Her camping gear was safe, too.
Okay, chariot, take me away.
It wasn’t too long before she was driving up to the parking area at the base of Bluff Mountain.
Another car remained a distance behind.
The hike from the lot to the camping site three quarters of the way up normally invigorated her at this time of year. Cool breezes, early spring plants poking their first green stalks above ground, some slight leafing out but mostly bare trees. It was the beginning of spring resurrection.
She loved this time of year. Life was recycling itself from a Stygian winter.
She trudged easily across the field, her feet crunching the dried out leaves and catkins from previous years, and arrived at the three-sided shelter. She removed her pack and headed to the outhouse. By that time sunset was a purple red haze, but still light enough to head back via the Punch Bowl pond before starting a campfire.
When she was a little girl she used to pretend the Punch Bowl was a giant crystal ball. She would giggle and laugh as her father and mother would tell ghost stories around the camp fire then pretend she could see the future in the moonlit watery surface.
She stood there a brief moment.
O great crystal ball, what will my life with Gus be like?
Nothing, not even a tree reflection.
Twenty minutes later, she had started her campfire in the fire pit just outside the hiker’s shelter.
She munched on a granola bar and opened the Johnny Walker Black Label then took a swig.
Easy, girl, ya gotta hike down this mole hill in the morning. Don’t go getting tipsy.
What the hell, why not?
By the time the three-quarter moon had risen, she felt a bit of a buzz. She started to climb into her sleeping bag when nature’s call warned her to make another trip to the outhouse.
The buzz had dulled her senses. She didn’t hear the rustling behind her until she heard the nearby breathing. As she turned, she felt a searing pain in her abdomen, followed by nausea and dizziness. Her hands reached down and felt the cold steel penetrating her skin and the swelling as blood filled her belly.
She couldn’t understand why her ring had turned red.
Then, moonless darkness.
She didn’t feel herself being dragged.
She didn’t hear the muttering male voice.
“Didn’t think I knew about that car, did you?”
He pulled the blade out with difficulty. It seemed stuck.
“Damn, the tip broke off in the bitch. I can grind it down so no one will notice.”
She didn’t see or hear him dig the hole. She didn’t feel the cold dampness, as her body was flung into it. She didn’t feel her ring slip off her now limp finger and fall to the top edge of the pit she now lay in. The pounds of mountain soil, rock, and forest debris that covered her caused no pain.
He was a careful man, a planner. His training had taught him the art of concealment. He made sure to make the site indistinguishable from the surrounding field.
He took her camping gear and trudged back down the mountain. It would be easy to dispose of. The broken saber? That would get turned into the Armory before graduation. Once he refinished the tip, no one would know the difference.
He didn’t see the small luminescence hovering over the now-concealed grave.
He didn’t see a larger light rise from that site and join the lesser one.
He hummed quietly to himself as he made his way down the mountain.
How’s it feel now, Fletcher? I was never good enough for you, was I? Who’s good enough for you now?
Say hello to my pa, bitch.
“Where’s Lauren?”
“Isn’t she with you, Gus? We thought she returned to barracks on Sunday.”
Mrs. Fletcher heard the worry in the boy’s voice.
“Did you check with her roommate?”
“She never went with her.”
He stood with Lauren’s parents in the Commandant’s office on Tuesday.
Search parties fanned out across the Post and up into the mountains. The car registered in her name was found in the parking lot at the bottom of the mountain ridge.
After one week and three days of heavy April rains that turned to snow up on the mountain peaks, the search was called off.
Next
Abigail Mayhugh slid off her chair.
“Damn, I hope she hasn’t had a stroke or an MI.”
Beau Jensen quickly knelt down next to the shop owner and began checking her vital signs.
The old woman’s eyes rolled up in her head, and her body twitched a few times, before she lay still again. Her eye lids fluttered then opened.
“What … what …?”
“Vagal reaction. Nothing serious.”
Kristin and Beau had left the hospital after the ICU doctor had given the word: “He’s stabilized for now, Ms. Belmont. Why don’t you get some rest?”
Beau turned toward the exhausted girl. “I’m off duty now. Let me take you over to your car and then I’ll show you some of the local motels where you can stay.”
“Thanks, Beau. Uh … is that really your name?”
“Yep, it’s Beau, Beau Jensen. What’s yours?”
“Kristin.”
She didn’t want to stay in Charlottesville. It wasn’t that far a drive. She had to do something. A small motel just outside Lexington would serve as a pit stop. It just seemed like there was unfinished business there.
“You sure you don’t want to stay in Charlottesville? You really should rest.”
The young EMT had seen this before—the need to do something, the agitation of having to face a loved one’s mortality.
“I’ve got to talk to someone Dad and I met while we were in Lexington, Beau.”
There are too many loose ends. Something doesn’t fit. First, that woman in the antique shop and her nephew that Dad helped judge guilty at VMI; then the locket and that kid up on the mountain. Maybe I’m going crazy, but I need answers.
“Mind if I come with you?”
She looked up at him, smiled, and nodded.
He followed her down the mountain into Lexington. They parked their cars together.
