Born on the 4th of July Read online

  Nothing could happen to her—his mom!

  He finally had a mom. And not just someone to call that by name—Angela was smart and giving and caring; she was the best mom.

  He was a smart kid and an able kid, but his life hadn’t been the best not until Angela and Jackson had come along. It seemed folks were afraid to adopt mixed race kids, afraid they wouldn’t fit into either world.

  Angela and Jackson weren’t afraid.

  They loved him and through them and with him, he knew he could face whatever came in the world—and work to make it a better world, too.

  They believed in education and in people. And in the Krewe, you could find all kinds of people, from all walks of life, and from every ethnic background known to man.

  They had things in common, like wanting to take part in law enforcement in order to right what was wrong, catch those who would hurt others, and of course . . .

  Talking to the dead.

  They believed in the rights of all Americans, in capturing criminals, especially those who stole what was most important—life itself.

  Think like your mother. That’s what his dad had said.

  Investigate what is known and suggested, and follow every little clue to every site . . .

  Not just the websites for various places, but the history of those places—and things that had been written or recorded by others through the years.

  Time!

  Time was important right now, but he also knew that panicking would take more time than going through all the right motions.

  While Adam talked to others, Corby looked up the website for the cemetery, he read about the history, and he looked for things written by those who had close association with the cemetery.

  Back and forth, one site leading to the next site, and that leading to another site. He looked at legitimate sites, and those just written by visitors; he looked at old maps and new. He followed every mention on social media.

  He followed a thread to a blog.

  And then . . .

  He found something. It had been written by a Michael Rosser a decade ago.

  Michael had been fascinated by the history of his family. One of his antecedents had been buried in the cemetery in the late 1700s. Later, when the family mausoleum had been built, another antecedent had seen to it that coffins were dug up—and placed in the new family tomb. And when the tomb had been constructed . . .

  The family had discovered they had built over a labyrinth of tunnels. Tunnels that were natural to the rolling landscape of the area and would prove to be excellent for use by the Underground Railroad during the Civil War.

  He almost dropped his tablet. He didn’t. He put through a call to his father instead.

  “Dad, Dad there are tunnels!”

  “Tunnels—in the cemetery?” Jackson asked him. “I figured there had to be something underground somewhere with easy entry through the mausoleums. But I don’t understand how they’re not part of the history or lore—”

  “Because they were supposedly closed up and sealed right around the turn of the century. One source says they were filled in. But I think that has to be wrong.”

  “Brilliant, Corby, what else do you know?”

  “I’m still searching for more information—tunnels seldom have only one entrance. But for now, this is what I have. Find something called the ‘Rosser’ tomb. They used it during the Civil War as part of the Underground Railroad. I don’t know anything about the tunnels yet, or where they go—but they’re there. One of the family members wrote about them a decade ago. Can you find it? Do you want me to get a map—”

  “I’ve found it, Corby. I’m looking right at it,” Jackson told him.

  Chapter 3

  Earth, dirt, rocks.

  There was a smell seeped in the ground, in the earth, a scent that was both strange and solid, and . . .

  Decayed.

  Angela came to bit by bit and managed to stop herself just in time from moving or opening her eyes fully, giving herself away.

  At first, she was lost. She had no idea of where she was or how she had come to be wherever it was that she lay.

  Then it all rushed back to her.

  All right, she had been in the cemetery office, asking about Annie Green, and then . . .

  They’d come for her.

  Anger filled her,

  Anger directed at herself.

  Top agent, right? Amazing markswoman. And agent who carried a Glock, knew how to use it . . . and here she lay.

  But Jackson and many of the other agents talked about that; anyone could be taken by surprise. No matter how big, tough, or talented, anyone could be taken by surprise.

  Trying to defend herself—to herself—was not going to help anything now. Nor was blaming herself for the situation in which she found herself.

  She slit her eyes, trying to see where she was.

  It was dark. So dark. And the smell of the earth made sense because . . . she was in the earth. She could feel it, that she was below the ground. She was stretched out on a . . . slab.

  She carefully moved her fingers, testing the feel of where she lay, certain she couldn’t be seen in the darkness.

  If there was anyone there to see her.

  Had she been buried alive? She was in . . .

  A cemetery. She was certain she was still in the cemetery.

  But she could breathe easily and the light-headedness was slowly leaving her. She blinked and tried hard to figure where she might be without giving herself away.

  If someone was there.

  If someone was coming.

  Her fingers moved over something cold and solid. She felt the shape of it and for a minute, a queasy unease filled her and a natural state of panic almost set in.

  Bone.

  She was lying in a mausoleum. No . . . she didn’t think so. The smell of the earth was just too rich, but she had just touched human bone. And where she lay . . .

  Felt like an old crypt shelf, or . . .

  Catacombs.

  Once upon a time, deep in the earth here, they had buried people in catacombs. Why? Had they been undesirables? Had they . . .

  She didn’t know. She did know she was sharing space with human remains. She wanted nothing more than to leap up and run away.

