GHOST TRAIN

  by

  Pandora Pine

  Ghost Train

  Copyright © Pandora Pine 2023

  All Rights Reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Digital Edition: September 2023

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Augusta

  Christmas Eve, Albany, New York, 1864…

  Two greasy, battered envelopes sat on the table in the hallway next to the front door. Both looked like they had been through a war. In truth, they had. The first letter bore the meticulous printing of Augusta’s son, Captain Samuel Harbor of the Third New York Volunteer Infantry Regiment. The penmanship of the scrawled address on the second was unfamiliar to her.

  Simply touching the second envelope sent a chilled frisson down her spine. She wrapped her arms around herself but was unable to generate heat, whether from the December deep freeze or the stone-cold fear the second letter represented, she did not know. This letter contained bad news. Possibly the very worst news.

  Picking up the letter from Samuel, Augusta gently opened the envelope and began to read.

  Fort Anderson, North Carolina

  December 8, 1864

  My dearest Mother,

  Thank you for your last letter and the warm mittens. The boys and I have put them to good use during the long cold nights. We march south in the morning. I do not know where, but the enemy will be waiting for us. It does not seem right calling other Americans the enemy. Rumors abound that this dreaded war will soon be over. The end cannot come soon enough. We have lost so many brothers in arms. Fine young men of Yankee and rebel stock, who will never marry the girl they left behind, hold their children, or hug their mothers. Be assured I am safe and well. Pray for us. God’s will be done, I will see you soon.

  Your affectionate son,

  S. Harbor

  Lifting the letter to her nose, Augusta breathed deeply. There was no trace of Samuel on the paper. Usually she could smell his tobacco or his shaving soap, but not this time.

  Augusta’s eyes were drawn to the second envelope. To the unknown scrawl. To the missive that could change her life forever. Her grip tightened on Samuel’s letter.

  Samuel had always been headstrong, joining up with the volunteer infantry the very second he’d learned the regiment had been formed. He had gone off to war believing the conflict would last a matter of weeks, that he would be home by harvest time. Meanwhile, he had missed the last four harvests. Augusta had worked tirelessly to plant corn, beans, and tomatoes. To weed. To harvest. She’d picked apples, made preserves, canned vegetables until her hands were red, the skin cracked. Eggs were gathered. Cows, milked. Butter churned. She worked every day from sunrise to sunset. Augusta had not minded a bit. Surely the good Lord in heaven would forgive her work on the Sabbath.

  Every day that passed was one day closer to when Samuel would return home.

  It had been the two of them almost from the start. Stanton Harbor had been killed in a carriage accident when Samuel was only two years old. Her younger brother, Percy, had moved in with Augusta to help work the farm and raise her son. Percy had been lost to consumption six years ago. She and Samuel had taken on all the duties of the farm themselves. Those had been peaceful, happy days, which would later be shattered by the events at Fort Sumter.

  Augusta took a step toward the table and the second letter. Flipping it over, she unsealed the envelope and removed the single folded sheet of paper. Walking with it into the parlor, she sat beside the fire. One flick of her wrist would consign the message to the flames, keeping her safe from the bad news it relayed. For now. She possessed a strong fortitude. Whatever the letter conveyed, she would deal with it.

  Taking a deep breath, Augusta unfolded the letter and began to read.

  Fort Anderson, North Carolina

  December 9, 1864

  Dearest Mrs. Harbor,

  I regret to inform you that your son, Captain Samuel Harbor, was lost in battle. He served the Third New York Volunteer Infantry Regiment with honor and dignity. Sam was well regarded and beloved by all who knew him. With his last breath, he asked that I write to you. To let you know he was not afraid and that you will be reunited in paradise.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lt. Ezekial Abbington

  3rd New York Infantry

  Augusta read the letter a second time, her brown eyes brimming with tears. The words remained the same. Her Samuel was gone. Killed by an enemy her son saw as a brother in arms. The nameless, faceless killer, for that’s what he was, not a soldier, not a rebel, had ended the life of a young man who wished him no ill. Who had volunteered to serve his country in order that he could play a role in knitting the wounds caused by secession back together.

