Lest We Forget

Heather Graham

Normandy, France

Inland from the Landing Beaches

 

                The cemetery was beautiful and old, very old, dating back to the fifteen hundreds. A stunning gothic chapel sat at the center of the place, complete with soaring towers and stained-glass windows. In a small village a short distance from Omaha Beach.

                The village was mainly residential, and many of the graceful old homes had been in the same families through the centuries. Thus, it seemed, the incredible artistry from gothic days on down made it an elegant example of funerary art through the ages.

                “The village actually owns the cemetery,” Steven Marks, a member of the Krewe of Hunters Blackbird Division, explained to Angela and Jackson Crow. “I believe it’s because of that ownership that it’s maintained the incredible slice of history we see here.” He pointed to a large section with dozens upon dozens of markers. “World War II over there—the proximity to one of the landing beaches during the Normandy Invasion, you can only imagine.”

                “Of course,” Angela said. She turned to point to a section where the markers were stone, weathered and dark with time and surrounded with cherubs and angels that were beautifully chiseled. There were benches here and there for visitors to sit and reflect upon the fallen and feel the peace and beauty of the area. “And there—” she began.

                “That’s one of the oldest sections of the cemetery. Well, it is the oldest. The little chapel was here first; it was the village church. Small, but so beautiful, gothic, complete with its soaring towers and stained-glass windows. Of course, with time, there came to be parishioners buried in the catacombs and around the church. The came the French Revolution came and a Revolutionary leader named Jacques Domain bought the land that you see here now, forever and always to honor those who fought for liberty. And villagers, of course, could find their final resting places here, but from the beginning Jacques wanted to honor the fallen. Jacques, of course, has a magnificent tomb in the catacombs. But that section over there is filled with those who died in the Revolution and next to it, we have the graves of those killed during the Normandy Invasion and in the fighting across the land that followed it. That property adjoins the section for the Revolution; it was granted to the village for perpetuity.” He paused. “That’s . . . that’s where I’m taking you now. That’s where the body was found. Beside the little gate that leads from the Revolution section to that reserved for those who died fighting in World War II.”

                Angela glanced at Jackson. The body had been that of an American, and that was the Police Nationale had brought Steven into the investigation, though the assumption was that an American had died of natural causes.

                The victim had been a man named Nathaniel Drew. He’d come to France with several friends, old friends in several ways as they were retired military men, survivors of the fighting from World War II during the Normandy Invasion. In the United States, it was the Memorial Day weekend. They had come to remember their fallen allies here.

                Steven had become friends with French detective with the Police Nationale, Inspector Michel Vivant. Vivant had met the man at a local bar, and he had found him to be fit, strong, and completely lucid, amazing at his age, but not unheard of.

And still, his death had been called a natural event. After all, the man had joined the U.S. military when he’d been just eighteen, but that had been back in 1943. At his death, he’d been ninety-seven. To most people, yes, it would appear that he’d simply collapsed, his heart giving out at last.

“And it is Memorial Day weekend at home,” Steven murmured, walking them to the section where the graves of dead soldiers from one century abutted with those of soldiers who had died almost two-hundred years later.

Steven was one of their newer agents, a man who had served with the military in Afghanistan, joined his local police force and then applied to the academy. He was in his mid-thirties now, a good-looking man with dark hair, green eyes, a tall and fit physique and a handsome, if serious face. They had seen him solve a cold case in Pennsylvania and Adam Harrison, Krewe founder, had determined that Steven must have had some other worldly help with his ability to find people and places.

And he did.

He had been careful, but in the end, he’d realized that the “ghostbuster” stories about the Krewe were real, and he admitted that ghost of the murder victim had brought him to the basement in which he’d died—and where he’d been buried beneath a nice new cover of cement.

He joined the Krewe.

And then he had fallen in love with a French tourist, the two had married, and Adam, Jackson, and Angela—and Steven himself—had considered him a perfect fit for their Blackbird unit. His knowledge of the French, Italian, German, and Portuguese certainly added to his qualifications for the job.

