No Certain Rest

No Certain Rest

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by Jim Lehrer

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BONUS: This edition contains an excerpt from Jim Lehrer's Tension City.

On a ridge overlooking Burnside Bridge—the focus of the Battle of Antietam—souvenir hunters find the unmarked grave of an unknown Union officer.

Don Spaniel, an archeologist in the National Park Service, is called in to examine the remains. He soon…  See more details below


BONUS: This edition contains an excerpt from Jim Lehrer's Tension City.

On a ridge overlooking Burnside Bridge—the focus of the Battle of Antietam—souvenir hunters find the unmarked grave of an unknown Union officer.

Don Spaniel, an archeologist in the National Park Service, is called in to examine the remains. He soon discovers that the officer was murdered and that his identification disk could not possibly belong to him, since its rightful owner is buried elsewhere. So who was this officer? Where did he come from? And why was he killed?

Spaniel’ s obsessive investigation leads not only to his reliving the horrible carnage that occurred at Burnside Bridge over a century before, but to the true identity of the Union officer and the reason why another body resides in his grave in a small New England town.

In a swift narrative deftly combining the past with the present, Jim Lehrer has created an engrossing story that will appeal to a wide variety of readers.

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Editorial Reviews

The topic of Jim Lehrer's 13th novel is a crime scene investigation, but this is not your average CSI mystery. The victim wasn't exactly murdered; he was executed; and he didn't die recently; he succumbed over a century ago on a great American battlefield. In the hands of the PBS anchor, the case of the anomalous Antietam skeleton becomes an exploration into individual character and national identity.

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She said she would be the short, dumpy blond woman carrying a thin, green leather valise. He told her he would be the tall, skinny man wearing rimless glasses and an Indiana Jones fedora.

There she was. There was Rebecca Fentress of the Marion County, Iowa, Historical Society. And here he was, Don Spaniel of the National Park Service. He had guessed, from the sound of her voice on the phone, that she could be somewhat elderly, as old as seventy possibly. But fifty-five or even less was his best estimate now upon seeing her in person. Not only did she talk older than she was, she was dressed that way in a two-piece dark blue cotton dress with a skirt that fell a good two inches below the knee.

“Doctor Spaniel, I presume,” she said to him.

“Ms. Fentress?” he said, removing his hat.

A friend had given him the fedora two years ago as a thirty-fifth birthday present. It was meant as a joke because Don, like Indiana Jones, was an archeologist. But Don so loved the hat that he had made it part of who he was, wearing it routinely. Reg Wom- ach, his laid-back Smithsonian anthropologist friend, often called him Harrison, as in Harrison Ford, the actor who played Indiana Jones in the movies. That didn’t bother Don. He figured there were worse things in life for a skinny guy in glasses to be called than Harrison Ford.

“I have always wanted to say something like ‘Doctor Spaniel, I presume,’ ” Ms. Fentress said.

Don Spaniel smiled at her. His impression was that here was a woman who was as pleasant as she was plain and who most probably, in his instant analysis, was very smart. He was prepared to like and admire her even more if the private Civil War papers of the late Albert Randolph of the Eleventh Connecticut Volunteers were in that green case she was clutching to her body.

They were standing just inside the main entrance of Washington’s majestic Union Station—a six-foot-four gawky man leaning down to a speak to a five-foot-four solid woman who was looking almost straight up. In silhouette, they could have easily passed for a Norman Rockwell painting, possibly a small-town high school English teacher speaking to the basketball coach about a star player’s D2 theme on a Charles Dickens novel.

Rebecca Fentress had called Don from Union Station less than twenty minutes earlier to announce her surprise arrival in Washington, D.C., and to arrange an immediate meeting with him. He had suggested she get in a taxi and come to his office, which he assured her was barely ten minutes away in an area called Potomac Park. She said she really would rather not leave the station. All right, he said. How about meeting me in front of the huge electronic schedule board at the main entrance of the train station?

