In the Dead of Night (36 page)

As Fiona mentioned, the local television station that had supported our investigative ventures since just over a year ago was losing patience with us, mostly due to lower than expected ratings. Despite the fact we were killing every other locally filmed program’s ratings, it was tough to sell our long-term viability to the suits in New York who own Nashville’s station and a bevy of others across the country. Their plans for eventual syndication were about to be scrapped. That is, until Fiona came up with the brilliant idea to hold our long-planned tour of the most significant Civil War burial sites in Tennessee to commemorate The Battle of Franklin celebration, one of the war’s bloodiest conflicts.

Almost immediately, the station manager lightened up on us, and our previously ignored requests for better equipment and higher funds to properly assist with our investigations were no longer disregarded. With renewed hope, we set out in earnest to make the tour happen, and the last two weekends had been very productive.

But now, the co-hosts handpicked by Fiona were dead.

“Oh, so maybe I should invest in some gold chains and begin talking in urban slang so I can dummy myself down to your level, huh?”

Ouch!
They might be getting along swimmingly these days, but did Tom need to go there? Dude was straddling a delicate line with what some would consider a bigoted putdown. And, Tom’s statement was far from accurate, too. Justin just might be the smartest person in our group, other than Jackie and Fiona. Maybe Tom’s jealous of Justin’s chiseled facial features that draw many a comparison to either the Eagles’ Michael Vick or the comedian, Chris Rock. Justin carries himself very well, and is one of only four hundred African-American enthusiasts that embrace Civil War history. I’d say he knows a helluva lot more about the battles and regiments that lost thousands than Tom could ever begin to keep up with.

“Oh, I’m sorry, T-man,” said Justin, snickering slyly. “I guess I was premature in stating you had progressed from Mr. Fudd to someone in the real world. You’re more like the Foghorn Leghorn we used to know. ‘
Now what, I say what’s the big idea bashin’ me in the bazooka that-a-way boy!
’”

Ha! That got both of us lighter-skinned guys chuckling…loud enough to be plainly heard by everyone.

“Please,
all
of you…
stop!”
Fiona hissed, pointing to Reverend Ozie Nolan, who had been pulled away for the second time from his sermon to the small crowd of thirty gathered around the gravesite. This time, most of the others looked our way, too.

“Sorry,” I mouthed toward them, before offering a sheepish smile to my wife. My own long dark locks offered nothing to hide behind since my hair was pulled back in a ponytail that afternoon. And the boyish blue eyes that sometimes hold sway over the opposite sex were useless against Fiona’s ire. I didn’t dare engage either of my compadres further, since I had no intention of sharing the smoldering pile of horseshit they had created.

Fiona’s lovely eyes had already morphed to a darker green from her grief, but they carried a fiery gold rim around the irises as her angry gaze moved from one to another among us. Tom looked at his feet, as I would’ve advised, but Justin seemed to find it impossible to look away. No, it’s not an attraction thing, since he’s got his own girl and like me, Justin is a monogamous kind of guy. But he’s often remarked how Fiona’s eyes being able to morph into different colors depending upon her mood, environment, and even the clothes she wears has always fascinated him.

“Should I say something to Lakisha about you disrespecting the dearly departed?”

“No…no, ma’am,” said Justin, snickering again as he finally looked away. “Your eyes ain’t got nothin’ on hers when she’s got a bone to pick.”

“Then,
shhhhh!”
she said, muting her voice but not its forcefulness.

I hated the warmth from my own embarrassment, as it quickly spread from my face to the back of my neck. But thankfully, the sermon soon resumed and we had a reprieve, one that lasted until we had to interact with the grieving family that now resented our presence. I suddenly wished I’d heeded Fiona’s earlier advice, and had encouraged our two problem children to stay home. I especially wished it when the minister talked about George and Melissa’s giving hearts and what they meant to the community of Mount Juliet.