“I know that young people are killed, I know that things happen that are far worse than a man who had lived more than nine decades losing his life, but . . .”

“Steven! It’s all right. We’re glad to be here,” Angela assured him. “Life should never be taken from someone by another, no matter what their age. But—”

“Your call did it,” Steven told them. “I don’t know what power you manage, Jackson, but once you called your friends, they did more tests at autopsy. They believe he had been laden with barbiturates, probably ingested, shortly before death. —”

“You go to sleep, everything slows down, too many and you lose your ability to breathe, and the heart slows down and stops—Nathaniell had an old heart, yes, but an overdose on that kind of a drug can take down a young man or woman, too,” Jackson said.  “I’m afraid we’ve seen this kind of overdoes before. But why kill a ninety-plus year-old World War II veteran?” Jackson asked thoughtfully, studying the terrain. He looked at Steven. “What about the friends he was visiting with?”

“Jackie Sylvester. The young’un, only in his early nineties. He entered the fray at the end of 1943—he’d forged a birth certificate so he could join the forces when he was barely sixteen. But that evening, he wasn’t anywhere near Nathaniel. He was with Gerald Franklin, the oldest of the group, ninety-nine, last year. Those two were at a showing of an old movie at the one theater in the village—dozens of witnesses. They said that Nathaniel hadn’t come with them because he’d been due to meet with someone. He didn’t give them a name, and he seemed a little serious, but fine . . .”

“So, whoever he met with somehow slipped barbiturates into something he was drinking or eating perhaps. Okay, what about surveillance tapes?” Angela asked.

“You won’t be needing those.”

They all turned, startled by the voice of a newcomer. The words were spoken in heavily accented English.

He wasn’t the customary newcomer, Angela realized quickly.

He was a dead one; a long dead man, she determined. He wore a handsome blue coat over a shirt with a white collar and cuffs, brass buttons, black boots, and uniform breeches. He had, perhaps, been in his fifties at his death. In life he had been a tall and dignified man with graying hair that was queued at his nape and a clean-shaven face.

“He met with a man who was in his sixties at the least, about five-eleven, light, thinning hair, and . . .”

Their ghost paused, shaking his head.

“I saw them together at the bistro. They were . . . close. Talking and talking and . . . when they parted ways, they hugged tightly. It seemed they had both been crying.” The ghost said. He studied the three of them. “Pardonez moi!” he said. “I am Etienne Laurant, a man of the people, never in the least dismayed that I gave my life in the quest for freedom! I knew your General Lafayette; I rode with him once.” He turned to Steven. “You, I watched when you were here with the French detective. But I did not to put you in an odd position, but my friend, Jules, says that he knew you had the vision, the ability to see, so now . . .”

Angela reached out a hand toward the ghost, feeling that same chill in the air that was so common when remaining souls were about. “A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur! I am Angela Hawkins Crow and this is my husband, Jackson Crow, and Special Agent Steven Marks. We all work together; Jackson is the supervising director, but he and I are based in the states while Steven works with Europol and others.”

Etienne Laurant nodded, smiling.

“It is the Memorial Day weekend in your country, is it not? A time to honor your fallen, as in November here, Armistice Day, we stop, we remember. And it has been good; I have seen my descendants through the years. They all learn that many have paid for the freedom they enjoy. But thank you for being here.”

“Being here,” Steven said, “I can truly honor those who came before.”

“Yes,” Angela murmured.

“But it’s because Nathaniel fought for his country, because he lived a good life honoring others, we want to know the truth,” Jackson said.

“Yes,” Steven said. “Standing here . . . well, the French helped us win our own revolution, you know.”

“Men of good will from all over will fight when freedom is threatened. I walk through our American section; I see the American names. They are Americans buried here, but their names come from France, from Britain, from Ireland, Croatia, Italy, China, Germany and so on. That is your country; a people from all over who come to be one. And I saw; I saw so much. You must understand. I do not roam here with hatred. There were good German people. A people were not evil; an ideal was evil, one in which some were considered superior to others and . . . in life, and in death, I learned. Many didn’t protest what they saw because they were terrified, terrified for their wives, their children, their family. Many were decent people who knew. No man is better than another. Each man must be true to his heart. But!” He gave his ghostly a shake. “Forgive me. My views on war and humanity are not helping; we need to find the man who met with Nathaniel Drew at the bistro.”

