. I told her about seeing the flash of reflected light up on this ridge, encountering the major, and my indiscretion about claiming to own the place. "Now he thinks I'm the overseer; that's what he called me last night, too. Overseer."
"Well, you're at least the conservator. What happened to all these trees?"
"I think it's a lightning patch," I said, and then I had to explain that term to her.
Cam - 04 - Nightwalkers Page 10
