Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 4) by Vincent Zandri Page B
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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operate a backhoe? What a fucking rookie
mistake turning my back on him in the first place.
I roll over, try and steal a breath of fresh air. Try and
pick myself up. But my head is still ringing and I’m too weak to lift the
weight of my upper body. I hear, and feel, the presence of the backhoe bucket
only a few feet overhead. Another load of dirt falls onto my back. The weight
of the earth causes me to drop onto the casket. For a second or two, I just lie
there, knowing that if I don’t work up the strength necessary to pull myself
out of this hole, I’m already a dead man.
But I’m so exhausted, so dizzy, that I want to lie still,
allow the dirt to bury my body. Maybe I was destined to become a permanent part
of this excavation. The true occupant of Clara Harris’s grave.
But I can’t give up. Can’t allow that to happen. Can’t allow
Balkis to get away with the dress. Get away with murder.
In my spinning brain, I see my dad. See him inside that open
casket laid up against the wall in the maintenance shed. I see him come alive,
his sewn together eyelids opening, his face regaining its original shape and
color. His mouth opening.
“Come on, Chase!” he shouts. “Get the hell up. Get
yourself out of that hole and put this thing right.”
The bucket is raised over the hole once more. It’s about to
drop and dump a third load onto my head. A third load which is sure to finish
me off. Pulling myself up through the weight of that much dirt will be
impossible.
“Come on, Chase!” Dad insists. “Save yourself
already!”
Sucking in one last breath, I assume push-up position and
lift, breaking myself out of the dirt. Bounding up onto my knees and then my
feet, I reach up, plant my hands on the ground and heave my body out of the
grave.
I shoot a glance up at the backhoe cockpit, see Balkis’ eyes
go wide as if he fully expects me to be dead already. Dead and buried.
He shifts the bucket over my prone body. The bucket falls.
But at the last split second, I roll out from under it, the heavy steel weight
pounding the earth beneath me.
More cannon fire erupts from down in the valley.
I jump up to my feet, run to the backhoe. But Balkis has
already lifted himself out of the seat. He jumps off the backhoe and begins
sprinting downhill in the direction of the battle reenactment.
True to my name, I make chase.
29
He’s faster than a man of that weight and physical condition
should be. Or maybe I’m still suffering from the effects of being buried alive.
As we run, the sounds of war fill the senses. Rifles firing. Cannon rounds
exploding. Sabers rattling. Men screaming as though their legs and arms are
being blasted off for real.
After a few seconds, I can make out the battlefield that
occupies the acres of unutilized Albany Rural Cemetery green field. A flat plain
that exists at the bottom of the cemetery hill that’s now filled with a blue
army colliding with a ragtag army dressed all in gray and black—the former
holding up the Union Stars and Stripes, the latter waving the Stainless Banner
of the Confederate States of America. The morning air is thick with black and
white smoke from the cannon and musket fire, the earth no doubt trembling
beneath the reenactment soldier’s booted feet.
As I gain ground on Balkis, I’m not thinking about
apprehending him in order to hand him over to Detective Miller. I’m thinking
about how absurd it is to find enjoyment in replaying a battle in which
hundreds or thousands of young men were either killed outright or horribly
wounded.
“Balkis!” I shout after a time. “You can’t escape!”
He turns.
“That dress is mine!” he shouts. “Lincoln crowned himself
the king of America and he made the Union the tool to wipe out slavery. The
blood of the tyrant is on my hands and my hands only. Sic Semper Tyrannis …Thus
always to tyrants.”
Oh, Christ, John Wilkes Booth is back again…
All that shouting
mistake turning my back on him in the first place.
I roll over, try and steal a breath of fresh air. Try and
pick myself up. But my head is still ringing and I’m too weak to lift the
weight of my upper body. I hear, and feel, the presence of the backhoe bucket
only a few feet overhead. Another load of dirt falls onto my back. The weight
of the earth causes me to drop onto the casket. For a second or two, I just lie
there, knowing that if I don’t work up the strength necessary to pull myself
out of this hole, I’m already a dead man.
But I’m so exhausted, so dizzy, that I want to lie still,
allow the dirt to bury my body. Maybe I was destined to become a permanent part
of this excavation. The true occupant of Clara Harris’s grave.
But I can’t give up. Can’t allow that to happen. Can’t allow
Balkis to get away with the dress. Get away with murder.
In my spinning brain, I see my dad. See him inside that open
casket laid up against the wall in the maintenance shed. I see him come alive,
his sewn together eyelids opening, his face regaining its original shape and
color. His mouth opening.
“Come on, Chase!” he shouts. “Get the hell up. Get
yourself out of that hole and put this thing right.”
The bucket is raised over the hole once more. It’s about to
drop and dump a third load onto my head. A third load which is sure to finish
me off. Pulling myself up through the weight of that much dirt will be
impossible.
“Come on, Chase!” Dad insists. “Save yourself
already!”
Sucking in one last breath, I assume push-up position and
lift, breaking myself out of the dirt. Bounding up onto my knees and then my
feet, I reach up, plant my hands on the ground and heave my body out of the
grave.
I shoot a glance up at the backhoe cockpit, see Balkis’ eyes
go wide as if he fully expects me to be dead already. Dead and buried.
He shifts the bucket over my prone body. The bucket falls.
But at the last split second, I roll out from under it, the heavy steel weight
pounding the earth beneath me.
More cannon fire erupts from down in the valley.
I jump up to my feet, run to the backhoe. But Balkis has
already lifted himself out of the seat. He jumps off the backhoe and begins
sprinting downhill in the direction of the battle reenactment.
True to my name, I make chase.
29
He’s faster than a man of that weight and physical condition
should be. Or maybe I’m still suffering from the effects of being buried alive.
As we run, the sounds of war fill the senses. Rifles firing. Cannon rounds
exploding. Sabers rattling. Men screaming as though their legs and arms are
being blasted off for real.
After a few seconds, I can make out the battlefield that
occupies the acres of unutilized Albany Rural Cemetery green field. A flat plain
that exists at the bottom of the cemetery hill that’s now filled with a blue
army colliding with a ragtag army dressed all in gray and black—the former
holding up the Union Stars and Stripes, the latter waving the Stainless Banner
of the Confederate States of America. The morning air is thick with black and
white smoke from the cannon and musket fire, the earth no doubt trembling
beneath the reenactment soldier’s booted feet.
As I gain ground on Balkis, I’m not thinking about
apprehending him in order to hand him over to Detective Miller. I’m thinking
about how absurd it is to find enjoyment in replaying a battle in which
hundreds or thousands of young men were either killed outright or horribly
wounded.
“Balkis!” I shout after a time. “You can’t escape!”
He turns.
“That dress is mine!” he shouts. “Lincoln crowned himself
the king of America and he made the Union the tool to wipe out slavery. The
blood of the tyrant is on my hands and my hands only. Sic Semper Tyrannis …Thus
always to tyrants.”
Oh, Christ, John Wilkes Booth is back again…
All that shouting
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