Angela frowned. “You saw this man—at the bistro. You were there.”

Their new French friend smiled. “Indeed, I am quite fond of that bistro. They have excellent musical groups, comedians at times, and sweet champagne. Well, I cannot drink the champagne, but I feel that the taste lingers around me, and it is sweet. Honestly! I don’t behave badly; I don’t haunt anyone. I simply enjoy being there. I—I know that I am waiting. I know that I am here for a reason. And while this cemetery is surely one of the most beautiful and peaceful in the world . . . well, it gets boring for a spirit now and then!”

Angela laughed softly. She’d heard that story before.

“Etienne, sir, would you like to visit the bistro today, with us?” Jackson suggested. “Perhaps this man who was with Nathaniel will be there.”

“You would recognize him if you saw him again, right?” Steven asked.

“That I would, young man, that I would,” Etienne assured him.

“We don’t know that he will be there again, and we don’t know that he did this,” Angela reminded him.

“But we have no other leads,” Steven reminded her.

“I could seek out spirit friends in the cemetery, but . . .” Etienne began. “But . . . his ride share left him off at the main gates. He was walking through the historic section to get to the World War II section, as if he was trying to reach a certain place. Whatever was done to him was done before he came here.”

“I’m up for a trip to a bistro,” Steven told them. “My car is just out by the gates. Shall we?”

Steven drove, though the bistro was almost within walking distance. It was charming, as was the entirety of the village with its little parks, homes that appeared to be nineteenth century Victorian style, and the center with it shops and restaurants and utility and office buildings, all created with architecture that seemed to make like a pristine picture out of a history book.

The bistro offered indoor and outdoor seating. Ordering was done at a counter, and they headed in. Angela had a decent bit of French, but Steven was fluid in the language and ordered coffee and croissants for the three of them.

Thankfully, tables were set for two or four—so the four-top they took to accommodate three allowed for a chair for their ghostly friend. Angela had been helping Steven bring their food to the table. As she sat she saw that Etienne had been questioning Jackson about his ethnicity, nothing that while he looked somewhat European, there was something else in him.

“Native American. Cheyenne,” Jackson told him.

Etienne lifted his hands. “Ah, and again! Europeans came in, they began their wars against the populace!”

Jackson laughed softly. “They believe that the American ‘Indians’ came from Asia originally, crossing a land bride called Beringia that connected Siberia and Alaska. All human beings came from somewhere in the very beginning. Yes, it was sad that we are all determined to decimate one another at different times, but . . . even then, they believe that there were three groups, three time periods when the ‘native’ population came, and thus their wars with one another. Hey, lots of tribes are doing great now. The Seminole, for one. Some people consider their casinos to be a just reward for all that they suffered in the past.”

Angela smiled. Tall, dark haired, great high cheekbones, and startling blue eyes. It had been years since she and Jackson had first been paired together and the Krewe had been created; it had even been years since they’d been married, years since they’d become a family with the kids.

She was still convinced that her husband was one of the most impressive men in the world, by his looks, and by his mind, and always, his determination for truth, justice, and care for victims.

Etienne smiled. “Many make money on gambling; it does seem fitting. That is one thing; I’d have so loved to have seen your country!” Etienne said. Then he fell silent, frowning, looking across the room. “There he is; he’s just walked in,” he said. “He’s at the counter.”

“I’ll go and buy another cup of coffee,” Angela said, see if I can get him chatting.”

She hurried to the stand in line behind the man who had come in. He was in jeans and a denim jacket, his hair was graying, his face was somewhat wrinkled, and she estimated that their ghost had been right, the man was in his fifties or perhaps early sixties.

“Bonjour!” she murmured.

He turned to look at her and he smiled, but it seemed that his smile was sad. “Bonjour. Or good day. You’re American.”

