"Meaning?"
"When I was here before, the path was like this: a little overgrown, trees encroaching in a place or two. That's why I was so surprised when the ride in the hearse was so smooth. I just thought maybe someone from the funeral home had come out and cleared the road so the family could get to the grave easily. Lot of work, but—but now the path's back like I remember it."
Heather nodded in recognition. She hadn't walked the fenceline with him earlier, but she had ridden in the hearse. While it hadn't registered on her like it had on Garison, Heather suddenly realized just how much the road had changed in one day.
Before she could comment, though, Garison told her, "And another thing. There's not a Holt & Jameson Funeral Parlor in Durango."
"You sure?"
"I used to be the Justice of the Peace in Durango, remember? I worked with every funeral home from Ouray to Farmington at one time or another and there wasn't one named Holt & Jameson—anywhere."
"Maybe it's new. You haven't kept up with everything like that since resigning."
"Maybe," he shrugged, though he didn't really seem to be agreeing with her. Surely he would have heard about a new funeral home going in—especially one that used a vintage hearse. He looked around some more then mumbled, "The clothes. What was with the clothes?"
"Granted that was weird, but maybe it had something to do with him dying in World War II. I've heard of people having period weddings before."
"But a period funeral?" Garison asked skeptically.
"Takes all kinds to make a world, Garison."
He shrugged again, then suddenly seemed to become decisive. He took her hand and started off down the hill, saying, "Let's go back to that break in the fence. I still think that's where the grave was supposed to be—is supposed to be."
"But it's not. Neither is the clearing!"
"I know that. But less than an hour ago we both stood in that clearing and helped two guys in outdated clothes bury someone in that clearing. I know that and you know that."
She walked along in silence for a moment before asking, "You don't suppose we could have both hallucinated the whole thing, do you?"
"No. I don't. That would be a stretch under any circumstances. But, maybe if we had walked over to the grave, I'd believe you. How could we have hallucinated a ride in a fifty year old Pontiac hearse? And look at this dirt on me. If I hallucinated filling in a hole, then there ought to be a filled in hole somewhere. Or some place I could have gotten this dirty, at least. Let's see if we can find it."
"OK," Heather replied, though she sounded doubtful as to their success.
When they came to the break in the fence, Garison stopped and looked around, again as if taking his bearings. After a bit, he nodded and said, "This is where that clearing was. I'm sure of it. I'd stake my reputation as a woodsman on it."
"Garison," Heather couldn't keep from reminding him, "You get lost in shopping malls."
"That's different," he mumbled.
"Oh yeah. They scrape the moss off the north sides of the trees."
He shot her a look that was supposed to be stern, but she could see the twinkle of a laugh behind it. "Let's just look for the grave."
"Here? Garison, the grave was in a little clearing. There's no clearing here. There's no dug up dirt, either."
"But look, there aren't any big trees here, either. Maybe these bushes were planted here in a hurry. I remember your weird detective friend Garrett telling me about a case where some weapons smugglers had disguised their drop zone with fake plants that looked real."
"He's not that weird," Heather defended quickly. "But are you thinking we might have inadvertently helped in some kind of a drug deal?"
"Maybe. Drugs, murder, body switching—who knows. Even if we did what we thought we were doing: legally burying a dead body—where is it?"
He reached out to the nearest bush and gave it a tug. "This one's real," he muttered with disappointment.
"It's also right where we parked the car. There is no clearing here, Garison."
He half nodded, but kept tugging on the bushes. They all proved to be real—and well grounded. In frustration he grumbled, "But we were here! I know this is where the clearing was. And you're right: that's right where we parked the car."
He said this as he walked around, looking for signs of the clearing or the grave. Heather followed, but wasn't really watching the ground. It was clear to her that this wasn't the right clearing. It wasn't a clearing at all, she mused. Maybe it had been fifty years ago, before all the bushes and aspen grew up, but—
Watching Garison and not the ground, Heather let out a slight yelp as she tripped over something and fell to the ground. Garison quickly turned around and came to her. "You all right?" he asked.
"Yeah, nothing hurt but my pride. I just tripped over something."
"Your knee's bleeding."
She looked down and shrugged, "It's not bad. Just a scrape. It doesn't hurt or anything."
"Well, just sit there for a minute and make sure."
"I'm fine, Garison," she replied testily. Her response came not out of anger at her husband, but out of embarrassment at tripping. A lifelong athlete, it irritated her to be clumsy.
"What did you trip over?" he finally queried.
"Rock or something," she shrugged. She looked to where it happened and pointed out, "Probably that piece of granite there."
Garison looked at the rock, then did a double take. "Granite? Why would there be a piece of granite here?"
Heather did a double take herself, then looked at Garison and asked, "We don't have granite in the Rocky Mountains, do we?"
"Not that kind. Maybe none at all, as far as I know. I do know that we don't have white granite in La Plata Canyon."
As she sat there rubbing her knee (it was just a little sore) Garison stepped over to the rock. He went to pick it up and found that it was just a protruding section of a much larger stone. The rest of it was buried under a bush and some dirt. He brushed some of the dirt away and said with surprise, "This is cut granite." He tugged on it a little, then told her, "And it seems to intend on staying right here."
