by D. F. Hart
This... this is what it could be like for us, too, Lizzie realized. This sense of being home.
***
Grant stood at his parents’ kitchen sink, washing dishes after the meal.
“Leave those, I can get them,” Bernice scolded.
“Nope,” he rejoined. “It’s the least I can do for you, Mom, so let me. Please?”
“Oh, all right,” she reluctantly agreed. “You saved room for cherry pie, right?”
“Always.”
“So, San Angelo to start, huh? Nice town. Haven’t been there in a long time,” Bill said as he leaned back in his chair at the table.
“Would you like to come with me? I hear the reenactment is pretty cool to see.”
“I’d love to, son, but I can’t,” Bill sighed, then yawned. “This is the first day off any of us have had in weeks, and we go right back to it at six a.m. tomorrow. They’ve had me running ragged seven days a week.”
Grant and Bernice exchanged looks.
“Honey, why don’t you go sit in your recliner and put your feet up, and I’ll bring you a slice of pie.”
Bill nodded. “That sounds nice, actually.” He rose slowly and lumbered toward the living room.
“He gets that chair leaned back, and he’ll be out in no time, you just wait and see,” Bernice murmured to her son.
“He looks exhausted, Mom, and it has me worried.”
“Me too, dear,” Bernice answered with a sniffle. “Me too.”
***
“That was... surreal,” Lizzie shared after she and Donny said their goodbyes and began walking down the driveway to her SUV. “That’s the first time I’ve ever even been around a kid before.”
“Me too,” Donny chuckled. “He’s a cute little thing, isn’t he?”
“He’s adorable,” Lizzie agreed.
Yep, that whole experience was eye-opening. Guess maybe I’m not as conflicted about children as I thought I was?
“So, what would you like to do the rest of the day?” she asked Donny, deliberately shifting the topic back over onto neutral ground.
“Since we seem to be running a gauntlet of sorts lately anyway, how do you feel about checking off the ‘meeting my parents’ box? They only live about an hour from here,” he said. “They knew we already had plans for lunch, but I told them we might be out later today or sometime tomorrow. They’re really excited to meet you.”
“Aw,” Lizzie teased. “Has someone been talking about me?”
Donny blushed, and she grinned.
“Then I vote you drive,” Lizzie announced as she tossed him the keys, “since you know where we’re going.”
***
By six p.m. he was unpacking the few belongings he’d brought and putting them away in the hotel room’s three-drawer dresser. Then he fired up his laptop.
“Time to check for any updates,” he muttered, but as he suspected, Grant hadn’t logged on at all.
“Probably at his parents’ house. No matter,” he said aloud to himself. “I know where he’ll be come Sunday. In the meantime, I can get the lay of the land.”
He pulled up the website for Fort Concho and confirmed their official hours of operation for tours. Not that I give a damn when they’re open, he reasoned. I have every intention of trespassing after hours anyway. But doing a tour would give me the ability to check out the buildings a little more closely without attracting too much attention.
He made note of Friday’s tour times.
Satisfied that there wasn’t much more he could do at the moment, he secured his laptop, then headed to the elevator to seek out a meal – and explore his surroundings. He already knew from his preliminary research of the area that his hotel was only three miles from the old fort.
I might have to be in costume on Monday, he realized as he walked to the home-style café conveniently located right across the street from his lodging. It might look strange, carrying the rifle around in street clothes at the fort. Blending in will help me get away.
But what about if Grant’s in street clothes? Something else to consider.
He was smart enough to admit that his plan hinged on not just timing, but also some luck.
It’ll work out, he reassured himself. Almost every mission usually has at least one wrinkle. Adapt and overcome, remember?
He settled in at his table for one, smiled at the waitress, and ordered his dinner.
***
It was ten p.m. before Donny and Lizzie got back to her house, and she was worn out from the day’s events.
Donny’s parents took to her immediately, making her feel at ease and welcomed from the moment she set foot in their home. The four talked and laughed and had a grand old time.
“You’re welcome back here anytime, dear,” Donny’s mother said sincerely before gathering Lizzie up in a hug. “And you don’t have to wait for my son to be in town from Colorado, either. Come over whenever you like.”
“I will, thanks.”
“I just knew they’d love you. I knew it,” Donny enthused as he climbed behind the wheel. “And I was right.”
“Your parents are so sweet,” she said, smiling as she buckled her seat belt. “I’m really glad you introduced us.”
***
Friday morning saw him pulling the crappy gray car into the designated visitor lot at the fort’s welcome center. He paid for his admission ticket and in turn received a map of the fort’s layout, along with a much-too-perky “Enjoy your day!” from the blond teenage girl manning the ticket window.
He scanned the map briefly before he stepped back outside.
This is not what I expected, he admitted. Not at all. For some reason the word ‘fort’ conjures up big, thick, tall stone walls in my mind. If they ever even existed here, they didn’t last.
