Gatekeeper

by Debra Glass

  Dear Sir,

  I enclose a letter from my fiancée, Miss Harriet Cooke, with whom you are also acquainted. It is imperative that I receive an extended leave from service so that Miss Cooke and I may wed within the month.

  Sincerely,

  Bruce K. Bowers, Private Co. B., 20th Tennessee

  Jillian reread the letter. Bruce Bowers. Why was that name so familiar? “Bowers,” she said aloud.

  And then it was obvious.

  Chapter Ten

  Comprehension flooded Jillian. Matt Gregory’s words echoed in her head. The private’s life he died saving was the man Smith’s former fiancée married. Her family still lives around here somewhere.

  Jillian gasped. Bowers. That was it! Lynn Bowers was a descendant of Harriet Cooke and Bruce Bowers. It all made sense. That was how the suspect had known that she had gone to the relic shop. That was how the suspect had known Jillian had worn a blue sweater yesterday. Lynn had gotten Boo out of her Jag. Stark clarity sank straight to her toes. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “That must have been when she took the pages I copied.” Jillian knew the bald man was staring at her, thinking she was talking to herself but she didn’t care. She had asked Theo to bring Lynn in on the case. Lynn had seen Theo hand her the button.

  Did Lynn know she still had it?

  Jillian stared at the letter. Her mind formed a mental picture of Benton stepping between the Federal colonel and Bowers. While the colonel hit Benton on the head, Bowers must have stuck a knife between his ribs. She shuddered violently as she felt Benton’s presence looming behind her. It was static and strong and Jillian did not doubt if she looked over her shoulder she’d see Benton’s ghost standing there. She tensed. “Bruce Bowers killed you,” she whispered under her breath.

  The energy behind her turned ice cold and then spiked. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Benton had not known. He truly had not known he’d been betrayed by the man whose life he had risked his own to save. Who would have? He’d probably been too stunned by the Yankee who attacked him to realize Bruce Bowers was killing him. Jillian’s heart tightened and just as she was about to turn to offer him some sort of comfort, there was a pop and a flash and the whole Tennessee State Library was left in darkness. The patrons gasped in unison.

  Jillian shoved the papers she’d printed into her purse and ran for the door, sliding halfway across the slick marble floor in her black Christian Louboutin pumps.

  She wanted to call Theo immediately but she knew without more substantial proof she would come off looking like a flake. Dodging an oncoming cab, she raced across the street and clambered into the Jag.

  As soon as she wheeled the Jag into traffic her cell phone began ringing. She drove with one hand and rummaged through her purse with the other. It was Theo. She flipped the phone open with a strange but practiced combination of her index finger and chin. “Hello?”

  “We have the report back from the crime lab.”

  Jillian’s heart leapt. “Do we have an ID on the suspect?” she asked. She hoped beyond hope the DNA pointed to Lynn.

  She heard Theo blow out a breath. “Your sister’s DNA is all over the various crime scenes but unfortunately all we have on the killer is a footprint found at Shy’s Hill. All the evidence was destroyed at Mt. Olivet from all the commotion at the crime scene.”

  Jillian’s hopes sank. Her mind warred with whether she should tell Theo about the Bowers connection or not. “So what do we know about the footprint?”

  “Just that the suspect has a big foot, wears Nikes and weighs about two-hundred-twenty pounds.”

  The weight certainly fit Lynn’s description but still it was too vague to go on—and too soon to approach Theo with her suspicions.

  “What about Matt Gregory?” she asked. “Did you collect any DNA evidence there?”

  “The lab is still working on it. They’re also working on finding the source of the call you received last night. I’ll let you know when we get some answers.”

  “Thanks.” Jillian tossed the phone back in her purse. She gripped the steering wheel and called herself stupid for not confiding in Theo. She blew out a breath. After everything that had happened, she knew she needed more evidence. Lynn’s report had pointed toward someone like Jillian being the suspect. Theo himself had even had reservations. No. She couldn’t go to the police without more evidence.

  She gunned the Jag and weaved through the heavy traffic until she arrived at the office she shared with Lynn near Belle Meade.

