The King’s Gambit
James Rada, Jr.
8: Maps of Nothing
Lou Preston sat at the worn pine kitchen table of his family’s Gettysburg homestead, steam curling from his chipped blue mug as he took slow sips of bitter black coffee. Morning light filtered through lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the faded linoleum floor. All around him, the hush of the old house felt heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Lou’s mind spun with half-formed Civil War conspiracies and the family secrets he’d unearthed: hidden maps, cryptic journal entries, whispers of betrayal. He felt an equal mix of exhilaration and dread.
Above him lay the attic—its dusty gloom overflowing with decades of cast-off clothing, battered trunks, yellowed books stacked uncertainly, and furniture draped in moth-eaten sheets. He should have finished clearing it out by now, but he’d gotten distracted by what he had found. Now the clock ticked down to the house sale. He sighed, wishing he’d started sooner, before each discovery felt like a frantic race against time.
His reverie shattered with the sharp trill of his smartphone. He set down his mug, the coffee’s aroma lingering in the air, and answered.
“Lou, this is Douglas.” The calm, gravelly voice belonged to Douglas Reaver, a retired park ranger who’d once apprenticed under Lou’s great-grandfather Harley, Gettysburg Battlefield’s superbly exacting superintendent.
“I’ve been looking over the photos of your great-grandfather’s maps,” Douglas continued. “I enlarged some sections and thought about what the maps were showing… I think I’ve found something.”
Lou’s heart thumped. “What did you see?”
“I’d rather show you in person. Lunch at O’Rorke’s?”
As they settled on one o’clock, Lou felt hope bloom. Douglas understood Harley’s mind better than anyone. Lou briefly considered delving back into the leather-bound journal on the table, but the attic’s remorseless clutter called him back.
He climbed the creaky stairs, pushed past cobwebs, and began sorting: he flung unwanted relics—stale fabric bundles, dog-eared paperbacks, half-broken chairs—out the attic window into a rented dumpster below. Each thud of discarded treasure on metal sounded final. Gradually, narrow paths opened amid the chaos, revealing dusty windowpanes that hesitantly admitted shafts of pale sunlight.
By late morning, the attic felt less like a tomb. Lou showered, dressed in jeans and a pressed shirt, then slipped the journal and the crumpled maps—the very artifacts Douglas might need—into a messenger bag. He dared not risk leaving anything behind.
O’Rorke’s sat on a quiet side street, an unassuming white clapboard building with a coat of time-worn patina. Inside, dark wooden beams crossed the ceiling. Vintage wartime posters tacked to walls, and a stout stone hearth crackled with gentle heat. The scent of sizzling onions and malty ale filled the air.
Lou spotted Douglas in a high-backed booth by a window, the last slanting rays of midday painting his silver hair gold. Lou slid in opposite him and ordered a smashburger—juicy, peppery, topped with melted cheddar—and a cold Yuengling, its foam whispering against the glass.
As the waitress set the beer before him, Lou’s phone buzzed with a Ring alert. He swiped to view the porch camera: a courier in dark jeans and a branded jacket had deposited a small, unmarked box. Lou wasn’t sure what it might be since he hadn’t ordered anything recently.
Douglas cleared his throat. “Let’s talk maps.”
Lou pocketed his phone. Across the table Douglas unfolded a creased, grayscale reproduction of Gettysburg’s roads that omitted every battlefield monument. Beside it lay an enlarged, sepia-toned scan of Harley’s original drawing, the ink faded but the strokes unmistakable.
“See here,” Douglas said, tracing a muddy ridge. “Your great-grandfather’s map predates his official tenure at the park. He didn’t plot these roads in his park-superintendent capacity. As for the other map, it could have been made while he was superintendent.”
Lou nodded, eyes narrowed. “Does that mean something?”
“I don’t know. I’m just making observations.” Douglas tapped the marked spots—tiny X’s beside statues.
Lou had a feeling of familiarity about the map once again. He had seen it or something like it before. He stared at the troop placements. Had he seen this map before finding it in the attic? He shook his head. He didn’t think that was it. It was similar, but not the same.
Douglas said, “Harley highlighted an equal number of Confederate and Union memorials. Odd, since Union monuments outnumber Confederate ones nearly nine to one. Wouldn’t you expect Harley’s marked monuments to be closer to that percentage? Even more, he only marked those south of town. Granted, that is where the fighting was heaviest and has the most monuments, but Harley wasn’t interested in any others? I’m not sure about that. It makes me believe he had some purpose for marking those particular monuments.”
Lou felt a chill. “So it wasn’t random.”
“Also, these are mainly monuments to individuals, and before you ask, it is just something unusual. I don’t know what it means.”
“So we’re no closer to figuring out why Harley made these maps,” Lou said. He took a big gulp of his beer, feeling frustrated.
Douglas frowned. “No, sorry. It seems like there should be something more here, like a key.”
That would have been a good opportunity to bring up Harley’s journal, but Lou didn’t know if it was a key to the maps. It was definitely a personal account that was fast becoming an artifact of historical significance. He let the comment pass and ate his lunch.
After lunch, they parted with promises to share any breakthroughs. Lou drove down the tree-lined lanes back home, dusk gathering in the sky. Pulling into the gravel driveway, he hurried to the porch—no package remained. The empty spot unsettled him; Gettysburg was quiet enough that porch thefts were almost unheard of, especially in the area where he lived.
Inside, he scrolled through delivery confirmations—nothing. He replayed the Ring footage: the courier’s hurried steps, the slick black car idling out of frame, and behind him… a second figure, head bent as if scanning the house.
A knot tightened in Lou’s gut. He moved through each room by flashlight—every floorboard’s creak magnified in the hush. In the den, the chessboard sat on its stand, but the pieces rested in their opening positions instead of the mid-game nests he’d left. On the bookshelves, once-alphabetical rows now looked askew. Subtle but unmistakable: someone had rifled through his things.
Had they searched for cash or jewelry, they could have filled their pockets with Civil War artifacts appraised at small fortunes. Instead, they rifled through the den.
Lou was suddenly grateful he had taken Harley’s journal with him. Otherwise, it would have been lying on his desk in plain sight. Could that have been what the thieves were looking for? Then Lou was just as grateful he hadn’t told Douglas about the journal. Douglas was the only person, other than Lou, who knew about the maps, and he had wanted to meet at O’Rorke’s. They had met at the house the first time, and the burglary or search had occurred while Lou had been at O’Rorke’s. If not, he most likely would have been here when the burglars arrived.
A cold suspicion curled in his chest: Douglas was the only other person who knew about those maps. Did he know of the journal, too? Had he sent men to break in while Lou dined at O’Rorke’s? Lou swallowed a hard breath. The real conspiracy, it seemed, was only just beginning.
