by S. L. Hawke
“Okay. I’ll find stuff out.” Randall felt agitated. He got these feelings about investigations sometimes and knew that if he ignored them, he’d just end up making more work for himself. In the end, as uncomfortable as this whole thing would be, things would work out. If anything, he felt that a bit too strongly.
“Lucky for you that ‘expert’ lives next door.” Olivia was smiling again. Randall straightened.
“Were you just going to let me chase dead ends before you would share this important fact that you have had in your possession the whole time?”
“Actually, Selene–” Olivia inclined her head towards the house next door, “saw him when she first moved here. Told me a lot about him, but all I can really tell you is to make sure you follow through with your promise to meet her out at the cemetery on Monday around 10 a.m. The Volunteer Coordinator named Kate will introduce you. They are nice folks out there and it’s neutral territory.”
Randall saw Olivia watching him carefully, as if he might run off or get mad, but this time he didn’t feel a terrible sensation of panic.
“Let’s just get this done,” Randall said. Olivia hugged him.
The Extension, no longer outside the Fence
Evergreen Cemetery
“Hey Selene!” Kate, our Volunteer Coordinator, hailed me from the main gate. I was setting up my tools and cleaning buckets like I was prepping a camp at A.J.’s plot. Randall Ikebara was standing next to Kate, looking hesitant and, well, very much like I had imagined A.J. might be standing in this place, except with long hair and a salt and pepper goatee. He actually looked a little more cleaned up than when I last saw him at dinner a few nights ago. “Your friend is here!”
“Hi!” I hailed Randall. He made me nervous, but I tempered it with the certain knowledge that I was past my expiration date. Any feelings of attractiveness I had towards him would simply never be returned. I imagined him dating someone from his working days, a sexy, confident undercover cop or something. My self-pity threatened to rise up, but I simply decided there was no room for it. My son’s relationship with his daughter was reason enough to try my best to be, well, honest. My TV mind was skipping ahead to all the uncomfortable family events I would have to attend, perhaps even my son’s own wedding, alone, as Randall escorted a different lovely, athletic lady at each event on his arm.
“Selene.” Randall had a soft voice. His eyes were green, like Olivia’s. When I thought of her, my nervousness left as well. I hadn’t slept well. I kept dreaming of a strange place in the mountains, tending a Civil War style camp and singing a crazy song about burros.
“Welcome to Evergreen.” I gave a brief history of the place, then added quickly: “So, basically we pick up garbage, weed, clean headstones, sometimes we reinstall headstones, but right now, we are trying to finish a set of stairs up to the Chinese Monument.” I pointed to Barton doing a ‘heave ho’ chant with his fringe crew as they dug away at a mound of mud that had slid down into the pathway from the last rain.
Randall stopped to examine the modern veteran’s stone that also stood in A.J.’s plot.
“This is the guy? The one who haunts the backyard?” I could tell by the way he spoke that skepticism was his starting point. “He must have records or–?” Randall asked me. “I guess they all have stories.” He inched that hat off his back.
Randall was running his long fingers across the old original broken half of A.J.’s headstone. “What happened to the rest of this stone? And I’m guessing this old one belongs to this vet?” Randall pointed from the broken stone to the new marble vet headstone next to me. Randall tilted his head to one side to read Eliza’s stone. “His mother’s?”
Something about his keen observation skills made me smile. I’d be telling him my version of A.J. Sloan’s history without any hesitation if he asked.
“So what can you tell me about this Ghost of Arana Gulch that isn’t online at the public library site?”
A human scream interrupted our conversation. Before I could say anything, Randall told me to stay where I was as he suddenly marched off towards the sound. I was startled at his bravery and did not listen to him.
I followed. Barton also ran towards us, phone in hand. He had called 911, then run after Randall. Both men headed up the Glory Path. I didn’t see what was next. The sound of distant sirens coming towards Evergreen had me watch the road with worry.
