Ghost Train (Haunted Souls Book 16), page 7
Ten shook his head. “No.”
“Same here,” Cope added.
“Okay, so we do what Augusta said and keep out of her business. We’ve got six more days on the train, and then we’re off to Deadwood. I say we live and let live—er, die.” Ronan’s hands were fisted at his side.
“Ronan’s got a point,” Jude agreed. “There’s nothing that says these spirits need or even want our interference. I say we stay out of it until or unless someone asks for our help. Augusta’s not hurting these spirits, right?”
Cope nodded. “Right, but—”
“No buts,” Jude interrupted before Cope could voice his objection. “What these ghosts do is none of our business. It would be the same thing if there was a group like this living in Salem. You have the right to your own beliefs, and if these spirits believe in Augusta and the comfort she provides to them, then I say we stay out of it.”
“I’m with Ronan and Jude,” Fitzgibbon said. “The two of you don’t have to fight every fight. We can just enjoy this trip and see where it takes us.”
Jude studied his husband. Cope looked as if he was surprised by what Fitzgibbon said. Maybe he never realized before that walking away was as viable an option as starting a fight.
“Okay, you’re all right. I won’t get involved unless one of the spirits asks me too.” Cope looked pained by his promise.
“Me too,” Ten agreed.
“Let’s get to bed. I’m exhausted from our early start,” Ronan said. He took Ten’s hand and led him out of the caboose. Fitzgibbon followed behind.
“You ready for bed?” Jude asked on a yawn.
“I am. It’s been a long day.”
It sure the hell had been a long day. As Jude ushered Cope toward their sleeping compartment, he couldn’t help but think it was easier than it should have been to talk his husband into staying out of Augusta’s business. Either he really did agree with Fitzgibbon’s assessment of the situation, or he’d complied to get Jude off his case. It didn’t take a genius to figure out which option was more likely.
Cope’s performance had been Oscar-worthy. It was up to him to keep an eye on his husband.
As usual.
10
Cope
Cope and Tennyson sat in the caboose, finishing up a quiet breakfast while their husbands explored the rest of the train with the kids. They were due to pull into Altoona in an hour or so. Aloysius had been especially bouncy this morning, as he was the curator of the Haunted Rails Museum. So for him, this was a brief homecoming.
The ebullient Aloysius had also dropped off the private reading schedule for the afternoon and for the next day. He and Ten each had three readings this afternoon, with the last one finishing up an hour before dinner. Cope noticed the person who’d booked the last appointment tomorrow with both himself and Tennyson was none other than the curator himself. Cope hoped Aloysius’s mother came through. He hadn’t seen or heard from her yet, but his fingers were crossed for a good outcome.
Neither he nor Tennyson had much to say this morning. It wasn’t like them not to be chattering away about something to do with work, the kids, or new recipes. They were both down in the mouth and brooding over what had happened yesterday. Cope’s mind hadn’t wandered far from the teenage ghosts.
Being outwardly compliant during last night’s meeting was rubbing Cope the wrong way. Yes, he understood where Jude and the others were coming from, but that didn’t lessen the guilt he felt for not being able to cross over Michael, Michelle, and Brian. They’d died before their lives had really even begun, and they weren’t even getting a taste of the actual afterlife that awaited them.
“Is that what you really believe?” Augusta said, materializing before Cope’s eyes.
“Good morning, Augusta.” Cope sat back in his chair, studying the woman. He wasn’t at all surprised the spirit had popped in for a chat. Truth be told, he’d expected her much sooner than this.
Ten got up from the table and shut and locked the door to the caboose before silently retaking his seat.
“You do realize that I can pass quite easily through that door, don’t you, Tennyson?” Augusta asked with an indulgent smile on her face.
“Yes, but our husbands can’t. I don’t want anyone interrupting this conversation.”
“Not even that sweet little baby boy of yours?” Augusta said seriously. “How can you possibly bear to be away from him? Same goes for you, Cope. How can either of you stand to be parted from your sons?”
It was on the tip of Cope’s tongue to mention that each of them had daughters as well, but he didn’t want to get Lizbet or Everly involved in this conversation, especially after knowing Augusta had paid the little girl a visit yesterday. “Our husbands are perfectly capable of spending time with our boys. I don’t need to be at his side constantly.”
“Same for me,” Tennyson agreed. “Kids need to realize they’re capable of existing without us. It was much easier sending them to school when they’d already gotten used to us going to work every day.”
“Hmm, I can’t say I agree with your methods,” Augusta said, the frustration evident in her voice.
“Were you always with your son?” Cope asked. He’d wanted an opportunity to talk to Augusta about her son, and now was the perfect opportunity, with no one else around. He knew reuniting her with her lost son was the only chance the family of spirits had to break free from her.
“I was.” Augusta took an empty seat at the table and folded her hands. “His father tragically died when Samuel was two years old. I never bothered to remarry, choosing instead to work our farm myself. My son followed me through the fields and orchard, weeding, picking ripe fruit, milking the cows. After dinner, we’d work on simple math problems, and we’d read. My son was very bright.”
