Page 163 of 1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Forty-Two

“I’ll make the calls,” Patrick said. “We’ll be right there.”

“I’ll get the cops searching the woods until you get here,though I’m not sure we’ll find that SUV.”

“Because our drugged-out fellow wasn’t bright enough or inany mental or physical state to have pulled off the kidnapping of a trained andexperienced cop?” Angela said, and Jackson nodded.

“Someone else is on this,” she continued. “Jackson believesthere’s a head on this snake, and a number of others are being used in hisoperation and disposed of in this cemetery when they’ve worn out theirusefulness.”

The ghost of ColonelGeorge Clayborn watched them as they spoke, shaking his head all the while.

When Jackson ended the call, leaving Patrick to handle theorganization of the teams from the hospital, the colonel spoke quietly.

“This is... my home. The place I was lovingly laid to restin peace. I’ve been fine remaining, watching the world grow and change. Sure,watching it sometimes backslide, yet trying to see my descendants grow withoutit doing so. Hoping I might intercede somehow if there is danger. But thishorror has been happening right here, and I have been of little help to you,”he said.

Angela shook her head. “No, the flag bothered me, but itwouldn’t have meant much of anything without you to tell us about the ritualsand the people in military garb.”

She glanced back at Jackson. He was on the phone again,likely on a conference call with their crime scene units and the cop in chargeat the cemetery.

Jackson was exceptional at quickly and clearly explainingwhat was needed and why, and this was no exception. He ended the call but onlysmiled grimly.

“A team of diggers is on their way out here now. Please,Colonel. Do not berate yourself. You have been a tremendous help.”

“Our people know where to come, right?” Angela asked.

Jackson nodded.

“Okay, well, I’m ready to start digging myself—”

“Something done much more easily when one has a shovel.”Jackson smirked.

“Good point. But there are some broken stones around here.Though if we’re not going to dig, we could head backto the woods and start looking for whatever trails there might be that couldaccommodate a car. Or determine if whatever is being done starts at the stateroad. People don’t pay much attention to cars just parked by the side of theroad.”

“We’ll have a lot of help here soon. We can go wherever youwant.”

“I know where all the possible trails are,” Clayborn said.

“Then lead away,” Jackson told him.

Clayborn nodded, and they retraced their steps back to thewoods. Thankfully, their shooter earlier had not hit any human beings, but he hadshattered and chipped many a historical tomb.

The groundskeepers would be busy for days to come. But thatmattered little when they were still barely scraping the surface of what hadgone on. And while the Robertson tomb itself had been used for a horriblyheinous crime, Angela thought that Jackson likely felt the way she did: therewas far more out there. Somewhere.

Perhaps in the woods.

They paused in a tiny clearing once they left the cemeteryboundary. Jackson looked around. The foliage was heavy, and the trees abundant.

Back in the days before the European occupation of NorthAmerica, the Indigenous peoples had made this area of Virginia home. And whilethey hadn’t built churches, graveyards, or cemeteries in the area, they hadlived in and hunted the woods.

Some of the pine-covered trails had been etched out of thewilderness by foot as the Algonquian people hunted and lived, making use of therich timber to be found here, as well as the wildlife that provided food andclothing.

Decade after decade, nature lovers kept the trails intact.Some had been broadened, and others had been reclaimed by the trees and brush.

Following behind, Angela hoped she could get service andpulled out her phone. She watched her step, but she pulled up information onthe architect of the Robertson tomb, Gervais Conte, that Colleen had sent over.

The man had designed many a historical home in the area, butwhen she perused the information on him, the first thing mentioned was theircurrent crime scene.

Before designing the mausoleum for the Robertson family,Conte had never designed such a piece before. He had beenknown for home design in the Richmond area. And, pre-war, he had createdmansions for the nobility and gentry alike, along with office buildings forsome of the up-and-coming towns and cities of his time. He spent the years ofthe American Revolution back in France, and didn’t return until the last daysof the war. According to his daughter, who had accompanied him back to thethen-Colonies, he had been honored to design the tomb for a man he admired sogreatly. Someone who had helped to create the nation hewould then call his home.

Angela glanced up from her phone. Jackson had paused tospeak to someone on his phone. She knew he would tell her what was going onwhen he completed his call.