  The baby kicked in her womb and it struck her then that not only was she in grave danger—no pun intended, she assured herself—but so was her unborn babe! Her little girl. Victoria. They had picked out the name already. Not for any reason. They both just liked it.

  A few seconds of icy fear filled her, but she managed to replace it with fury and a dead-set determination to get out.

  Yes, she had to get out. And . . .

  She’d been on the hunt for another woman. Another pregnant woman. And if she was alive, then most likely, Annie Green was alive, too.

  Of course, the realization of what these people wanted was as terrifying as it was obvious.

  Their infants. For . . .

  Illegal adoptions.

  At least, she prayed it was illegal adoptions. Because otherwise . . .

  They needed newborns for . . . sacrifices in a sick and twisted cult?

  She needed to stop thinking about what they intended—and start thinking about making sure it never happened. First, they couldn’t have known they were kidnapping an FBI agent. They couldn’t know Adam would pull in every favor ever owed to him—and Jackson would pull the entire place down, brick by brick, to save them.

  She thought she heard a movement near her. A soft moan.

  Then, a whisper. “Stay down; he’s here.”

  She heeded the warning.

  Then she heard a voice. Someone on a cell phone.

  “They’re both still out and no signs of labor from the trauma. We’ve just got to hold tight. Just give them what they want. They’ll go in the mausoleum. They still won’t find the entrance.”

  The speaker was male. He let out a soft, throaty laugh.

  “It’s best to
just cooperate—give them anything they want.”

  It was the man who had accosted her at the door when she’d started out of the cemetery’s office, Angela thought.

  And it was all too clear. The owners or managers of the cemetery were complicit in an illegal adoption ring. They kidnapped the mothers until the infants were born and then . . .

  Rid themselves of the liability.

  The speaker walked away and still she waited.

  Then she heard the whisper again.

  “It’s all right.”

  She opened her eyes. It was pitch dark, but she could just make out the form of a woman who knelt by the slab where she lay, barely a form, she could see through. She was dressed in period clothing, and her hair had been dark, her skin a silken ebony. She looked at Angela with anxiety and concern and added quickly, “I—you’re all right. You know I’m here and you’re—you’re not going to faint?”

  Angela shook her head and whispered, “Where am I?”

  “The tunnels. They were once part of the Underground Railroad. They lead to an old farmhouse the devil people own now.” She grimaced. “The tunnels became catacombs as well,” she said softly. “Many escaped and ex-slaves were interred down here together as families, and we were able to mourn our loved ones.”

  “Oh,” Angela murmured. She tried moving her fingers and her limbs. She could move. She had a feeling Merissa Hatfield wasn’t as good at soaking a rag with knock-out chemicals as her accomplice seemed to be.

  “Annie Green?” she asked.

  “The other woman they took today?” her new friend asked.

  Angela nodded and said, “I’m sorry. I’m Angela. And you’re--?”

  “Jennie. Jennie Wilder. And your friend is right over there. She was dosed pretty heavily, but I’ve tried to assure myself she’s all right.”

  Angela excused herself and crawled carefully off the slab where she had lain. It was so dark; a bit of light seemed to seep from two entrances, one far along to her right and another far along to the left.

  She kept her hands in front of her, carefully moving toward a slab across the tunnel. She felt a body and knew it had to be Annie Green.

  She found the woman’s wrist and checked for a pulse.

  Thankfully, it was strong and steady.

  “Annie, can you hear me? Can you hear me?” she asked anxiously.

  There was no reply.

  “Do you know how we can get out of here?” Angela asked, turning to seek out Jennie Wilder again.

  “I do, but he’ll be coming back soon. He’ll have to make sure you’re still knocked out,” Jennie said.

  “Thank you and thank you so much for your help. These people—”

  “Yes. I know what they do. But I’ve been . . . no one could hear me before,” Jennie said.

  Angela’s heart seemed to skip a beat. “How . . . many?”

  “Over the last years? Two before you, and never two in a day. The tunnels twist and turn; there’s an entrance through one of the above ground tombs, too, and one at the back of the old rectory.”

  “That’s how they got me here,” Angela murmured.

  “Father Tony,” Jennie said. “He was a fine man. So many people lived because he was such a good man. He used the rectory to save people, and when the Rosser family had this beautiful place built, they were his friends and . . . they were brave people. They used this place to help others, and to give them rest when their lives came to an end. And these horrible people . . .”

  “Jennie, we’ll stop them. But you must help me get out of here first. I don’t think I can escape trying to carry Annie; we’re going to have to hurry. Do you know where they take people from here?”

  “The old farmhouse. They have a delivery room there. It’s on acres of land, and no one ever suspects anything. The mailbox is out on the road, a field away from the house. They pay their bills—and no one has ever suspected a thing!” Jennie said.

  “No one has seen medical personnel . . . infants . . . coming and going?” Angela asked.

  Jennie shook her head.

  “I have to get out of here! It’s the only way to get Annie out—and people in.”

  Jennie nodded. “This way, but quickly. He is coming back!”

  *

  Adam and Corby and the ghost of Josh Harrison came down the meandering cemetery path just as Jackson prepared to shoot the lock off the gates.

