Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 4)

by Vincent Zandri

  My open-handed jab connects with his sternum a split second before he realizes I’ve even thrown a punch. He goes down hard, desperately trying to replace the air I’ve just knocked out of him.

  Down on bended knee, I proceed to empty his pockets of his wallet, phone, and even a nice tight little bundle of cash.

  “You’re wrong, Balkis,” I say. “You’re not bigger than me. You’re just fatter. And slower. And about as physical as a stick of butter.”

  He tries to nod while the soft skin on his face turns fifty shades of red.

  “Now, you can help me dig up the dress. But if it is, in fact, inside Henry’s grave or one of the empty ones beside him like I think it is, it goes to a museum immediately. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” he mumbles.

  If I weren’t about to pull off an illegal exhumation, I might get on the horn with Miller, let him know that the real story behind Clara Harris/Henry Rathbone doesn’t even come close to matching the historical record. Maybe the murder/suicide aspect, but that’s about the extent of it. But of course, he’d scream at me for not being on the trail of the missing Girvins.

  As I exit the bedroom and start back down the stairs, I picture old lady and old man Girvin, the blood trail they left behind, and the Derringer that had been freshly fired. For now, Balkis and I have to work together to solve this thing. No choice but to swallow my suspicions about his having had everything to do with the old couple’s disappearance. Everything to do with their murder.

  20

  The drive to the Albany Rural Cemetery takes only three minutes at most. What won’t take only three minutes is locating the Rathbone plots. But then, if the cemetery visitor center is still open, we might be able to scarf a registry documenting the one hundred seventy years’ worth of men, women, and children who’ve been buried here, including my dad.

  Turning into the main entry gates, I follow the winding, tree-lined road into the heart of the old, historic cemetery and take it downhill to the single-story, chapel-like, stone building that serves as its visitor’s center. Parking the truck out front, Balkis and I then enter the building through a front, solid wood, six-paneled door that must be at least a century old.

  Inside the cavernous vestibule, I spot a bulletin board that’s tacked with several announcements, including one for a Civil War reenactment which is to take place on the lower, undeveloped grounds of the cemetery property tomorrow morning. Another announcement asks visitors to keep the grounds clean and to carry out what you haul in, that is, if your idea of a good time is to enjoy a picnic lunch on top of dead people.

  “You supposed to be doing battle tomorrow, Mr. Civil War Reenactment Aficionado?”

  Balkis turns a shade of pale. “I am indeed expected to participate in the morning. However, my significant other is also expected to be there. Rather, ex-significant other who fights for the Union Army. It could all get a little messy.”

  “Cavorting with the enemy, Balkis,” I say. “Tsk tsk.”

  “Let’s just say I fell in love with someone I shouldn’t have.”

  “The jilted Confederate lover and the Union Yankee meet on the field of battle. Could there be anything worse? You’d better watch your back.”

  Below the bulletin board is a stack of papers, each one offers a brief history of the old cemetery as well as a listing of nearly all the names belonging to the dead people who occupy each of its plots.

  “Bingo,” Balkis says, grabbing the sheet. He pats the pockets on his trousers and his vest. “I don’t have my reading specs,” he adds.

  I take the paper from him and begin searching through the list of names until I come to the name Rathbone.

  “Henry Riggs Rathbone,” I say. “Plot number ninety-six. Dad’s plot was number three thousand and six, which tells me the Rathbone plots must be located in the older part of the cemetery.”

  A man enters the vestibule through an interior wood door. He’s a small, mostly bald, old man who looks like he was employed by the cemetery back when it opened in 1841. Smoothing out the jacket on his black suit and straightening his bow tie, he gazes upon Balkis with wide eyes.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he says, his voice mild mannered and high pitched. “But the Civil War reenactment isn’t until tomorrow.”

  Balkis stands tall, sucking in his beer gut.

  “I am not reenacting anything presently, my good sir,” he says. “This is my wardrobe of choice.”