“My accent is that bad?” she asked.

“Not to worry; so is mine.”

“Tourist?” she asked.

“I am. Heading home in a day or so.”

“Well, it’s nice to see you. Not that many people find this little place.”

“Honestly, it’s not all that rare. Some sites now talk about the beauty of this quaint little village, and, of course, it’s overrun here when they get to Armistice Day.”

“Ah, yes, the chapel and cemetery,” she said.

He nodded, looking ahead at the cashier. There was just one person ahead of him.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

“Are you traveling alone?” she asked him.

He seemed to hesitate. “This trip, yes. My wife just passed last year, and I needed to revisit a few places. The kids have their own kids, so . . .” He shrugged.

“I’m so sorry,” Angela told him.

“Well, that’s life. We lose people. Some, tragically, too young. Others . . . well, others are ready to go. Anyway, I’m glad you saw the chapel and the cemetery. They are beautiful. Excuse me; I’m up.”

He was. He gave his order in a smooth and fluid French, and then quickly turned back to Angela

“I read in the paper that an American died there the other day,” Angela said. “Do you think that it’s safe—”

“I read the article, too,” he said. “Sad, but the man was ancient. Anyway, enjoy your trip!”

He headed out the door. Angela saw that Jackson and Steven—and their ghost—were up, ready to head out and follow the man.

She quickly joined them. He was walking to his car, not looking back.

They hurried to Steven’s car and slipped in quickly. Steven was good, following at a distance that allowed them to keep close enough but not so close that they were seen to be following him.

He was heading to the cemetery. Well, that might have been a natural move for any tourist. He parked.

“I’ll let you out,” Steven said, “Drive around and then park.”

He slowed the car for them to hop out after the man had walked through the gate. Angela winced as she almost closed the door on their ghost.

But Etienne looked at her and grinned.

“Wouldn’t have felt it anyway!” he said.

“I know. Still . . .” she murmured.

“Where is he?” Jackson murmured.

Just minutes had passed. Somehow, the man was no longer visible to them over the stone wall that surrounded the cemetery.

“Check the special Revolution and World War II sections,” Jackson said.

“I’ll try the chapel,” Angela said.

“I’ll be all over, and we will find him,” Etienne told them. He shrugged and added, “he’ll never see me coming.”

Angela headed down the main path, hurrying toward the chapel itself. The door was unlocked, and she entered quickly.

Sunlight was streaming through the beautiful windows, most of which depicted the saints, with a few nativity scenes of Mary and the baby Jesus, and one of Christ bending down to comfort a child. They were old, some colors were fading, but they were still strikingly beautiful.

And the only light that came into the chapel was through those windows. But she could see that the pews were empty. She walked toward the altar, as handsomely set as the rest of the church. She looked behind the podium.

No one.

But then she heard something.

The sound seemed to come from below her. She frowned and then noted that there was door to the far left of the altar area and toward the rear.

She walked to it.

The door was open.

Quietly, she inched down the steps.

The catacombs, of course, were as old as the rest of the church that had become the little chapel for the cemetery. Someone cared for the place, took care of it, and still, it took many man hours to assure that catacombs, deep in the earth, were clean and rodent free.

She’d probably heard a rat.

And yet, as she moved down, she was in awe again of the artistry that might honor the dead. Very little light filtered down, creating an eerie dusk within the rows of the dead.

She’d been to the Vatican several times where often, the embalmed and retained dead were clearly visible through glass in their coffins. There was nothing like this here; the dead lay in stone tombs that were elaborately and artfully carved or chipped from stone. There were many priests who had once spoken here, there were several dead from the French Revolution, and at the end of a long trail, she saw that there was a massive stone stand, angels at either side of it, and an especially well-crafted tomb, a stone image of the man who had lived atop it.

It rose high, the white stone capturing what bits of light filtered down to her there.

And thus, it was a moment before she saw the man, kneeling at a pew at the base of the tomb.

But he’d heard her. And he rose, turning to stare at her. It was the man she had spoken to at the bistro.

