Rebel Spirits (16 page)

MY HEAD ROLLS
like a pumpkin on the vine, or maybe more like a cannonball shot during the Battle. My eyes are starting to close just as the door bangs open and the shed’s flooded with light. As if from a great distance, I hear voices shouting, “Police! Nobody move a muscle!”

Cadmus, thankfully, doesn’t listen. He jumps away from me, but the rag clings to my face. I try to shake it off, which is taking monumental effort as my body yields to the chloroform.

“Drop to the ground, all of you.” I hear thuds all around the
shed as I draaaaag my head slowly toward the door. There are the Crandalls, right behind two cops.

Mrs. Crandall says, “See, Earl, I told you our girl was in peril.”

“How right you were, Mother,” her husband replies, while the second cop is making his way around the prone forms of Bertha, Old Dryden, Wilhoit, and Cadmus. And then I see Evan right behind Mrs. Crandall. He sizes up the situation immediately, and he pulls the cloth off my nose and mouth. I can breathe again, but my head still seems to be dangling from my neck like an anchor. Evan starts to untie me. The other cop stops him, saying, “We gotta take some shots.” Camera shots, I’m relieved to know. “Don’t move, any one of you down there eating sawdust.”

The cop keeps one foot on Cadmus, obviously the biggest and baddest guy in the shed, and pulls out a small camera. He clicks madly all around the room, while the other cop keeps his gun aimed steadily.

In my muddled state, I see Old Dryden wildly swinging the flashlight. The cop with the gun lurches for him and wrestles his wrists into handcuffs behind him.

Bertha’s wimpering, “Go easy, he’s got scoliosis and a heart murmur.”

Evan spots the knife on the floor and reaches for it to cut me loose, but a cop snatches it up with his handkerchief, muttering, “Fingerprints.” Evan’s cleared to free me with the covered knife, and he slices through the ropes carefully. My whole body goes limp with relief and the morning-after fog of the chloroform, and I collapse into Evan’s arms. The rag’s now in an evidence bag. Both cops are handcuffing the rest of the culprits. I’m watching through droopy-lidded eyes, my limp and achy body supported by Evan in the doorway, where I’m sucking in sweet, fresh air.

The words come so slowly: “How … did you … know?” I ask him.

“Easy,” he says quietly. This isn’t meant for the cops. “I called your cell, but you didn’t answer. So, I tried the house phone. Your mom sounded kind of distracted. When she said you wouldn’t be going out tonight, couldn’t even talk on the phone, I knew something was up. This is your last night to solve the murder case, right? I knew you’d do anything to get the job done. For Nathaniel,” he adds.

The Crandalls come up behind us, and Mrs. Crandall says, “I was frantic. I just knew Lori was in trouble, and we’d need all the help we could get, short of Lori’s parents, who would be beside themselves with worry.”

“You did the right thing, Mother,” Mr. Crandall says, beaming at his wife.

“So, when Mrs. Crandall called me, she insisted that I come over right away, said she’d already called 9-1-1.” Evan takes a cloth out of his pocket and starts to wipe my brow, but I panic, reliving the drugged rag on my face.

“Relax, Lori, it’s just a nice, clean handkerchief. You’re sweating like a pig.”

“Pigs … don’ swea’,” I manage. “No swea’ glans.”

“That’s my friend Lori. Always gotta be right.” He smiles, his teeth blindingly white, and he hugs me tighter. “Let me check with the cops. I want to take you back to your parents.”

“Uh-uh. They’ll … go … bonkers. Grounded … snuck out.”

The cops are marching the handcuffed four across the lawn to the two backup cars at the end of the driveway. Somewhere in my smoggy mind I think,
Wow, just like on
Law & Order.

One cop asks me, “You okay, miss? We can call for an ambulance.”

I shake my head, which is starting to feel better now that I’ve breathed in the fresh air. “I’m okay. Jus’ godda … go … home.”

“Your parents up at the house?”

“Yezzir.”

“All right, then. Let’s go. What are your names, you and your folks?”