Directly in front of the visitor’s center, a small group of men were erecting several oversized canvas tents in the open field that the map identified as the parade grounds, presumably for the week-long festivities kicking off on Monday. Looking south across the grounds, he noted several two-story structures standing in a tidy row, and he noticed immediately that while every single one of them had chimneys, none had any sort of design that would adequately hide a sniper.
At the eastern end of that row, however, was a building that possessed the feature he was most interested in. He consulted his map. Hospital, huh? Looks promising. Let’s go scope it out.
As he walked, he counted steps in his head, then did some calculations. Huh. How about that. No matter where they do the reenactment out here, it won’t be more than two hundred yards away from me, tops.
IF the hospital’s where I nest up, that is...
He stepped inside, looking around at the historically accurate furnishings as he moved slowly toward the far end where he suspected a staircase might be. Sure enough, up ahead and to the left was a narrow passageway with steep stairs – and a ‘No Entry’ sign hanging on a chain across the opening.
Gonna have to do better than that to keep me out, he asserted internally as he also noticed a security camera positioned in the top right corner of the barracks-style room. Its location enabled it to monitor the entire space, sweeping from side to side.
Child’s play. I know that model. I’ll have that hacked in ten seconds Sunday night. No issues there.
I can’t risk going upstairs right now, in broad daylight. But what I can do before I leave this building is find out where the alarm panel is, so that I know exactly what I’m dealing with there, too.
As he meandered back toward the front doors, playing the role of touristy history buff to the hilt, he spotted the alarm panel.
I already know that system, too. This is gonna be easy, he told himself with a grin as he stepped outside and gently closed the door behind him. The last order of business was paying close attention to the type of lock on the hospital’s doors, so that he’d know what tools to bring with him.
“Next stop, a costume shop,” he mumbled, and pulled out his phone to sea
rch for one in the area.
***
Grant spent Thursday and Friday at his parents’ house before driving home to Pantego Saturday morning. He logged into his desktop unit, double-checked the distance from his home to San Angelo, and nodded.
Under four hours of drive time. That’s good. That means I can sleep here tonight.
He’d already made arrangements to stay at a quaint bed-and-breakfast in San Angelo’s historic district Sunday and Monday night.
This actually works out pretty well. I can focus and get a lot of my article pre-written, then just shore it up with what Mr. Baker and I talk about, Grant strategized as he started a new document in Word. Which reminds me, I need to make sure my camera battery is fully charged.
***
After a dreamless sleep, Grant loaded up his laptop, camera bag, and suitcase and pulled out of his driveway at eight a.m. Sunday morning, traveling west on I-20 then turning onto 206 to head south.
***
His phone chirped at nine-forty-seven, and he scooped it up to view the notification.
Grant’s in motion, he confirmed as he expanded the map view to watch the tiny dot blip across the screen.
He just took 206 south, he noted, and took great satisfaction in the amazing accuracy of the equipment he’d brought into play. Man, that tracker truly is top of the line. I can trace him down to within fifty feet!
He tapped a few keys on his phone and instantly the tiny camera he’d installed in Grant’s rearview mirror was transmitting, as well.
He chuckled to himself as he watched.
“Really, Grant? Button-down and khakis, again? You are such a boring dresser,” he murmured to the man on his screen. “Well, at least you’re predictable. Glad to see it, actually. It makes it easier to pack to match you.”
He double-checked that his laptop was fully recording all incoming data, then moved to the bathroom to get ready for a full day of reconnaissance and up close, old-fashioned eavesdropping.
***
Grant pulled his gray Toyota into a parking spot at the San Angelo library at ten minutes to noon. A man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes, was standing just outside the front doors on the sidewalk.
“Mr. Forrester?” he asked as Grant exited the car and walked toward the entrance.
“Yes. But please call me Grant. You must be Mr. Baker.”
“I am,” the man said as he approached with his hand extended in greeting. “But call me Ed. It’s nice to meet you. Where would you like to start?”
“You’re the native here, lead the way.”
Ed chuckled. “Okay, then. The fort’s tour hours are one to five p.m. today. I vote we have some lunch right quick, then head over there so you can look around. After that we can come back here and talk more about the fort’s history.”
“Sounds great! Where are we headed for lunch?”
“There’s a little mom-and-pop place just down the block. It’s a nice enough day we can walk it, if you like.”
The men fell in side-by-side and headed in the direction Ed had pointed when he mentioned the restaurant.
“So, how long have you been in San Angelo?” Grant asked once they were seated in a booth.
“I was born in Maine,” Ed began, “but my family moved down to Texas before I started kindergarten. Been here ever since. Graduated high school here, went to Texas Tech up in Lubbock for my bachelor’s and masters’ degrees in history, then came right back to San Angelo. I’m a history teacher at the high school, and as you’re already aware, I’m also pretty heavily involved in the reenactments we do at the fort.”
“I got my degrees in creative writing and journalism, and I minored in history,” Grant revealed.
“Well, then, you’re in for a treat, Grant. Fort Concho – this whole area, really - has some amazing history.”
Neither of them looked twice at the scruffy-looking man who shuffled along on his crutches past them and took a seat at a nearby table with his back to them.
