Rebel Spirits (15 page)

I CHANGE INTO
a dry scoop-necked T-shirt and jeans, then take out Wince’s letter from the ring box and fold it carefully in my pocket. I hide the ring itself next to Dr. Anderson’s amputation kit in my pillow.

Next, I walk over to the window. I have an escape hatch: the trellis way below my window. Can I get there? If I can slide down the side of the house from the tower to the third floor without slicing my gut open — which it turns out I can — then I can make it down to the second floor, too. From there it’s a
stretch, but I can just about reach one foot on the top of the trellis, crushing a bunch of Old Dryden’s creeping ivy. Who cares about ivy? I’m just trying not to break a leg, and the whole time I’m frantically concentrating:
Nathaniel, are you reading me?

Once I’m on solid ground, I run like mad back to the cover of the trees by the creek so Mom and Dad won’t see me. I inch farther along the creek and away from the house, waiting for Nathaniel, focusing harder than I ever have to draw him to me. It was so foolish of me to tell him he couldn’t hover around or show up in my room. But I’m at the creek to meet him, and he did say he’d be
listening
for me. I’m concentrating so hard, clenching my jaw until my teeth hurt, and my head is starting to throb.

And then I feel that familiar, eerie sense of the air thickening around me, like before a tornado, but the sky is perfectly clear in the early dusk. There’s a rustling of leaves and a comforting sense that someone unseen is present. Reaching out, I touch his shoulder where the jagged scar is. He shimmers into the body I know him by. His arms are around me, mine around him, as if nothing could ever come between us. He tilts my chin up. Our lips eagerly find each other, and for that brief moment, I forget that we’ll soon be torn apart.

He pulls back a little. “What’s wrong, Lorelei?”

No one’s ever been that in tune with me. “I’m okay, sort of.” What I have to tell him about Edison and Wince will hurt him. I try to find the words. They’re a bone in my throat.

He’s jumpy. I’ve thrown him off balance. No, it’s not that.

“I’m weakening, Lori,” he explains, and I feel him shiver. “I can’t hold this form for long.”

I wrap my arms around him again, as if I can bind him together like duct tape on a cracked window. But I know that I can’t, so I release him, but grab his hand. “I have to tell you something awful, Nathaniel.”

His hand is shaking in mine. I grasp his fingers tightly to stop the shivers. It’s as though a sudden fever’s come over him. His face is flushed with heat, his brow is beaded with perspiration, but his hands are ice-cold.

“I know who shot you,” I say.

“A stranger. Say it was a stranger, a random bullet.” Does he suspect what I’m about to tell him? I’m silent. He slides his hand away and looks at me sharply. “It was Edison, wasn’t it?”

I make a snap decision not to mention Evan’s help in solving the mystery. “Okay, just listen.” I decide to read Wince’s letter aloud. I take it from my pocket and unfold it, careful with the onionskin. As I read, Nathaniel listens with all his energy, which I know because his body is sagging and his eyelids are drooping. I’m losing him. My eyes mist, but I have to stay
strong for this. I read him the part about Wince keeping the ring for his own son.

“The ring, President Lincoln’s son’s ring,” Nathaniel murmurs. “So Wince never returned it. He kept it?”

“He did.” I’ve yet to tell Nathaniel I have the ring, up in my room. I read the paragraph about Wince burying the ring after his son died. And then I come to the fourth paragraph of the letter:

“‘I refer to my comrade in arms in the 93rd Pennsylvania Infantry, Nathaniel Pierce.’”

He pulls his shoulders tight at the sound of his name. “Yes? Go on.”

And I continue reading:

“‘I was a party to his fatal wounding at the behest of another soldier whose obsession was vengeance for something over which young Pierce had no control. The culprit, even in the darkest crevice of his soul, professed to be a faithful friend as he pointed his pistol. God save us from such acts of friendship.’”

“It
was
Edison,” Nathaniel says, his voice tinged with grief. He rubs a hand over his face like a wand, as if to make the horror go away.

“Nathaniel, listen …”

“No, no, you can’t shelter me from this any longer. Deep within, I always knew it had to be Edison.”

I start to speak again, but Nathaniel puts a finger over my lips to silence me. He’s quiet so long that I’m scared his mind has already left me, and only his shell remains. Then he says, “It’s because my father made the wisest choices that gave our family every advantage. Edison’s father died in the coal-mine explosion, and his family was left penniless. All those years that they suffered paupers’ lives, he must have harbored this resentment against me. The ugly pieces fit. Remember, I told you I thought I’d seen him on the battlefield? The doctor said he’d run into someone who knew me. It had to be Edison, yes.” Nathaniel’s face is contorted in agony.