The little antique shop was open. Beau held the paint-peeled door, barely sidestepping as the girl rushed through it into the darkened anteroom.
“Mrs. Ashburn?”
“That was my twin sister Mattie’s married name, girl. She’s dead. I’m Abigail Mayhugh.”
“Oh, sorry, Mrs. Mayhugh.”
“It’s Miss, and I don’t take returns, girl.”
The old woman was sitting in the same chair as before. It didn’t look like she had changed her dress either. She stared up at the girl and saw the young man standing next to her.
Hmpfh, probably the boyfriend. Looka him sniffin’ aroun’ her.
“Oh, no, Miss … uh … Mayhugh, I really love the locket. It’s just that, well, I was wondering if you know anything about it … you know … where it came from, who owned it, that sort of thing.”
“It ain’t stole, if that’s what you mean.”
“Try being civil for once, Miss Mayhugh. Yeah, I remember you chasin’ me away when I was a kid. I’m Beau Jensen. My dad owns this building. Understand?”
The old woman started to tremble at the boy’s steady blue-eyed stare.
“I … I meant no disrespect, girl. It’s jes…”
“No, no, don’t be upset, Miss Mayhugh. It’s … well … you said you couldn’t open the locket. That’s why you sold it so cheaply”
“And…?”
“I opened it.”
Abigail’s face matched the color of her gray dress. She started to rise then fell back in her chair.
Between her sobs, the two young ones could make out only one word: “Ottie.” Then her eyes rolled up and she slid off her chair.
Jensen stood up, brushed the dust from his jeans, and cast a side-glance at Kristin. Then he bent over once more and easily lifted Abigai
l back into her chair. He pulled two musty velvet side chairs over, brushed the dirt off their cushions, and waved Kristin to sit down in one while he took the other.
Kristin stared long and hard at the woman.
“Miss Mayhugh, I want some answers. What’s the story on this locket?”
Abigail twisted the faded lavender handkerchief in her hands. She couldn’t avoid the hard looks from the young woman or the Jensen boy.
“Girl, do you know about the little boy on Bluff Mountain?”
“Ottie Cline Powell, the little boy who wandered off and died on the mountain over a century ago? Yes, my dad told me about him. We saw the marker at the summit.”
The old woman paused. How much should she tell them?
“My great grandpa was one a’ the ones who searched fer the Powell boy when he wandered off. Grandpa t’weren’t much older than the boy at the time.
He tole us kids how Ottie went missin’ fer months, ’til hunters found his body up on Bluff.
When the doctor examined his body, he did an…”
“Autopsy?” Jensen interjected.
She nodded.
“Well, the story goes the doctor took a lock of the child’s hair, put it in a gold locket and gave it to Ottie’s mama. Her husband didn’t want her to keep it. Somethin’ about their religion and not having jewelry; stuff like that.”
“How could he be so cruel?” Kristin was upset. The words “You took him from me once…” echoed in her mind.
“He weren’t cruel, girl. He was a minister and his faith required it. But his wife wouldn’t let him take it away from her. She held that locket to her dyin’ day. She wanted to be buried with it.”
Mayhugh was out of breath. She stopped and stared at the gold trinket in Kristin’s hands.
“Now, remember, I can’t say iffin it’s true or not, but Grandpa said when Mrs. Powell was laid out, someone removed the locket before the coffin was closed. Some say it were the husband, but no one knows fer sure. Anyways, the locket was found among some stuff that got sold after a neighbor died years later.”
“How did you get it?”
Kristin’s hazel-blue eyes wouldn’t let the old woman go.
“It were one o’ the first things I bought when I opened my shop. It’s been here over forty years. No one wanted to buy it … until you and yer pa came along. I thought I was done with it.”
Her curiosity overcame fear.
“Did ya really open it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did it have a lock a’ the boy’s hair?”
Kristin nodded.
“Ah.” She hesitated. “It really should be with his mama.”
“Where is she buried, ma’am?”
Beau saw the look on Kristin’s face. There was no turning back. He rose and Kristin started to do the same then stopped.
“Miss Mayhugh, when my dad and I came in that first time, you were pretty rude to him.”
Beau sat down again. Geez, what is it with women?
Abigail saw the girl’s involuntary hand motion to her neck and the object hanging from a chain down the open part of her pale blue blouse: a ring, a heavy gold ring.
“Where’s yer pa, girl?”
“Her dad’s in the hospital, Miss Mayhugh. Remember what I said about being civil?” Beau’s frustration tolerance wasn’t high.
Damn, it’s turning into a cat fight.
“I tol’ ya. My nephew, little Donnie, they kicked him outta that college yer Dad went to. Said he violated their Honor Code. Poor boy. His mama gave me his letter jes’ before she died. He wrote to her. T’wasn’t his fault. It was someone else.”
“May I see that letter?”
“He’s dead. My boy’s dead!”
“Your boy?”
Kristin was stunned. She finally understood. She saw the confused look on Beau’s face as she rose to put her arm around the other woman.
“Donnie Ashburn…he was your son, wasn’t he?”
Abigail bent forward and pressed her hands against her face.
“Donnie, my Donnie…he didn’ have t’ die. He shoulda tol’ the school.”