***
By the time their lunch had been brought to the table, Ed was regaling Grant about the opening day festivities that would start the week-long Christmas at Fort Concho celebration.
“Everything kicks off with a parade that starts downtown at ten a.m. and ends at the fort. The highlight, of course, is the first reenactment we do once we get to Fort Concho,” Ed explained as he salted his French fries. “It’s my favorite part, to be honest – because I get to be the one to give the signal to fire the cannons. And every year, the crowd goes wild with that first shot.”
***
That’s brilliant, he realized from his spot at the table mere feet from them. I know where he’ll be, and when, and I can time my shot with the cannon blast to mask the noise! That’s the last piece I needed...
He purposely tuned them out and concentrated on the bacon cheeseburger that had just arrived at his table. He took his time, savoring each bite, barely noticing when they got up and left.
Later, he paid cash for his meal, tipping his waitress generously, and maintained the ruse of needing his crutches all the way back to the rental car he’d parked along the curb. He drove himself back to his hotel and made another check of the gear he’d need for tomorrow’s event. Then he set the bedside alarm clock for two-thirty a.m. before he stretched out on the bed to relax his body while his mind walked through each step of his plan.
***
Grant and Ed took Grant’s car out to Fort Concho. Along the way, Ed revealed some facts about the fort’s construction.
“Its primary purpose was to serve as Fort Chadbourne’s replacement in this area,” he explained. “Chadbourne was built in 1852 up near Bronte, about forty minutes from here. But they discovered the water supply there wasn’t always consistent enough to sustain the troops. So, Fort Concho was built here in 1867.”
“Interesting,” Grant replied.
“If you decide to write about Fort Chadbourne in your articles, you’ll want to talk to Stella Williams. She’s the expert on that place and can tell you anything you want to know. She’s one sharp cookie, Miss Stella. Just make sure you’re rested up before you go see her. She’s seventy-two, but she’s got more energy than most people half her age,” Ed cautioned, and chuckled. “Every time I’ve visited with her it’s all I can do to keep up.”
“Noted,” Grant said with a grin.
“Here we are, take a left,” Ed instructed, and led Grant into the visitor lot outside the welcome center.
As they wandered the grounds, Ed pointed out the hospital building.
“Here’s an interesting fact for you,” he said to Grant. “Both Fort Concho and Fort Richardson were built in 1867. And, they have identical hospital buildings, with one small difference – the cupola.”
“Cupola? What’s that?”
“The white shuttered piece on the top there,” Ed pointed.
Grant nodded and made notes. “Did both forts have the same building crew?”
“No,” Ed explained, “each fort was constructed by the first soldiers stationed there. But the Army only had a few approved blueprints for each type of building that could be onsite. Concho and Richardson troops happened to pick the same hospital layout. But legend has it the commanding officer ordered the cupola to be added here at Concho.”
“What was it used for?”
“We believe the CO intended it as a signal station of sorts. Problem was, it wasn’t accessible from the inside, at least not back then. The soldiers had to climb the exterior of the building to even get to it – which is why it probably wasn’t used very much at all.”
“And now?”
“An interior staircase was installed during restoration to allow the staff easier access if needed.”
They wandered all over the grounds, with Ed answering Grant’s questions and providing interesting tidbits about not only the fort but the city that had sprung up around it. It was almost four p.m. when they made their way back to Grant’
s car.
Ed checked his watch. “The library closes at six. We should still have enough time for me to show you some old maps, if you’re interested.”
“Absolutely!”
***
The following morning Grant was in the town’s center to capture pictures of the start of the parade. He stayed until the last float left the square, then drove to the fort.
Ed had mentioned during their car ride back to the library that one of the best places from which to watch the reenactment was the long front porch of the hospital building, so Grant walked that direction to grab one of the last open spots.
He settled in with the folding chair he’d brought and reviewed the pamphlet he’d been given while he waited.
***
Directly above Grant’s position, he peeked out of the shuttered cupola he’d nested in during the night. He’d played back Ed and Grant’s conversation when he woke, and he felt an almost cosmic irony that Grant would not only be in the same area, but also at the same angle to the action unfolding during the reenactment.
He’d already loaded his rifle and chambered the first round. He’d already worked out just how far the narrow shutter would have to be opened to allow him a clear shot. And he’d already calculated that his intended target would likely be about one hundred and ninety yards away and presenting from a side angle.
All that was left to do was wait.
CHAPTER FIVE
At one-thirty p.m., Edward Baker, dressed in proper 1850’s United States soldier attire, stepped up in full view of what looked to be a record crowd and raised his left arm high into the air, preparing to signal to the cannon crews.
He smiled and held his pose a moment, building the excitement for the crowd, then yelled, “Fire!”
The three cannons sounded mightily, one after the other, smoke billowing up from each cannon’s barrel as the crowd clapped and cheered wildly.
But the crowd’s cheers turned to gasps of concern as Edward Baker suddenly lurched to his right, then collapsed. Shocked troopmates surrounded him to check on him but were confused – they couldn’t see anything wrong.