"So?"
"So why would a piece of cut granite be laying here?"
Heather started to reply, then her eyes got wide and she asked rhetorically, "Garison, what's the first use of cut granite that comes to your mind?"
Not realizing it was rhetorical, Garison replied, "State capitols? Old buildings."
"No. Where's the only place you see cut granite now?"
He started to shake his head that he didn't know, then turned to her in surprise. Heather nodded and answered her own question, "They use cut granite for tombstones."
"But this is old! This has been here long enough for the top to have broken off and this bush to grow over the bottom."
Heather ignored her knee and crawled over to where Garison was. She pulled back the bush and said triumphantly, "Just as I expected! Garison, the top of the tombstone's back in under the bush."
"What?" He looked in and saw that she was right. Immediately, he pulled out his work gloves, slipped them on, and began breaking the branches of the bush to get at the stone.
Heather put on her gloves and helped. They soon found the piece of granite was just the right size and cut to be a tombstone. It was covered with moss and lichen, which they quickly brushed away with their fingers. They soon uncovered the writing on the tombstone, though it was weathered and cracked.
It read:
Guy Robert Wilson
Born 11 21 1918
Died 1944
Brought home 1947
Heather took a big gulp and asked, "Are you seeing what I'm seeing or is this another hallucination?"
"If you're seeing the tombstone of the guy we were told we were burying, then that's what I'm seeing."
"Darn," she muttered. Hesitantly, she pointed out, "Garison, those cars were from the 1940s. So were the clothes. Remember, he even said something about having ordered th
e car from the factory just the year before."
Garison took his turn to swallow before reminding her, "And remember how surprised he acted when you were surprised that the body was just now coming home from World War II?"
Heather stared wide eyed at Garison as she surmised, "Because, as far as he knew, World War II had only been over for two years! I've never read about it, but they probably were still getting some bodies home at that time. I know it took years to rebuild Europe."
"We're still getting bodies home from 'Nam and Korea even now. Two years isn't a stretch."
"And you know how they kept looking at our clothes like we were dressed oddly?"
Garison muttered, "That Harris guy was staring at your jeans but I don't think it had anything to do with fashion." At her scowl, he shrugged and said, "It's the truth. He wasn't looking at your clothes."
"Garison!"
"I mean it. He was watching your, um, derriere." He mumbled, so low she didn't hear him, "And other body parts."
"You may be right, but he was watching it—me, like I was something he had never seen before."
"In 1947, most ladies didn't have figures like yours." She started to object, but he continued, "They didn't. Fashion isn't all that changes. Anyway, though, women with a figure like yours didn't wear form fitting jeans like those. I don't think they even had them for ladies back in 1947. That's part of why he was looking so intently. Believe me, I know what it's like to walk through a town wearing clothes from the future."
"The future?" Heather asked, as if puzzle pieces had just clicked together in her mind. "They were looking at us because we were from the future?"
"They probably didn't realize that, but I bet they did know something was wrong. Our hair, our clothes, our shoes. Like I said, even body types have changed a little bit. We probably didn't fit with their ideals of appearance and decorum any more than we thought they fit in with ours."
After a moment of thought, Heather asked, "Are we really saying what I think we're saying? That those guys weren't play acting or dressing up? That this wasn't a drug deal or anything? That it really was a funeral from 1947? Is that what we're saying?"
Garison looked at the tombstone, then around at what had once been a clearing and countered, "What else can we say? We've got a tombstone, a grown over clearing, an unused road—"
"And a lot of questions." Heather reached out and put a hand on Garison's arm. She told him, "If we continue down this road of thought, then we're going to reach the point where we have to admit one of two things. Either that funeral procession got transported into the future from 1947, or we got transported into the past to 1947. We're talking about time travel Garison!"
He nodded and, through his own misgivings, quipped, "Been there, done that."
"But you used a time machine, Garison. We were just standing there."
Chapter Three
Garison looked at his watch and asked, "What time's the Durango library close?"
Heather shrugged, then thought about it and answered, "It's a Wednesday so . . . five thirty, I guess."
"It's one fifteen now," he mumbled. Suddenly he stood up and offered her his hand to help her up. "I think we can make it."
"The library? Why are we going to the library?"
"You're going to the library. I'm going to the county records building."
As she stood up, she asked, "Why am I going to the library?"
"To find out whatever you can about a Holt & Jameson Funeral Parlor. See if there is one in own now or if there ever has been. And see if you can find a picture of Stuart Jameson."
She nodded, brushing the dirt off her pants and realizing for the first time that her knee was a little sore. She tested it hesitantly, but walking on it didn't seem to make it worse. "And you're going over to the records building to see what you can find about them?"
"Not the funeral parlor, really. I want to see if there is any record of Guy Robert Wilson. There should be some record of his interment, even if he were buried over here on the edge of the county."
"If the records weren't destroyed in the fire," Heather pointed out.
"Right," Garison agreed grimly, as they headed back on the path to their house.
