“Maybe one of the ghosts gave him a heart attack,” Carlson said with a sigh. He gave them a lopsided grin. “I’m sorry. I’m not making light of this. The national park goes so far—the killing went on a lot farther, and in this area, it was really sad. Fathers and sons and brothers and friends all met here, on opposite sides of the fray. Antietam is considered to have had the bloodiest day of the Civil War, so you get all kinds out here—not to mention teenagers who like to come out of the town areas with beer, and God knows what goes on sometimes even in a graveyard. But that’s acting up—and pranks—not murder. We patrol it all to the best of our ability, and I’ll do what I can for you, but when even the M.E. says that you have a natural death on your hands . . .”
“Photos. Crime scene photos. You couldn’t have assumed it was a natural death when the body was first discovered, right?”
“Yes, of course, we have photos, though again, we’re not considering it a crime scene. I’ll have them emailed to you. But I can tell you right now he was slumped over the bench, in front of the monument. He was almost lain out with his head on the ground . . .”
He stopped speaking. Angela was kneeling, examining the bench.
“And I’m assuming you saw this, right?” she asked the detective.
“Saw what, Special Agent Hawkins?” Carlson asked.
“Angela,” Jackson murmured, crouching down beside her. She was over seven months along with her pregnancy. Crawling down on her hands and knees didn’t seem right.
She didn’t hear him, or she was ignoring him. She looked up, pointing to the side of the bench. “Someone tried to write on the stone—and it looks like they were writing with blood.”
“I told you—the old gentleman cracked his temple. Of course, there’s blood. And I would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t behave as if we’re small town and inept out here!” Carlson said.
Jackson’s head was down by his wife’s then. And she was right. Someone had tried to write on the stone—and it appeared to be the writing was in dried blood.
Angela looked up and gave Detective Carlson one of her great smiles. “Detective, I am sorry, and I don’t mean to be implying anything at all. You’ve done your job, and please! No one is suggesting anything less. But as you know, Adam is . . . well, he’s a caring man and an important one in watching out for strange crimes, too. And Adam has great instincts. General Whitaker texted him before he came out here. He wrote he was going to ferret out what was going on so he could bring in law enforcement.”
Carlson let out a long breath, shaking his head. Angela was much better than he was, Jackson thought, at making a situation smoother. Despite TV shows, they usually did just fine with local law enforcement. But when there was a snag, she was the one who could handle it best.
“The truth is that no matter how you try or how sacred some find a battlefield where thousands upon thousands died, you have that teen element wanting to get frisky. I’m not saying the general didn’t see something; he probably did. Kids acting up. But we already do our best. We get complaints from the church now and then. Seriously—we consider all this hallowed ground, just like Gettysburg. Again, I’m here. I’ll help any way I can. But forgive me, I’m skeptical.” He sighed. “Look, sorry, I grew up in the city and I’m not a believer in the . . . well, this ground is hallowed, not haunted.”
Jackson stood and helped Angela to her feet. He gave her a fierce “you’re pregnant” frown, but she ignored him. And of course, she’d read a dozen books and they’d all said that exercise was good; and she insisted most women worked until just before their children were born—even up to the time they had to go to the hospital. She was perfectly healthy, took all her vitamins, and was careful to rest. He was just . . .
A top-notch agent—and a paranoid dad!
“I believe that’s blood on the vault, yes, but with more to it, and, of course, hard to see unless you’re looking for something. And I believe General Whitaker was trying to write something—in his own blood—when he died.”
Carlson didn’t seem like a bad guy; he was just convinced an old man had a walk in a churchyard, had a heart attack, and died.
Jackson had even questioned it when Adam had first called him. General Whitaker had been ninety. A young ninety, but still . . .
Carlson’s phone rang and he answered it, frowning as he listened.
“I’m afraid I need to leave you. If you do find anything, please—”
“Detective, this is your jurisdiction. We will get to you immediately with anything—even if it’s to tell you that we haven’t found a thing and we’re leaving.”
Carlson nodded. “Thanks. I’ll come back by.”
He left them. Angela stared at Jackson.
“You just—let him leave. Jackson,” she said. “Whitaker was trying to write something! Look, I swear that he started with ‘D.’ and that the next letter . . . well, it’s just a line.”
“I think you’re right. But even if we prove he was writing, if we don’t have something else, most people will believe it was going to be a goodbye to his family. And I’m not ignoring it; I’m going to get a sample and get it to our lab along with our own pictures.”
“Jackson, I know that—” Angela began, but she was gently interrupted.
“It’s not safe. Ma’am, your expecting a wee one. You must not be here!”
They both heard the distressed voice. They almost slammed into one another as they turned to see who was speaking.
Detective Carlson was not all the way to his car, but clear as day, Jackson could see the ghost of a
