Chapter 35

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Mike slid from the car and squinted across the stretch of pale, burnt grass. Through the waves of heat radiating from the ground, he made out a small knot of people gathered just beyond a wizened elm tree. "Come on," he spat at Brant, who languidly unbuckled his seatbelt.

"Can you wait just one minute?" Brant snarled back, smoothing the crumples out of his suit coat. "My, but I don't like what's in the air," he commented, wrinkling his nose against he acrid scent of sulfur. They headed across the lawn, setting small cyclones of ash swirling in their wake. Mike arrived just slightly ahead of Brant, and signaled to him to settle in beside the paltry gathering of mourners. The minister noted their tardiness with an admonishing glance, and recommenced his address.

"They say the most tragic thing a parent can ever know," the honorable Reverend Briggs intoned, "Is the sorrow of watching a child die. Our children are our charges; it is our hope that they will thrive long after we perish. But Gertie," he paused to brush a wisp of ash from his missal, "Poor Gertie Huffman. It was a tragedy she was to endure not once, but twice - and both losses within a few short months of each other. First a son, Philip, who died in a tragic boating accident, and then Louise - a self-inflicted death brought about, no doubt, by her sorrow over the death of her beloved brother, compounded by her own sense of personal guilt for having strayed so far from the straight path.

"But Gertie, strong Gertie, endured both these deaths with little to comfort her, besides the loving memory of her two children. We take solace in the loving forgiveness of the Lord above, who will unite this good woman with her loved ones ..."

Brant bowed his head, and sighed a loud sigh of deep reverence. Mike elbowed him.

"Ashes to ashes," the minister raised his hands, pausing only to brush a grey spec from his robes, "And dust to dust." On his signal, shovelsful of dirt pelted the plain, wooden coffin, which had been lowered into a small rectangular excavation.

So small, Mike mused. It was always a wonder to him that a human body, robbed of life, could fit into such a small box. He gazed at the coffin as it disappeared under the dirt, clods of dry soil mixing with the ashes that swirled in the air. We must be near the burn, he thought.

He was pulled from his reverie by the silvery ring of a cell phone. Brant looked up sheepishly, pulled a slim, black unit from his pocket and strode quickly away from the graveside, his shoulders hunched as he turned from the small gathering.

Mike dismissed his partner and turned back to the crowd. Besides himself and the minister, there were but a few mourners. Townspeople, mostly, he speculated. Their clothes were simple, their manner reverent, and they had that same, despondent look that Gertie habitually wore. Dead spirits in a dead town. It made ashes in the air all the more appropriate.

But they weren't the only mourners in attendance. Mike's eyes moved from the good folk of Centralia, seated beside the grave, to a strangely anomalous group of men standing in the background.

Suits, Mike thought involuntarily. Unlike the other mourners, they stood oddly at attention. All except that stylish man on the end, the one in Armani. He slouched gracefully against the back row of white, wooden folding chairs.

As Mike glanced away, he noticed peripherally that they were staring at him. The two in the center seemed to confer. One fellow, a solid, thick-necked man started toward him, but he was quickly held in check by a blond man with elegantly chiseled features.

They look so familiar ... Mike thought.

The service at an end, Mike made his way over to Reverend Biggs. Holding out his hand, he greeted the minister. "Reverend Biggs," he reached for his badge, "I believe we met once before, at the inquest. Mike Smith, FBI." Best to stick to his bureau affiliation for now.

The minister eyed him with a cold, watery gaze. "Oh, yes," he stammered, "I do recall, I believe." He seemed to want to go. Mike detained him with a cordial but firm grasp on his arm.

"It's a tragic thing," Mike offered, "Surviving one's children. But I see Gertie is being interred alongside her son. At least there's some solace in that."

"Yes," the minister replied. "Better than her daughter's final resting place." He smirked a silent smile of contempt.

"Oh, really," Mike answered casually. "I never heard tell. Where is Louise buried?"

"Somewhere back east. Some pauper's grave no doubt," he said with venom. Mike cast a questioning glance. "She broke her mother's heart. Mixed up in all sorts of sinful business. Gert couldn't afford to transport the body home. She couldn't even pay to visit her final resting-place. We had a memorial here - with a plaque. Philip would've helped out, but he was dead then too, you know. Awful business ..."

The minister seemed to want to continue with the gossip, eager to share old tales with a fresh ear. Mike silently acquiesced.

"Philip's funeral made up for some of that, I guess. It was a lovely memorial. Philip always was Gert's favorite. A charming young man. Just charming. Awful the way he died." The minister lowered his voice to a whisper. "Had to have a closed casket, don't you know?"

