The park ranger announced to the group that they were standing on hallowed ground, close to where General Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson had been mortally wounded by his own troops. He warned the mesmerized tourists that the general made frequent appearances, and if any among them were brave enough to stay until dark, they might catch a glimpse of his ghost riding across the battlefield in search of a missing limb. When some of the tourists snickered, the ranger went on to patiently explain why Jackson had a restless spirit.

On May 2, 1863, Confederate pickets had accidently shot him at the Battle of Chancellorsville. The incident had occurred in total darkness, as the general and his staff were returning to camp. Under a moonless sky, they were mistaken for Union cavalry by a squad of soldiers from the 18 North Carolina Infantry Regiment. Shots rang out, and despite frantic shouts from Jackson's staff, a second volley was fired. The general, on horseback, was hit by three bullets - two in the left arm and one in the right hand.

Several officers were killed during the melee, which lasted for several minutes. Darkness and confusion prevented a prompt identification and also delayed the provision of immediate care for the wounded. When the smoke had cleared, figuratively and literally, the injured were removed on stretchers, but during the evacuation, General Jackson rolled off his stretcher and landed on the ground. Incoming artillery rounds were to blame, but due to the severity of his injuries – and the subsequent delay – Jackson's left arm had to be amputated.

As fate would have it, he survived the surgical procedure, but died of complications from pneumonia on May 10, 1863.

Among his last words, uttered in delirium because of a dose of opium, were orders to two of his subordinates.

But his last words before dying were: "Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees."

The park ranger paused for effect, then added, "Any questions?"

A blonde woman raised her hand. "I have a question. Where is the general buried?"

"General Jackson was buried in Lexington, Virginia."

"All of him?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I thought his arm was buried separately."

The park ranger hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Did you drive through Chancellorsville?"

"Yes."

"Did you see a sign for the Wilderness Tavern?"

"By the traffic light?"

The ranger nodded. "That's where the cut off Jackson's arm. The surgeon had no choice. The arm was badly mangled, the bone shattered. Back then, severed limbs were thrown in a pile and then cremated, but Jackson's chaplain, Reverend Lacy, couldn't abide with that, so he retrieved the arm. Later that evening, he walked down the road to his brother's plantation and buried the limb in the family plot behind the garden."

The woman, who spoke with a slight Austrian accent, nudged the man who was standing beside her. "I told you."

The park ranger smiled. "Would you folks like to see the gravesite?"

The entire group expressed an interest, so the ranger led them on a thirty-minute hike that meandered through a series of soybean fields. Eventually, they reached a tree line, and ten minutes later they caught a glimpse of a large roof. Before long, they arrived at a vacant house, a remnant of a bygone era. Without a word, they passed through an ancient garden gate and into a clearing that was encircled by large trees and an aging post-and-wire fence. Scattered before them was an array of venerable tombstones, one of which bore a simple inscription:

"ARM OF STONEWALL JACKSON"

The ranger knew what they were thinking – that it was odd for a limb to have its own gravesite – so he reminded them of Jackson's exalted status in the Confederacy. The arm had once belonged to the South's most brilliant commander, the general that Robert E. Lee referred to as his "right arm." Stepping aside to allow for photographs, he went on to tell them that Jackson had gained triumph in the Shenandoah Valley, displayed uncommon valor at Sharpsburg, and routed the Union force at Chancellorsville.

During the lecture, the blonde woman reached for the arm of her male companion and pulled him back toward the vacant house. They stood on the front porch, shaded from the midday sun, and shared a bottle of water. Neither of them said anything for a moment, and then, with some difficulty, Irene Kaminski dragged over two rocking chairs. She looked over and gave Adam Gold a long, searching look. "Well, what do you think?"

Gold frowned. "What do I think about what?"

"The gravesite."

"Interesting."

"That's it? Just interesting?"

Gold took a deep breath, as if what he had to say was going to be physically painful. "If you've seen one grave, you've seen them all."

Kaminski did not avert her gaze. Adam Gold was a top notch insurance investigator, but he could be too skeptical for his own good. If the truth be told, he'd been reluctant to make the long drive down from Manhattan, believing it to be a waste of time. After a lengthy silence, Kaminski spoke softly, as if she were wary of her own thoughts. "Did you notice the ground? There was fresh dirt on the grave."

Gold thought about that for a bit, then said, "Maintenance work."

"Maintenance my eye. Somebody dug up that arm."

Gold looked at his boss to see if she was being serous, which indeed appeared to be the case. He found it hard to fathom that the president of a major insurance company could believe such claptrap. Under normal circumstances he might have laughed, but there was nothing normal about her statement – or the situation in which he found himself. "Did we drive six hours to talk about stolen body parts?"

"More or less." She reached into her purse and took out a letter. A thin smile crossed her lips. "Your next assignment."

There were times, like now, when Adam Gold's world seemed to be spinning out of control. A woman named Melanie Dupry had purchased a kidnap and ransom policy from the Anchor Insurance Company and had filed a claim on behalf of her employer, The Sisters of the South. From what he was able to decipher, the organization, based in Richmond, was responsible for protecting and preserving the graves of some famous Confederate generals, including Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson. Incredibly, she was claiming that grave robbers had stolen Jackson's arm and were holding it for ransom, demanding five hundred thousand dollars for its safe return.

Predictably, she wanted the Anchor Insurance Company to cough up the dough.

Gold muttered a few choice words, then shook his head. "When did we issue the policy?"

"Six months ago."

"What limit?"

"Two million."

"Any deductible?"

"Nope."

Gold rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "How do you suppose they came up with half a million?"

"They only stole a quarter of Jackson's remains."

"So they say. Maybe we should have a chat with the park ranger."

Kaminski made a face. "The park service is supposed to be protecting these sites. I don't hold out hope for a straight answer from them."

Gold figured as much, and he was willing to concede the point, but he wasn't quite ready to fork over half a million dollars. Not by a long shot. Wracking his brain, he tried to recall the insurance definition of kidnap, which was not a far cry from the legal definition: The crime of unlawfully seizing and carrying away a person by...