Ghosts of the Past Page 4

  “I’m so sorry Matt!” She reached out to give him a hug.

  The tears welled up in Ferguson’s eyes, but the huge deep breath kept the emotions from exploding. After an almost never-ending exhale, he regained his composure. He certainly did not realize his reaction would be so intense. He had told himself on the ride over that Uncle Max had had a long and very fruitful life, and that it had come to an end peacefully. Moreover, as Uncle Max had said repeatedly, ‘Don’t shed a tear for me, for my time on this earth has been long and my life has been full.’ Nevertheless, the tears were destined and they came naturally.

  “Thank you Judy!” Ferguson gratefully accepted the hug. “I know he meant a lot to you, too! He cared about you very much, even though he tried very hard to be a pain in the ass.”

  Nurse Tackett nodded her head appreciatively and then cocked it with a pained expression. “He was talking about the treasure again… right before he passed away. He had been harping on it for the last couple of days. I couldn’t tell if he was delirious or not.”

  “Yeah, he’d been talking to me a lot about it lately, too. He had all sorts of names for it. ‘Antiquities in the Alps’, ‘the treasure of the lost souls’ . . . buried in a wall of rock. As senile as he was getting, there still appeared to be some serious truth in what he was saying.”

  Ferguson averted his eyes from nurse Tackett’s and stared off blankly down the hall toward Uncle Max’s room. “He was always ashamed to talk about it, kind of embarrassed and always talking about being responsible. He told me over and over that he could never go back for it. He could never have it. It did not belong to him. ‘Too many ghosts of the past’ he’d say.”

  Tackett broke his reflection, “He kept repeating that you have to start with the flight jacket. The treasure… you have to look in the flight jacket. Does that make sense?”

  Ferguson turned back around to face her, his eyes squinting from the strain of deliberating the instructions. “I don’t know,” he said almost apologetically.

  He spent the next ten minutes reciting what he knew from conversations with Max and his mother and father, about Max’s last flight. How he had crashed in the Swiss Alps toward the end of the war. The manner in which he was discovered by a pair of farmers, severely injured, half frozen, and not far from death; his lengthy recovery at a hospital in Zurich, and subsequent transfer to another hospital in the United States for additional rehab. There he was reunited with his family, who helped nurse him back to health.

  Uncle Max’s memory of the events always remained fragmented. He would struggle mightily to remember the details, but it would never come in total. The crazy story of a plane buried inside a cave behind a mountain cliff, full of treasure, full of original artwork. However, the one thing he always recalled was the other pilot. The one he tried to save and didn’t.

  Ferguson left the nursing home thirty minutes later after spending a last few moments with Uncle Max alone.

  The funeral was two days later. Very few people attended. There was one old card playing buddy from the Pendennis Club, another lone survivor of the golf group from Harmony Landing Country Club, several elderly friends from St. Francis in the Fields church, and two of Ferguson’s cousins that he didn’t recognize, but claimed to be related to Uncle Max in some far-reaching capacity. Ferguson assumed they were there to advance the possibilities of laying claim to some inheritance. After it became obvious all his worldly possessions had been left to Ferguson, they could have cared less about sticking around to reminisce.

  The Reverend Robin Jennings was dutiful and kind in his remarks, and Ferguson left the church accompanied by Uncle Max’s remains, which had been neatly reduced to several pounds of ash stored in a simple sterling silver urn. His wish of having his ashes spread over the Oldham county countryside from an airplane would have to be settled at a later date. Ferguson’s curiosity over the dying remarks of the treasure and flight jacket had provided for two nights of fitful sleep, and he was determined to investigate the pronouncement to unravel the enigma once and for all.

  Uncle Max’s home, soon to belong to Ferguson, was a quaint three bedroom, two bath, one-story log home located just off Rose Island Road in Oldham County. It was just minutes away from the church, and Ferguson had no problems arriving there shortly after the service.

  The inside was in disarray from the abandoned labor of remodelers that had postponed their efforts after the news of Hignite’s death. They had kindly informed Ferguson they would not return until they had been paid for work already completed, and would be happy to finish the job if the money continued to flow. He made a mental note to contact them on Monday.

  Ferguson loved ‘the cabin’, as Max had referred to it. He was very grateful that Uncle Max had noticed his affection for the place, and decided not to sell it when he had to move into the nursing home. Max had made it clear it was to be his when he passed away.

  It sat on almost two acres of land that had been meticulously cared for by the adjoining neighbor. Uncle Max had seen to it that he was more than adequately compensated for keeping the grounds nice.

  Everything should be in order and safely stored away Ferguson thought, so his main goal was to track down the flight jacket and start with it. However, what was he supposed to be looking for?

  It took less than twenty minutes to track down the jacket, neatly stowed away in a zippered plastic hanger bag tucked into a remote corner of the master bedroom walk-in closet. Ferguson removed it from the hanging rod, walked it out of the closet, and laid it across the king-size sleigh bed.

  He meticulously scanned the outside of the old, worn, World War II vintage, Luftwaffe flight jacket, and then began warily reaching into the pockets. All of them were empty except for the left inside pocket, which produced an unsealed envelope folded in half. He removed the single sheet of paper inside, and began reading the hand-written contents while sitting down on the edge of the bed.

