BOOK EXCERPT: Bloody Lane

BLO ODY L A NE

BLO ODY LANE M A RT I N E . L E E M AT T H EW C . F L E U RY

GARN PRESS N EW YO R K , N Y

Published by Garn Press, LLC New York, NY www.garnpress.com Garn Press and the Chapwoman logo are registered trademarks of Garn Press, LLC Bloody Lane is a work of fiction closely based on history and geography. References to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously, and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work, and all situations, incidents, and dialogues are products of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real.. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Martin E. Lee and Matthew C. Fleury.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please send an email to Garn Press addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator.”

Book and cover design by Benjamin J. Taylor Cover image by Geoff Kuchera/iStock.com Library of Congress Control Number: 2015950366 Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data Lee, Martin E., 1950Bloody lane / Martin E. Lee and Matthew C. Fleury. pages cm ISBN: 978-1-942146-25-4 (pbk.)

ISBN: 978-1-942146-26-1 (hardcover) ISBN: 978-1-942146-27-8 (e-book) 1. Antietam National Battlefield (Md.)—Fiction. 2.

Murder—Investigation. 3. Historical reenactments— Fiction. 4. Right-wing extremists—Fiction. 5.

Conspiracy—Fiction. I. Fleury, Matthew C. II. Title.

PS3612.E36 B66 2015 813—dc23 2015950366

There he is, just come out of the woods on the near side of the creek. Right on time, all got up in Union blue. Blue’s a better target than gray, easier to see, especially at a distance. About 200 yards and heading in your direction, not a clue that this is his very last day on Earth.

The sun’s almost up, hidden behind the knoll rising on the other side of the creek. Quiet. A hawk wheels overhead. It, too, is hunting.

Wait until he’s below you, wait until he stops by the bridge. Check the rifle’s action one last time, put a shell into the chamber, then close the bolt. One shot is all you get. One shot is all you need.

Now you have him in your sights. He suddenly lifts his head, turns his gaze in your direction. Not to worry, though. He’s a hundred yards away, and between you and him is a thick curtain of trees and brush. No way he can see you. Probably thinking about the battle, about the rebels who held the same position that you hold now.

Get into position. Settle one knee into the hash of leaves and twigs and dirt. If you dig into it a foot or two, there’s a good chance you’d find a Yankee minié ball, one of the thousands fired during the fight over the bridge. Ancient history, as far as you’re concerned. All those young men. Now it’s his turn to die.

Rest your elbow on your knee. Tuck the rifle stock against your shoulder, cradle the smooth wood of the barrel in your palm. The air smells of gun oil and damp grass. It’s going to be another scorcher.

He’s stopped, standing with his back to you, looking at the creek.

Perfect. A hundred yards. No wind. Aim at the spot just to the left of his ponytail. He won’t be needing that anymore. Won’t be in need of

anything except an undertaker. Good riddance, anyway you look at it.

Breathe. Finger on the trigger. Crosshairs centered on the back of his head. He’ll never know what hit him. Breathe easy. Easy. That’s it. Now squeeze.

1

Felix Allaben had just turned to the obituaries when the telephone rang. His first thought: Don’t answer it. He wasn’t expecting a call, and at the moment he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. His daughter had phoned at 6:00 for her weekly debriefing from San Francisco, where she was staying with his brother. And his friends knew better than to call him on a Sunday evening, when it was his custom to sequester himself with the weekend papers – the Frederick Post and the Baltimore Sun – always in that order and always beginning with the obituaries.

He was settled in a roomy wicker chair on the garden patio, a tumbler of vodka and tonic close by one hand and the stack of papers by the other. Above the stuccoed wall at the far end of the garden the spires of Frederick rose into the pale August sky. The scent of honeysuckle hung in the air.

Pedro, Allaben’s big black Labrador, lay in a heap at his feet.

Pedro knew his master’s ways; more than knew, he sympathized.

With every bleat of the phone the dog answered a low growl. Six, seven, eight times. Allaben sighed in resignation. Slowly he got to his feet. The dog batted his tail against the flagstone. Allaben ordered him to stay, then trudged to the screen door.

He picked up the phone in the kitchen twilight. There was a 1

2

Martin E. Lee and Matthew C. Fleury

prickly silence; then, “Allaben? Is that you?”

He recognized the reedy voice at once. It was Sam Folliard.

“Yeah, Sam, it’s me.”

“Is this a bad time?”

That was just like Folliard – let the phone ring a dozen times, then ask if it’s a bad time. Allaben never ceased to wonder how a man so contradictory could possibly have risen to an undersecretary’s rank, even one as shadowy as his.

“I was out back,” he said, “with the papers.”

“I tried the cell, left a message.”

“The cell’s upstairs on my desk, Sam. It’s Sunday.”

If Folliard got the hint, he gave no sign of it.

“I suppose you’ve heard,” he began.

No, thought Allaben, I suppose I haven’t. What’s more, he didn’t want to hear. But Folliard was undeterred.

“It’s Gwynn, that former colleague of yours. The whistleblower.”

“Curtis Gwynn?”

“Found him shot at Antietam Battlefield.”

“Is he dead?”

