Darkest Journey (2 page)

“I see that.”

She was suddenly freed, and immediately she tried to stand. Her legs wobbled, and he reached out to steady her. She looked up.

Suddenly she was in love.

She couldn't let him see it.

Charlie cleared her throat and fought to quickly maintain her balance on her own as she forced a smile to her lips.

“Thank you, Ethan. I owe you big-time.”

“It was nothing...” He hesitated. “Nothing at all.”

He doesn't even know my name.

Their parents were friends; he'd been to her house. But had he ever thought of her as anything other than a little kid? Did he even recognize her?

He was smiling at her. “Listen, I walked here. I don't have a car. But when we get back to my parents' old place—he's in NOLA, and Mom is there picking up stuff, 'cause she's in the middle of moving—I can use her car and drive you home.”

“I hate to trouble you. I can walk home now that I'm not tied up, thanks to you.”

His smile deepened. She noticed that he had a dimple in his chin. “I'm sorry, miss, but I was raised Southern, and my mama would probably still tan my hide if I didn't see you home safe.”

He turned, holding her elbow—probably worried that she might trip on a gravestone, she thought.

“I have a name,” she told him, sounding more strident than she'd meant to.

He stopped and looked down at her, that shock of hair still covering one of his eyes. “Of course. I'm so sorry. It's just that I don't know—”

“Charlie. Charlene, actually. Charlene Moreau.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Moreau. You used to hang at my house when you were little. Our parents are friends. Your dad is Jonathan Moreau, right?”

“Yes.” She waited, afraid that somewhere along the line her father might have done something to bug him.

“Wow,” he said with admiration. “He's brilliant. He knows more about local history and politics than anyone I've ever met.”

“Yep, that's him.”

“Come on, then. My mom can make you some tea or something, and then I'll take you home.”

He started to walk, not holding on to her this time, and she followed. “How did you know I was here?” she asked him. “I mean, you don't seem the kind to be spending his Friday night hanging out at the graveyard.”

He paused, his back to her.

“Was it the Confederate cavalryman?” she asked softly, not even worrying that if he hadn't seen the ghost he might think she was nuts. “Did he lead you here? If so, I wish I could thank him.”

He turned then and stared at her. “You saw...a cavalry soldier?”

“I did,” she said.

He studied her intently. Then he nodded slowly. She felt the intensity of his gold-green eyes. He'd heard exactly what she'd said, and he seemed to accept her words at face value.

“Best not to mention such things,” he said simply, and started walking again.

And, once more, she followed. Except that the sobbing she'd heard earlier suddenly echoed in her mind again.

“Come on,” he called back.

“Wait!” she said.

“What?”

“There was—there was someone there before. By the tree. Give me just a second.”

She hurried over the tree roots, fallen branches and broken headstones that stood between her and the tree in question, hoping he noticed that she didn't need any help, even in rough terrain.

“There!” She saw something shiny in the grass and sank to her knees—her jeans were already filthy anyway—then parted the weeds and grass to reveal a bracelet. It was gold, with a single gold charm studded with what might have been a diamond or might have been glass.

Suddenly Ethan was there, too, down on his knees beside her, reaching curiously for the bracelet.

She picked it up and handed it to him. “A bracelet,” she murmured, completely unnecessarily.

He looked up at her suddenly, those strange eyes of his intent on her. He flinched, staring at her.

“What? What is it?” she whispered.

He opened his hand. The bracelet lay on his palm, but she saw something else there, as well. Something gleaming and darker than the night.

“What is it?” she repeated.

“Blood,” he said quietly.

Charlie didn't realize then that, for her, the night, along with the rest of her life, was just beginning.

1

West Feliciana Parish,
Louisiana
Ten Years Later

T
hey rose from the earth one by one, spectral shapes that slowly crept to the top of the high bluff where the church had long held dominion over the landscape. If a watcher blinked, they might have seemed like a part of the mist, they were so ethereal. And yet, seen with eyes open and focused, they were clearly real, soldiers rising from their graves, worn, war-weary, dirty, sweaty and exhausted, yet ready to stand and fight for what they believed to be right. Here in this narrow strip of Louisiana between Baton Rouge and Port Hudson, the Civil War had one day come to a halt, and thus the men who rose from the earth wore both tattered butternut and gray or Union blue. They had been good men all, fighting for what they believed to be just when death stopped their fighting, though not forever. They rose together now, for even at a time when the nation had been torn apart in tragic and horrific conflict, they had found moments of peace and friendship.

They were a ghost army, ragged and unearthly, chilling and terrifying shadows of vengeance in the moonlight.

Now they moved slowly in unearthly splendor, spectral shapes, faces hardened, joined together to protect the innocent and destroy evil.

Charlie Moreau kept running forward, through the mist and straight toward the ghostly apparitions. They were no threat to
her
; it was the men in pursuit behind her who threatened her with fatal danger, those men whom she had to escape. She brushed by the apparitions, feeling a cold mist against her flesh. And then she fell...

She heard screaming from the men pursuing her, who were now being stopped in their tracks by the ghostly Civil War soldiers who had risen in her defense. She rolled over, braced herself on an elbow and looked back, both fear and a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Cut!”