Fiona soon wept again. Quietly, this time, as if she somehow blamed herself for causing the previous altercation between Justin and Tom. But the two of them were at peace once more, and they were almost like brothers. They stood closer to one another than before, and then chuckled together at a joke told by the Reverend Nolan. It reminded me of my boys, Ryan and Alex, and how the aftermath of their fights bore similar camaraderie.

Finally, the service ended, and under the ever-darkening sky as dusk approached, we were able to say one last goodbye to our friends. The family and Reverend Nolan seemed to readily forgive us for our earlier indiscretion—I’m sure largely on account of Fiona’s nonparticipation in it. My sin may only have been that I laughed in an inappropriate place and time…but it was a sin just the same. And, it wasn’t only the stern looks from the minister and mourners that accused me.

As we exited the old churchyard and the multitude of slate and marble grave markers that had steadily grown more populous over the past one hundred and fifty years, I thought I heard something. It was almost undecipherable in the frigid breeze that whistled among the bare elms and tombstones.

“Death is coming…death is coming again!”
whispered the soft feminine voice.
“Hopefully it comes for you soon… Cracker Jack!”

Perhaps it was my paranoia, and my mind had ‘matrixed’ a presence in the breeze that wasn’t there. Maybe I’ve been thinking too much about Delores Cabrini, or Angie, as we knew her. Maybe I was subconsciously thinking about her pet name for me….

“I heard it, too,” said Fiona, as I opened the passenger door to our Camaro for her. “It was her. She’s still around, probably gloating about all of this….”

That was the last thing spoken between us as we headed back to Nashville. Only the radio provided comfort and a distraction from what had just happened. After all, it’s hard to carry on a conversation when the woman you love is weeping.

Chapter Two

Saturday night’s investigation was nearly canceled based on the weather alone. Navigating through torrential rain that lasted almost an hour, Fiona insisted on driving to our initial destination across town. Of course, this came after the deluge of tears that followed the Peters’ funeral and our need for some rejuvenation. We regrouped at our log home in Arrington, which always seems to bring us back to our preferred spiritual calmness. Once we were cleaned up, and our boys were contentedly watching Madagascar 3 in the living room with their maternal grandmother, Joanna Simms, we set out on our journey to Spring Hill, just south of our preferred ‘haunt’ of Franklin, Tennessee.

“Do you think your mom will remember to give Ryan his cough medicine before he goes to bed tonight?”

Really, I was looking for anything to talk about with my wife. Starting with anything that dealt with our young sons seemed like a pretty safe bet of getting something beyond the subdued responses I’d received thus far. Despite Fiona’s willingness to accompany me for the night’s planned excursion, I could tell she was filled with misgivings. She had mentioned ‘bad energy’ earlier, along with other concerns besides the stressful funeral. These other worries had been steadily lining up against us since that morning, like a frigging firing squad determined to obliterate our plans. Only Jackie’s disdain about working with relatively inexperienced ghost hunters from Columbia, in addition to the aforementioned need to have a productive night, overruled Fiona’s preference to lay low back in Arrington.

“She should remember,” said Fiona, somewhat tersely. Yep, the atmosphere inside the Camaro was uneasy as hell. But at least the heater was working. I knew better than to attempt to pry the gist of her thoughts from their hiding place inside that gorgeous head of hers. Fortunately, she did offer me a small bone. “I’m not worried about what’s going on at home. Mom is at her best when the kids need her—you know that’s true.”

I nodded thoughtfully, while gazing out the passenger window at the pummeling rain around us.

“But with everything going on…I’m just not in the mood for twenty questions about the funeral this afternoon from Margie.”

Ah-hah. That would be Margie Anderson. She and her husband, Chet, head up ‘Columbia Ghost Investigators’, better known as ‘CGI’. Even though both Margie and Chet are well versed in the specifics of Tennessee history, they are novices when it comes to ghost hunting. And, while most newbies—including Chet—are content to learn the ropes from longstanding spook chasers like us, Margie is nothing of the sort. She gets pretty feisty, and not in a good way.