It was three in the afternoon. There were many people going to and from trains and milling about the many shops in Union Station, which had been very successful since being rehabilitated into a retail center as well as a train station a few years ago. He noticed the several open restaurants there in the main rotunda were not crowded and he suggested they find a quiet place in one.

“I don’t fly on airplanes,” Ms. Fentress said to Don. “It takes a long time to get from Iowa to here by train, it really does. You have to go through Chicago, for one thing; Pittsburgh, for another.”

Soon, they were seated in the quietest corner of a place which, according to its menu, offered at least one food specialty from each of the fifty states.

“I’ll bet the one from Iowa has something to do with corn,” said Rebecca Fentress. “Corn is what people think of when they think of Iowa—corn and pigs.” She was right. Iowa’s representative was listed under side orders: corn on the cob.

She ordered a piece of pecan meringue pie, a specialty of New Mexico, and a cup of Maryland coffee, which appeared to Don to be like any other kind of coffee.

He didn’t want anything now except what might be in Ms. Fentress’s valise, but, to be polite, he got a simple no-state’s Diet Coke.

“I have brought you Xerox copies of the Albert Randolph materials,” Ms. Fentress said before she made even a move to touch anything.

Don wanted to reach across the table and hug Rebecca Fentress. But all he did—all he thought that was appropriate to do—was say, “Thank you very much. I really do appreciate what you have done.” He came close to speaking on behalf of some long-dead men from a Connecticut regiment of volunteers with names such as Kingsbury, Griswold, Allbritten, and Mackenzie. But he thought better of it. That, too, would have been over the top.

“The originals are under lock and key at our local bank, and there they will likely always remain,” she said. “No one will ever again be allowed to read them.”

Don, in his state of hyperhappiness, didn’t quite get it. What was she saying? “Why? What’s the problem?” he asked.

“The problem is only that the board of trustees of our historical society decided our purpose was only to collect and preserve things from the past, not to stir them up.”

She was no longer smiling as she took several bites of her pie and a sip of coffee.

“How do you plan to use the information contained in these papers, doctor?” she then asked.

“I’m not sure, to tell you the absolute truth. I am not sure, of course, what is in them to begin with. . . .”

“I told you on the phone that they were sensitive and that they were definitive. I am confident you will find them so as well. They will undoubtedly clear up any questions you might have about what happened at the bridge at Antietam on September 17, 1862.”

“I’m delighted and excited at that prospect.” Delighted and excited said only half of it. His very soul swung and swayed with the prospect of finally knowing exactly what had happened.

She pushed away her pie plate and coffee cup and reached over to her green case, which she had placed on the table to her left. She moved it in front of her and zipped it open.

Don Spaniel began to feel as if he were some kind of mysterious operative, here amid the cover of a crowded train station, receiving from Courier Fentress of Iowa the secrets, the goods—the magic.

“Here,” she said, handing him a sealed white envelope. It looked thick. There were several pages of something inside.

Don took the envelope and said, “Thank you, Ms. Fentress. I promise you that I will not—”

“No promises, please. None is necessary. I did this of my own free will to satisfy my own needs and beliefs.”

She zipped the valise closed, looked at her watch, and stood. “Now I must go catch my train.”

Don was on his feet. “Where are you going?”

“Home, doctor. Home.”

“But didn’t you just get here?”

“I came here to hand you that envelope personally. I felt it was too important to leave to the vagaries of the U.S. mails or one of the private express firms. My mission accomplished, I am going home.”

Don left a ten-dollar bill on the table. She started walking; he fell in beside her.

“Your luggage? Where is your luggage?”

“A redcap took it when I got off the train. He’s probably now, as we speak, putting it in my compartment on the new train. That is what I asked him to do, at least. I love traveling in those bedrooms. Have you ever done that?”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t.”

“It’s tight for two—are there two of you?”

“No, ma’am. And at the rate I’m going there may never be more than me—than one.”

“There are worse things,” she said with a clip in her tone.

Message most definitely received, Don said, “My problem is that my job is pretty much my life—too much, say the women who come and go. I’m accused of living too much in the past.”

“That’s what some people say about me, too.”

