The Revenant

By Henry E. Cunningham

The Revenant combines historical fact, romance, and psychological suspense to determine the long unknown identity of the female stranger of Alexandria, Virginia. A young journalist, Ben Joliet, is assigned to do a feature story on the mysterious woman who arrived in Alexandria in the 18th century with a male companion, took ill, and died days later, leaving no clue to her identity. Almost two hundred years later the only evidence left of her existence is an elaborate tombstone in Alexandrias Christ Church Cemetery and a series of legends that offer competing theories to who she was and how Alexandria became her final resting place. When Ben meets a young woman whose life seems to parallel tat of the stranger the past and present collide in a tale of psychological suspense, romance and erotic tension.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483658629

Henry E. Cunningham

Henry (Hank Cunningham) was born in Waukegan, Illinois in 1926. The sudden death of his mother when he was five prompted his father to enroll him in a private boys’ school where he spent the next eleven years of his life. When his father withdrew him from the school at age 16 He enlisted in the Navy w and served with the 6th fleet amphibious core in the Southwest Pacific for twenty –six months. After his discharge he completed a degree at Drake University where he completed majors in History and Journalism. After graduation he worked for the various newspapers but his career was interrupted until he was recalled to the Navy to fight in the Korean War. But rather than assigning him shipboard service he was named managing editor of Naval Publications. After his service with the Navy ended he was employed Managing editor of the Merchant Trade Journal until he accepted an offer with Kaiser Industries. He was with Kaiser Industries in Washington D.C. until he where he was supervisor of International Relations and Public Affairs until he retired. His love of literature, world affairs, wine, and good conversation was nourished while he served as the president of the International Club in Washington, D.C and by the classes he took in literature and creative writing after retirement. Cunningham has written numerous short stories, poems in addition to this novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

WARMING UP

Terza Rima

From a recliner, wrapped in a blanket, he watched the aide change the linen on his bed.

The charge nurse talked to the aide as though the boy didn’t exist.

The aide glanced at her for a split second, listened, and then looked at the boy instead.

The nurse said, "He skated too close to a hole in the ice on a dare he couldn’t resist.

The ice collapsed beneath him and he slipped under. Kid’s lucky to be alive."

A technician entered. She took his vitals after checking the ID bracelet on his wrist.

A blue bird materialized on the windowsill, tilted his head at the boy as if to sympathize.

The aid helped the boy back to bed, gathered up the used linens and prepared to go.

The technician marked some notes on his chart. He’s having a chill you realize?

The charge nurse nodded. The blue bird flew away just then as it began to snow.

The nurse asked the boy, Would you like another blanket? I’ll see you tomorrow.

He did not speak, just held up two fingers. It was his answer.

The aide leaned over and kissed his forehead, the boy cringed.

You said he broke through the ice and somehow didn’t drown?

Yes, answered the nurse. Somebody said he was under half an hour.

Envoi

The nurse straightened his blankets and gently patted his head.

He’ll never be hurt by anyone or anything now, you see, he’s already been dead.

CHAPTER ONE

ONLY FRAGMENTS OF sentences could be heard coming through the open door of Max Bloch’s office… . coming to a conclusion before you understand something… the woman’s voice grew louder.  . . . it’s not what you get from staffers… it’s different so you don’t like it. Bloch’s voice could be heard, but the words were garbled. Then, another man’s voice interrupted. It’s a pretty good yarn, Max… I think it’s better than the other stuff that’s been written about the female stranger. It was Jack Trowbridge who was speaking. He started to say something, but the woman’s voice cut him off. It was loud and sarcastic. Sometimes, Max, you’re about as sensitive as a… . the rest of what she said was indistinguishable. Staff members within hearing pretended to be working, but it was clear they were listening.

Max Bloch’s voice was subdued, even contrite. All I said, Bonnie, was that I wanted about 300 to 500 words, not a tome.

Jack Trowbridge’s voice could now be heard loud and clear. I brought it in Thursday after you left for vacation. Ben’s recovering from the accident at his apartment up on DuPont Circle. There was silence for a moment. Have you had a chance to read his memo yet?

I actually skimmed the memo when I came in early, Max replied, and I came across the word ‘revenant.’ What is that word? Is it some sort of foreign word?