The man Etienne had seen with Nathaniel Drew, just before he had died, laden with barbiturates.

“And, of course, you’re some kind of a cop,” he said.

She wasn’t armed; they had just arrived before they’d met with James at the cemetery. They had needed to procure the proper documents to carry in France.

“We both agreed that the cemetery was beautiful. And I hadn’t been down here to the catacombs or even in the chapel yet, so—”

“You think I killed him.”

“What? Who?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“You’re good,” he told her. “But I saw you with that ‘legat’ agent, or whatever you call the FBI when they’re in Europe. Don’t tell me that you’re not.”

He didn’t seem to be armed, either. And she knew how to take care of herself.

She shrugged. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Harold. Harold Osborne,” he told her. “And yours?”

“Angela. Angela Hawkins Crow. And you’re right. Special Agent Angela Hawkins Crow. So, Harold Osborne, you were with Nathaniel Green just minutes before he died, from what I understand.”

“Nathaniel had a ride share coming for him,” Harold said. “He was an old man! Older than most ever get to be.”

“That’s true.” She smiled sweetly. “But we saw to it that there were more tox screens done on him at autopsy.”

Harold Osborne looked away.

“Well?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “I didn’t kill him.”

“No?”

“I swear, I didn’t kill him. He was a man who wanted to die.”

“He came here and found you because he wanted to die?”

Harold’s head was down for a minute. He wasn’t trying to come close to Angela and she knew that Jackson, Steven, or their ghost, Etienne, would arrive soon. The cemetery wasn’t that big, even with all its special sections.

Then he smiled, looking at her, and then raising a hand to indicate the tomb behind him.  “They should move this upstairs; that’s how they’d really honor the man. That is the tomb of Jacque Domain, hero of the French Revolution, and . . .”

“And my many greats grandfather.”

“You have a special interest in t his place,” Angela said.

“As did my grandfather,” Harold said flatly. “Yes, Nathaniel Drew was my mother’s father. She’s gone now; my father is gone now. Too many people Nathaniel knew had gone before him.”

“So, you didn’t kill him; you helped him die,” Angela said softly.

But Harold shook his head. “I reminded him that I was alive; that I honored him and I needed him.”

“But you gave him the drugs that killed him.”

He shook his head. “No, no, no. He just talked about wanting to be able to sleep again and he went to the doctor and I’m not even sure what he was prescribed, but he knew that he had me, he’d always been a part of my life. I was his daughter’s child. My kids love him too, but they’re busy now with schools and teams and . . . anyway, he asked me to come here. He said he was making a trip out here—just because he loved the place and wanted to see it again. I guess he really wanted to be near the ancestor he idolized all his life. He said that it was knowing about Jacques had been the impetus that had sent our family into the service from his day and into our own American Revolution and ever onward.  And he assured me he was fine going ahead of me; he was meeting up with the few buddies he still had from his time in the military. He told me where he was staying, and that he’d be waiting at the bistro because he got hungry. And then . . .”

Harold stopped speaking, just looking in the strange dusky space of the catacombs.

“And then?” Angela asked gently.

“And then he told me that he’d wanted to see me because it was time to say goodbye. Not at first, of course. At first, we talked about the first time he’d brought me to Europe when I was a little boy. He talked about our trip to Mont St. Michel, so amazing to me as a kid. And he talked about coming here and he reminded me about the first time we stood in front of this tomb and looked at stone image of the man within it, how amazed I was to have an ancestor who was so honored. But, of course, years later, this place became more to him. He was with troops that landed on Omaha Beach. Troops who wound up fighting with the British, the French, and others. He told me how many of his friends, Americans and other, who were buried here. And he told me that one day, he wanted to lie with them and that the one day was getting close.” He stopped speaking again and then looked up at her grimacing. “I know something of his feeling. My wife is gone, my parents, many men I fought with . . . you begin to see the end game. But . . . I didn’t know. But . . . I didn’t know that he was planning anything, I swear it. I had begged him to remember that I and my children and their children loved him with all our hearts and would be there for him forever and ever. He thanked me, joked about something, and then said I should go to my hotel room and settle in. He had a few people he had to see. I hugged him; I think I was crying. He hugged me and told me to love all those around me. His last words to me, ‘See you soon as the time is right.’ Then . . . and now I know. He saved up all his so-called sleeping pills and . . . he never intended to go home.”