They passed a boutique hardware shop and a bookstore and a model-train emporium and several more eating places and were now nearing her gate for Amtrak’s Capitol Limited to Pittsburgh and Chicago.

He told her how much he had enjoyed meeting her, again thanked her, and again praised her for what she had done to help him resolve a 134-year-old mystery.

“It must be quite satisfying and fulfilling work you do as an archeologist, particularly on the Civil War.”

“Extraordinarily so, yes, ma’am.”

Ms. Fentress extended her right hand, and he took it in his. She said, “What I do is also satisfying and fulfilling. Few people at home understand why I would be content to run a historical society in my small town. I, frankly, can no longer imagine not doing so.”

“I’m the same exact way,” Don said.

She had more to say: “Please let me know once you have decided what you’re going to do with the Randolph material.”

Don promised to do so. He was suddenly eager for Rebecca Fentress to get back on her train. He wanted desperately to tear open the envelope and read the Randolph papers. Onward, please. Good-bye. Have a nice train trip, please. . . .

But there was one last thing. “Doctor Spaniel, I trust you are prepared to deal with the consequences of telling Albert Randolph’s Antietam story?”

“I believe I am. . . . Yes, ma’am.” It was, in fact, something to which he had not given that much thought. Most of what he had considered thus far had to do specifically with Jim Allbritten and Fred Mackenzie, two present-day descendants of the men in Randolph’s story. But first, he had to confirm conclusively what had occurred in the heat of battle on an Antietam hillside 134 years ago. Then he would deal with what to do about it—what to say to Allbritten and Mackenzie, among others.

“Opening up graves can sometimes lead to an unleashing of old demons and to unexpected consequences,” added Ms. Fentress.

“I know. Yes, I know,” said Don, barely able to conceal his readiness for her to leave. But he owed her an answer. “I believe that those consequences, whatever they are, are part of the history. Whatever is meant to be, will be.”

She seemed about to respond but then apparently thought better of it and did finally go.

But from the way she flicked her head to the right and squinted her eyes, Don read a message of disagreement from Rebecca Fentress of Iowa.

Whatever. Don watched with great pleasure as she showed her Amtrak ticket to the gate attendant and then disappeared in the direction of Iowa.

He spotted a section of deserted chairs by a train gate not then in use and raced for them, ripping open the envelope as he ran.

Once seated, he carefully removed the papers.

The first page was typed. It appeared to be a list of items, signed by a sheriff. Then there were an official army document, a copy of a newspaper clipping, a black-and-white photograph, and, finally, several pieces of white copy paper folded over in thirds and held together at the top by a large silver paper clip.

Don unfolded the pages. There was handwriting on them. It was a letter. He removed the clip.

He could feel his heart beating, his pulse quickening, his breath shortening—his soul leaping.

The handwriting was large, clear, and clean.

In the upper-right-hand corner of page one, in neat script, was the date. “September Seventeen, Eighteen Hundred and Seventy Two.”

Ten years to the day after the battle of Antietam!

Then Don began to read the text:

I, Albert Randolph, here now render terrible words of con- fession. I have addressed them to no particular person or persons because I do not know who will ultimately read them. I have written them mostly for myself rather than for others. I have written them because I have no choice but to write them; my troubled soul and my angry God permit no other course.

I was party to one of the most heinous crimes the darkest side of the human spirit can generate. It was committed on a day ten years ago near a Maryland town named Sharpsburg on a creek called the Antietam.

I render this confession on this day because the anniversary memories are acutely painful to my being. That pain, unbearable and unrelenting, provides the force that moves my pen across this page.

On that morning of September seventeen, the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-two, I was serving as a sergeant in the Eleventh Connecticut Volunteer Regiment. Assigned to the Second Brigade of the Third Division of the Ninth Corps of the Army of the Potomac, we were a proud and worthy unit of men, dedicated to fighting for the preservation of our hallowed Union and for the glory and reputation of our beloved birth state of Connecticut.