"No, I didn't," Mike answered, hands stuffed in pockets. "So Gert never laid eyes on her son after he left for ... Australia, was it?"

"Yes. Well, actually, long before that. Philip left Centralia soon after he graduated high school. Always flitting around. Had 'things to do.' That's how Gertie always put it. 'Things to do.' But died so young. So, I guess Gert hadn't seen Phil for years before he passed."

As Mike surveyed the gravesite, Brant sidled up and pulled his partner off to the side. "That was Forensics. They received the fingerprints we pulled from Gert's house. They're processing them right now. If the murderer's in the national database, we should have a match in the next 48 hours."

"Hmmm. 48 hours. That's enough time."

"Enough time for what?" Brant questioned.

"To do some snooping and scooping."

********

"OK, David, you're up. You ready?"

David Nimoy nodded and faced the island, his elegant features caught in profile against the setting sun.

"Such a beautiful spot, touched by so much tragedy." He affected a sigh. "And now the center of national attention." Looks toward the camera. "This is David Nimoy, correspondent on location, with the latest from Bannerman Castle in the Hudson River Valley. In just a few moments, the latest on the Simon Waterbury treasure hunt, plus a little walk through history - some say, a haunted history."

"And cut. Great David. Sheer poetry. You'll have the tourists stampeding in no time. Now, with the story. Ready to set up?"

David nodded and moved over to his right, taking a position perfectly framed between the castle and the glowing clouds that shrouded the setting sun.

"David Nimoy again, with 'The Tale of the Haunted Castle.' Just a week ago, we heard news of the new phase in Simon Waterbury's treasure hunt. The next clue is said to be here," he gestured to his left, "At what is often referred to as 'Bannerman Castle.' The castle itself is actually an old munitions warehouse. Built by the Bannerman Company to store army surplus, the structure also fulfilled a dream of Bannerman's owner - by re-creating a Scottish fortress as a tribute to its builder's ancient Scottish heritage.

"But the Bannermans suffered losses as well as reaped glories. Bad luck seems to dog the structure, with catastrophe after catastrophe striking the island. Some blame the Bannermans' tie to the munitions trade. Making their fortune off the sale of instruments of death, they perhaps suffered the vengeful wrath of those killed by their stock in trade. Others claim it's a far more ancient curse. Native American tribes in the area tell legends of the 'haunted island,' and the landmark even played a role in the American Revolution. Or maybe, just maybe, it's merely a web of exaggerations, grown up around the perilous currents that encircle the island - promising death of a different sort to all those who try to make landfall.

"Whatever the reason, whatever the truth, courageous (and some say fool-hardy) treasure-seekers have swarmed the area, seeking access to the next clue - and maybe a fabulous fortune. Is the clue even here? Waterbury's teasing anagrams seem to suggest Pollepel Island, the location of Bannerman Castle, and the novel refers to explosive deaths caused by artillery in the section many readers claim points to his famous landmark. But are they right? The answers are as dark as the mysteries surrounding this modern wonder."

David signaled the crew, and floodlights came up on the castle, now shrouded in the darkness of early evening.

Deep within the castle, Yemeshigi winced as the floodlight caught him full in the face.

"Damn! Damn! What the hell is that?"

Momentarily losing his balance, he skidded down a small incline, scattering pebbles and debris as he slid.

"Watch out," Professor Hattamari whined. "You nearly killed me." He moaned and rubbed his hands together. "It's so cold. Only September, and so cold. I thought you said you packed a battery-operated space heater."

"I did," Yemeshigi snarled. "It didn't make it ashore. What do you expect, after you capsized the boat?" He snickered to himself, recalling the dignified professor, dripping with riverweeds, floundering out of the current onto the shore.

"Don't blame me," the professor sulked. "I was the one who warned you against the currents. I was the one who saw the danger immediately. You said, 'Don't be a coward. It's not so bad. Be a man.' Well, I am a man, and I know when it's stupid to go against nature. We shouldn't be here." He shivered.

"Oh, I see. You've been thinking about the 'curse.' That's right. The castle is cursed, and haunted, and whatever else. It's also a key location for our project, so curse or no curse, we will stay here until we find what we're looking for.

Hattamari scowled in the darkness. The money was good, but was it good enough to endure the manic ravings of this bully? He sighed. No point in debating. They were stuck on the island now. At least until Takamoto could send assistance. An airlift, perhaps. Or maybe a nice speed boat. Anything besides the awful kayaks they used to get ashore. Takamoto would send help. Yemeshigi had assured the professor, but Hattamari had his doubts. And right now, Hattamari would have sold his soul for a nice, hot cup of tea.

