Then they left Aubrey behind; he and Benton watched them as they headed across the graveyard crossing the stone path.
As they neared the Haverhill vault, they saw another soldier.
This one was in a Union uniform. Jackson knew, of course, it had to be the ghost of John Haverhill, Aubrey’s cousin. Best friend in life—until the war.
He stared at them as they came, stepping aside, watching them.
“John Haverhill?” Jackson asked.
He thought the ghost was about to pass out in shock.
If a ghost could pass out.
But he stood his ground and said, “You see me? Really see me. You don’t just feel a mist, a breath of chill wind . . . what am I doing? I’m talking to the living. People will think I’m crazy.”
Jackson and Angela grinned at one another.
“We see you, and hear you,” Angela said gently. “I’m Angela Hawkins and this is my husband, Jackson Crow. We’re . . . with the government.”
“What government?” he asked suspiciously.
“The United States of America,” Angela assured him.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Of course, I’ve seen the passage of time. You’re just the first people who have . . . who have seen me!” He looked back toward the vault. “Victoria! Come on out here, there are people who see us—living people who see us.”
“Oh, darling, everyone feels something on a battlefield or near it, especially in a graveyard this old.”
The ghost speaking seemed to step from the handsome vault with the name ‘Haverhill’ in wrought iron above the arched roof. She came to John Haverhill’s side and took his hand, staring at Angela and Jackson. “Boo!” she said playfully.
“We’re looking for some help,” Angela told her.
The woman frowned and glanced at her husband. “They do see us!”
“Please,” Angela murmured. “Yes, we do see you.”
“Oh, my! I know I’ve frightened others, and I know I’ve given some a sense of peace, a sense of belief. How awful of me, frightening people is sometimes more fun, but of course, I know it’s lovely when they do feel a sense of peace. The priest here is a lovely man! He senses us frequently, but he really is a gentle man of the sweetest faith.”
“Victoria, I’m sure they’d think the good Father a fine man, too, but I don’t think that’s why they’re so interested in us,” John said, staring at Jackson and Angela.
“We’d always be interested in you. The past teaches us where we are and how we might get to the future,” Jackson said.
“We can learn so much,” Angela agreed. Then she took a deep breath. “We believe our friend was murdered. Did you see anything?”
“You’re referring to General Whitaker?” John Haverhill asked.
“They were here that day and the night before.” Victoria whispered to him.
“They who?” Jackson asked quickly.
John shook his head. “Half the world is wearing a mask these days, but this was . . . different. I’m not sure what is going on exactly. But if you examine our vault, you will see the iron gate is not really locked. And there are only four family vaults in the graveyard, so ours was chosen, I believe, because it was easy to break the lock and make it appear to be secure, but it needs only be twisted with something as small as a ladies’ hair pin. We have tried to frighten them. Yes, we’ve done this; we have really tried! But they have no sense of us; they are not frightened of the dead.”
“They constantly defile the Haverhill tomb.” Victoria said indignantly. “The priest is great, but the gentleman who tends to the grounds never sees inside our family mausoleum. He is anxious to pick up the refuse that lies about—and then be on his way. And the wretches using the tomb as their supply depot don’t appear until he and Father Landry have gone. The parish here is so small . . . even then, Father Landry has two services on Sunday, but he is gone by two in the afternoon at the latest. Once he is gone, they come. Like evil black spiders!” Victoria said.
“Evil black spiders?” Jackson asked.
She nodded gravely. “It’s almost as if they are clad in a strange black uniform. They wear black denim pants and long-sleeved black shirt-jackets,” Victoria said. “There’s a name for them—”
“Hoodies,” John advised her.
“Hoodies,” Victoria said sagely. “Now, the spring, so it appears, has remained cool to pleasant, and the teenagers all seem to wear these . . .”
“Hoodies,” John said.
“But,” Victoria continued, “these two wear the black hoodies with black masks. Not for their eyes, but as others wear them today, covering the lower portion of their faces. They slip in and out of the tomb, heedless. They chipped the lid on John’s father’s coffin!” she said.
“And now?” Angela asked softly. “You said they were here yesterday. After Saturday services—and before General Whitaker was found.”
Victoria glanced at John. “They were here,” she said softly. “But we didn’t see what happened with the elderly gentleman. He liked to sit at the bench by the Aubrey mausoleum.”
“My cousin would help you,” John said, his voice thick.
“He did help us—and sent us to you.”
John gave them a rueful smile. “He would,” he said quietly. “Ethan Aubrey was a good man; the issues were complicated. Long before the war, he talked his father into freeing the three slaves they owned. He always felt there was something wrong with any human being owning another human being. But he hated a central government that was stronger than the states. There were good and bad men on both sides, you know,” John said, his last words almost a challenge to them. John Haverhill shook his head, still retrospective. "We learn so much, so late, and often too late." He smiled ruefully. "Death brings such amazing clarity and vision. “How do we judge me? One of General William T. Sherman’s famous quotes was ‘The only good Indian is a dead Indian.’
