Born on the 4th of July

his family had joined him.
Jackson tested the gate; locked. But the lock was new; it was a combination lock.
He stood on the little stone path in front of the large iron gate—of course iron.
He could see through the bars.
At the end of the mausoleum was an altar with a statue of Jesus. Someone obviously visited the mausoleum; there were also fresh flowers laid at the foot of the altar. There was a bench in the middle of the place or rather a pew, one that would allow five or six people to sit and reflect before the altar.
The side walls were lined with sealed shelves that, he assumed, held the twenty-eight members of the family who had been interred in the mausoleum.
He backed away and walked around the mausoleum noting the height, the structure, the stone angels that played various instruments on the gothic arches above the front entrance, and the back of the structure where there was no entrance.
He came back around.
“We’d see them through the grate; we’d hear them,” Cameron said.
Jackson shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“We need to break the damned lock.”
“It may come to that,” Jackson said briefly. “I’ve got to see that third mausoleum.”
Cameron was looking at him, stricken—and furiously hating the fact he was dead, just a revenant, and unable to break the lock itself.
“Listen to me,” Jackson said quietly. “They have my wife and your daughter. I’m damned determined to get them back. When I break in, I need to be sure I’m getting somewhere before they get local cops and other agents out here who won’t break the law but will drag me in for destruction of private property. You understand? I have to be sure about what I’m doing.”
Cameron nodded gravely. “The next one. Glenville, the Glenville mausoleum,” Cameron said.
Jackson was already walking to it.
The Glenville structure was newer; the first interment had been that of Richard Crew Glenville, born 1810, deceased 1888.
Maybe the Glenville family had purchased their iron gate from the Rosser family; it appeared to have been made at about the same time with the same design, though it was not as rusted.
A similar combination lock was on the gate.
Jackson wondered if the cemetery issued the locks—and perhaps recommended the Rosser family ironworks when old gates disintegrated and new gates were needed.
There was no altar in this mausoleum; four family members had been interred in sarcophagi that sat in the center of the floor. They appeared to have been sealed for years.
There were no flowers—no signs anyone came here to pay respects to the family that had gone before them.
Jackson hunkered down.
“What are you doing?” Cameron asked him.
“I’m checking the floor,” Jackson said.
“The floor?”
“Yes.”
“For--?”
“Whatever we’re looking for, it’s not here. If someone gained entry into a vault or mausoleum with your daughter—and my wife—it’s not this one.”
“How do you know?”
“The dust on the floor hasn’t been disturbed; no one has come in here in ages, possibly years.”
“Ah.”
Jackson walked back toward the Rosser mausoleum.
He stared at the gate again and dropped down.
“Dust?” Cameron asked him.
“Yes. And no. People have been here. Whether they’ve come to honor the dead or use the dead, I don’t know.”
Jackson stared at the combination lock.
Of course, it would be illegal for him to break the lock. But two women were missing.
His phone rang. He nodded grimly to the ghost of Cameron Adair and answered the call. It was Jon Dickson, one of the Krewe’s newest agents and a man Jackson highly respected. Jon was good in the field and behind a desk.
“You may be on to something,” Jon told him briefly. “Over the past two years, four pregnant women have disappeared. All have been in their last trimester, all have been in good health, and not one has ever been seen again. One disappeared from Fredericksburg, Virginia, one from Arlington, one from the National Mall, and one was last seen in St. Michael’s, Maryland. All were alone at the time of their disappearance—either meeting friends or waiting for their husbands. All disappeared clean as a whistle; and missing persons reports had been filed, but you know how it is when an adult disappears without a trace. Not one credit card belonging to any of them has been used. It’s as if they were whisked up in a spaceship; all are ongoing local investigations.”
Jackson felt his heart sink. He was horrified to believe the kidnappers had taken the women, waited for their infants to be born . . .
And then, as the infants were sold into new families through illegal adoptions, the mothers were . . . disposed of. Killed. No longer necessary to the operation, and far too dangerous to have walking around on the streets.
“Whoever this is, they’ve crossed state lines,” Jackson said. “Gather everything; we’re taking it over as an FBI investigation. I’m going to get Adam back on the line. I want to rip this cemetery from stem to stern, even if our witness is a dead man.”
Cameron Adair was staring at him as he spoke.
“Annie’s due in a few days. Maybe even on the fourth of July,” he said. “Everyone was so happy. A baby—born on the 4th of July.”
Angela was due within the week, too. They knew the baby would come when she was ready, be it the 3rd or the 5th of whenever, but it had been fun to have a 4th of July due date.
“Cameron, stay focused for me. I’m going to need your help,” Jackson told him.
“I heard you and put two and two together,” Cameron continued. “They’re going to sell the babies—and kill the mothers.”
“We don’t know that’s what they’re doing,” Jackson said quickly. “We don’t know . . . anything yet. Except that Annie and Angela have disappeared. We’re going to find them. You heard me; we’ll tear this place apart if we have to. Your daughter and my wife are safe for the time being; they haven’t given birth yet.”
“This kind of trauma . . . can bring on a birth!”
“We’ll find them.”
Cameron