In a real sense, Nathaniel’s right, because it was Edison who intended to kill him. It’s just that Edison wasn’t the one who fired the gun. What should I say? Should I burden him with the truth that his mortal life ended because of
both
his closest friends? So, I delay. “Horrible as it is, Edison was obsessed with vengeance and waited for the right opportunity to end your life.” Somehow, at this point, I just can’t use the word
murder
. It feels too cold-blooded, reptilian.

“Why would he want to kill me, though? Why not my father?”

I wonder about that myself and haven’t worked out an answer, so we both go silent in thought, until something occurs to me. “Suppose Edison’s vengeful grudge wasn’t against you at all but against your father. That’s why he could shoot you while
telling Wince that he was your faithful friend. But he knew that killing you would hurt your father worse than his own death would. Does that make twisted sense?”

“If I had known about the hate in his heart,” Nathaniel says, “I’d have found him, made our peace. My father could have helped his family.”

“He would have resented that even more.”

“I suppose, yes,” Nathaniel says solemnly.

“There’s one more thing before you —”

“I can’t now, Lorelei.” His body seems to flicker before me, and my heart stops for a second. “I am much too weak. Let me rest for a little while, and then we will meet again. At the cemetery. At my grave. So we can …”

He doesn’t have to utter the words
say good-bye
. I know. There’s a lump in my throat. I do feel, though, that Evergreen will be the right place to tell him the truth. We’ll hold each other, standing there at his grave, with Elizabeth Thorn’s statue watching over us, while Nathaniel still has time to process it all before …

I blink and notice that Nathaniel is beginning to waver like a desert mirage in the dimming light of dusk.

“No! Don’t go yet. Okay, I will meet you at Evergreen.”

“Yes. Come to me there just before midnight.”

He’s fading.

“Forget Rules One, Two, and Three,” I yell at the shimmery air. “Come back; come back to me.” A fold in the air closes up with the faintest of
snick
s and Nathaniel’s gone again. It’s almost dark, maybe eight thirty. A few stars dot the sky.

I turn slowly and make my reluctant way back toward the inn. When I’m passing by the shed, a wave of fatigue sweeps over me. I lean against the door of the shed, feeling totally abandoned and trying to get my foggy brain in gear.

There are voices inside the shed. Living people, not the voices of ghosts. Real people are in the shed at this late hour, and they shouldn’t be.

There’s also noise in the shed that only a carpenter would make — the scritchy sound of nails being pulled out of boards. It’s loud enough that anyone inside wouldn’t hear my footsteps out here. It’s almost dark. I could probably slip by the window unnoticed. It’s above my line of vision, although the top of my head might show. I need to see what’s going on inside.

The Dutch doors at the back leave a thin swath of space between the top and the bottom. I can’t see much this way, since it’s about navel-height, but a jerky flashlight in someone’s hand reveals a stoop-shouldered man with his head pointed down at the floor. Old Dryden, watching another person wrenching nails out of the floorboards.

This time I know what they’re looking for.

THE SHED WINDOW’S
cracked open for air; otherwise it would be stifling inside. The unseen man growls with the effort and shouts, “This wood’s hard as concrete. They think they were building Fort Knox when they put this shack up?”

A woman’s voice is too faint for me to make out her words. Maybe she’s the one holding the flashlight. Then another woman says, “Used to be a pond. They musta built it strong in case the water ever came back.” Bertha.

It’s frustrating not to be able to see anything. I have to take
a chance and peek in the window. Glad I’m not in the long skirt and corset that Victorian women wore.

How on earth did they sneak around back then?

There’s a rain gutter spout to the left of the window. Might hold my weight. I count to ten, steel myself —
now or never
— and climb up. The spout makes a crunching sound and I freeze; did they hear? I have to lean way over to get an instant glimpse inside. Two people plus the Drydens. The second woman is tall and curvy, and I can’t see the other man well enough to recognize anything other than a dark blob on the floor, one elbow up in the air with a hammer in his hand. He’s swearing like he’s in a bar brawl. I step down to the ground, and a section of the spout comes with me.

“Keep the light on the floor, you old geezer!” yells the guy with the hammer.