  There was a car behind them, one marked with the cemetery’s name and logo.

  Jackson saw Adam put a hand up; he knew the magician of a director had managed to get the search warrants he needed already.

  The car behind them parked and a man in a business suit emerged.

  Adam hurried forward. His face was knit in a frown as he indicated the man coming up behind him. “This is Charlie Dearborn, Jackson. He’s the manager of maintenance standards for the cemetery and sits on the historic board for the place. I’ve spoken with Frank Rosser, the family member maintaining the vault at this time. He’s asked that Mr. Dearborn open the mausoleum for you.”

  Leave it to Adam! If a search warrant would take too long . . .

  Just find the right person!

  “Thank you, Mr. Dearborn,” Jackson said pleasantly.

  The ghost of Cameron Adair stood back.

  “I did find the right people!” he murmured.

  “Special Agent Crow,” Dearborn said. He was a man of about forty with graying hair and light eyes, medium in height and build. His business suit was black—suitable for a cemetery, Jackson thought.

  His vest was black, too. His shirt was white, but barely visible because of the vest and his tie—which was black as well. He looked more like an undertaker than the man who managed the aesthetics of the grounds. He was impeccable, except that he had apparently caught one of his buttons on something; there was a rip where a button should have been on his jacket.

  “Have you gotten the video surveillance for us?” Jackson asked politely.

  “Well, you know, these days . . . we’re short-staffed. I’m afraid only Miss Hatfield and I are working. I have our groundskeepers due in later today, but . . . well, we just need a little time.”

  “Ah,” Jackson murmured, studying the man.

  Corby was quiet, but he was keeping a distance from Dearborn.

  And looking at him suspiciously.

  Well, the man was suspicious. He was here, in the cemetery.

  And Annie Green had disappeared from the cemetery—and Angela, too, so it seemed!

  “So, sir, did you see my wife, Special Agent Angela Hawkins, when she was at the office?”

  “Sir, I know Miss Hatfield saw her, she was in the office. From there . . . I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “That’s why the video surveillance would be so helpful,” Jackson said politely.

  Dearborn didn’t argue. “We’ll get it, sir.” He opened the combination lock and stepped back.

  “Please, feel free. Go in.”

  The ghost of Cameron Adair had already entered the mausoleum. Jackson followed him, noting everything he had already seen.

  The floor . . . a lack of dust.

  Except near the walls where the dead were interred. There was dust there. The room hadn’t been swept; people had been in and out.

  “Does Mr. Rosser come to visit his family often?” Jackson asked Dearborn.

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s a pleasant place—for a tomb,” Jackson said. “Does Mr. Rosser come often? Perhaps he’s joined by family members?”

  “I . . . I don’t really know,” Dearborn said. “Sir, my job is to maintain the ascetic here for those who have gone before, the incredible history of the place, and for those who are grandfathered into burial here, or purchase the remaining plots. I don’t police their comings and goings.” He gave Jackson a dry smile. “I am not Big Brother. I leave that to you.”

  Jackson smiled.

  Ass!

  “Adam, Corby?” he said, looking back. “The more eyes
we have on this the better.”

  “Sir! You can see that no one is in here,” Dearborn protested.

  “Duh,” Josh’s ghost murmured. “Did he really open that gate thinking someone would be waiting for us or standing in an area we could see with a kidnapped victim?”

  Corby snickered at Josh’s words. Dearborn stared at him.

  “No one is here, no, but this place leads to wonderful tunnels,” Corby said.

  Jackson couldn’t be sure, but he thought Dearborn was startled by Corby’s words.

  But startled by the concept of tunnels in the cemetery—or startled that Corby knew?

  “Tunnels?” Dearborn said. He stretched his arms out. “You see, the Rosser family planned on this being almost a chapel. You can see the walls—lined with dead. And the seats and the altar and . . . that’s a Tiffany window. Beautiful. There are no tunnels. There was no subway under here. You know, I’m sure, the cemetery is old. It started out just as a graveyard for the chapel. I know there were some ridiculous rumors about there having been tunnels, but there were more legends to solve the fact that there are no tunnels because they were filled in and sealed off. Look around and take your time. I just ask that you respect the Rosser tomb.”

  “I think that tunnels did exist and do exist,” Corby told him. “You see, this place—and these people—were pretty cool. They built tunnels under here because the family believed in people. Oh, yeah! The pastor . . . priest, yeah, he was a priest, they were Anglicans or Episcopalians then—helped. This was a major stop on the Underground Railroad.”

  Now Jackson was certain.

  Dearborn was staring at Corby with pure venom in his eyes.

  Then the man let out an elaborate sigh but glanced at Jackson and Adam and probably amended his words to Corby.

  “Young man, I’m sure you’re very bright and do a lot of reading, but whatever there was in the 1800s doesn’t exist now. Look around you; feel free. Test the tombs in the walls. You’ll find corpses.”

  “Thanks,” Jackson said pleasantly.

  He thought of all the ways a door or opening might exist through the tombs. Maybe the man thought he wouldn’t test the tombs—that he’d respect the dead.

  Well, he did respect the dead.