  Lynn’s white Blazer was parked out front. Jillian inhaled sharply. Did she dare go in and confront her? No. That would be stupid. Lynn had obviously gone to great lengths to keep this information secret. But why?

  And Jillian knew if she blew it too soon she wouldn’t be able to get the concrete evidence she needed. So far, all she had was a name that could purely be a coincidence.

  She would have to wait until Lynn and Megan left the office for the night before she could go prowling for evidence.

  A quick glance at her watch told her it was already 4:30. She turned the Jag around and headed for the hospital.

  * * * * *

  Exhausted, Jillian sank onto the foot of Amy’s bed and let her purse fall heavily to the floor. “I think Lynn Bowers is behind all this.”

  Amy’s forehead creased. “Lynn? Why?”

  Jillian explained how she’d gone to the relic shop and what she’d found out there. Amy’s eyes grew wide when Jillian told her the lengths she had gone to, to get the button back and to find where she’d been buried. She told her about Lynn getting Boo out of the Jag, the phone call from the suspect and then about the clerk’s murder.

  “And you believe Lynn is capable of this?”

  “Yes. I believe it has something to do with Benton being murdered by Lynn Bowers’ ancestor.” Jillian blew out a breath. She told her what she’d found out at the Tennessee State Library.

  Amy’s face darkened. “I have a confession to make.”

  Jillian’s gaze swiveled to Amy’s.

  “I…I dated Lynn’s son for a while.”

  Jillian stared, stunned. How could Amy not have mentioned this? “Did you say anything to him about Benton?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Before this happened. Last week. I don’t remember exactly.”

  “What’d you say?”

  Big tears welled in the corners of Amy’s eyes. “I didn’t know. I…I should have seen it coming.”

  “That doesn’t matter now. Just try to remember what you told him.”

  “We were having dinner at Lynn’s.” Amy scratched her head. “I told them both I had to send an earthbound spirit into the Light and that I had uncovered a mystery surrounding his death. I told her I thought historians were wrong about the way he had died.”

  “Did you tell her his name?”

  Amy gave her a sheepish nod. “Yes. I did.”

  Jillian tapped her fingertips on her thigh. Lynn was guilty. She knew it.

  And now, Benton was in more danger than she had first thought.

  “What are we going to do?” Amy asked.

  “I don’t know. A footprint was the only evidence we got from the crime scene.” She sighed. “Use your ability. Do you get anything at all on this?”

  Amy stared but Jillian could tell she was thinking. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she turned her palms up. Jillian winced when she saw the angry bruises the tape had left on her sister’s arms.

  Amy sat that way for an agonizing minute and then her eyes flew open. “Lynn has something she stole from you in her office.”

  Jillian gasped. “I knew it. She took Benton’s biography that clerk copied for me.” She bolted to her feet but Amy reached out and grabbed her wrist with surprising strength. Jillian’s gaze slammed into hers.

  “Don’t go there.”

  “I have to, Amy. What she took will tie her to this. I’m certain of it.”

  Amy stared for a moment a
nd then her gaze fixed on something—or someone—directly past Jillian. “Don’t let her go there.”

  Jillian whirled but all she could see was a wisp of glittering smoke that disappeared as soon as she looked at it. Was Benton in the room with them? Had Amy seen him?

  “She’ll be waiting for you.” Amy’s voice took on that dreamy quality it did when she gave a psychic reading.

  Jillian hesitated for a moment but she knew what she had to do. She would wait until midnight and then she would go. There was no way she was going to sit by and let Lynn get away with what she’d done to her sister. Jillian’s fists tightened into a ball. She turned back to Amy before glancing again at the spot where she’d seen the ghostly mist. “I’m going to catch her. And I’m going to make her pay for what she did my sister—and to you.”

  * * * * *

  Jillian paced the floor at her house. She glanced at the clock again. It was only 8:30. Time seemed to drag.

  Sirius flashed a green-eyed glare at her and then bounded up onto the back of the sofa. He turned his back on her indignantly. Jillian plopped down on the sofa and gave the cat a scratch between his shoulder blades. This was silly. Waiting like this was only prolonging her anticipation and driving her crazy.