“Your sister raised him, didn’t she? You weren’t married and…”
The old woman could just shake her head and sob.
Kristin’s soft voice was barely audible. “May I see his letter?”
She helped Abigail to stand. The old woman tottered then went toward an old fold-down oak desk and pulled up the cover. Disturbed dust floated in the air. She reached for a black leather holder, untied the string and pulled out an envelope bearing the VMI return address on the left upper corner. Beneath it was hand printed a name: Cadet Donald Ashburn. She held out the letter and Kristin gently took it from her hand.
“Miss Mayhugh, this letter … have you read it?”
“My boy’s last words.”
Kristin carefully peeled the upper flap of the resealed envelope back. The glue was powder dry, so it wasn’t difficult.
“Beau, look at this!”
Together, the two young adults read down the scrawled, obviously stress-filled handwriting.
“These aren’t the words of a suicidal person, Kristin. This kid was determined to prove his innocence.”
Beau had seen enough suicide notes working the rescue squad job.
“Ma’am, were the police sure that Donnie killed himself?”
“They tol’ us he had used his father’s saber—my sister’s husband was a VMI graduate—to commit hara-kiri.”
Kristin was the history major. “He stabbed himself to death with a saber?”
Abigail nodded.
“Why didn’t you show this letter to the authorities?”
One look from the older woman and the younger woman knew the answer.
Kristin put her hand on Abigail’s shoulder.
“Did Donnie know?”
Abigail shook her head. The memory of her boy rushing into her shop and yelling “Aunt Abby, I got accepted to VMI!” echoed in her mind.
“Miss Mayhugh, I want to look into this. I think you’re right. I think Donnie was innocent. He may also have been murdered. May I borrow this letter?”
Abigail looked into Kristin’s eyes.
So young, so innocent—like my Donnie.
Ma, give it to her!
Donnie?
She’s the one, ma. She’s my only chance to clear my name.”
Abigail’s shoulders straightened. She reached into another cubbyhole in the desk and took out a small jewelry box. She took Kristin’s hand and placed it in her palm.
Kristin opened the box. It was another VMI ring, just as large as her father’s and with the same date of graduation.
“It was Donnie’s. He never had the chance to wear it.”
“I … I can’t take this, Miss Mayhugh.”
“Please, girl. Clear my Donnie’s name.”
The Hunt
“Kristin, calm down!”
“I can’t, Beau. I’ve got too much to do and so little time, I…”
She started to cry.
He held her.
It works for Dad when Mom goes off.
“I don’t know what to do. Dad’s dying. There’s something in his past that needs closure. Damn it, after Abigail, I need closure!”
She wiped her eyes and stepped back.
“He watched the five-foot-six dynamo pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the little antique shop in Lexington.
God, she’s hot when she gets angry.
“Don’t you see, something terribly wrong happened twenty five years ago. You didn’t see my father’s face when the Mayhugh woman first mentioned her son’s name. The guy was even in his class. And Dad said his other classmate, Lauren Fletcher, disappeared just before graduation.”
“Kristin, you said it was twenty-five years ago. Don’t they have a class reunion coming up?”
“That’s brilliant, Beau! Uncle Denny, my Dad’s roommate, mentioned something about a reunion.”<
br />
She pulled his head down and kissed his cheek.
“Uh … yeah … uh.”
The kid who handled blood and guts routinely was now totally flummoxed. His face burned. He could barely keep his hand from rubbing the spot she had kissed.
Whoa, boy, you never had a kiss do that! Don’t look down, don’t look down!
“And we can check the morgue files at the Lexington News Gazette . I’m sure they’ve got all their stuff on computer now. They’ve been around here over two hundred years, so twenty-five is just a drop in the bucket for them.
“Beau, let’s head up to VMI, first and check in at the alumni office.”
“Uh, I can’t do it right now. I gotta get back to school.”
“School?”
“Yeah, I just work the emergency squad part time to make some extra money. I’m finishing up my senior year at UVA.”
“Oh. Uh … what are you studying?
“I start med school next fall.”
“Wow, that’s neat!”
“Listen, Kristin, I’ll help all I can. It’s just … I got a class this afternoon then I’ll have some free time. I’ll stop by the newspaper and check the records on Ashburn and Fletcher for you.
I think it would also be a good idea to talk to Fletcher’s father, if he’s still alive. I remember my dad telling me that the old guy was in a nursing home.”
“Okay, you get to class. I’ll head up the hill to VMI. Do you have my number?”
Two cell phones were whipped out and numbers punched into memory.
Beau watched as the girl he had known for only twenty-four hours ran to her car and drove off.
Damn, you’re falling for her, aren’t you?
She knew the way now: through Lexington to the VMI sign, a right turn and a curling drive up to the top of the hill where the old Arsenal once stood.
Now the tawny buildings and castle-like Barracks confronted her.
It can’t be this easy .
She saw the WELCOME ALUMNI sign in front of a building labeled Moody Hall. She parked in a small lot and hurried up through the open doorway. A woman with a sheath of computer printouts was headed toward her.
“Ma’am, can you help me?”
Shoes: Tails from the post Page 6
