Born on the 4th of July

looked around the cemetery. “Friends! I have friends,” he said. “I need to find someone . . . someone else who might have seen something.”
“You do that,” Jackson said. He put a call through to Adam; yes, state lines had been crossed. They were taking over. Here and now.
Jackson slipped gloves on; it was time to play with the combination lock. If he could get it open, he could get in . . .
And say that it had been standing open.
And if not . . .
He’d shoot the damned lock. He was being thoughtful and methodical. And thoughtfully and methodically . . .
He was thinking it was time to do what was needed; forego permission and seek forgiveness later.
One way or another, he was getting into the tomb.
*
Think like his mother!
Corby had his tablet out and thanks to his mom, he had Internet access anywhere. He’d been good at computers himself, but as Angela’s son, he’d learned so much more. She helped all the agents in the field, finding out information about suspects with an unbelievable skill at maneuvering all the Internet had to offer.
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