  She would never again hear her son’s boyish laugh. Would never again hear his sweet-timbered baritone during Sunday service. All Augusta had was gone. There would be no daughter-in-law to love, no grandchildren to spoil. No happy Christmases or bountiful Thanksgivings to share.

  Leaning back against the chair, Augusta wept, knowing nothing on Earth could heal her irretrievably broken heart. Samuel was right—they would be reunited in heaven.

  Someday…

  1

  Jude

  November, present day…

  “Daddy, I want to help bake the pie,” Wolf Byrne said, climbing up on a barstool across the kitchen island from his father. “Nana Kaye lets me bake all the time.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jude asked. Truth be told, he could use some of Nana Kaye’s magic right about now. The batter was too thick, and he had no idea why or how to fix it. He was definitely in over his head with pecan pie. It had looked so simple on the YouTube tutorial he’d watched. Maybe buying a store-bought pie wasn’t the worst idea after all.

  “You’re doing it wrong!” Wolf eyed the batter and his father suspiciously.

  “I’m doing it wrong?” Jude asked with a laugh. How did his five-year-old son know that? He obviously was, but how would Wolf know it for a fact?

  “Yup! You’re missing a ’gredient!” Wolf crowed. “I think it’s the eggs.”

  Jude quickly scanned the ingredient list. Fuck a duck. Wolf was right. He had forgotten the eggs. “How did you know that?”

  “Well,” Wolf singsonged, “Nana Kaye says the eggs hold the other ’gredients together in a great big hug.” The little boy spread his arms wide and then wrapped them around himself, illustrating his point.

  Jude raised an eyebrow at his son, who was looking very proud of himself. “How many eggs does the recipe say I need?” In addition to teaching the kids how to bake, Kaye had also been teaching them to read.

  “Three eggies!” Wolf held up the right number of fingers.

  Jude gathered the eggs and brought them back to the counter. He was about to crack the first one into the bowl when Wolf stopped him.

  “Hold it! You gotta crack the eggs into a separate bowl,” Wolf said, sounding wiser than his years.

  “I do?” Jude grinned. He loved the way Wolf nodded his head with his entire body.

  “You don’t want eggshells in the pie, right?” Wolf wrinkled his nose, as if there was nothing worse than a few shell fragments in the batter. “So you crack them in another bowl to make sure there are no shells, then you whisk them.” He made a whisking motion with his hand.

  “Huh.” Jude cracked the three eggs into the bowl and spent the next five minutes picking out crunchy bits. “I guess Nana Kaye knows what she’s talking about.”

  “She knows everything about baking! I love her so much.” Wolf’s dark eyes glowed with happiness.

  “You know we’re gonna go around the Thanksgiving table and say what we’re thankful for, right?” The ritual was Jude’s favorite thing about Thanksgiving. Well, aside from the turkey, the sides, the pies, and football.

  Wolf nodded. “I’m thankful for my little sister, even though she’s stinky. I’m thankful for you and Daddy and Everly and Aurora.”

  Jude laughed. “How about if we stick to one person so everyone’s dinner doesn’t get cold. Okay?” He added the eggs to the pie batter and stirred it together before pouring it over the pecans at the bottom of the crust.

  “Okay! I’ll think about it,” Wolf agreed.

  “What’s going on in here?” Cope asked, walking into the kitchen with whimpering baby Lizbet in his arms.

  “We’re doing a trial-run pecan pie.” Jude went to the freezer and grabbed one of the baby’s teething rings. “How’s she doing?”

  “Not so good,” Cope sighed. “Lizzy B’s running a little fever, and she could win a gold medal in drooling. I gave her some baby Tylenol, but it hasn’t kicked in yet.”