  The bronze button pressed hard against her thigh through her trousers. Jillian blew out a sigh. Where was Benton? She hadn’t felt him since that brief encounter at the hospital. This would be so much easier if he were here; if she knew for certain he’d have her back while she scoured Lynn’s office for evidence.

  Sirius purred contentedly and stretched out to give her more access to his back. His feet extended so that every claw was displayed lazily before retracting back into his black paws.

  With her free hand, Jillian reached into her pocket and drew out the button. She stared at it. Was Benton all right? That little power play at the State Library had left her with no doubt he was angry. He hadn’t known that Bruce Bowers killed him. Was he hurt? Still angry? And what about his energy? Had he depleted his resources when he zapped the power at the library? A rush of guilt swept over Jillian. She’d known she shouldn’t have let him make love to her. She’d known, if only instinctively, there was something dangerous about it.

  She blew out a sigh and rested her head on the back of the sofa. If anything happened to him because of her…

  But right now, she was so exhausted she couldn’t think. Her whole body felt heavy and tired. She had not slept well in two nights. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Startled, she opened them again but exhaustion overcame her and they closed once more…

  Cheering Yankees poured over the flimsy mud and log works in droves. Bullets whizzed overhead sounding like a throng of angry hornets. Smoke from the constant bombardment of Shy’s Hill curled upward to meet the low-lying clouds. Through the haze, Confederate Brigadier General Thomas Benton Smith watched as the Union colors blazed over the crest of the hill and over the hastily constructed Confederate works. Time seemed to stand still as he assessed the situation. His bedraggled brigade, most of them barefoot and starving, fired off shots as quickly as possible given the icy, drizzling rain.

  The situation was hopeless. They had fired on the Union troops all day but had suffered several casualties. Only a few stalwart men remained on the top of Shy’s Hill and they blazed away at the Yankees as fast as they could reload and fire. The Yanks were so close, some hurled stones and clods of mud.

  Jillian stood beside him, amazed at the fracas going on all around her. She could see her hands, bloody and dirty, wrapped around the hot barrel of a rifle. But they weren’t her hands. They were a man’s hands.

  An amalgamation of disappointment and relief settled in Benton’s features. He looked at her. “It’s done, Bruce. There’s no sense in making martyrs of these boys.”

  Bruce? Had he called her Bruce? She opened her mouth to protest but no words would come out. It was if she were watching this happen through someone else’s eyes—through Bruce Bowers’ eyes!

  Benton reached for his white handkerchief. “Hold your fire!” His voice cracked under the strain.

  Just yards from their position, another Confederate leapt up and took aim at one of the bluecoats who clambered over the works. “No, Billy! Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”

  Benton scrambled through the slippery mud toward the man but it was too late.

  “I’ll see you in hell, Yank!” Billy fired and before the smoke had cleared another shot rang out. Jillian watched in horror as Billy’s head snapped back in a violent mélange of skull fragments and blood.

  Throngs of graycoats deserted Shy’s hill in confusion, chased off by the Federals who shot men in the backs as they ran.

  Union soldiers surrounded the men, unable to fire lest they shoot each other. Benton snatched the handkerchief and stabbed it onto the fractured point of his sword. “Lay down your arms and surrender, dammit!”

  Finally, the Union soldiers noticed the flag of truce. Their cheer rent the gloom and they waved their kepis in the air wildly. Acceptance seemed to sink in. The Tennesseans lowered their weapons and moved instinctively toward Benton.

  Benton stood and stared down at Billy’s body which lay at his feet, a pool of blood mirroring the makeshift truce flag. “Powder and lead were inadequate to resist such a charge,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Lookie here boys,” one of the Yanks yelled, stepping over Billy’s corpse and seizing Benton’s collar in his hand. “I snagged me a damn general.”

  Benton ignored the crass comment and looked around at his men, his gaze stopping on Jillian. She tried to decipher his expression. Was it hate? Disgust? No, it was remorse. Jillian tore her gaze away from his and looked around the top of the hill. There looked to be about ninety or so men surrendering their arms to the Union soldiers.