  Matt,

  This letter will guide you to a safe, built into the wall behind the antique mirror, found in the master bedroom.

  The combination to the safe is 18-35-7.

  May God Bless You,

  Max

  Ferguson glanced up at the massive, gold-framed mirror occupying the far corner of the room. He stepped over to it, ran his hand down the right-hand side and discovered the hidden latch halfway down. A quick flip of a switch and the eight-foot tall mirror easily swung back on left-hand hinges to reveal a safe half the height.

  Following a couple of botched efforts at dialing in the listed combination, the third effort yielded an open door exposing a leather handle attached to the end of a small gray trunk. Deeper inside were two wood crates, each about the size of a seat cushion, stacked on top. He pulled all three pieces out via the trunk handle. He felt intimidated by the sense of history he was about to open up.

  While on his knees, the latches on the trunk opened easily and the top lifted up with a slight creak. Lying on top inside was an old piece of paper, discolored with age. Ferguson was in awe as he lifted it out of the case and gingerly laid it on a lamp table to the side. His mouth dropped and the chills ran down his spine as he slowly started to lift up one-by-one the rest of the military life of Major Max Hignite.

  The uniforms, the boots, hats, the albums of old black and white photos, and the shoe boxes containing various pieces of jewelry, insignias, patches, and a myriad of other assorted trinkets. Lastly, at the bottom was a leather case, that once opened, revealed the iron cross with clusters and a handful of other various medals. Ferguson knew he could spend hours wading through the memorabilia, but he returned his focus to the single sheet of paper.

  It appeared to be a letter and a list. Unfortunately, it was all in German, and Ferguson did not have a clue as to how to speak, much less read German. He scanned it briefly, noting how legible the typed portion and even the hand written checkmar
ks next to each of the numbered items in the list were. At last, he glanced at the letterhead insignia at the top and was able to read the embossed name of Riechmarshal Hermann Goering.

  Ferguson held the paper gently between his fingers, intrigued by the discovery. He flipped it over, and it got even more interesting. All over the back where hand written notes and some crude drawings. The handwriting was unmistakably Uncle Max’s. This is it. This has to be it. This is the link to the so-called ‘treasure’. But what the hell is it. I can’t read it!

  He re-packed the trunk exactly as he had found it. However, the letter stayed with him. He found a freezer size, zip lock bag in one of the kitchen drawers and the letter went in it for safekeeping.

  He returned to the bedroom and decided to see what was in the wood crates. The wood was very old and grayed in color. He carried one of the crates into the kitchen and found a hammer and large screwdriver in a junk drawer. He spent the next five minutes removing the nails holding the wood shell together, eventually releasing one of the flat horizontal planes on one of the sides. He lifted it away and peeled back the canvas cover protecting the contents. His hands started to tremble as he exposed a beautiful gold leaf frame surrounding a magnificent oil painting of a young girl sitting on top of a wood fence in an open meadow. Ferguson was no expert, but he recognized the impressionist style from the broken brushstrokes of bright, mixed colors and lack of detail. Holy mackerel!

  Fighting the urge to open the other crate, Ferguson knew immediately he was holding in his hands a very valuable piece of art and an incredible piece of history, and undoubtedly, the other was more of the same. The next step was to find someone who could read German. He had to get someone to translate the letter, front, and back, as soon as possible. He would deal with the art later. The University of Louisville was certain to have someone who could read German.

  Pence Hall was abandoned, the last of the classes having finished two hours earlier. The sound of Ferguson’s shoes on the waxed floor eerily reverberated off the walls of the stairwell on his climb up, and then off the walls of the long empty hallway of the second floor. Dr. Karl’s office was supposed to be halfway down the corridor on the right, adjacent to room 216.

  The phone call three hours earlier to the U of L information services had gone from the operator, to the Foreign Languages Department, where a secretary had answered and directed him on to the Dean of the department.

  After leaving a message on his initial attempt, Ferguson had called repeatedly, every fifteen minutes for the last two hours. On the third ring of his ninth attempt, Dr. Johann Karl picked up. The conversation was brief and to the point, resulting in an appointment in Dr. Karl’s office for a translation of the letter and the accompanying notes. He would be available at 5:00 p.m.

  At 4:53, according to the round, black clock located directly above his head, Ferguson knocked on the frosted glass door in front of him. Stenciled in bold, black type on the glass was the man he was looking for. “Please come in,” came the accented reply from within.

  “Dr. Karl?” Ferguson inquired as he opened the door and peeked around the edge.

  “Kome in, bitte.”

  Dr. Johann Karl was seated behind a large, antique mahogany desk, congested with a morass of papers and books. His full head of white hair and pale, wrinkled complexion made him and the desk complimentary collector’s items. He stood up, slightly bent at the waist as he welcomed Ferguson into his office with a gesture of the hand to the seat in front of the desk.

  “You must be Herr Ferguson, Ja?” The German accent still heavy in the delivery.