I can’t remember theirs. I’m not sure I can pull my own name out in my fuzzy, muddled state.

Evan answers, “Her name’s Lori Chase. Her parents are Vernon and Miriam Chase.” He supports me, staggering toward the house just as the door flies open and everyone pours out — the McLeans, the Durnings — all staring at the cops and me. Mr. McLean has his arms around Jake and Max like a harness. The boys are in pj’s, rubbing sleep out of their eyes, and Brownie’s nipping at everyone’s heels.

Mom cuts through the crowd and throws her arms around me. “Oh my God, what happened? Lori? I thought you were upstairs in your room. Vernon!” she shouts toward the hall. “Come quick, Lori’s hurt!”

Dad flies out the door, waving a newspaper. “What happened, Lorelei? What happened to her?” Dad asks frantically as Evan releases me into Dad’s arms. Dad walks me inside, one cop follows, and Mom closes the door on all our guests.

I’m thinking,
Not good for repeat business
, as I’m lowered to a sofa in the parlor. Nothing I want more than sleep right now.
Have to stay awake. Why? Something to do. What? Something to tell the cop. What is it? What?
Bertha.

“Of’cer, older woman, not like uh res’ of ’em. She … she tried tuh help me.”

The cop nods. “We’ll take that into consideration. You gotta be sure to keep the girl awake ’til her head clears,” he advises Mom and Dad.

Someone’s knocking on the red door. Dad lets the McLeans and the Durnings and Crandalls in, motioning them right upstairs without a word. I’m betting the boys are listening from the landing.

But then Evan steps inside and Dad doesn’t send him home right away.

“Mr. and Mrs. Chase, can we go into another room to talk?” the cop is asking.

Mom’s frightened eyes are fixed on me. “I don’t want to leave her alone.”

But Dad says what I’m already thinking. “Evan can watch her,” he offers, and I manage to nod my assent.

“Soon as possible, we’ll get Lori here to the ER for a checkup,” the cop is telling Evan. “Right now, get her a Coke or some coffee.”

“I’ll do it!” Mom cries before Evan can make a move. Frantically, she runs to the kitchen, and returns in a flash with a glass of sugary Pepsi. Then she and Dad follow the cop into the adjoining room while Evan sits down beside me.

He holds the drink to my lips. Yuck, it’s warm; no ice. I think of Wince, trying to help heal Nathaniel in the tent, moments before he accidentally shot him dead.

“It’ll give you a good caffeine charge to counteract the chloroform,” Evan urges me gently. “Drink gustily. So, do you want to tell me how it all went down in the shed?”

I take a few sips of the warm soda, and I do feel my head start to clear. But time’s all skewed like when I had my appendix out two years ago, and I was resurfacing after the anesthetic. It feels like all the shed stuff happened yesterday, or a month ago, or a minute ago, or hasn’t happened yet, but will. After a few more gulps of the soda, I sputter out the details about the Drydens and Cadmus and Wilhoit tearing up the shed to find the buried ring. It’s so hard to get the words out, and I can’t imagine what they sound like on the other end of the tunnel, but I say something that resembles, “You’re a real cowboy, Evan Maxwell. You got there just in time to rescue the damsel in distress.”

“Just cowboy? I think I rank superhero status. Batman, Superman, the Hulk. At least Robin. Actually, you have Superwoman Crandall to thank for getting me on the scene.”

The fog’s starting to lift. Time’s returning to the current dimension. I jolt up to a sitting position, causing my head to swarm with bees inside. Out the window I see the roof lights of
police cars spinning red lights round and round, like my head. I close my eyes to slow the swirling. My parents and the cop are talking low in the other room, like more buzzing bees, and then Dad rushes back and says, “The officers will take you and your mom to the hospital. I’ll follow in the Taurus.”

I shake my head vigorously. Those bees go nuts until I think my head’s going to explode, but at least the red-light cars are leaving now.

Mom runs down the stairs with a small bag of supplies. “Toothbrush, nightie, and comb, in case they admit you, honey.”