I climb up on the crushed stump of the gutter and peer in the window again. The light’s given me just enough info to see that the second woman is Amelia Wilhoit, the person who got me grounded to keep me away tonight. Is she involved in this hunt for the ring, too? How?

They could all be amateur treasure hunters, making the rounds of stately houses in search of lost booty. I saw that on the Discovery Channel once. But then I remember the article I found online — how the Drydens tried to put one over on that
old invalid lady who
misplaced
President Rutherford Hayes’s watch. They’re not treasure hunters; they’re thieves, and specialists, at that. Only presidential plunder.

But why do they expect the ring to be here, in this shed?

Because of something Wilhoit found in her research about the ring being buried underwater? She must have learned all that stuff Evan explained about old ponds morphing into meadowland. The’ve studied the same map I have, so they figured out that this is where the pond used to be. They connected the dots and got this thug with a hammer to start digging. Even so, they’re flying blind, because they don’t have the RVA box, which Old Dryden was snooping around in our cellar for. He never found it; I did! And he won’t find the ring, either.

But why is Amelia Wilhoit in cahoots with the Drydens? And who is the guy with the hammer? I can’t resist one more glimpse, so I climb up on the gutter. Big mistake. The entire thing comes loose from the roof and clatters to the ground.

“Someone’s out there,” Bertha shouts, before everything goes silent inside. I should run like a gazelle, but instead I do the stupidest thing, I guess because I’m curious to see how it’s all going to turn out. Isn’t that what Nathaniel said his parents were hovering around for, to see how things turn out?

I flatten myself on the grass, hoping the thieves inside won’t spot me in the dark. But it’s too late — Old Dryden
appears with the flashlight, and terror washes over me. He plants one heavy foot on my back. “Don’t think about moving, girlie,” he snarls. It feels like my lungs are being crushed, and I can only let out a small whimper. I wish my parents knew I was out here. I wish Nathaniel would come looking for me. Or Evan. Charlotte.
Anyone.
I’m flooded by panic.

I’m also furious, because on my own two feet, I could overtake the Old Dryden gnome. But I’m stupidly and dangerously facedown in the grass with Dryden’s foot resting on me like I’m a step stool. My whole body’s shaking and I’m choking on my tears of pain and fury. I turn my cheek to capture a little air.

“Tables are turned, girlie, eh?” Dryden says. Then he shouts through the open window. “Hey, come out here and help, Cadmus, come on.”

Suddenly, Old Dryden loses his balance, hobbling on one foot, and I have a blessed moment of relief to lift my head and cough. But before I can slither away, the thug from inside the shed, thankfully without his hammer, looms huge above me. He lifts me by the waist so my torso hangs down one side of his massive arm, my legs the other. Hair droops over my face, filling my mouth, which is open, gasping for air. How am I going to get out of this alive? I don’t want to join the spirits, not even to be with Nathaniel.
Think. Think!

Cadmus hauls me into the shed, draped over his arm like I’m a dead cat. Bertha watches warily from the corner.

Cadmus looks around and says, “Amelia, find something to tie her up with good and sturdy.”

I hear Wilhoit scurry around on those absurd heels. Blowing my hair out of my eyes, I see with dread that she’s found frayed rope and a knife to cut it with. At least I hope that’s what the knife is for.

Cadmus drops me onto the ripped-up floor, and pain shoots through my arm. I roll away from a pile of bent nails and splintered boards. The room’s spinning; my eyes must be spiraling in my head. Old Dryden holds the flashlight while Cadmus ties my ankles together, then leaves a short lank of rope between my ankles and my wrists, which are also tied together. If I try to loosen my wrists, it’ll pull the rope until it cuts into my ankles. And the rope’s so short that I wouldn’t be able to stand up even if I could wrangle my way to my feet. I want to cry; I want to scream, but I’m paralyzed by fear.

Cadmus lifts me again as if I’m as weightless as a phantom, and then he gruffly tosses me onto the seat of the riding mower. The impact shoots a pain up my spine, which is already bruised from Old Dryden’s foot. Another length of rope ties the back of my wrists to the steering wheel. I couldn’t possibly control the
wheel. What if he turns the mower on, opens the door, and shoves me down the hill toward the creek? Oh God!

I bend my head to rest it on the steering wheel, stretching my back at a punishing angle and tugging on the rope around my ankles. Is this what it’s like for a goat to be trussed up before slaughter? Would the goat know what was coming? I can’t let my mind go that route. Can’t. I close my eyes to think more clearly. Make them believe I’m totally out of it so they can’t hurt me any more while I plot my escape.