  Once they were rounded up, they began the descent down the steep and muddy slope. Many slipped and fell in the ankle-deep mud. Jillian was behind Benton. She watched as the smoke rose over the hillside. The hill was thick with dead bluecoats. They had not surrendered in vain. The Yanks had taken the position but with great sacrifice. Benton stole a glance at a very nervous private walking alongside him and gave him a comforting wink.

  “Move along you Johnnies!” The Yank who was apparently the color bearer struck a boy with the staff of his flag. Others pushed the Confederates along roughly, sometimes hitting them in the backs with the butts of their rifles. But all Jillian could think about was that this was where Benton was going to be murdered and she was merely a passenger in Bruce Bowers’ body, powerless to prevent it.

  Once they reached the bottom of the hill, Benton called to the Captain in charge of the prisoners, “I demand to see your commanding officer immediately.”

  No sooner had he said it, a Federal colonel rode up, splattering mud on their disheveled band. The man looked angry. And no wonder. The sight of all the Union dead turned the whole hillside blue.

  The colonel drew a flask from his coat and swigged down a generous amount of its contents. With deliberate slowness, he replaced the top, returned the flask to his pocket and then dismounted, his black boots sinking into the mud.

  “Well, well. Look who we have here,” he said as he approached Benton. His pale eyes blazed with frightening intensity. “Are you quite tired of playing at war, Boy General?”

  Benton recoiled at the pungent stink of whiskey. At least six inches taller than the colonel, Benton looked down at him and unbelted his scabbard, surrendering it to the man. “I will remind you, Colonel,” he said, emphasizing the man’s lower rank, “that I am a brigadier general in the Confederate States Army.” He glanced at the solid blue hill. “And if you call that playing at war, then yes, Colonel, my men and I are quite finished.”

  “You treasonous bunch of cowards.” The colonel’s pale blue eyes blazed hot, his face mottled red with rage. “We would have slaughtered the lot of you Rebel filth if we hadn’t overrun you and feared k
illing our own. Damned traitors!”

  Apprehension seized Jillian.

  And then she heard herself—or rather, Bruce Bowers—yelling at the colonel. “You Yankee bastards…”

  The colonel, who had turned and started back toward his horse, stopped suddenly. He whirled, eyes glowing red as he drew Benton’s own sword from the war-battered scabbard. Jillian could only watch as the colonel lunged toward her. Benton darted between them. The sword came down on his head with a sickening crack. Jillian felt something cold and hard in her hand. A knife! This was her chance to get revenge. A wicked thrill shimmied through her body and as the colonel assaulted Benton, the force of the blow causing him to stumble back toward her, she gouged the blade deeply into his back, between the ribs, and then pulled it out and pocketed it before anyone saw.

  Bloody and dying, Benton whirled and, eyes wide, clutched her coat. He dropped to his knees in the mud, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Something gleamed in his hand—Bruce Bowers’ bronze button.

  Jillian was jolted awake. Her heart pounded. Perspiration drenched her clothes.

  And clenched in her fist was Bruce Bowers’ coat button.

  Chapter Eleven

  Suddenly, Benton was there.

  Jillian gasped.

  “Hush, hush,” he cooed as his strong arms enveloped her. “It’s all right. It was only a bad dream.”

  She moved into his comforting embrace but it did little to dispel her fear. It wasn’t just a bad dream. There was something foreboding about it. Malevolent.

  Still clutching the button, Jillian sobbed against him, feeling as if she were somehow responsible for what had happened to him. Or as if she would be responsible for something terrible happening to him.

  A sickening wave of nausea rose in her throat.

  “It was just a dream,” he said again.

  “Benton… Thank God you’re all right.” She pulled away just far enough to look into his eyes. “It was awful. I was Bruce Bowers. I stabbed you and there was nothing I could do to stop it.” Her heart hammered against her rib cage. She could still hear the sickening crack of Benton’s skull when the sword came down on it and feel the cold steel of the knife in her hand. A violent shudder racked her body.