I start to protest but Dad pats my arm. “No argument, Lorelei,” he says gently. “Just leave it in our hands.” He turns to Evan. “Thank you, son, for looking after her. We’ll call you when we know what’s going on.”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. and Mrs. Chase, I’ll wait right here.”

“It’s nine o’clock, son. We might not be back for a couple hours,” Dad says, fishing his car keys out of his pocket.

A couple hours? My eyes fly open, race wildly.
I have to get to Evergreen Cemetery before midnight!

“All the same, sir, I’ll wait here ’til Lori comes home,” Evan says, giving me a reassuring look. And somehow, it helps. A little.

THE ER’S A
madhouse. What’s going on here?” Dad asks the policewoman who’s cutting through a mob to get me to the check-in desk. The waiting room is small and crawling with people moaning and coughing.

“Last Battle night,” Officer Foley says — she introduced herself to me as we were leaving the inn. “The kooks are out. Wait ’til next week when all the bikers are in town. Hogs all over the parking lot.”

In a few minutes, she scores us a quick sit-down with the triage nurse, who immediately shuffles me into the back room
while people in the waiting room watch me, probably wondering what horrific thing I did to get busted.

And then Mom and Dad and I are in a tiny examining room. They’ve pulled a three-quarter-length curtain around us, and I watch Officer Foley’s clompy shoes pacing back and forth on the other side of the curtain. We wait and wait. I hear the pizza-sized clock at the nurses’ station click; valuable minutes tick by.

Finally, a nurse comes in, asks a thousand questions, does the usual stuff (blood pressure, temperature), tells my parents to step out to the waiting room while she asks me a protocol of questions about whether I’ve been abused in any way, or if there’s anything personal I want to tell her that I can’t say in front of my parents.

There’s a lot, but it has nothing to do with how my body’s working, so I say, “No, let’s get on with the exam.”

A nurse-practitioner does a preliminary neuro-exam that consists of me following his finger as it wags back and forth, counting backward from a hundred by sevens and giving him the day, date, and time. Man, do I know that one. Tuesday, July third; dangerously close to midnight. I assure him that the fog’s lifted, and I’m ready to go home. Not yet. They take X-rays of my back and prick my arm so they can take blood. I barely feel the pain and discomfort. After what I went through earlier
tonight, it’s nothing. And it’s clean, quiet, and orderly in here. Not like it was for those soldiers who laid their arms bare for a fast, brutal amputation.
Piles of limbs out the window.
I think of Nathaniel, ache for him.

A Dr. Biao comes in, looks over the chart, listens to my lungs and heart, and proclaims them to be in good shape. She doesn’t know that my heart is about to be broken in ways her cold stethoscope couldn’t possibly pick up.

Mom and Dad fill out papers, the cop fills out more papers, and I’m sprung from the hospital. It’s past ten thirty. So little time left.

At home, Evan’s waiting in the parlor. He jumps to his feet and gives me a hug.

“I have to go to Evergreen,” I whisper to him.

“I know,” he whispers into my hair. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Thanks for waiting for us, Evan. Now I need to take Lori upstairs and settle her into bed,” Mom says, obviously dismissing Evan.

“No!” I turn to my parents, pleading at them with my eyes. “There’s something I have to do first. I can’t explain this now, but I have to get to Evergreen Cemetery. I have to — to say good-bye to someone.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Lorelei Cordelia.” Dad doesn’t sound angry, though, just worried.

I’m pulling myself together, trying to appear as rational as possible. That’s not easy when my whole reason for going to Evergreen is to meet with a person who was buried there a century and a half ago and who’s about to return to the spirit world.

“Dad, after this I’ll stay grounded, I promise.”

Grounded, groundhog, planted deep in the cemetery ground — all related to what I have to do.

“I’ll give up my cell phone for a month,” I continue. “Stay off Facebook for the rest of my natural life. Well, maybe not that long. But this is something I absolutely have to do, trust me, and it has to be done right now, before midnight.”

“Grounded isn’t the issue, Lorelei.” Dad sounds confused, which is unusual for him. He glances toward Evan. “Do you know what this is about?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Mind telling me?”

