Chuck Logan - South of Shiloh: A Thriller

Soon the man he plans to kill will tramp out

JENNY, ANY LUCK? PAUL EDIN CALLED OUT AS he stooped

THE WEST ALCORN THURSDAY-NIGHT ALCOHOLICS Anonymous group met at six

WITH PAUL OUT OF TOWN, JENNY DECIDED TO TAKE her

MITCH DISCOVERED HIS SMOOTH BARITONE WAS made for radio not

EVERYTHING WAS HAPPENING FAST. THAT WAS the point. When Hiram

MOLLY WAS ASLEEP IN HER ROOM DOWN THE HALL and

IT WAS MITCHS HABIT TO STAY UP LATER THAN his

JENNIFER EDIN WOKE UP FEELING CROSS AND foolish, showered, and

MITCH DIDNT NEED THE ALARM. HE WOKE UP covered in

THE RAIN HAD PAUSED AND NOW THE LAND seemed to

THEYD TURNED HARD RIGHT AT MADISON AND entered a long,

OKAY. IT WAS ON SCHEDULE. HED SEALED HIS PACT with

PAULS EYES JOLTED OPEN WHEN A BUGLE STUTTERED a spitty,

PAUL LURCHED, STRAINED HIS EYES UP AHEAD AT a sudden

AFTER DELIVERING HIS CONVERSATION STOPPER, Beeman politely excused himself, reached

CANNONS STILL FIRING UP ON THE HILL DROWNED out the

SATURDAY AFTERNOON, AT 1:55 P.M., JOHN RANE paced his living

MOTIONLESS AS WAX FIGURINES, RANE AND JENNY watched a smiling

CMON RANE, DO THE TRICKS.

MITCH LOST TRACK.

ON SUNDAY PAUL EDINS DEATH RECEIVED TWO minutes on CNN.

RANE REACHED FOR THE NOTEPAD AND PEN IN front of

RANE RACED WEST DOWN I-94 WITH THE WINDOWS open to

RANE GRABBED A FAST OIL CHANGE AND TUNE-UP at Jiffy

A THOUSAND MILES DUE SOUTH OF MAIL LAKE, Wisconsin, Mitch

ON THE WAY BACK INTO ST. PAUL, PERRY MACNEIL called

JENNY DID NEED A BREAK.

RANE SET THE PHONE ASIDE, THEN STOOPED AND started to

DERANGE.

ON THE AFTERNOON THE POLICE ARRIVED AT THE big house

THEIR SIDE BLINKED FIRST.

RANE TOOK THE LOCAL ADVICE, CHECKED INTO the Holiday Inn,

RANE WAS WATCHING ANNE WALK AWAY, THINKING how most times

BEEMAN SHOWED RANE THE WAY TO HIS BLACK Crown Vic

BEEMAN CLEARED HIS THROAT AND CHANGED the subject. Okay then.

THEY DROVE BACK TO TOWN NOT SAYING MUCH until Rane

THEY WAITED FOR KENNY BEEMAN, PARKED OFF the side of

PAULS BODY ARRIVED IN THE MORNING.

BEEMAN LIVED DOWN A GRAVEL ROAD NORTH OF town, in

AS THEY APPROACHED THE MAIN HIGHWAY, Beeman stopped, unloaded the

MITCH, UNSHACKLED, STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF the potting shed,

PUBIC BONE TO TAIL BONE, BELLY BUTTON TO spine, rib

THEY WOUND UP AT MARTHAS MENU, A DOWNTOWN restaurant where

RANE NEVER DREAMED. THE INSISTENT HAND rousing him from sleep

PATTI HALVORSEN PARKED HER ACCORD ACROSS from the historic Washington

BREAKFAST WAS FAST, WITH LITTLE TALK; TOAST and ink-black coffee.

THE MORNING MIST BURNED OFF, THE AIR SWEATED gray, and

WITH MORG SCOUTING THE CORRIDORS AHEAD, they spirited Billie down

JENNY AGREED TO BRING IN AN EPISCOPALIAN minister to conduct

THEY PICKED UP THEIR MUSTANG TAIL AND headed west on

EVERCLEAR GRAIN ALCOHOL? RANE WONDERED. That shits illegal in Minnesota.