Randall followed the direction of the shouting up to the top of the cemetery. The Volunteer Coordinator Kate was holding her garbage bag, heavy with trash, coolly trying to reason with a man who had no pants on and was obviously camping on a section of the cemetery land that was a gully, but still part of Cemetery property. Randall almost stepped off into a deep hole made by the stream that ran down the right side of the gully.
“You can’t take my stuff!” he screamed. “I’ll come get ya, I’ll find ya, I’ll make sure you never see the light of day you punks!” the man screamed, his eyes wide with fright, his face tan with dirt. His tattered plastic tarp that he used over his body like a poncho was wet and filthy. His feet were bare.
Randall stepped forward. Barton came right alongside.
“Hey buddy. It’s me. You’re gonna be okay.” Barton held his arm out.
“They’re taking my stuff man. You know I need to be here.” The whites in the man’s eyes were very bright and his pupils were dark and wide. “I’m not going back there.”
“You need to be down at the shelter.” Barton tried to console the man, but Randall could see this was not working. A series of scars ran along the side of the man’s bare leg. Shrapnel marks from a long time ago. Randall had an idea.
“You need to get your gear, soldier,” Randall said firmly, hoping it would have the effect of cooperation. Instead, the man began to scream and put his hands over his ears. “They’re here! They’re here! Get outta my way!” Suddenly he ran right at Barton, tackling him.
Randall did not think. He simply reached over and with Barton’s help pinned the wriggling screaming man onto the mud just as two police officers came running up the pathway. Randall held the man down until cuffs could go on. Barton got up, signaled that he was okay, as the young officer grabbed the kicking screaming man into a sitting position.
Paramedics had come up the path with their gear but saw the officers grapple with the homeless man. One of the PTs assisted in maneuvering the man back down the rest of the path. Two more officers arrived and helped get the agitated individual down to the curb, but in the end, they put him into the back of the patrol car. By the end of the day hopefully he would be cleaned up and admitted into the Behavioral Unit.
“Thanks for that.” Randall turned towards the voice of a man his own height. They shook hands. “Name’s Barton. Hope this doesn’t scare you off.”
“We’d best give a statement.” Randall nodded his head towards the second set of officers coming up the pathway for just that purpose. They had an iPad ready and took the statements easily and with little difficulty. Randall was impressed by the ease with which these younger folk used all the new tech. The officers looked at Randall’s badge and smiled, shook his hand and made a joke about how you can never leave a job. Randall’s wounds ached again and he found himself sitting down on a cement retaining wall near a large crypt with iron bars on its front.
Barton came along and Randall could feel his eyes on him. Barton waved a hand in the general direction towards the big public park called Harvey West.
“I’m going to go check on the Extension. Let me show you a famous headstone.”
Randall stood up, feeling every inch of his injury.
“I’ve been trying to find a place for that vet for months now. When he is on his meds, everything is good, then something happens and he’s back here again.” Randall followed Barton as they walked towards an area Barton called the Extension. “There’s no funding or treatment facilities nearby that can handle his PTSD and his other disorders.” Randall listened quietly. “And he has no family. That�
�s the hardest part.” Barton told Randall about the work they were doing to house vets and how Evergreen was the focus of a large Memorial Day event in the spring. Barton himself had served as a firefighter after his time with the navy. He was, like Randall, retired out due to injury. Randall enjoyed hearing his thoughts on pension plans.
They turned left and started to walk towards the county park. A flat cemetery space appeared before them and a lovely, new white picket fence glinted off in the distance, marking the boundary of Evergreen’s “extension”. Barton proudly remarked that his Brotherhood had done the fence replacement work. Randall learned about E Clampus Vitus, its work, its history, and its fraternal gatherings.
“Are you guys okay?” Selene came along from the side, silent and ghost-like. Randall straightened. Barton patted Selene on the shoulder and shook his head with smile. Selene pointed out a headstone in the shape of a tree trunk. “Don’t forget to show him the cinnabar stone!”