  “Yes sir.” Ferguson moved toward the chair. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “My pleasure young man. What is it I can help you with? Your phone call seemed to be most urgent.”

  “Well… I have a letter that I recently inherited from a close relative, and before he died he was rather emphatic that its contents were… important.” Ferguson reached into the manila file folder he had brought with him and removed the letter encased in the zip lock bag. “My dilemma is that everything in it is in German, and I’m afraid I can’t read a lick of what it says.”

  Dr. Karl reached an open palmed hand through a crevice in the quagmire that was the top of his desk. “May I have a look at it, bitte?”

  Ferguson, with a considerable amount of trepidation, leaned toward the desk and handed it over. “Please be very careful, I haven’t made any copies, and it’s very old.”

  Dr. Karl nodded and gently lifted the letter over to him. He carefully unlocked the plastic zipper and slid the contents out in front of him on the only remaining portion of his blotter not engulfed by the chaos. He raised the reading glasses that had been resting on his chest, held there by the chain around his neck, placed them on his crooked nose, and proceeded to study the letter intently. Ferguson leaned forward some more, keeping a cautious eye on the precious piece of paper.

  After flipping it back and forth several times, and showing no outward signs of any emotional interest, the old man set the letter down with a grunt.

  “Most interesting. I am not an art expert, but it appears you have a manifest or bill of lading in the form of a letter, and the goods listed suggest a significant assembly of artwork. I recognize several of the artists, but I’m sorry, I don’t recognize the titles.”

  Ferguson straightened up, and then fell backward into the soft burgundy leather back of the chair. “What about the notes and stuff on the other side?”

  “Those are a little more difficult. They’re legible enough, but I’m not sure I understand their meaning.”

  “What exactly does it say?” Ferguson queried.

  Dr. Karl referred back to the letter. “It’s a series of notes that provide several descriptions of a lake, a boathouse, and cliffs that are in the shape of a ‘W’. It mentions a plane. It says where it crashed and entered the cliffs. It is specific about the plane being intact, the fuselage of the plane being intact, and it is inside a cave that is behind the cliffs. There is a crude drawing of a map, with an arrow pointing to an “X” that has ‘Ju52’ next to it. There is also, what I would assume, a series of directions, they seem to be map coordinates, from ‘Glarus’, and the ‘Swiss border’. Does that make any sense?”

  “It’s starting to.” Ferguson stared at the framed map of Germany hanging behind Dr. Karl’s left shoulder. “It’s definitely starting to.”

  “I have someone that I’m currently tutoring that may be of some help with identifying the list of works on the front side of this letter. She is an assistant curator at the Speed Art Museum, and has been going through a fairly intensive one-on-one program studying several languages through our department. Ironically, I am scheduled for a session with her in about an hour. If you would like to come back, I am sure she would be very happy to try to help you identify these artists and their work. I recognize several of them… quite famous.”

  “That would be excellent! Are you sure I wouldn’t be imposing?”

  “Not at all Herr Ferguson.” The old man stood up again, still possessing the crook in his body. “We will study for an hour, you can join us afterward… say two hours from now.”

  Ferguson got a better look at him as he circled his desk and extended his hand. He was very old, that was obvious, but not frail by any means. He found it remarkable that this man was still teaching, not to mention being Dean of the department. Obviously, senility had passed over this relic allowing him to do what he loved to do… teach.

  “Thank you very much Dr. Karl.” Ferguson reached for the extended hand and was surprised with a very firm shake. “I’m very grateful for your help.”

  “Bitte Herr Ferguson, I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” Dr. Karl handed back the letter, having returned it to the bag, and gestured toward the door.

  Ferguson turned, opened the door, and exit
ed the office trying to think of how to kill two hours with the excitement of the discovery barreling through his body.

  One hour and forty-nine minutes later, Ferguson was standing in front of the same office door, his pulse still well above normal. He knocked and the same voice responded, “Kome in, bitte.”

  Ferguson opened the door, nodded at Dr. Karl, and approached the desk. “Sorry, I know I’m a little early, but I’m pretty excited about what we discovered.”

  “I understand. Miss Lewis will be back in just a few minutes, she went to her car for something and then to the restroom. Please sit, make yourself comfortable until she returns.”

  Ferguson returned to the same chair and pretended to study the office furnishings as Dr. Karl returned his attention to the pile on his desk.

  Mercifully, the brief silence was interrupted by a knock on the door and a self-invited entrance by Courtney Lewis. “Hello, sorry I took so long!” She held out her hand.

  Ferguson rose and turned to face her as she came through the door, and was immediately struck by how beautiful she was. Tall, at least 5'10”, an incredible pair of slender legs that finally ended in a curvaceous upper torso, everything accentuated by a pair of tight-fitting Gap jeans and sleeveless, white cotton blouse. Her long, wavy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing a long face illuminated by a soft, healthy, tanned complexion. Her bright green eyes met his as he reached to shake the extended hand.

  “Hello, I’m Matt Ferguson.”

  “Hi, Courtney Lewis.” She was also beset by a sudden awareness of how attractive Ferguson was, shaking his hand and then turning to Dr. Karl. “So this is our treasure hunter.”