  “My name is Christopher Kendris,” the old man states. “I am the cemetery historian.” Then, giving Balkis a look, like he’s met him before, and perhaps he has, considering the professor’s employment at the university and his participation in the war reenactments. “Pardon me for saying so, sir. But you look like John Wilkes Booth…With a couple of extra pounds around the gut.”

  Balkis sneers. Before he backhands the little guy, I step in between them. Okay, maybe they don’t know one another.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “But my friend here and I are researching a new movie I’m producing on the Civil War and some of its stranger tales. One subject we’re working on now is Clara Harris and the dress she wore inside the Presidential Box when Lincoln was shot by Mr. Booth.”

  Balkis clears his throat as if still trying to pass himself off as the infamous Southern actor.

  I add, “This man will be playing the role of Booth in the movie.”

  Kendris takes on an expression of relief.

  “That makes sense,” he says. “Lots of movies have been filmed on the cemetery grounds over the years. Especially period pieces having to do with Civil War era events, or even the Civil war itself.” He sighs. “Many fallen Union soldiers are buried up on that hill, you know.”

  Balkis clears his throat again like the only good Union soldier is a dead Union soldier. That’s when I step on his foot, pressing down on his toes with my steel-toed, lace-up, Chippewas utility boots.

  “I am aware of that, Mr. Kendris,” I say. “We’re interested in one family plot in particular. The Rathbones.”

  “As in Clara and Henry,” he says. “Buried up in the old section, their graves are more or less forgotten. I can take you there if you like.”

  “We’d like,” I say.

  “I’ll grab the keys to my vehicle and meet you outside,” Kendris says, entering back through the wood door to some unknown office or mausoleum.

  I turn back to Balkis.

  “Hell are you doing, whacko?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “The John Wilkes Booth act. Stop it already. It’s weird and could get us in a lot of trouble. This is Yankee country after all.”

  He smirks. “I’m proud of my southern heritage and Mr. Booth was a patriot who died on behalf of his beliefs.”

  “So did Hitler. And what do you mean proud of your southern heritage? You’re clearly a northerner.”

  His eyes go wide. “I am trans-geographic. I am a Southerner trapped in a Northerner’s body. You would learn to respect my own particular brand of individuality if only you spent a little time on my university campus. Now can you please get off of my foot, Baker?”

  I remove my boot. Trans-gender, trans-race, and now trans-geographic. Holy Christ, the entire world has taken a turn for the pathological.

  Just then, a car horn honks.

  “Follow me and keep quiet,” I say.

  Together, we exit the visitor’s center through the big wood, church-like door.

  As promised, the old man has arrived with his car. A Model T Ford that must be closing in on a century. Painted in white block letters on the black door panel are the words, Albany Rural Cemetery, Est. April 2, 1841. Taken together with Girvin’s old house, its basement crypt containing the bodies of Clara and Henry Rathbone, plus Balkis acting out his John Wilkes Booth fantasy, and an elusive dress that not only contains the precious blood of Lincoln but that’s also said to be cursed—and all sorts of truths turning out to be false and fictions turning out to be true—I’m convinced I’ve fallen down
the rabbit hole.

  “What a sharp looking vehicle,” Balkis says, clearly excited about the idea of riding in a piece of ancient history.

  “Get a hold of yourself, Professor,” I whisper under my breath.

  We stuff ourselves into the back of the old car.

  “Hold on tight,” old man Kendris says before grinding the floor-mounted gear shift into first and giving the Model T the gas.

  21

  We negotiate a maze of narrow gravel roads lined on both sides with the oldest plots in the cemetery. Some of the graves have been forgotten and are now overgrown with grass and weeds, their once white marble headstones now streaked with gray-black grime and leaning precariously to one side, as if about to drop as dead as the men and women they memorialize. Some of the sites support mausoleums that likely cost more than my first house. Big stone and marble cathedral-like monstrosities outfitted with stained glass and mini chapels meant to honor entire families long since dead and forgotten by history.