“Not at this time, sir.”

“I see. And in your estimation, it’s essential that Lorelei get to this cemetery place?”

“Yes, sir, I believe it is.”

“You just have to trust me on this, Dad. I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”

Mom speaks up, wringing her hands. “I’m very uneasy about this, honey.”

“I’ll go with her,” Dad offers, to console Mom.

“No! You just wouldn’t understand. Please, Dad.”

Mom and Dad exchange looks again while he’s processing. He’s a good and quick processor. “Will you go with her, Evan? See that she’s safe?”

I turn my pleading eyes toward Evan, but then I realize he’s already two steps ahead of me. He takes a deep breath and responds, “I’ll watch out for her, Mr. and Mrs. Chase.”

“All right, then,” Dad concedes, checking his watch. “Your mother and I want you back here by twelve thirty, and if you’re not, I’ll come get you myself. Clear, Lorelei Cordelia?”

“Clear, Dad. Thank you a million times over.”

“I hope I don’t regret this,” he mutters.

I hug Dad and Mom before they can change their minds, and Evan and I hurry outside.

We settle into the yellow Camaro wreck. On the way to the cemetery, Evan doesn’t say a word. I can guess what this is costing him, this middle-of-the-night trek for Nathaniel, but I can’t focus on Evan’s feelings right now. I’m concentrating fiercely on conjuring Nathaniel’s spirit to meet me at Evergreen, as he promised. The rattletrap Camaro grinds to a halt just outside the Evergreen gatehouse. In the dark of night, floodlights illuminate the red brick. But in Elizabeth Thorn’s time,
no electric light would have streamed through the windows to unsettle those children sleeping inside. I picture her barefooted, wispy hair loose to her waist, pacing up and down a narrow hall. She’s worrying about whether her husband will return from the war hundreds of miles away.

I have to get her out of my mind so I can be fully focused in the
now
, ready for what lies ahead — the truth about Wince and the farewell. Both I dread.

I look into the darkness of the cemetery. “Am I too late?”

“It’s eleven forty-five. But hey, maybe ghosts don’t operate on daylight saving time.” Evan pulls a flashlight from the glove box. “I know the cemetery. My grandfather’s buried here. What section do you have to go to?”

“His grave is in the oldest part. He’d have been buried only a few years after the cemetery opened.” I know my way around the cemetery, too, or at least I thought I did — everything looks so different in the dark, so … forbidding. “Near the Jenny Wade statue with the perpetual flag.” Jenny Wade was the only civilian killed during the Battle, when a random bullet found her inside her sister’s house. She was only a few years older than me.

“This way.” Evan holds my hand to guide me into the cemetery. We pass right by the statue of Elizabeth Thorn, which is
barely visible in the black night, yet I feel her as if she were trying to wrestle her way out of the bronze.

Evan and I weave around tombstones and ground that’s knotted with roots. All I can do is follow his beam, hoping a jolt of recognition will alert me when I’m in the right place. Where Nathaniel is buried. Where Nathaniel will be waiting.

“Evan, stop. I need to do this alone.”

“I know. I’ll get you there, wherever
there
is, and then I’ll go sit with my grandpa. Haven’t visited him in a long time. When you’re ready to leave, raise the flashlight toward the sky and wave it in a big, slow circle. I’ll come get you.”

We slide in and out between headstones with strangers’ names engraved on them, some so old that the engraving is barely readable and the granite corners are worn and round as stooped shoulders.

“Anything?” Evan asks.

“Not yet.” And then there is something: a sudden drop in temperature and that feeling that the air is thrumming with presence. I stop suddenly, listening. No words, but I know Nathaniel’s here. “This is the place, Evan.”

“Sure?”

“Please, there isn’t much time.”

He hands me the flashlight and backs away, watching to make sure I’m safe.

He’s a shadowy moving figure among the still, cold gravestones, until he disappears into the darkness. I click off the flashlight to preserve the battery. At least, that’s what I tell myself, but it’s really because I won’t need light to see Nathaniel. He’s light itself.