“D.O.A. Looks like homicide. TV’s picked up the story but it’s not in the papers yet. Happened this morning, early. A park ranger found him – Hal Snyder. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Snyder? Yes, I know Hal Snyder.”

Allaben heard the tap of the screen door. That would be Pedro.

Two summers ago, Miranda had tied a length of rope to the handle and taught the dog to use it to open the door. That way she could go away to camp secure in the knowledge that he could come and go as he pleased. Miranda on her hands and knees, rope clenched

Bloody Lane

3

in her jaws. See, Pedro?

The dog came ambling into the kitchen, nails clicking against the tile floor. He circled once, woefully eyed his master, then sat at his feet.

“Allaben? You still there?”

“Yeah, Sam, I’m still here. Funny coincidence – I just talked to Gwynn last week. He said he’d be taking part in the weekend’s battlefield events.”

Folliard waited a second. “And?” “He called me, that’s all. Wanted to reminisce, stroll down memory lane.”

Not altogether true – Gwynn had hinted there was something more – but Allaben would keep his own counsel on that score, at least until he’d heard Folliard out.

“Who’s handling the case, Sam?” “I’m hoping you will.” Folliard let this sink in, then went on.

“Officially, it’s ours. The body was found on Park Service property, and that makes it federal jurisdiction.”

“Maybe so, but it’s still kind of a stretch, isn’t it?”

“It’s close enough,” said Folliard.

Allaben knew what that meant. If Folliard were sufficiently interested, he’d make it close enough.

“What’s in it for you, Sam?” “That’s for you to find out. Right now the locals are running the show. Washington County Sheriff ’s Department.”

“That’s Wick Mallory’s turf.”

“Right. I talked to him an hour ago. Smoothed the way. He had nothing but good things to say about you. You practically walk on water, to hear him tell it.”

4

Martin E. Lee and Matthew C. Fleury

Allaben watched the dog’s flanks bellow and cinch. The clock in the study struck eight. He glanced at the window. The sky was turning indigo.

Folliard decided to interpret the silence.

“Problem with Mallory?”

Allaben pictured the sheriff ’s big, rugged face.

“He’s a good cop, Sam.” “But …”

“But he likes the easy ones.”

“Maybe this is an easy one.”

“Then why call me?”

“Because I’m a worrier, Felix, and a worrier likes to share his worries. Maybe you’d like me to pull some strings?”

“Come on, Sam. You’re already pulling them. What about Snyder?”

“Snyder’s a big fan, too. I guess he heard about the Shenandoah case. He’ll help you out at the battlefield. Anything you need. He knew Gwynn, or recognized him. And it’s practically in your back yard. The usual per-diem, plus expenses. Interested?”

“Let me sleep on it, Sam,” Allaben said. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

He sat for a while after he’d hung up the phone, staring at nothing. Night had come down and the kitchen was dark. The house settled into silence around him, the only sounds the steady pant of the dog, the idle drip in the sink, and the locust rhythm of his own thoughts.

Why the obituaries? Because they leave nothing unresolved, no loose ends. No miscellaneous details. The entire story – beginning, middle, end – boiled down to a few column inches of newsprint.

Bloody Lane

5

Everything in its place, each parcel – schooling, jobs, memberships, survivors – neatly tied up with a phrase. The inexpressible grit and grime of experience scrubbed away, consigned to the ghostly life that can only be read between the lines.

Mrs. Rebecca Allaben died yesterday at St. Luke’s Hospital in Baltimore. She was 37 years old. Mrs. Allaben succumbed to gunshot wounds suffered on April 22 in an armed robbery in Baltimore. Her husband, Felix Allaben, was also wounded in the attack.

The district attorney’s office announced this morning that murder charges would be added to those already pressed against the man alleged to have committed the assault, Ronald Gillespie, 17, of Baltimore.

Mrs. Allaben, the former Rebecca Lacey, was born in Frederick on October 9, 1979. She was the daughter of the late Franklin Lacey II and Emily Heath Lacey.

Mr. Lacey was from 1994 until his death in 2012 the president of County Federal Bank.

Rebecca Allaben attended Frederick schools. After graduating in 1997, she spent two years in the Peace Corps, chiefly in the African nation of Sudan. Upon returning to the United States, she entered Johns Hopkins University, from which she graduated in 2004.

She went on to earn a Master’s degree and then a Ph. D. from Vanderbilt University.

Mrs. Allaben joined the faculty of Hood College in 2008, and in 2013 became the Chair of the English Department. She resigned from that position in 2014, and at the time of her death held the title Professor of English Literature.

Rebecca Lacey married Felix Allaben in 2003. Mr.

6

Martin E. Lee and Matthew C. Fleury

Allaben, formerly a Lieutenant in the Baltimore Police Department and an investigator for the Justice Department, is now a private security consultant.

Besides her husband, Rebecca Allaben is survived by her mother and a daughter, Miranda Allaben. A memorial service will be held on Saturday at 11:00 at All Saints Church in Frederick.

Six paragraphs, set in sturdy Times Roman. As intractable as the dates chiseled into the headstone.

The plot to the left of hers was reserved for him. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes.

If only it were as simple as that.