  Kendris pulls up to one such grave site which is also overgrown, its three headstones surrounded by an undersized black wrought iron fence that’s decayed over the decades since it was constructed. He stares out the passenger side window and points with extended arm and index finger.

  “That one there,” he says. “On the far right. That’s Henry Junior’s. The others belong to Henry and Clara respectively, his parents. The other kids are buried in Germany, or so history tells us.”

  Don’t believe your history…Not in this case…

  Balkis and I exchange glances. For a change, we’re on the same page. We could say something about the true resting place of Henry and Clara but that would cause a fuss and mess up our plans for recovering the Lincoln dress.

  We exit the Model T.

  “Thanks,” I say to the old man. “We can take it from here.”

  “Sure you boys don’t want me to stick around and give you a little more history of the place for your movie?”

  “We’re fine on our own,” I say. “I know where to find you when we need you.”

  “Alrighty then,” he says, throwing the tranny back into gear. “Have fun with the Rathbones.”

  He offers a salute and takes off back down the road.

  Balkis and I take a moment to gaze upon the old plots. Or maybe I should say, the plots take a moment to gaze upon us. At least, standing there alone in the old overgrown portion of the cemetery, it feels as though a dozen sets of eyes are gazing at us. I’m not one for believing in ghosts, but if I did believe in them, I’d say this place was full of them. My dad’s included.

  “Something just dawned on me, Baker,” Balkis says.

  “What is it?”

  “What if Henry Junior’s coffin is as empty as Clara and Henry Senior’s most certainly are?”

  If I were plugged into an electrical outlet, a lightbulb would have just lit up over my head.

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day, Professor.”

  “It is?”

  I step up to the gate of the old iron fence, push it open. Its rusted hinges cry out in pain. Crossing through the tall grass to Clara’s awkwardly leaning headstone, I read her short inscription.

  Here lie the remains of Clara Harris Rathbone.

  Witness to President Lincoln’s Assassination.

  September 4, 1834 - December 23, 1893

  I glance at Henry’s false grave, his death date also listed as December 23. Then I take a look at the son, Henry Junior’s, grave. His marker inscription lists him as deceased in March of 1946.

  “You see, Balkis, I can bet dollars to donuts that after he found his parents bodies down inside that sub-cellar in 1893, young Henry Junior didn’t dare touch the bodies because, like I already said, that would be like disturbing the ghost of Lincoln himself or at the very least, disturbing the curse. Instead, he buried the source of the haunting. The source of the curse.”

  “The dress,” Balkis says. “He buried the dress in Clara’s grave. After all, it’s her dress. And had he held onto it until his own death, he would have been incapable of burying it inside his own casket.”

  “That’s right. The dead aren’t capable of accomplishing a whole lot after they’re dead.” I turn back to him while glancing at my watch. “It’s nearly sundown. We wait until full dark. Then, we borrow the cemetery backhoe and solve this puzzle once and for all.”

  22

  By the time we walk back to the truck parked outside the visitor’s center, it’s already dark. The maintenance shed is located not far from the center, so I simply make the short drive to the brick building and park around back.

  Time check.

  8:32 PM on a warm summer night.

  “We need to wait a while, Balkis,” I say. “This operation needs to be conducted not only under the cover of darkness but late night when all the nosy busybodies are fast asleep. Capice?”

  “Si, senior,” he says, his tone sarcastic. “So, what shall we do in the meantime? Chat it up?”

  “Gonna be a long night,” I say. “I suggest you get some sleep while you can.”

  I rest the back of my head against the seat back, close my eyes. I listen for the sound of Balkis doing the same thing, which he does. Maybe a minute goes by before I begin to hear the familiar sound of snoring.

  “That didn’t take long,” I whisper, knowing full well that I’m not about to sleep a wink with that rattle coming from his overworked lungs.

