Monday, July 03, 2006

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Sarah Lee decided to enlist some help in finding out about John Sandberg. She called her cousin, R.L. Poole, who worked for the NCBI.(North Carolina Bureau of Investigation)

Sarah’s cell began playing “Dixie” an appropriate tune for her location.
Hello, this is Sarah Poole. Oh, Robert – thanks for getting back to me so soon. No, no I’m not involved with the man, just working on a project with him.

Thirty-five minutes Sarah switched off her cell phone. Sarah had been right ‘bout Berg being dangerous. He had killed men, lots of men. Some of them had played a part it his winning the Medal of Honor. Sarah knew very few men who won the Medal, lived to wear it. Since its establishment in the Civil War on July 12th 1862, most were presented to the wives and children.

Sarah’s cousin had a hard time getting information on one Army Captain Sandberg, John A. It seems that anti-terrorism/ national security BS prevented releasing information, even to the people on the same side.

Sarah was thinking, was Berg still working? No, that didn’t seem possible. He wouldn’t be out doing this kind of thing. Still, he was too young to just retire. So, what was it? Sarah told herself she was more interested in Berg’s story, than she was in Berg.

Sarah felt the hard wooden floor of the wagon on her back and cursed it for keeping her awake. She knew in the back of her mind that it was more than the floor. In large part it was Berg, the iceberg. She was thinking it would be nice to melt through him, then find out his real story, and just maybe defuse the bomb ticking inside him.

Peter met Berg for dinner at a small Mom and Pop type diner where the food was good and the portions large. The only down side was that the selection was limited.

“Peter, just who is this Sarah Lee? She seems to pick up on everything and hold her ground.”

“I don’t know a hell of a lot bout her, she’s a cop or ex-cop something like that. Met her a couple of years ago when she filled in for her dad as the photographer at another re-enactment. Why all the interest Berg?”

“Just wanted to know a little about who I’m working with, that’s all.”

“Technically you aren’t working with her. All I know is she’s damn good at what she does and the service wants to use a series of her images from the other battlefields as well as this one.”

“Why do you need me then?”

“It’s two different beasts, Berg. Yours are very good and easy for printing the park brochures. Hers have a completely different feel to them. Like an image straight from the 1800’s. You’ll just have to wait and see it for yourself.” Peter paused a moment then went on, “Sorry Berg, I’ve got to run. I’ve got a meeting I need to get to.”

“A meeting, isn’t it a little late for a meeting Pete?”

“Oh Berg, the park service never sleeps!”

Twenty minutes later Berg found himself back at The Cannonball Motel. The aptly named tourist sleeping spot was small and family run. It looked old enough to have housed the original Confederate troops who had really fought there. At least it was clean. It wasn’t cheap by any stretch of the imagination. The price doubled during the re-enactment days. It did have beds, soft beds . That beat the hell out of the ground or the bed of a wagon.

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