The man’s words were honest. Sincere. Silence fell upon the crypt, and then she felt a brush of cold air and realized that her ghost friend, Etienne, was at her side, that he’d heard all the man’s words.

Then she heard a throat being cleared and she realized that Jackson had come quietly down to the bottom of the stairs.

“Steven has informed the police that they must look in your grandfather’s room and since he’d never leave you to blame, I’m willing to bet that they find his ‘sleeping medication’ bottles empty. He was just ready to say goodbye. Did he have days, months, years left? Who is to say. But we know that you were not at fault,” Jackson said. “And we know that he cared so deeply for you that he needed you near, ready to see that he rested with those he so honored.”

The man let out a sob and covered his face.  

“Harold, we’ll have paperwork, no way out of that, but the main problem now for you is going to be this—where would your grandfather want to be buried, or—” Jackson began.

“He’d want to be here,” Harold said. “He would want to be near a fellow named Yves Marchant. Marchant came to the United States in his university days, and they met in a lab somewhere and they were friends before the war—and then both happened to be part of the Normandy Invasion. My grandfather survived it; Marchant did not. My grandfather missed his friendship for the rest of his life. But, I don’t think that he can be buried here; he’s an American and—”

“There are Americans here, some who died here are buried here,” Jackson said. “We can see to it all. Steven has become friends with the right people. We can make it happen.”

“And you can!” Angela heard the whisper from her side. 

Angela thought that the ghost was sniffling, touched by Harold’s story. She felt the same; Nathaniel must have been an amazing man. And he said that he wanted to sleep, needed to sleep. They weren’t seeking a murderer.

All they had to do was truly honor a great American who had given all to the service not just for his country, but for mankind.

“Paperwork!” Jackson said quietly.

There was always paperwork. Harold had never been a suspect to the local police; they hadn’t known that there had been anything suspicious about his grandfather’s death until Steven had grown so worried.

And Steven was distracted as they went through all the motions, finding that, indeed, his prescription bottles had been emptied, and that he’d even left a note behind. “I believe the time is coming. My age is great. Rejoice in knowing that I will be at peace, that my belief in the beauty and love of the afterlife is strong. Harold, you, too, have given so much. Watch over the children for my daughter and yourself.”

It wasn’t exactly a suicide note. But Angela, Jackson, Steven, their ghost, and even Harold knew that it had been a goodbye letter of love.

There might have been longer, harder repercussions if his death was deemed a suicide. It was ruled as an accidental overdose exacerbated by age.

Steven did have friends. At home, it was Memorial Day. And somehow, Steven’s village friend had created a miracle. Nathaniel Drew was buried with military honors—French and American soldiers present—in the World War II section of the cemetery. He would rest with his friends, not far from the great ancestor who had first fought for freedom and created a line of descendants who would do the same.

Steven would stay on, of course. He’d already gotten a call about a curious slate of murders occurring in the country. And Angela knew that once she was home, she’d be doing research on the situation from her desk, seeking anything she could find on the Web, the place where once something went . . .

It was never gone.

But there was one curious thing. Jackson arranged it.

The Krewe had its own private jet, so it was all easy enough. Etienne had said that he’s always wanted to see the United States.

They promised to get him back, of course. But even ghosts needed transportation. And friends.

They arrived late.

But that didn’t matter. They were in the day and age when news could be shone again and again and so . . .

Back home, they watched the ceremonies at Arlington and around the country and Etienne nodded his way through, asking them if he might visit the cemetery.

They assured him that they could bring him the following day.

“I would honor them, too, here, in this country,” he said. “As I honor all those who serve, especially those who gave their all, their lives, so that we may live in freedom, ever seeking peace.”

“All honor,” Angela agreed. “All honor. Today, and always.”