34. Charles Wannamaker, 38 years old, scientist
35. Russell White, 46 years old, businessman
36. Kathleen Williams, 31 years old, nightclub singer
37. Daniel J. Wilson, 28 years old, auto mechanic
38. Sgt. Abraham Yates, 29 years old, U.S. Army
39. Pfc. Adam Zahn, 19 years old, U.S. Army
40. DRIVER: Bud Heckman, 35 years old
Judy stared at the list to make sure she saw what she thought she saw.
Bud Heckman, the driver, was a local, so the newspaper ran his photo in the column alongside the list. Judy recognized him immediately: the nice man who had told her how to change a flat tire. Her goose bumps sprouted goose bumps. No wonder she had met the helpful man so close to a graveyard.
Bud Heckman was dead.
Zack and his father didn’t speak during the twenty-minute drive to Home Depot. They didn’t speak while they pushed the rumbling orange cart around the cavernous warehouse or when they loaded it up with plywood sheets, two-by-fours, two-by-twelves, and one twenty-foot-square blue vinyl tarp.
Finally, when the lumber was tied down to the luggage rack on top of their car, Zack broke the silence.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“I’m sorry, too. We should have come out here last weekend.”
“I guess.”
“Well, tomorrow I’m staying home from work.”
“Really?” Zack tried to sound excited.
“I think they owe me the day, don’t you? I mean, I have to leave at night and spend all day Tuesday on an airplane.”
“Yeah.”
“I could help you guys hammer in a few nails.”
“I hope you’re not mad at Davy. None of this was his fault.”
“I don’t blame Davy. He seems like a good kid.”
“He’s awesome. We were even thinking about having a campout.”
“Really? Up in your pirate ship?”
“Yeah.” Zack hung his head. “But I guess I’m kind of grounded….”
“Well, I think you’ve learned your lesson. So do you guys need supplies for this campout?”
“Really? Do you think we could buy a kerosene lantern?”
“Wouldn’t propane be better?”
“Kerosene is more like what a pirate would have. With the wick and all. More old-fashionedy.”
“I see. Okay. Let’s go back inside and see if they have a lantern.”
“How about one of those fuel cans?”
“Good idea.” His father smiled. “You know, I had a kerosene lantern when I was your age.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And you’re right. It does look more like what a pirate would have.”
An hour later, they returned home with the building supplies, a lantern, and a red plastic canister filled with two and a half gallons of kerosene.
Now Zack and Davy had everything they needed.
Judy decided to just ask.
“So tell me, Mrs. Emerson, do you believe in ghosts?”
The librarian didn’t miss a beat. “Of course I do, dear. Then again, I have a slight advantage over you. I’ve actually seen a few. Six to be precise.”
“Ghosts?”
“Yes, dear. We were discussing ghosts, weren’t we?”
“Yes, but—”
“Oh, they’re nothing to be afraid of. Just one more piece of information to process. A new realm to explore.”
“You’re saying you’ve actually seen a ghost?”
“No, dear. I said I actually saw six. It was forty years ago. Late May. Early June. Mr. Emerson and I weren’t married. Just dating. I was nineteen. He was twenty-one, had a car. One Saturday night, he took me for a drive down this back country road so we could watch the submarine races.”
“The what?”
“We went there to neck, dear. To make out? We parked near a cornfield not far from the crossroads. We saw nothing but moonlight and fireflies until the Rowdy Army Men appeared.”
The Rowdy Army Men. Grandpa’s favorite ghost story.
“Six drunken soldiers stumbled out of the forest like a small herd of deer. They weaved their way into the darkened field, waved their weapons, and swigged hooch from brown paper sacks. One soldier eventually spied us watching and, as quickly as they came, the six men disappeared. They vanished into a foggy mist.”
“I’ve heard about these army men,” Judy said.
“Yes. They’re quite the local legend. Children dress up as Rowdy Army Men on Halloween. Well, not the little children. The teenagers. The ones who find it funny that six drunken soldiers home on leave shot each other and died in a Connecticut cornfield instead of on a Korean battlefield.”
“Is that how the story goes?”
“Yes, dear. Although I don’t believe it to be true.”
“You don’t?”
“Of course not. However, I do believe the six men did, indeed, die together, which is why they must spend eternity together.”
“Scaring teenagers in lovers’ lane?”
“It’s not really a lane. More like a dirt road. Since that night, I have made quite a study of paranormal phenomena. At first I assumed that the field was a portal. A door for spirits to pass through as they journey from their world into ours.”
“Okay.”
“Then I wondered: Was it a residual haunting? That’s the most common kind.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. The residual theory suggests that a building or a piece of earth holds the psychic impression a person made when they were alive.”
“I see.”
“But then again, this could be a traditional haunting. The soldiers didn’t pass over at the time of their death because some sort of unfinished business held them back.”
“Wait a minute,” Judy said.
“Yes?”
“You said that these six soldiers shot each other?”
“No. I didn’t say that. That’s simply what the local legend would have us believe.”
“Okay. But in order for that legend to be true, two of those army men had to fire and get shot at the same instant. The last two men had to kill each other.”
Mrs. Emerson smiled. “Exactly. I like the way you think because it’s precisely what I thought! It’s also why I never went along with the conventional wisdom. Those soldiers didn’t shoot each other.”
“No?”
“No, dear. You see, I am old enough to remember this Greyhound bus accident in the crossroads.” Mrs. Emerson tapped the newspaper. The passenger manifest. “Take a closer look, dear. The answer is right there. Read the list of names.”
Judy did.
Mrs. Emerson smiled. “Pay particular attention to passengers one, eleven, twelve, twenty-six, thirty-eight, and thirty-nine.”
Judy read the names: “‘Private First Class Sylvester Barrows, Corporal Simon Gorham, Private First Class Alfred Grabowski, Private First Class Amos Morgan, Sergeant Abraham Yates, Private First Class Adam Zahn.’ They’re all U.S. Army soldiers.”
Mrs. Emerson nodded. “Six soldiers. Six ghosts. The Rowdy Army Men were all passengers on the same bus. They died together; they now spend eternity together.”
“Well, then,” said Judy, “I guess your ghosts know my ghost. Mr. Bud Heckman. He was their driver!”
Billy O’Claire sat in his trailer, staring at the blade of a butter knife.
Someone had carved a message into the stainless steel.
Unfinishd biznis.
Billy knew he had probably scratched the words into the knife himself. Probably used a paper clip. Maybe a chunk of gravel from out in the yard.
But if his hands were responsible for etching the words, he wasn’t the one choosing them. It was the other guy, his newly discovered grandfather.
It was early Monday morning. Billy’s head throbbed and his teeth felt slimy. He hadn’t showered or shaved for a couple of days. He was a stinky, stubbly-faced wreck. But he was alone.