He stood and for a minute, he felt the breeze, and felt as if the land itself were hallowed ground, as if something remained, perhaps a memory of history in the very earth. He imagined faces swirling in the wind, those who had died, and those left to live the rest of their lives knowing war was truly horrible, that bloodshed kept pain in the heart, no matter how noble or just a cause.
“Sir! Please, get out of here!”
He clearly heard the whisper but looking around he saw nothing.
Then he did . . .
Too late.
Something slammed against Grant’s head and sent him crashing down on the bench in front of the Aubrey vault. He felt the shocking pain in his temple where he had been hit hard and again as he hit the stone bench as he fell. Blood . . . the blood from where he hit the stone bench.
Thump, thump, thump . . .
It was his heart. He clearly knew his time was coming . . . and he was ready. He had outlived so many of his fellow soldiers, enlisted men and officers, but . . .
He thought he heard a different voice, one so gentle it was like a caress, telling him he had always fought the good fight. It was time for him to lay down his arms.
But he needed a minute! Just a minute!
They were going to get away with it! He had to stop them! But . . .
Blood. He moved and he tried and he managed . . .
A gentle hand swept him away, not into darkness, but into light.
And in His Honor
“Special Assistant Director Adam Harrison’s friend, Grant Whitaker, died right there. He was found lying over the small bench by the Aubrey family tomb where Confederate Lieutenant Ethan Aubrey was entombed,” Detective David Carlson explained. He shook his head. “Looked like the old fellow just had a heart attack. The chapel is Anglican and the priest found him when he came in at night to retrieve his notebook. The rectory is a little house across that field. But Father Landry found General Whitaker. He was draped over the bench. The autopsy was just this morning. The conclusion was that the heart attack caused him to pitch over, and he cracked his temple on the stone bench. There was no reason to suspect any kind of foul play. I didn’t call it foul play, and our M.E. didn’t call it foul play. Obviously, we’re trying to extend every courtesy here to you feds, but . . . Grant Whitaker was ninety years old. I do understand the man was friends with Harrison, the head of your FBI unit. I knew Whitaker myself, and he was a fine man. We all hurt when we lose a friend . . . but, come on. He was ninety years old.”
“Or ninety years young,” Angela Hawkins murmured.
Jackson was happy about the fact he’d come here with his very pregnant wife. He guessed there was really only pregnant and not pregnant, but Angela was due in less than eight weeks.
She was an agent in her own right, and in truth, he had believed they would find out an elderly gentleman had died of a heart attack.
But after arriving . . .
Suspicion had set in with him as well, and as of now, he wasn’t sure why.
Carlson paused for a minute. A man in denim overalls and carrying a pail and a rake was coming around the church. He had his baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but he lifted it when he saw Carlson there.
“Can I help you?” he asked. “It’s Sunday, yes, folks, but Father Landry’s two Sunday services are both over now. Oh! I’m sorry,” he said, noting the detective and recognizing him. “You’re uh, Carlson, with the cops, right? Everything okay here? Do you need my help?”
“Yes, everything is okay, and thank you, we don’t need any help. These are just friends of General Whitaker, come here out of respect. And you’re Morrison—groundskeeper?” Carlson asked.
“Morris. Fred Morris,” the man said. He was probably in his late thirties, Jackson thought, bronzed from his work in the sun, with shaggy brown hair and wiry build. “Groundskeeper. That’s fine—I just keep my eye out for the kids. Picking up trash around here, and well . . . just leaving.” He paused. “Sorry about your friend.”
“Thank you,” Jackson said.
The man nodded and headed on out to a truck parked down the road.
Jackson and Angela waved along with Detective Carlson.
“It doesn’t matter how old someone is, if their time on this earth is compromised by someone else,” Jackson said, supporting Angela and their determined position to find out exactly what had happened here. “Trust me, if Adam Harrison didn’t have a reason, he wouldn’t have sent us out here.”
They were near the site of the Antietam National Battlefield, run by the park service. But the land where they stood was just off the site, a graveyard by a small Civil War era chapel that still held services. The land around them was beautiful. It was a sunny day in spring, allowing for a blue sky with little puffs of clouds, a gentle breeze, and the soft calls of birds. It was perfect for a picnic, but sadly, Jackson and Angela had come out unofficially because Adam had asked them to do so.
“Grant Whitaker was a retired general. He served in Korea, in Viet Nam, in Desert Storm. He didn’t give a damn about politics, he just loved his country,” Adam had told Jackson when he’d called him in, asking him to please investigate the situation. “He texted me, just before he headed out to the chapel and the graveyard. I’ll tell you his exact words, ‘Something is going on. Sara is a kid, yes, a smart one, and if she heard about something . . . well, I’m not a lawman, just an old soldier. But If I find something, I’ll be calling on you!’”
If