Brad Thornton, director of the movie, stood and smiled broadly, applauding. “Wonderful! Charlie, you're the perfect Dakota Ryan. The rest of you guys, you were everything you were supposed to be. All y'all, come on over here. You've got to see this footage. It's fantastic.”

Charlie smiled and called back, “Great!” She was pleased to see how happy Brad was. He'd put everything into this, his heart, his soul and his best fund-raising efforts. Young, earnest—not to mention darkly good-looking—he was extremely professional and had done well in a tough business. Even so, he was still an independent filmmaker, so he needed every break he could get. She was happy to work with him as lead actress on his latest film.

Jimmy Smith, an extra who'd played one of the ghostly soldiers, reached a hand down to her. One of Charlie's best friends from both high school and the Tulane Department of Theater and Dance, he had a quick grin and shaggy hair, and his smile was warm. “Come on, Charlie. Sounds like this is one scene our mighty captain has decided he's gotten in one take.”

“I'm kind of muddy—sorry,” she apologized, happy to take his hand. He'd tried to help her on that horrible night long ago when the Cherubs had tied her up in the cemetery. He'd even cried as he'd apologized to her afterward. They'd stayed friends through everything, and she was glad to be working with him now.

Jimmy laughed. “And I'm a lovely mix of sweat and makeup and mud myself. We're both fine. Except they made me play a Yankee. That
was
the winning side, of course, but I doubt that mattered much to the men who died in battle, whether slowly and in pain or quickly, life snuffed out in an instant.”

“I think most of them believed in what they were fighting for, other than the ones who fought because they'd been drafted and had no choice.”

“All I know is I'm damned lucky I didn't opt to go into the military,” Jimmy said, grimacing. “Whenever I see a reenactment, I shudder. Even when I'm part of one. I mean, those soldiers walked straight toward a line of people firing right at them. They had to know they could be hit by a bullet any minute, but they had to keep on walking.”

“Never sure myself how people managed to do that,” Charlie said. “We're playacting when we do a reenactment. I can't imagine what it must have been like for real. I can't imagine what it's like for the guys who go in the military today.”

Suddenly she found herself thinking about Ethan Delaney. She knew that he'd gone into the service out of college.

Jimmy knocked at his ear. When she looked at him curiously, he said, “Just mud—I hope.”

“No bugs,” she assured him, studying the dirt caked on him from the ground where the “troops” had lain before rising. “Just mud.”

“If only I didn't have to play a Yankee,” he said, grinning.

“Remember the guy who played Robert E. Lee for the flashback scene?” Charlie asked. “His great-great-grandfather was a Union general. That's the biz. Around here, history is especially near and dear to us, that's all. Anyway, this movie is contemporary—these stupid shoes I'm running in are far
too
contemporary—but I love that the ghosts from both armies rise up to save the heroine from the bad guys.”

“I like it that we get some of the soldiers' past, too. It's really sad, what with the captain killing himself,” Jimmy said.

“The captain was fighting a terrible fever. He wasn't in his right mind. I forget the statistics—my dad could tell you—but more soldiers died of sickness and infection than gunshot, cannon fire or bayonet.”

“I know—I've played a surgeon in a few reenactments.”

“Oh, yeah. Nurse Moreau, here,” Charlie said. “I think that's why people keep coming to reenactments, because of the human side of war. I mean, the generals who fought each other were often friends—some of them had studied together at West Point—or even family. No matter how you look at it, the Civil War was probably the most heartbreaking era in this country's history. I'm so happy we didn't live back then.”

Jimmy grinned. “I agree, and I actually love the point Brad is making with this movie. You know, that people are people, flesh and blood, beating hearts, the same desire to find love and happiness. There may be a constant tug-of-war between environmentalists and oil companies, but I love how he doesn't make everything black or white.”

“I love Brad's script, too, especially the way he shows how the Confederate and Union soldiers found common ground before they died, and then their ghosts work together to save me from being killed.”

Jimmy's grin disappeared. “Speaking of which, did you hear about the murder?”

“What murder?” Charlie said. “When?” She'd been in bed early the night before, because her call that morning had been at the crack of dawn, so they could film the just-completed scene when she'd confronted an oil exec and a state senator after discovering the oil exec had bribed the senator to let him drill where his efforts would destroy the water source for their fictional town of Mary Elizabeth. That had led to tonight's scene, with her on the run from an oil exec and a crooked senator.

She hadn't seen any news before bed, and she hadn't had time to catch any that morning, either.

“They haven't said what happened yet. Only that a man was murdered. He was from Baton Rouge, and I feel like we might know him, because he was a reenactor, too. His name was Albion Corley. A nice guy, they said on the news.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Charlie. She wasn't sure why. Maybe he'd been someone she'd met through her father, who was often brought on as a consultant for the local reenactments.

“Where did it happen?” Charlie asked. “Was it anywhere near here?”

“Between here and Port Hudson. His body was found just outside an old family cemetery, poorly buried under less than a foot of earth.”