“I’m sure he was. It’s not easy being a single parent, but you seem to have excelled at it,” Ten said, sounding genuine.
“Life was good when it was just Samuel and I. But then the war came.” Her eyes darkened while her folded hands bunched into fists. “Started by selfish men. Fought by fathers, sons, brothers who’d been turned against each other in order that their way of life could be preserved.” Angry tears slid down her cheeks. “I’d taught my son to love his country, which turned out to be his downfall. When a volunteer regiment was formed in Albany, he joined without a second’s hesitation. I tried to talk him out of it, telling him he was needed at home to work the farm. I was too old to be milking cows at the break of day. He wouldn’t hear of it. Samuel told me that he could make a difference in the war. He’d always been calm and levelheaded, and he thought he could use those skills to still and then quiet the warring sides. He was wrong. My beautiful boy died in the mud. Shot by a young man no older than himself over a patch of land that had been won and lost by both sides nine times. My son died for nothing.”
Cope shook his head. “I disagree. Your son fought and died for these United States. For the ideals and principles this country represents. He fought for freedom like the patriots who won the Revolutionary War.”
“Principles are all well and good, but my son lies in an unmarked mass grave, all but forgotten. I begged the men in charge of Samuel’s unit to help me locate his remains. I wanted to bring him home and give him a proper burial. No one would listen—worse, no one would help.”
“I’m so sorry, Augusta,” Cope began.
“I do not want nor need your sympathy. I want to find my son.”
“And when you do,” Tennyson asked, “what then?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Augusta looked confused, as if she hadn’t contemplated what would happen next.
“You’ve gathered this family of lost souls. What happens to them when you’ve been reunited with Samuel?” Ten’s voice was gentle, but Cope could see where his train of thought was leading.
“It will be a happy reunion,” Augusta declared, standing up.
“For you and your son, yes, I imagine it will be a very happy reunion, but what about the other souls?” Ten pushed harder.
“Why are you so concerned with them?” Augusta asked, her patient mask slipping.
“Why aren’t you?” Cope shot back. “We witnessed the white light yesterday. It wasn’t just there for Brian, Michael, and Michelle. It was also there for you. For all the souls trapped on this train with you. These people believe in you, in this family. They trust you, and what? You’re just going to waltz off to live your afterlife with Samuel and leave these people to an unknown fate?”
Augusta bristled at the question. “All that matters is Samuel. The others are free to leave at any time.”
“Leave and go where, Augusta?” Ten’s gentle tone was back. “You’ve gathered these people together on the pretense that you’ll be one big happy family. They followed you because they believe in you. If you walk away from them either with Samuel or into the light, they have lost their compass. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“They will simply have to make their own way. Is that not the freedom you spoke about? Any single one of them could have walked into the light yesterday. None of them did. They chose to stay with me.” Augusta began pacing.
Cope could see the wheels turning in her mind. It was obvious Augusta had no concern for those lost souls other than for them to keep her company while she searched for her son. A search that had been going on for nearly one hundred and sixty years. “What if Tennyson and I worked to find Samuel for you?”
Ten’s eyes widened in obvious surprise, but he stayed silent.
“How is that possible?” Augusta asked. She stopped her pacing and sat back down. She wore a hopeful look as her eyes bored into Cope’s.
“You know we can see and speak with the dead.”
Augusta nodded.
“When clients come to us and ask to speak with a deceased person, it’s usually that family member that draws the spirit to us. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No. I do not. Please explain,” Augusta urged.
“Most of the time, our dead family is around us. They peek in on our lives to see how we’re doing, to offer comfort, or because they miss us. It’s possible that if we reached out to Samuel, we might be able to contact him through you.”
Augusta frowned. “I have been trying to do that very thing from the moment I learned Samuel was lost.”
“But you’re not a medium, Augusta,” Ten chimed in. “Cope and I are conduits to the other side. The only difference with your case is that you both are passed on.”
“You have done this before?” Augusta asked.
“With a living family member, yes. Not with the dead,” Ten said. “I’ve spoken with a soldier who died during the Battle of Bunker Hill, using a three times great-grandnephew to find him. It’s not a given that we can use you to find Samuel, but it’s worth a chance, don’t you think?”
Augusta shook her head. “Promise me you can find him.”
“We can only promise to try our best,” Cope said. “Spirits have their own agendas, as I’m sure you know.” He paused to let his words sink in. “We’ve never attempted anything like this before. It might take a little time to get it right. You’ll need to be patient with us.”
“I was patient in life. I went through proper channels to find and claim my son’s remains. I spoke to my congressmen, my senator. I went to the White House in the middle of a war to speak to the president of the United States. All to no avail.”
“You went to see President Lincoln?” Cope asked. He knew security was more lax back in the 1800s. Two presidents had been assassinated within sixteen years, which had tightened things up over time.
“Yes. I was turned away from the White House on several occasions. The president was too busy to speak to me, is what I was told. I began volunteering at the field hospital nearest to the presidential residence. I wanted to speak with other soldiers to see if they knew anything about Samuel, his regiment, or where his remains could be. Lincoln came to the hospital in the evenings under the cover of darkness. He sat with the wounded soldiers, held their hands, and gave them comfort. My boy lay rotting in an unknown location, and the president sat and chatted with the Confederate boys who caused his death.” Tears dripped from Augusta’s eyes.