“She’s a keeper,” Barton said quietly and only to Randall. Randall found himself suddenly feeling self-conscious.
“This happen a lot?” Randall distracted himself by looking past Selene but she looked away, much to his relief. He still noticed that her eyes were amber-colored. He fought the overwhelming sensation of needing to reconnect with her. The fire engine, the last emergency vehicle to depart, rumbled by them to use the County park turnaround. Selene waved to the firefighters.
“That? No. That’s the first time I’ve seen Barton get tackled. The other guy, well, last time I saw him, he was trying to cross Highway 17. There are no mental hospitals these days that can take the time to process and care for special cases like that.” Barton made a noise of agreement.
Selene pointed to a metal information plaque with a stone at its base. They all walked over to a marker commemorating the mysterious death of an engineer from New Almaden Mine called Grove Cook.
“Lots of unsolved crime in those days,” Randall said, mostly to himself, but Selene and Barton both grinned at him.
“I think he’s hooked,” Barton said to Selene as he made a buddy fist with her.
*****
We walked into the Extension Section, following Barton to a notorious grave of a poor woman believed to have committed suicide by drinking carbolic acid. They also called her a “lady of the night”. Barton loved this site, as he and his fraternity had installed both its brass historic plate and its headstone. She was also called “The White Lady of Evergreen”. This was a really popular ghost story, especially among local teens, I managed to add, in between Barton telling the tale of how the headstone got pilfered then found by a hiker decades later. Randall and Barton seemed to be bonding over war stories, so I ambled over to the white fence where I could check on a wild rose that had taken root there.
The White Lady was actually inside the original Evergreen boundary, an unusual placement for prostitutes of the day. I made a mental note to recheck the old maps of the boundary as I stooped down to tie my shoe.
My vision got dark in one eye. Three men wearing black were stooped over a lump where Barton and Randall had just been. My mind seemed to fill in the darkness with a full image of someone exhuming a body, studying it, finding out the truth, and for a moment as plain as day I could feel they were there. My hat fell off.
*White Lady of Evergreen, what do you seek?* the shadows whispered to me. The moment felt like ice.
“Uh, the Extension,” I stammered, pointing in the direction of where I thought I saw the three shadows hovering over an exhumed shallow grave. I closed my eyes again. It was now early morning and only Barton was crouching down over the White Lady’s grave and Randall standing near him. Breathe, just breathe.
“Are you alright?” Randall wandered over to me. For the first time I saw how green his eyes were. I had thought they were brown, like the chocolate cake he made for us a few nights ago. Tears came unbidden to my eyes but thankfully did not well up any further.
Randall reached out and rested his large hand on my arm. His touch calmed me. I really just wanted a hug, even though these two guys were the ones who had just experienced a violent encounter. Jeesh! I crossed my arms in front of me, feeling a bit angry at myself.
“She’s psychic,” Barton blurted. “It’s the only explanation I have for the amount of information she has found on the folk buried here.” There was a teasing tone to his voice.
Research was a dogged, intense task that takes a lot of people. But sometimes I’ve seen things that I’ve learned over the years to ignore, usually in old houses or old historic places. Then I started searching or taking an interest in said place. Stuff got found when that happened. There is always a feeling of directedness, I have to admit.
At Evergreen, I wish I could say this was the first time this had happened, but here, history does, for me, come alive at times, especially in the case of The Ghost of Arana Gulch.
A.J. Sloan, what do you want?
Santa Cruz Township
1863
Early Summer
Understanding
1
Emma finally met Jack Sloan.
Jack Sloan, the mysterious overseas brother of Cynthia, Sophia, and Margaret, had arrived in a panic and not alone. Even now as Emma saw how Margaret clutched him, weeping, she recalled Jack’s letters, how his prose filled the emptiness of the new fortress Emma’s aunt insisted she dwell within. Jack’s words freed her from the fear that kept them behind stone walls and gave her hope that what she did with Cynthia was not in vain. And now, here Jack Sloan was, in the flesh, the hope of their family, and of the city. Her mind drifted back to this morning’s ritual with her head of security.