  “Hopefully, this will help.” He handed the baby the cold ring. She gn awed at it like a hungry shark with its prey. Jude pressed a kiss to his daughter’s head before putting the pie in the oven.

  “Okay, explain this pie thing to me again,” Cope asked, setting the baby in her highchair.

  “I volunteered to make the pies for Thanksgiving—I don’t know what the hell I was thinking—so I wanted to do a trial run on them to work out any kinks before the big day.”

  “Jude, Thanksgiving is two weeks away.” Cope grinned at his husband.

  “Yeah, well, considering that I forgot to add the eggs, I can use all the practice I can get.” If Jude was having this much trouble with pecan pie, how the hell was he going to conquer the lemon meringue?

  “Yeah, I can use all the pie I can get!” Wolf enthused. “I want pie for breakfast. Pie for lunch. Pie for dinner. Pie for midnight snackies.”

  “No more midnight snacks after what happened to Uncle Ronan,” Jude grumped. A few weeks back, Ronan had given himself a concussion, slipping on one of Everly’s toys while having a midnight snack. He’d woken up being able to see spirits. Jude didn’t want to take any chances that something similar might happen to him or Wolf. One psychic in the family was enough.

  “I fall on my head all the time, and I’m just fine,” Wolf said, brushing off Jude’s concern. He climbed off his barstool and dramatically collapsed on the floor. “See!” he said, popping up again. “Good as new.”

  “Let’s not press our luck, huh?” Jude muttered. Over the last six months, they’d all spent far too much time in the hospital. He’d suffered a knee injury back in the spring, which needed surgery, putting him squarely in the sights of an angel-of-death killer who’d used Salem Mercy as their own personal hunting ground. Ronan had his share of trouble with his concussion. He’d also been shot in the shoulder, and Fitzgibbon had suffered a broken collarbone during the investigation of the Petty case. Cisco had suffered a mild heart attack. Enough was definitely enough.

  “Why don’t we talk about something more exciting?” Cope asked. He stood in front of the sliding glass door, watching lazy snowflakes twirl down from the sky, coating the deck in white.

  “What’s more exciting than pie?” Wolf asked, wrapping his arms around Cope’s legs.

  “How about a vacation?” Cope asked with a grin. “I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of the snow and cold already.”

  “Me too,” Jude agreed. He’d grown up in Arizona and New Mexico, where there wasn’t a whole lot of the white stuff. Ditto for Cope, who’d spent his entire life in New Orleans. He’d never seen snow until his first winter in Salem.

  “Me three and Lizbet four!” Wolf said with a giggle. “It’s anonymous! We all agree. Bahamas, here we come!”

  Jude snorted. Wolf sounded so damn cute saying anonymous instead of unanimous. “The Bahamas? Where did you hear that word?”

  “Nana Kaye looooves the Bahamas! There’s palm trees and beaches and hot guys in Speedos.”

  Cope snorted. “Nana Kaye said all that to you?”

  “No, she was on the phone with her friend Mary. They wanna plan a Nana vacation with sun and studs!”

  “Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Jude snickered. “We could learn to snorkel and build sand castles and be on the lookout for studs in small bathing suits.”

  “And there are pigs!” Wolf enthused.

  “Pigs?” Jude asked, not sure he wanted to know why his son or Nana Kaye were that excited about bacon on legs.

  “You can swim with them!” Wolf illustrated, pinwheeling his arms like he’d learned at the YMCA over the summer.

  “Swim with pigs?” Cope asked. “Are you sure you heard that right?”

  “Google it, Dad!” Wolf said.

  Jude raised an eyebrow but did what he asked. “I’ll be damned. Wolfie’s right.” He held up his phone to Cope.

  “The beach is gorgeous, and so is the water, but I don’t want to spend my vacation swimming in pig poop.” Cope grimaced.

  Wolf burst out laughing. He rolled onto the floor, holding his stomach.