KEEP BUSY.

RANE WOKE UP FUZZY-MOUTHED, WITH A HEAD that throbbed every

AS SHE WAITED FOR DEPUTY BEEMAN TO RELOCATE, Jenny stared

MITCH WAS HAVING A BAD MOMENT. HED BOLTED awake the

BULLETS, BEEMAN SAID, HOLDING OUT HIS hand.

BEEMAN TALKED WITH THE TENNESSEE COPS IN the back of

RANE SAT WITH HIS BACK AGAINST A TREE IN THE

RANE WAS DOZING ON PAULS PACK WHEN BEEMAN roused him.

Then he blinked and it was like he woke up

A LITTLE STIFF FROM SLEEPING ON THE GROUND, Rane woke

LASALLE PLUCKED THE CIGARETTE FROM MITCHS lips, pressed him back

THEY WERE THREADING THROUGH A GROVE OF black gum and

RANE STOOD IN PLACE, LEANING ON THE RIFLE. With his

LATE AUGUST IN THE QUETICO PROVINCIAL PARK lake country is

Soon the man he plans to kill will tramp out from the woods with the other blue soldier boys.

For now he has fog and the smell of wet tree bark, rotting leaf fall, and his own sweat. These dews and damps are eerie enough without counting the minutes to a murder.

Mist cloaks the land, a memory of morning frost. This is how it looked for the real thing a hundred forty-odd years ago, when the two armies groped toward each other blind. After Shiloh, Halleck, the Union fuss budget, micromanaged his advance on Corinth. Beauregard, the cagey Rebel, played for time.

This is Banker Kirbys property and he has continued the family tradition of preserving the battle site. For the last ten years he has opened his fields and forests to the clamor of mock battle as reenactors from the North and South gather to replay the clash along the banks of Kirby Creek. Middle-aged men with the eager eyes of boys are drawn here to relive history, to wear blue and gray and touch off blanks in reproduction Civil War rifles.

Playing guns.

All that is about to change.

The match Enfield muzzleloader cradled in his lap is an original. The barrel has been re-sleeved and rifled by one of the best gunsmiths in America. The bore is charged with a precisely cast .577-caliber lead mini ball backed by load-tested black powder.

The fact is Alcorn deputy Kenny Beeman is going to get way more authenticity than he bargained for this Saturday afternoon, once the Kirby Creek Civil War battle reenactment gets started.

He leans the rifle against the dead fall oak hes chosen as his shooting perch, raises his Zeiss binoculars, and nudges the focus knob. Waste of time. Just fog. He sets the glasses down.

The distance has been stepped off. Strands of unobtrusive brown yarn have been strung in the brush, tied to loose tatters of leaves for ballast. The yarn bundles mark the range at a hundred fifty, two hundred, and two hundred fifty yards and will provide an accurate reading of wind conditions in the target area.

He removes a tiny, palm-sized notebook from his pocket. The notebook catalogues the rifles fall of rounds at twenty-yard intervals between one to three hundred yards in different weather conditions. He checks the notations for two hundred yards in high moisture. Under an inch low. He puts the notebook away, sits back, and stares at the wooden tampion plug inserted in the muzzle to keep the wet out.

Off to the left he hears the growl of motors. Chains rattle. The muffled shouts of men. They are unloading the cannons and caissons on the crest of the hill, manhandling them off the lowboys behind the trucks.

You have to make some allowances in the quest for authenticity. The cannons are expensive to maintain and cart around. The cost of a team of horses is prohibitive.

He leans back on the rubber poncho hes spread on the damp leaves. Except for the binoculars and the cell phone in his pocket, hes trucked very little modern gear through the woods this morning. On the remote chance of being challenged, he wants to look like a Confederate reenactor. So he wears gray wool trousers, matching sack coat, a pair of worn brogans, and a gray forage cap. A leather belt with a CSA brass buckle is cinched around his waist with a percussion cap box snugged next to the buckle. The larger leather cartridge box hangs on his right hip. He carries a holstered Colt Model 1851 Navy pistol primed with six live rounds. Just in case.