Cope didn’t agree with her methods of gathering lost souls to her as a surrogate for her own son, but her grief and pain were genuine and just as raw today as they were a century and a half ago. “Did you get to speak to Lincoln?”
Augusta nodded. Taking her seat, she dabbed at her tears with a black linen square, which she’d pulled from the left cuff of her gown. “I found him sitting alone after a patient had been taken to surgery. He was to have his left leg amputated. I sat with him and told him about my Samuel. What a kind boy he was. How he never failed to lend a hand to those in need. I told him how my boy joined the Union Army the first chance he had. How he gave his life to this country and the cause of freedom.”
“What happened?” Ten asked, completely engrossed in the story.
“Lincoln told me he would do what he could to find Samuel. Other parents of lost soldiers had made similar requests of him. He had a meeting with one of his generals the next week to speak about these mass burials and what could be done to get the soldiers’ remains back to their grieving families.”
“Was Lincoln true to his word?” Cope asked.
Augusta shook her head. “The meeting was scheduled for April eighteenth.”
Stunned silence permeated the room. Cope knew Lincoln had been assassinated on the fifteenth. “Augusta, I’m so sorry.” Cope meant every word. He wasn’t a historian by any stretch of the imagination but knew Lincoln’s successor, Andrew Johnson, was the first president to be impeached and did everything in his power to make the southern states pay for their act of rebellion against the Union, something Lincoln would not have done had he lived.
“Yes, well, your sympathy won’t bring my son back. Will it?” Augusta’s stern mask was back in place.
“Let me see what we can do to reach out to Samuel. How do I reach you when I have news?”
“Say my name and I will appear.” Augusta sighed. She stood from her seat, her posture slumped, looking worn to the bone. “I will not get my hopes up.” With those words, she walked through the locked caboose door and vanished.
“If it wasn’t for bad luck, Augusta would have had no luck at all,” Ten said on a sigh.
“Do you think we can do this, Ten?” It wasn’t like Cope to have any doubt whatsoever in his abilities, but he’d never tried anything like this before.
“I’m not sure we can, but I know someone who might be able to help us.”
“Everly,” Cope said. He didn’t need his psychic powers to figure that out. “What will Ronan say to that?”
“I don’t know,” Ten admitted easily. “We’ve talked a lot about not only finding someone to teach her how to shut her gift off but also to help her gifts develop, to see what she can do. She’s capable of things the rest of us would never even try to attempt. If there was another way to do this, I wouldn’t even suggest asking Everly to help.”
“But when in Rome…” Cope trailed off, hoping against hope that Bertha Craig would be able to find Samuel herself, leaving Everly out of this altogether. “If we can find her son, Augusta needs to promise she’ll lead the other souls to the light. They trust and depend on her and might not cross over without her say-so.”
“Christ, what have we gotten ourselves into?” Ten asked, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “This was supposed to be a simple train trip. Visit a few haunted spots. Do private and group readings. Bing. Bam. Boom.”
“Whatever you do, don’t say that in front of our husbands.” Cope rolled his eyes. “It was hard enough talking Jude into coming on this trip in the first place. Not to mention the fact that he wants me to steer clear of Augusta.”
“Jude knows you’re not about to do that. Ronan too.” Ten looked as if he had more to say, but a knock on the caboose door stopped him.
“Tennyson?” Ronan’s voice echoed through the room. The knock was followed by pounding.
“Coming, dearest,” Ten singsonged.
Cope needed to figure out a way to explain to Jude what had happened and let him in on their plan to ask for Everly’s help without Jude going nuclear. It wouldn’t be easy, but Cope knew how to make his husband see reason.
And if he didn’t, well, a night or two of sleeping in the caboose by himself would be enough to make his adorably stubborn husband see the light.
11
Jude
Jude stood on the railroad platform in front of the Haunted Rails Museum. Aloysius was standing on a crate, elevating his position, and telling the crowd about the various hauntings that had been documented in the museum over the years.
Built in 1910, the museum was the former infirmary and police headquarters of the Pennsylvania Railroad, which explained why it was so haunted. He knew from experience that being inside hospitals and jails made Tennyson physically sick due to the buildup of spiritual residue over the years. Cope didn’t seem to have as much trouble in places where pain and suffering were king, but his husband looked tired.
Neither one of them had gotten the best sleep. Thankfully, Wolf had gone out like a light, but he and Cope tossed and turned. The bed was much smaller than the one they shared at home, and Jude couldn’t seem to get used to the clickety-clack sound the train made as it moved down the rails. They’d each woken up on the wrong side of the bed.
“Daddy!” Wolf ran to Jude from where he’d been standing at the head of the crowd, listening to Aloysius. “Do you think we’re gonna meet Joe?”
“Who’s Joe?” Jude asked. Was he one of the people who worked in the museum, or was he a passenger on the train? Shit, Jude really should have been paying better attention.