  Three hours later, I’m still awake but somewhat rested. Reaching out, I poke Balkis in the ribs.

  “Time to go to work, Professor,” I say.

  Startled, he wakes wide-eyed.

  “Told you I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” he says.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “You must be exhausted.”

  Exiting the truck we walk around to the front of the building and try the door set beside a big, metal, roll-up door. Naturally, it’s locked.

  “Serious adventure man like you won’t let a locked door get in his way,” Balkis says, as though issuing me a challenge.

  Glancing upwards, I make a quick check for security cameras. None to be seen with the naked eye anyway. But then, judging by the cemetery’s seeming commitment to the old and antiquated, I can bet they haven’t yet entered the modern era of digitally enhanced security systems.

  Reaching into the pocket on my bush jacket, I once more pull out my Swiss Army knife. Opening the big blade, I slip it between the closer and the hollow metal frame and jimmy the door open. Chase the highly skilled.

  We both step inside, closing the door behind us.

  “Lights,” I say.

  Balkis feels along the wall, flips a switch which powers up the overheads.

  And that’s when I see him.

  My dead dad.

  23

  Dad’s old, water damaged, Moonlight Funeral Home casket is leaning up against the far wall of the maintenance shed, its cover wide open, his blue-suited mummified remains standing upright, hands crossed at the midsection, face black and tight. His eyes, although sewn shut, somehow stare at me like he’s just caught me coming home far too late from a night partying with my high school pals.

  I stand there, heart in my throat.

  “Professor Balkis,” I say, “I’d like to introduce you to my dad.”

  “Excuse me?” he says, his face having turned somewhat pale at the sight of Dad’s remains.

  “The whole reason I’m in town in the first place, Professor, is to rebury my old man. I guess the workers didn’t have time to rebury him yet, so they stored him in here.”

  “What for, Baker?”

  “The cemetery calls it a reallocation of space. But from what I’m hearing, the town is taking over a portion of their property for a new access road. In any case, here Dad rests until Albany Rural can find a new piece of ground for him on the cemetery hill.”

  Balkis swallows. “Why do you think they left the casket lid open like that?”

>   “Water leaked into the concrete vault. The hinges and latch were rusted out. That casket lid no longer stays shut. He’s gonna need a new casket, which is gonna cost me.”

  Let’s hope Miller’s word is good regarding that three hundred per day payout for my services…Course, it would help if I started looking for the Girvins instead of spending my time going after a relic of the Lincoln assassination. But then, how can I resist?

  “Gee, Baker, your dad looks really dead.”

  “No more or less dead than Clara and Henry Senior.”

  “Yeah, but they are all bones. This is different. It’s like he’s dead, but alive, too, you know. Creepy.”

  “I thought Southern gentlemen don’t use the word ‘creepy.’”

  “Forgot myself for a moment.”

  “You sure are an odd duck, you know that, Professor?”

  “You think I’m odd,” he says. “Wait till you meet the Girvins.”

  “That is, they’re still alive.”

  He exhales, clearly annoyed.

  “Must I repeat myself yet again, Baker? I did not kill the Girvins. They disappeared on their own. End of story.”

  Me, looking at my watch.

  “Time’s wasting, Professor. We’ve got work to do.”

  To the immediate right of Dad sits the backhoe I used this morning to dig him back up. It occurs to me that I’ll need an ignition key. To Dad’s left is a metal desk covered in paperwork. Mounted to the wall above it is a large map of the entirety of the Albany Rural Cemetery, and mounted beside it is a bulletin board that contains multiple sets of keys hanging from metal hooks.

  Making my way to the board, I stand by the desk and examine the keys. I recognize the keys to the Cat backhoe right away since Dad owned one just like it. In fact, I learned the art of sandhogging on that model backhoe, my dad standing over my shoulder, the ever conscientious teacher. I steal them from the hook on the board. Then, opening the desk drawers I search around for something else we’re going to need. A flashlight.