Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 4) by Vincent Zandri Page A
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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releases a scream that
sounds like a rabid dog that’s been run over by a stagecoach.
“You wouldn’t dare harm a frail old man,” he says from down
on his knees.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, bitch.”
Making a tight fist, I bury it in his face.
26
Ten minutes later, the Girvin threat has been officially
neutralized now that Balkis and I have hogtied the two of them with black
electrical tape from a roll we found in the backhoe cockpit. Off on the eastern
horizon, over the blue mountains of Massachusetts, the dawn is breaking.
“We don’t have much time,” Balkis says. “The maintenance
crew will be back soon.”
I glance at my watch. Six fifteen in the morning. Time flies
when your life is on the line. Coming from out of the distance, the crack of
gunfire. Then a series of thunderous booms that resonates across the valley and
that can only come from cannon fire. It’s all followed by screams and a
collective roar of voices.
“That’s the Rebel yell,” Balkis says, his eyes aglow like
he’s been touched by an angel. “They’ve started without me.”
Pulse picks up. “They’ve begun their reenactment down in the
valley. It must begin at dawn. Just like the real thing.”
“Yes,” Balkis slowly nods. “A dawn charge. Oh, how I wish I
were with my boys.” Then, “Let’s open that box, Baker.”
“Roger that,” I say. “And get this place cleaned up.”
The crowbar back in hand, I approach the open casket and
take a knee. The strongbox is made of metal and the padlock that secures it
looks formidable enough. But what I’m banking on is that the non-alloy metal
has weakened over the decades, making it possible for me to snap the clasp in
two. Shoving the straight end of the bar into the U-shaped clasp, I grip the
bar with both hands and heave upwards.
The clasp snaps in two like a stale pretzel.
Removing the padlock, I then place my hands on the strongbox
cover. With Balkis watching wide-eyed over my shoulder, I open it. What we both
discover steals our breath away.
27
They’re neatly placed on top of the dress. The true Derringer
and fighting knife that were used to kill Lincoln and wound Major Rathbone. As
for the dress itself, it’s tightly folded like a funeral flag, like it was
placed inside the box only yesterday by Clara Harris’s son. The blood stains
have darkened over the years. They appear almost black, rather than red or
auburn. The cloth is a fine smooth linen with satin frills that are visible
even in its folded state.
Balkis reaches in. But I grab hold of his hand.
“Not now,” I say. “Bad enough we’ve exposed these relics to
the air. But to unfold that dress out here in the elements will immediately
begin the process of its rapid disintegration. These artifacts need to be
examined in a laboratory.”
I release his hand and he pulls it back.
Closing the box, I lift it out of the casket and set it
aside. Pressing both hands against the casket, shove it into the open grave.
That’s also when Balkis presses his hands against my back and pushes me into
the hole along with it.
28
The back of my head bounces off the old coffin, knocking me
silly for maybe a full minute before I realize what’s happened. Another round
of cannon fire reverberates throughout the cemetery followed by a cavalcade of
small arms fire. More screams follow that. I also make out the sound of the
backhoe engine. My blurred vision focuses on something hovering over the open
grave.
It’s the backhoe bucket.
The bucket swings downwards fast, and a pile of dirt and mud
splash down over me, covering my face and body. I breathe in and choke on the
dirt. Balkis is attempting to bury me alive so he can get rid of my body of
evidence along with Clara’s empty casket. Then, he can keep the Lincoln dress
for himself. Why the hell didn’t I see this coming earlier? How stupid of me to
assume Balkis didn’t know how to
sounds like a rabid dog that’s been run over by a stagecoach.
“You wouldn’t dare harm a frail old man,” he says from down
on his knees.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, bitch.”
Making a tight fist, I bury it in his face.
26
Ten minutes later, the Girvin threat has been officially
neutralized now that Balkis and I have hogtied the two of them with black
electrical tape from a roll we found in the backhoe cockpit. Off on the eastern
horizon, over the blue mountains of Massachusetts, the dawn is breaking.
“We don’t have much time,” Balkis says. “The maintenance
crew will be back soon.”
I glance at my watch. Six fifteen in the morning. Time flies
when your life is on the line. Coming from out of the distance, the crack of
gunfire. Then a series of thunderous booms that resonates across the valley and
that can only come from cannon fire. It’s all followed by screams and a
collective roar of voices.
“That’s the Rebel yell,” Balkis says, his eyes aglow like
he’s been touched by an angel. “They’ve started without me.”
Pulse picks up. “They’ve begun their reenactment down in the
valley. It must begin at dawn. Just like the real thing.”
“Yes,” Balkis slowly nods. “A dawn charge. Oh, how I wish I
were with my boys.” Then, “Let’s open that box, Baker.”
“Roger that,” I say. “And get this place cleaned up.”
The crowbar back in hand, I approach the open casket and
take a knee. The strongbox is made of metal and the padlock that secures it
looks formidable enough. But what I’m banking on is that the non-alloy metal
has weakened over the decades, making it possible for me to snap the clasp in
two. Shoving the straight end of the bar into the U-shaped clasp, I grip the
bar with both hands and heave upwards.
The clasp snaps in two like a stale pretzel.
Removing the padlock, I then place my hands on the strongbox
cover. With Balkis watching wide-eyed over my shoulder, I open it. What we both
discover steals our breath away.
27
They’re neatly placed on top of the dress. The true Derringer
and fighting knife that were used to kill Lincoln and wound Major Rathbone. As
for the dress itself, it’s tightly folded like a funeral flag, like it was
placed inside the box only yesterday by Clara Harris’s son. The blood stains
have darkened over the years. They appear almost black, rather than red or
auburn. The cloth is a fine smooth linen with satin frills that are visible
even in its folded state.
Balkis reaches in. But I grab hold of his hand.
“Not now,” I say. “Bad enough we’ve exposed these relics to
the air. But to unfold that dress out here in the elements will immediately
begin the process of its rapid disintegration. These artifacts need to be
examined in a laboratory.”
I release his hand and he pulls it back.
Closing the box, I lift it out of the casket and set it
aside. Pressing both hands against the casket, shove it into the open grave.
That’s also when Balkis presses his hands against my back and pushes me into
the hole along with it.
28
The back of my head bounces off the old coffin, knocking me
silly for maybe a full minute before I realize what’s happened. Another round
of cannon fire reverberates throughout the cemetery followed by a cavalcade of
small arms fire. More screams follow that. I also make out the sound of the
backhoe engine. My blurred vision focuses on something hovering over the open
grave.
It’s the backhoe bucket.
The bucket swings downwards fast, and a pile of dirt and mud
splash down over me, covering my face and body. I breathe in and choke on the
dirt. Balkis is attempting to bury me alive so he can get rid of my body of
evidence along with Clara’s empty casket. Then, he can keep the Lincoln dress
for himself. Why the hell didn’t I see this coming earlier? How stupid of me to
assume Balkis didn’t know how to
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