Of course, there were scholarly benefits to this adventure. The Bannerman structure was fascinating, historically and architecturally. Looming turrets, crumbling masonry, recessed windows. It was like a bit of the 14th century, plucked from another place and time. Except for that 12-foot high advertisement - "BANNERMANS ISLAND ARSENAL" -screaming down from the cement wall of the structure. Nothing could be tackier. Or more American.

But inside - that was another story. The building seemed so sturdy from the outside. It's walls solid and tall, the masonry imposing. Inside it was all burnt-out floorboards, exploded windows, perilous drop-offs. And a sense of death. You could feel the angry spirits, wreaking revenge and harboring evil thoughts. As the shadows lengthened, the sense of impending doom and heavy disaster grew.

"We camp now," Hattamari burst out, and dropped his knapsack. "It's dark. No use going further."

"Camp? We've hardly searched today. And now that the site is getting more attention," He blocked Nimoy's floodlight from his eyes, "We can expect competition. Better to move now, before others come."

"I won't go another step," Hattamari exclaimed in Japanese, and threw himself on the ground. "I'm camping here. You can go on by yourself, and step through some loosened floorboard or off some cliff or ..."

Hattamari froze.

"What was that?" he whispered, his face sheet-white.

"What?" Yemeshigi yawned. "No more of your games, old man. Let's go on."

"No. NO!!" Hattamari shrieked. "I heard something. A small noise. Over there."

Yemeshigi looked in the direction Hattamari pointed. Was it a trick of the light? Or did something move? Yes or no is not important now, Yemeshigi thought as he quickly shuffled himself and the professor out of the way.

*********

"Was that a noise?" Brant whispered, up close, by Mike's ear.

"Knock it off," Mike growled, swatting at his partner. He wasn't here because he liked this duty. But it was necessary. Follow every lead, those were his orders.

But Brant - Brant seemed positively to enjoy this work. Though actually, Mike thought, he doesn't really enjoy it. He just enjoys how uncomfortable it makes me. It'd be a different story when they started in on the real work.

It didn't help that they had to steal in under cover of darkness. Not broad daylight work, this stuff. Couldn't have witnesses. That would lead to too many questions. And questions could lead to disaster. Don't raise suspicions, that was his other order.

Mike trudged ahead, trying to outpace his partner. Brant skipped up merrily, and swatted him on the behind on the shovel.

"What was that?" he wheezed. "A ghost? Perhaps a headless foe, waiting to attack you unawares." He swatted him again. "A ghost who likes your ass ..."

"I said knock it off. You can swat my ass all you want later. Right now, we have work to do. And we'd better do it quickly, before anyone notices. Besides, show some respect."

Mike stopped and surveyed the grounds. So many tombstones. So many dead. Generations finding their end here.

"Well," Mike said gruffly, "Let's get started."

He signaled to Brant who joined him by the graveside. He brushed a thin layer of ashes off the tomb stone. "Philip Huffman, Loving Son," Brant read aloud. "Right beside his ma. Too bad sister Louise isn't here. It would round things out nicely."

"Quit stalling," Mike growled, stabbing the earth with his shovel. Brant shot Mike an anxious look, hesitated, and joined in digging.

"I tell you," Mike uttered, interrupting the uneasy silence, "This is not what I expected to be doing as my career. Talk about old skeletons in the closet."

"Cute. Speaking of skeletons, how long has this fellow been planted. Long enough to decompose? Completely? I think I'd prefer a bare skeleton to some worm-eaten corpse." He paused for a moment. "And what about the smell?" he asked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.

Mike stiffened. "Did you hear something?"

"You mean besides the ghastly clank of unholy shovels desecrating sacred earth?"

"It's probably nothing. I thought heard ... a rustle."

"Oh no!! Not a rustle! Could it be the moldy cloaks of the deadly headless horseman?"

"Quit it," Mike spat out as his shovel hit solid wood with a clang. Both men stopped. Their eyes locked for a moment.

"Paydirt," Brant breathed uneasily.

Wordlessly, the two kneeled beside the exhumed grave and brushed the dirt from the surface. Grasping the edge, they pulled on the lid. No avail. The rusty hinges wouldn't give.

Mike turned to his bag and pulled out a hefty crowbar. Briskly and efficiently, he wedged the bar under the lid and forced his weight downward. The hinges swung with a crack, throwing dirt and ashes in the air.

The two men peered into the coffin and saw ...

Nothing.

But not for long. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike caught a glimpse of a shovel falling in a sharp and swift arc toward Brant's head. Just before it hit, he felt a blinding burst of pain, and lost consciousness.

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