Trowbridge stopped and laughed a little. Yeah, it’s a French word. I had to look it up myself, Trowbridge said. It really has three meanings: one who appears to have died but returns under strange circumstances, a person who leaves but comes back without explanation, or one who disappears without explanation for a long period of time and then returns appearing to have changed as though he or she has been to another place in time and space.

Okay, okay, I sort of get it. Thanks, Jack.

Trowbridge raised his hand to Max as he left the office.

Bonnie’s voice came through loud and clear. I did! I read the memo and the whole story.

*     *     *

Where in the world did you find Ben? Trowbridge asked Max.

I didn’t find him, Max said. Bartlett brought him in to meet me about a week before Alice and I left for Florida. Bart’s sister Maude works at this orphanage someplace in Illinois or Iowa, I forget. Apparently she looks on young Dexter as almost a son. She’s very high on him and I think she helped put the kid through college. Bart told me to hire him just to see if he worked out. He’s got an impressive resume. He worked part time on a daily as a general news reporter while he was still in college and then got a regular job on a weekly in Illinois after graduating. And on top of that he was managing editor of the college newspaper.

Sounds real good, Jack Trowbridge said.

We’ll see. Bloch stood up, stretched and looked at his watch. I’d like to have a staff meeting late this afternoon. Could you get everybody together in the conference room at three o’clock?

Sure, I’ll get on it right away.

I just want to get up to date and hand out some assignments.

Trowbridge stood up. Glad you’re back, Max. I’ll round up the troops.

As Trowbridge left the office, Max Bloch picked up the memo from Ben Joliet, rocked back in his chair and started reading:

THE MEMO

January… .

To: Max Bloch

From: Ben Joliet

The doctor says I can return to work the first of the month—if I still have a job after you read the enclosed. Back in September you gave me an assignment to write a feature on the legend of Alexandria’s female stranger. You suggested about 3,000 words, but as you can see, the word count is quite a bit longer. There’s a reason.

On my first newspaper job, I was having trouble getting the lead on a story. The city editor kept looking at me and then at the clock, and I knew the deadline was creeping closer. Finally, he came up to me, put his hand on my shoulder and said, Just tell ’em what happened. That advice came back to me as I wrote this piece. Except for some minor variations in the sequence of events, everything is written just the way it happened. You’re Harry Goldstein and I’m Sam Dexter. I leave it to you to believe or not. I hesitate to confess this, but as I look back on the entire account from my first visit to the female stranger’s grave to the last time I stood by it—I felt… well I felt that all during the time I worked on the story, I was living in the past, sometimes in the future and sometimes in the present. Reliving the entire story right now, I don’t know why things happened the way they did, Max. I just don’t know why See you next month… I hope. Oh, thanks to everyone who sent the fruit basket to the hospital. I enjoyed it and so did the nurses.

Cordially,

Ben aka Sam Dexter

CHAPTER TWO

THE BUCK SLIP from Harry Goldstein had been brief and to the point. He wanted a three or four thousand word feature on the legend of the female stranger and suggested that Sam just rehash what had been written before. Bonnie had penned a postscript asking Sam to find out who puts the rose on the female stranger’s grave. He smiled. After scanning a few of the old newspaper clippings, it seemed to Sam that those who had written the articles were familiar with the story but didn’t really care about it. It was as though the reporters were just walking through the assignment to get it over with. There were no solid pieces of evidence in the stories he had read so far, just reworked material from stories written in the past. He was appalled at how the reporters had tried to make something out of nothing, some even devoted space to how much had been written about the female stranger before: Library reference rooms preserve thick files of newspaper articles on the subject; In some histories of Alexandria, entire chapters are devoted to the female stranger; Autobiographies refer to her; Docents guiding tourists bring up the legend of the female strangers; Scholars and library researches seek, and sometimes find, new evidence.