There’s no escape.

But I watch them through slitted eyes anyway. Old Dryden stands guard at my side with the flashlight in his hand. Wilhoit’s turning a faded paper every which way. I can only see the back of it; it could be a map, yellowed with age. Now Cadmus is back to pulling up floorboards. Bertha’s doing what she does best, which is supervising everyone else, but she seems oddly detached from it all.
Why?
I wonder.
Think. Think!

“Check again, Amelia,” Cadmus is saying. “How many more o’ these slats do I need to pull up before I start digging for pay dirt?”

“Just a few more. I’m pretty sure you’re in the right spot.”

“
Pretty sure
don’t cut it, woman.”

She holds the map up for Cadmus to see. I only get a flash of it, but it looks hand-drawn, with a big red circle around one spot.

“Hey, Joe, Nature Boy, get your eyes off your gut and tell me, how high’s the water table around here? How far down do I have to dig to hit water?”

“Beats me,” Old Dryden tells him. “All’s I know is that crazy saying: ‘With water, everything changes.’ Take your time; you’re close. Probably.”

“That helps a whole lot,” Cadmus grumbles. “You’re a pack of morons.”

And he’s the smart one? Then we’re all in big trouble.

“Might as well burn the map, Amelia. It ain’t doing us a whit of good.”

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?
So, this Cadmus guy is her boyfriend? Suddenly, I remember the framed photograph on Wilhoit’s desk — yes, that was Cadmus! For a romance writer, she’s got rotten taste in men.

“I said burn the paper, woman. Here, reach in my pocket. There’s a lighter.”

Wilhoit obeys — I would have fought him, I think. She flicks the lighter with shaking hands that hold the brittle map by a corner, until there’s nothing but ash and a hot speck of paper, which she tosses away from herself rather than singe her fingertips. Eying the flammable fertilizer bags along one wall, I send up a quick prayer:
Don’t let the embers ignite the whole shed.

I’m miserably uncomfortable; every muscle is pulling. I can’t help it; I let out a groan. Cadmus looks up sharply, wielding the hammer like a caveman club. “Give ’er the chloroform,” he orders Wilhoit.

My stomach clenches in terror.
No!

Wilhoit grabs a rag and pours a clear liquid onto it. The familiar sweet, pungent smell lingers on the air as she struts over to me. Did the frogs on our dissecting table at school suspect what was in store for them like I do? Frogs, goats — why are animals cluttering my mind when I need to be alert for human error?

One of her heels catches on a splintered board, and she falls headlong to the floor, bellowing in pain. A loose nail’s pierced her arm. If I weren’t so uncomfortable, not to mention terrified, I’d cheer and laugh.

Cadmus curses again and shouts, “Clumsy broad, you’re gonna asphyxiate us.”

“I’m bleeding to death over here! I need a tetanus shot.” Wilhoit tries to scramble to her feet with Bertha’s help, still clutching the chloroform bottle. At least she didn’t fling the deadly poison all over the room and knock us all out.

Bertha wrenches the bottle out of Wilhoit’s hand, muttering, “Too chancy. Nobody knows when a little bit’s too much.”

I swallow hard. Did Bertha just save my life?

“It’s the plan, Bertha, remember?” Old Dryden barks. “What we decided if anybody butted in on our work. There’s a fortune at stake. Think I want to sweat in rich people’s gardens forever?” Old Dryden extends his hand. “Give it here.”

Bertha grasps the bottle with both hands behind her back, walking backward toward the window. “Twelve years I’ve wasted with you and your snoring. Bah! All of you, you’re a posse of psychos.”

She’s sane? I’m praying she’ll toss the bottle out the window.
Please. Please.
But Cadmus comes up behind her.

“Hand it over, Ma.”

Ma?
Cadmus is her son? I should have guessed. Crazy breeds crazy, even if Bertha is acting somewhat rational now. And that explains why I thought Cadmus looked familiar in that photo on the desk — he bears a striking resemblance to Bertha.

She jerks her shoulder away from him, so he snatches the bottle and rag out of her hands. Bertha fires me a look that says,
I’m sorry, kid. I gave it my best shot.

The bottle’s open. I watch Cadmus hold his breath so he won’t inhale any of the chloroform as he opens the bottle and pours some onto the rag and slams it onto my face. I try to spit it away; my tongue can’t avoid its hot, sweet taste. My head’s reeling. How long can I resist? I can’t hold my breath forever….