“How awful,” Charlie said, genuinely dismayed. This was a small, close-knit area. The population of St. Francisville was under two thousand. They were just over thirty miles north of Baton Rouge. Of course, the population there was growing and spreading out. Still, murder wasn't common around here.

Ten years ago, yes, there had been a local serial killer, but he'd been crazy, plus they'd caught him. He'd killed nine people; he'd nearly killed Charlie. Ethan had saved her, and the killer had died five years ago of a stroke while still on death row.

“Is that all you know?” she asked.

“Yeah. It was major-league news this morning, but that was all they seemed to know. They did show a quick clip of a press conference, but it was just double-talk by a Detective Laurent. He basically said they can't give out any information because the case is under investigation.”

“I can't believe no one mentioned it all day today.”

“The news just broke this morning, so most people on set probably don't know about it. I wasn't on call until later in the day, and that's why I heard about it. It'll probably turn out to be some family thing, a fight between friends, or even some idiot playing around with a firearm. It's sad, but something terrible happens somewhere every day.” He paused and looked around. “And, as your dad once told me, we just never seem to learn our lessons about cruelty and violence.”

“I'll bet my dad knew him,” Charlie said. “The victim, I mean.”

“I didn't realize it would upset you so much. I'm sorry I told you.”

“Why? I had to know.”

“But we're making a movie, and that needs to be our focus. Yours, especially. And Brad's calling,” Jimmy said, brushing a smudge of caked mud off her face. “Let's go see that footage.”

“Hey, guys, come on,” Grant Ferguson—another friend who was working as one of the ghosts—said, joining them. “Let's hurry and see what Brad's so excited about, because after that we get to bathe.”

Grant was playing a soldier who'd been gruesomely wounded before his death. On top of that, his face prosthetic was peeling off in the heat, which made him look all the more ghastly. At forty-two he was older than most of the others, which was a plus, because soldiers of all ages had fought in what, down here, was still called the War of Northern Aggression.

Charlie struggled to shake off the news she had just heard and tried to smile. “Grant, you look horrible,” she said. “And I mean that as a compliment. Jennie outdid herself.”

It was true. Jennie McPherson, the makeup artist, had worked wonders on a shoestring budget.

Despite the fact that they were all unpaid, every person involved in the film was glad to be there. In exchange for volunteering their efforts, they were all shareholders in the film. Of course, it needed to achieve a pretty broad distribution and earn a fair bit if they were to make any money, but they were all friends, along with a few friends of friends. Most of them had gone to school together and most of those had even graduated in the same class. Some had become friends through other acting jobs. Charlie had met Grant when they'd filmed a spot for a local car dealership. And he, like many of the other extras, had a day job. He was an accountant when he wasn't acting. That had proved to be a huge asset, because he was also an associate executive producer and kept the books for the film, making sure they spent the budget wisely, especially the state's money.

Louisiana had made a concerted effort to woo the film industry, and Brad had received a state grant to help him cover expenses for props and equipment.

Charlie and her friends weren't tabloid names—yet. But most of them were making a decent living at their craft, just like thousands of other actors who weren't yet household names and might never be. This film was her first chance at a lead role, and since she hailed from St. Francisville herself, she was also in love with the historical incident on which Brad's script was based.

It had occurred one day in the middle of the Siege of Port Hudson during the Civil War. Port Hudson had been incredibly important to both sides, since it was at the junction of the Red and Mississippi Rivers. Admiral Farragut from the North wanted it taken, so the US Navy was determined to take it.

In that effort, they shelled Grace Episcopal Church.

But one day, suddenly the shelling went silent. And a small boat, bearing US Navy men and a white flag of truce, made its way to the shoreline below the bluffs.

The commander of the
Albatross
, one of the ships involved in the shelling, had died by his own hand. Since he'd exhibited no signs of depression in a loving letter written to his wife just days before, it was later assumed that he'd grown despairing during a fit of delirium, perhaps due to yellow fever. A good commander and a Mason and a kind man full of concern for the wounded of both sides, he had been well loved.

Two of his officers and best friends aboard ship hadn't wanted to consign his body to the waters of the Mississippi, so they'd gone ashore to find out if there might be brother Masons anywhere near, and if there was any way that Commander John E. Hart could be afforded a proper service and burial. One of the largest Masonic lodges in Louisiana—Feliciana Lodge #31 F&AM—was nearby. The White brothers, who lived in the area and were touched by the plea of Hart's friends, set out to see what they could arrange.

The Grand Master of the lodge was serving in the Confederate Army. But the Senior Warden, William W. Leake, also with the Confederate Army, had his “headquarters in the saddle” and was in the area. The White brothers found him and explained the situation, and Leake said he couldn't imagine any military man—not to mention a brother Mason—not having a proper burial.

Word was sent back to the
Albatross
, and the ship's surgeon and a few fellow officers made their way, carrying the body in the June heat, swearing and determined, up the bluffs to the church. They were met by the White brothers, W. W. Leake, a number of other Masons, the Reverend Lewis and a company of Confederate States Marines.

For a few precious moments in time, on June 12, 1863, there was peace. Commander John E. Hart was buried with full military and Masonic honors in the Grace Church graveyard.