Margie is more apt to scream disdainfully into the face of the Devil himself, and then blame everyone else when she gets scared shitless and wants to go home early.

“Well, why don’t you see if you can hang mainly with Jackie and Michelle, and I’ll see what I can do to keep Mrs. Anderson occupied?”

“You would do that for me?”

She sounded hopeful, smiling ever so slightly, although she never removed her eyes from the slick highway before us.

“Sure, it should be a piece of cake,” I said, offering her a confident smile that hid my dread of being talked to death by Margie. Oh, the things we’re willing to do for love.

We arrived at our group’s pre-appointed meeting place, the lone Cracker Barrel in Spring Hill, less than a mile from where our first investigative stop would take place that evening. Without an umbrella, Fiona and I scurried from the Camaro to the restaurant’s gift shop, where the rest of NVP awaited our arrival. As had been the case since we started our tour three weeks earlier, our assigned three-member camera team from WNTV was also present.

“Well, look-ee here…. Y’all see what the cats dragged in?” teased Justin, as we made our way to where the group was huddled, next to the scented candles display. “We were about to send a posse outside to see if y’all got lost in the parking lot.”

Fiona was in such a damned hurry to get inside that she wouldn’t wait for me to retrieve an umbrella from the Camaro’s trunk. The deluge of even heavier rain pelted our asses mercilessly as we made a mad dash for the building’s entrance. By the time we stepped inside, our hair and clothing were dripping wet, and we looked like a couple of sewer rats caught in a flash flood.

“Is everyone else here?” Fiona gazed around the room, after dabbing at her face with a couple of Kleenexes from her purse. Our group should’ve numbered six other investigators, in addition to our camera crew. We were short by two people. “Where are Tony and Ricky?”

“Right here, Fi!”

Tony Perez waved a meaty paw as he navigated through the displays and other patrons on his way back from the restroom, with a tall, gangly blonde right behind him. For those familiar with Tony, they shouldn’t be surprised that nothing’s changed with him since our last misadventure. He’s still the same lovable, boorish guy that you’ll rarely see sans his Kentucky ball cap and cherished Detroit Red Wings jersey. At least not when he’s away from the call center where I also used to work at.

Maybe it’s our shared Latin ancestry, where superstitions are fairly commonplace. I doubt he’ll ever shave his beard either. It always seems to get a little thicker during the colder months. Give him some dark shades to cover his mirthful brown eyes and he’d look like one of the cross-country beer truckers on one of the new reality TV shows. The man loves his alcohol almost as much as he digs fishing and hunting. I sometimes worry about him having a heart attack due to the extra weight he carries whenever we’re forced to flee a ghost investigation that’s gone bad. I thought he’d join his pal, Tom, when our oldest member decided to shed a few pounds a few months ago. But after the second aerobics session left him badly winded and with a slightly strained back, he gave it up. Permanently, I believe.

As for the towering blonde dude with him? That’s a fairly new recruit who joined our band of paranormal miscreants after Angie bit it on her way to Hell. His name is Ricky Reynolds, and he’s another work pal from the place I used to call my ‘home away from home’. We had already replaced our murdering cohort with Jackie’s girl, Michelle. But, Ricky has been a serious photographer on the side for nearly fifteen years. Once he showed me how he could upgrade our picture-taking processes with some cool new technology, I decided to present him as a possible recruit to the group. It didn’t hurt that he brings an even-keeled skepticism to the table, as he doesn’t believe or disbelieve in evidence of the afterlife.

Ricky’s a good-looking guy, too. At least it’s Fiona’s and Jackie’s assessment, despite Michelle’s opinion that he needs a little more meat on his bones. Our show’s producers gave him an immediate thumbs up when Jackie gave them his mug shot, after the suits in New York waved a checkered flag when they found out we were planning to add one more guy to the group. Emerald eyes and strong features hold some influence, I’m sure, along with a full head of hair that Ricky keeps clipped just above his shirt collar. Must’ve been a female exec, or like persuasion, who gave the final okay….