  “Fine. You can stay on the beach with all the other party poopers!” Realizing what he said, Jude cracked up. He got down on the floor and rolled around with Wolf, who was laughing so hard his face had turned red.

  Talk about a warm winter vacation would have to wait. Laughing with his son was more important than anything else.

  2

  Cope

  “Pecan pie! My favorite!” Ronan said when he walked into the conference room to find the pie alongside plastic dinnerware and plates with jack-o’-lanterns left over from Halloween. He grabbed a knife and cut himself a slice.

  “Yeah, well, it might not be your favorite for much longer,” Cope said under his breath. This was the second pie Jude and Wolf had baked over the weekend. The first one had been far too sweet, one bite diabetes, as Jude had called it. Cope had supervised the second pie, which hopefully had turned out better than the first. Ronan’s reaction would tell the tale.

  Ronan moaned with the first bite.

  “Can’t you two do that at home?” Fitzgibbon asked from the hallway, sounding annoyed.

  “I’m eating!” Ronan shouted back, his mouth full of pie.

  “TMI, asshole!” Fitzgibbon walked into the room with a hand shielding his eyes. “Wrap it up, huh! We’ve got work to do.”

  “It’s pie, Kevin,” Cope said, pulling his hand away from his face. “Jude baked pecan pies this weekend, and Ronan’s the guinea pig.”

  “Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?” Fitzgibbon asked, his grumpy demeanor gone. He reached for his own slice of the pie. “I’m guessing this is a warm-up for Thanksgiving?”

  Jude nodded. “Wolf was my sous chef, so if there’s anything wrong with the pie, blame him.”

  “You want me to blame a five-year-old?” Fitzgibbon asked, shooting Jude the stink eye.

  “Yeah, and if it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted, then I’m the culinary genius.” Jude waggled his eyes and served himself a piece of his own.

  “Damn,” Fitzgibbon sighed. “This is perfect. Are you sure you made this and didn’t buy it at the supermarket?”

  “It is perfect, isn’t it?” Jude asked, sounding shocked.

  “Why are we eating pie for breakfast?” Ten asked, shutting the conference room door behind him.

  “I needed taste testers. Wolf was bouncing off the walls yesterday after we ate my maiden attempt at pecan pie.”

  “When I was a kid,” Fitzgibbon began, serving himself more pie, “my mom would let us eat pie for breakfast the day after Thanksgiving. I started doing it with Jace and Aurora, who of course thinks it’s crazy, but you only live once, right?”

  “It’s funny you say that.” Cope turned to Tennyson, who nodded.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Ronan muttered. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Don’t tell us you’ve got an angry ghost who’s looking to live twice and wants to use my stellar body, because I’m the—”

  “Chris Hemsworth of the group,” everyone chorused with Jude.

  “No, thank God,” Cope laughed. He’d love to have the self-confidence of his husband for just one day. “We got an interesting request last week, and we wanted to share it with you.”

  “Right,” Ten agreed. “We’ve got a Zoom meeting scheduled in about ten minutes with the organizer, who will give us more information.”

  “More information about what?” Fitzgibbon asked.

  “The Haunted Rails Museum in Pennsylvania is sponsoring a ghost train,” Cope said.

  “Wait! What?” Ronan sat up straighter in his seat, his entire attention on Cope. His face paled, making his lips look bloodless.

  “Every year, the museum does a rail tour to famously haunted venues. This is their tenth anniversary, and with so much interest in all things paranormal, they want this year’s trip to be extra special.”

  “Ronan,” Ten began. “Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost? Did you hit your head again?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s Everly.” Ronan wore a scared look.

  “Everly?” Jude asked.

  “Yeah, after we solved the Amber Thomas case, and I got out of the hospital with my second concussion, Everly stuck to me like glue. She felt awful that it was her toy that I’d tripped over in the kitchen the night I fell. We were watching television together, and she started making train noises and shouted, ‘All aboard the ghost train.’ I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about then, but I guess I do now.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14