“Highness, you fool no one. At least no one who is sober.” Virofsky often studied Emma with care and worry. “I cannot protect you beyond these walls, like this.” And then his huge, gold fish-like eyes would soften, reminding Emma of a lonely puppy. “Please do not make me rescue your body. Please stop this charade or at the very least allow me to assign you a body guard.” Virofsky did not wait for her permission but had found a bodyguard. He scorned her attempts to hide and investigate the inner workings of the town dressed as a Californio boy, but he also respected her need to help the unfortunate by creating this compromise. She never saw this mysterious bodyguard, and despite all her pleas to reveal his identity, Virofsky simply smiled, like a kindly uncle, and reminded her that a bodyguard would not be one if he did not practice the art of remaining hidden in plain sight.
Now that she went everywhere not knowing the extent to which her movements were being watched or judged, she tired of pretending to be Juan. She suspected Virofsky had hired more than one bodyguard and quite possibly Faustino Lorenzana might have been one of them, but she was not sure. What was beginning to become quite clear was that her ability to help the prostitutes and the orphans was limited, and what little help she could provide did nothing to assuage the deep grief she continued to feel. Even now, a prostitute lay close to death, and not even Chinese medicine could heal the wounds she had sustained, all because a man of wealth and influence needed release. Emma tried hard not to think about that moment but it came unbidden, like sickness.
“Too much blood lost.” Wen washed her hands in the deep red of the basin, then asked for a fresh bowl. Emma quickly fetched it as Cynthia wiped the brow of the young girl on the bed.
“Where was she found?” Cynthia asked two other girls who had helped carry her in to the brothel’s private rooms.
“She was out near the cemetery, the big one, by the Mission Orchard,” one of the girls, Irish by the sound of her lilt, said with tears in her eyes.
Cynthia stood up and came over to them. “What on earth were you doing there by yourselves?”
“Gone to see Lucy,” the other said, her accent southern or east end Londoner. Emma couldn’t tell. The other prostitute held herself straight.
“I don’t careh wha’yeu say. Lucy was murrderred. She went o’er there to see her wee babe. The one she ha’ las
t yeare.” The Irish girl continued, “They bury all the babes at Evergreen, always inside the fence, but the’hre mo’ters nae belong outside, when it’s their dah’s that shoood be.”
“Does anyone come here, or follow you anywhere?” Emma asked. The girls laughed bitterly.
“We’re whores; all men follow us. You may fool the men, but not us, Highness.”
“And when they’re not followin’ us, they’re preaching at us during the day, then banging us like there is no tomorra in the evening. Praise be the Lord!” the other prostitute cried. She then completely sobbed as Wen shook her head. She gave the girls her special tea to ease death’s passing.
Emma left coin for the funeral. They needed to find out who did this. Soon. As she left, someone was nearby on the corner watching. Suddenly he hailed her.
“Young greaser! Take me to the estate of the Vines! I have been summoned!” The British accent was imperious. When he revealed himself, Emma felt no fear of him. He bore Virofsky’s pin as a token. Finally the bodyguard had revealed himself.
“My dearest brother!” Margaret’s voice brought Emma back to the moment. “A.J. Sloan, you are a scoundrel!” She sobbed.
A.J. (Emma also liked to call him that) was thinner than she imagined and looked grey, despite his being only two years older than Margaret. From what Emma could see of him now, he bore that difference with heaviness.
Jack, as Sophia and Cynthia insisted he be called, had done such exquisite renderings in his letters. Scribbling on the margins showed women walking on perfectly arched bridges wearing kimono, or sometimes images of her homeland in Kaua’i would cover the corners of his letters, making the distance to the Islands seem only a page away. Emma had cherished these letters perhaps a lot more than she cared to admit. Had Margaret known? Why else would she have let Emma read and keep them with her? Emma had some fear, she knew, that perhaps A.J. was not the man she was secretly imagining.