Yet the identity of the female stranger, buried in St. Paul’s Episcopal Cemetery at Alexandria, Virginia, is still unknown. Sam Dexter rocked back in his chair. His efforts to find new, hard evidence as to who she was had been unsuccessful so far. What, Dexter thought, if he could move freely in time: if he could go back to October, 1816? He could get the facts. Yet, there were articles in newspapers, magazines and reference books that generally agreed on certain parts of the legend. There were differences of interpretation as to her arrival in Alexandria; one impression was that she arrived in July of 1816. Another said she arrived in October of that year. Regardless of the date, a young woman, accompanied by a man, disembarked from a sailing ship that docked in Alexandria. Another version claimed she arrived with the man in a small boat. Both the man and woman are described as being distinguished in appearance. Some articles refer to them as husband and wife. Some said she was said to be heavily veiled and some said she was dignified and beautiful. Most stories agree that she was ill and was taken immediately to Gadsby’s Tavern. Physicians were summoned as well as nurses. Before entering the room at Gadsby’s, the doctors and nurses were said to have been sworn not to reveal her identity.

Her illness, variously referred to as a fever or more specifically a typhoid or malaria, could not be taken under control. Then on October 4th she died. The man accompanying her—her husband or escort—arranged for burial at St. Paul’s Cemetery.

Slowly, for Sam, Alexandria’s female stranger became a woman of dark reality or a shadow. Absent mindedly, he continued shuffling the pages from the files without looking at them. When he closed his eyes, he felt he could see the 23-year-old female stranger. She was beautiful, but she had a haunted look about her; he sensed a fearless nature in her.

Somebody laughed loudly and Dexter looked up, startled, feeling embarrassed that he had disconnected himself from his surroundings so completely. Jack Trowbridge strode up to his desk ready to go to lunch. The Grill was one of those little out-of-the-way places; a combination restaurant and bar—dimly lit, with heavy wood furniture and lots of leather and polished brass. Right as Sam and Jack entered The Grill, the bartender sailed a napkin toward Jack. It floated a second and then glided to the bar, settling to a perfect landing in front of Trowbridge. The usual, Jack? The bartender asked.

And one for my friend, Trowbridge said.

Trowbridge whispered to Sam that he was well acquainted with the bartender. He owns a third of the joint. The Reuben sandwiches are the best bet. I know the woman who does the cooking. The bartender positioned vodka martinis in front of each man and then brought a small platter of cheese and crackers. What do you think, Sam, of the place, I mean?

It’s sure dark.

Yeah. I used to be uneasy about coming to places like this. Afraid I’d run into my wife having lunch with some guy in a booth in the dark backroom. Trowbridge sipped from his martini.

They each decided on the Reuben sandwich. The sandwiches came with fat, waffle-cut French fries and a small salad of Boston lettuce that had a pleasant hint of lemon in the dressing.

Emily tried to reach you last night but couldn’t and asked me to talk to you, Trowbridge said.

Dexter put down his sandwich. Hope it’s nothing serious. He knew what was coming. It was one of the hazards, or the benefits, of being male and unattached in Washington.

Jack wiped his mouth with the extra-large napkin. She needs you to balance out the table at a casual dinner party we’re giving Sunday. Emily’s sister is coming. She’s finishing her shrink residency. The guy she was bringing had to back out. Trowbridge sipped from his martini. Can you make it?

Sure, Sam said. Anything for Emily.

The bartender brought coffee and cleared away the dishes. Jack said, Cocktails are at seven, but try to get there at six or so.

*     *     *

The hand of the pretty park ranger resting on the car’s open window reminded Sam Dexter of caramel-colored satin. You’re in St. Paul’s Cemetery now, she said, bending slightly to look at him. This gate leads into Alexandria National Cemetery. She stood straight and pointed back to the right. He put his head out the window and looked in the direction. Her manner was relaxed and friendly. It’s over that way, I think, but I’m not sure. If you go back to the second intersection and turn right you’ll be headed in the right direction.

Sam extended his hand through the window. Surprised, the park ranger backed away awkwardly and then shook it. Thanks for your help, Sam said. She nodded and released his hand. I didn’t know there was a national cemetery here, he said. I’d like to come back sometime. Could you show me around?

She smiled modestly at him. It’s just a small one. It’s open all the time.

Sam made a U-turn and drove slowly back the way he had come. After crossing an intersecting lane, he stopped opposite a small tombstone and leaned out the window to read the name. Kramer. He shrugged. The air was soft and temperate. Sam inhaled and gazed out over the tombstones. He could smell dust. Then he leaned over the steering wheel and looked up at the