Born on the 4th of July

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