Garison had almost forgotten about the fire, thought it had made his (and other people's) job hard for a while. More than three years before, an arsonist had set fire to the La Plata County Records Building. It was never proven who set the blaze, but the records of a death Justice of the Peace Garison Fitch had pronounced were soon thereafter wanted for a federal investigation. In fact, Garison and Heather had met at that time as Heather was assisting the people making the investigation. It had looked to many people that the fire had been specifically targeted to hinder that investigation, but nothing was ever proven. The arson had been a professional of the highest order and had left no clue as to his identification.
Once at the house, Garison grabbed his car keys and his wallet and headed for the door. Heather was already ascending the stairs when she asked, "Don't you want to clean up, first?"
"Not enough time. We can clean up later, but I want to find out what we can today. We have to go to Denver to pick up Sarah tomorrow."
Heather looked at herself in a mirror nearby, grimaced, then pointed out, "We'll be in town by two o'clock. There's nothing we could look for in Durango that would take us more than three and a half hours to find."
"Don't worry," he smiled. "You look beautiful as always."
She looked down at her grubby clothes, including the dried blood on her knee, and quipped, "I'm not sure I like the sound of that. I'd like to think I normally look better."
"You do, but—" He bit his lip, realizing his predicament, then opened the front door and went out, calling out behind him, "Time's a wasting!"
As they rode into town, Heather tried to at least comb her hair and rub off any visible splotches of dirt. The bumpy La Plata Canyon road made it quite a chore for the first few miles, but things evened out once on Highway 160.
Garison dropped Heather off at the Durango public library and headed over to the county records building. It was a fairly new building, constructed since the fire had made the previous building unsafe. From the outside, it had that life less no characteristic worth reporting look mandated for all government buildings of the late twentieth century.
Garison walked into the building for the first time since it's completion and almost put his sunglasses back on. He had often complained that the previous building was underlit and they seemed to have taken his criticism too seriously. The new building not only had freshly painted, soft colored walls, it had far more lighting than it needed. The light banks, which were designed to hold either two or four bulbs, all held four. Garison was tempted to hold up his hand and see if he could see all the way through it.
When his eyes had adjusted to the glaring lights, he went over to the front desk. The prematurely gray haired middle aged man behind the desk looked up and smiled. "Hey, Garison, long time no see. Like the new digs?"
"Better than the old place, that's for sure. Little bright though, isn't it?"
"I hear that's as a result of a certain former Justice o' the Peace constantly complaining."
"It wasn't constant. Just every time I had to come over to the old building. It was more of a mausoleum than—well—the mausoleum."
The man stamped whatever form it was he was currently working on and asked, "What can I do for you, Mister Fitch?"
"Well, Lee Traven," Garison returned, looking at a notepad in his hand, "I need to see if we have anything on a Guy Robert Wilson. Born June 12, 1918. Died sometime in 1944 in France."
Lee shrugged and said, "We can check. That's a long time ago. You sure he was born here?"
"No, I'm not. All I know is that he's buried out on the old Wilson place."
"The Wilson place?"
"It's next to mine," Garison explained. "Heather and I, we—uh—we stumbled across his gravestone this afternoon. We were out repairing fence and�
��it's a boring story. We're just curious, more than anything."
"Buried in the canyon, huh?" Lee asked as he got up. Leading Garison to a door marked "Records", Lee told him, "We can look." As they stepped through the doors and into a room of filing cabinets and a few computers, Lee said, "I can't guarantee anything, what with the fire and all. Being a Wilson, though, you might be in luck."
"How's that?"
Lee explained, "Whoever started that fire was specifically trying to wipe out the records of—oh, what was that girl's name?"
"Alexander, I think. Jody—or, no, Janet. Yeah. Janet Alexander." It had been a while since Garison had thought about the whole mess. His part in the whole affair had been admittedly small.
"Yeah, Alexander. Anyway, when we got in here and started checking through all the records, it became obvious that the arsonist had been trying to burn something in specific. The fire had intentionally started in 'A'. That old automated sprinkler hadn't kicked in until the fire had spread through half the building, but a lot of the records were saved. 'Wilson' might just have been far enough away from 'Alexander' to have survived. The rhyme and reason don't always hold out, though."
They went down to the end of the row and found some files marked "Death Certificates". Traven opened up one of the drawers and began to thumb through. "Wilson," he finally proclaimed. "What was the first name, again?"
"Guy. But he may not be listed in here, anyway. He died in France. He was just buried in La Plata County."
"You said that, didn't you?" Lee closed the drawer and shook his head. "Bright lights must be effecting my hearing."
Lee went over to another set of files that claimed to hold the burial records. As he opened the drawer he apologized, "This file may not be too accurate. It's really only been the last thirty years that they've started making people report where bodies are buried. Nowadays, of course, you have to have a permit to inter someone outside of a cemetery. And, of course, you have to practically fill out a book for burying someone IN a cemetery. Back then, though, all you needed was a shovel."
Garison nodded, but said, "I thought maybe the fact that he was shipped home from the war might increase my chances of finding out about him. The government does nothing without a paper trail."
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time Page 3