We were on that day given the mission of seizing access to and control of the Lower Bridge across Antietam Creek, which was in the State of Maryland not far from the Potomac River and the State of Virginia. We were part of a large and determined force under the leadership of General George McClellan that had as its ultimate mission to destroy the Army of Northern Virginia under the command of General Robert E. Lee.

There were no questions in any mind or heart among those of us in the Army of the Potomac that we would be victorious.

From the Hardcover edition.

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No Certain Rest 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is an excellent story which is not character-driven. Antietam is the main character. The mystery is the center of the story so don't worry about Don Spaniel's lack of a love life. You will know Albert Randolph better through his confession than you will almost anyone else. The modern day characters are merely props but when Spaniel dons a Union uniform and clumsily charges Burnside Bridge, I had tears in my eyes. I should have stopped reading at the end of that chapter and I suggest you do also. What happens thereafter cries out for an editor to tell the author to 'leave it out' or 'write it again.' The closing segment does not even rate one star and is unworthy of what has gone before.
Guest More than 1 year ago
While I, like most of America, certainly am familiar with Jim Lehrer's name and career on PBS, his career as a novelist was unknown to me. I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered his book, No Certain Rest, and hoped for the best. A book centered about a Civil War theme seemed to me to be an almost sure winner, especially coming from the pen of someone as obviously intellegent at Lehrer. It is dismaying to report, therefore, that this is one of those cases where an otherwise interesting idea dies a slow death at the hands of a writer who can't quite realize the concept's possible promise. No Certain Rest concerns a 134 year-old murder mystery that had its origins during the battle of Antietam. So far, so good. The possibilities unfold in the reader's imagination as the plot develops momentum. Unfortunately, four things knock the wheels off this cart. The first is that the characters do not engage. Odd personal glimpses are offered of the lead character (his love life, for example, and his infatuation with a certain lady attorney) but they appear for little apparent reason, are not developed and, ultimately, lead nowhere. A second glaring weak point is that archeology, the practice of which is central to this book, is one of those disciplines (astronomy is another) which is quite interesting in the macro sense, but numbingly dull from the micro perspective. Lehrer, however, takes the reader through all too detailed an account of the lead character's archeological inquiries. The result is soporific. A third problem is that, in the course of presenting this detailed archeological scavenger hunt, Lehrer works his entire research bibliography into the narative. Frankly, the reader does not care which expert volumes the lead character (OR Lehrer, himself) consulted. The references only slow down a story that is already dragging. Finally, Lehrer decides to rely upon one of those stock, Hollywood devices so familiar to readers of Stephen King, namely the tight-knit little New England town with deep dark secrets and a population living more in the past than in the present. Never mind that, fiction aside, few (if any) of these places still exist in the 21st Century, most particularly not in the gentrified western Connecticut setting of the book's ending. But Lehrer nonetheless posits the book's entire last third upon the shaky premise that there would still be anyone around who cared about a series of frankly obscure events on a battlefield of 134 years ago. In short, the reader cannot connect with the people, relationships, emotions and motivations Mr. Lehrer ascribes to his present-day characters; he renders them, ultimately, entirely unbelievable. This might have been a better book had another storyteller spun the tail. A different twist, a focus upon an important hinge of history, for example, might have justified the reader's investment in the story. As it is, however, the book marginally educates, but never satisfies. The reader puts the book down quite frankly wondering why he bothered in the first place, or why she should care. A disappointment all around.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The novel No Certain Rest is a very interesting and intriguing book by a author known to write novels and plays. This book is his thirteenth novel. It is a historical fiction book about some ones remains from 134 years ago at the Battle of Antietam. Two relic hunters discover the remains of a lieutenant that was murdered in cold blood. This is a great book and you won¿t be able to put it down. Go and check it out from your library. No Certain Rest by Jim Lehrer is a book not to miss.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A great idea for a book with the combination of a murder mystery linked to the historical events at Antietam, America's bloodiest day. However, the plot was superficial in that it was not fully formed by the author, was not fully developed and the treatment and length of the book should have been longer. Jim Lehrer is a good journalist and has the capacity to be a good author but this effort falls a bit short.