Rebel Spirits (9 page)

I WALK DOWNSTAIRS
in a haze — both from Nathaniel’s kisses and from thinking about the circumstances of his death. Gertie joins me as I leave the stuffy house and cross the lawn in search of Evan.

I see him, changed out of his uniform into a T-shirt and jeans. He’s maneuvering his precious Weedwacker, which is doing its search-and-destroy on dandelions. Gertie and I follow, trying not to sacrifice toes and paws to the rogue weeder.

“So. Drydens, the hot topic of the day?” Evan prompts when he sees me.

I nod, trying to change gears from Nathaniel’s tale of bloodshed and mystery to the current topic of conversation.

“How well you know Old Dryden?” I ask, keeping careful to whisper.

“The Hunchback of Notre Doom? On a scale of one to five, with one being we’d nod passing each other at Walmart, and five being we’re twins separated at birth, I’d say minus three. He’s not a know-worthy man.”

“Is he sneaky?”

“Too grouchy to be sneaky.” He laughs, and Gertie whips his leg with her wagging tail. “I just contract with him to do the backbreaking work he’s too decrepit to do.”

“What’s he like, really?”

“The guy has no sense of humor. A man without a sense of humor is not to be trusted.”

I jump at that. “You don’t trust him?”

“I don’t
mistrust
him. There’s just something fishy, like his brain has a microchip missing.”

“That’s it perfectly. How many summers have you worked for him?”

Evan turns off the Weedwacker and makes a big show of counting each finger. “Including this summer? One.”

“Really?” That doesn’t make sense. “Bertha makes it sound like they’ve been here forever. Like they were
hatched
in the
house, like cockroaches, so they have squatters’ rights. They’re harder to peel away than wallpaper.”

Evan raises his eyebrows. “Not so. This is their first season. Where’d you get the idea they were regulars?”

“Bertha said. Implied.”

“Lori, you’ve been snookered.”

I shake my head. “But Bertha’s a native. She knows so much about Gettysburg and the Battle.” I hear her voice in my head:
It’s our history. What’s yours?

“Ever hear of Google?” Evan teases. “Though, I don’t know, maybe she grew up here. I’ll ask my dad. But I’ve lived here my whole life. She hasn’t. A town this size, you recognize everybody, and I never saw her or Old Dryden before April.”

I start pacing, my mind racing. Suddenly it seems there’s another mystery to unravel besides Nathaniel’s murder. “Do you think she’s a pathological liar?”

Evan shrugs. “Maybe she and the hubby have something major to hide.”

I nod, coming to a stop. “Which might be why I found him crouching under a table in our basement late at night. I was hoping you’d know why.”

He shakes his head. “I’m clueless. That’s what my three sisters tell me.”

I can’t help but smile. “Want to come with Gertie and me to explore the basement?” I’m hoping to get down there during daylight hours, and with company — and not of the little McLean boys variety.

“I’d follow Gertie anywhere,” Evan says, “as long as you’re with her.” He grins and turns the Weedwacker on again. “I need to finish up here, then mow the Engles’ lawn. Five o’clock, dark and dank cellar?”

Evan’s brought a flashlight that’s bright enough to scare bats in their cave. Gertie and I follow him down the steps to the basement. Gertie doesn’t like it down here. I feel jittery myself. I’m picking up scents I missed before: the lingering rank odor of decay, and something sweet and pungent. It’s familiar. I can’t place it, but it makes me want to breathe through my mouth, not my nose. Evan’s flashlight plays around the corners, revealing nothing new. Gertie zeroes in on the squirrel bones the boys found. But since it’s not fresh meat, and the bones are only like twigs, Gertie loses interest.

“Where was Old Dryden?” Evan asks. I motion to the door, which is now closed. “I don’t remember closing that door last night, though,” I say, feeling spooked.

Evan spots the loose doorknob on the floor and fiddles with the latch. Naturally, the door creaks open, like any self-respecting door in a horror movie.

It’s a small back room. The window’s blacked out — to prevent anyone looking in and seeing what goes on inside? The flashlight’s high beams jump around, spotlighting the gurgling hot-water heater, the giant breaker box that hulks against a wall with all the little levers facing the right direction, the furnace and water pipes snaking up to the ceiling. It’s all as it should be, nothing sinister.

Until something brushes the top of Evan’s head, and he jumps a foot, jerking the flashlight upward.

“Relax, it’s just a pull string for the lightbulb.” I yank it, and that’s all it takes for the bulb to burn out. If our flashlight battery dies, we’re cooked.

“Must be a worktable,” Evan observes, illuminating the waist-high ledge bolted to the south wall. It’s nicked and stained like it’s seen eons of use. A few stray tools and Gerber baby food jars full of nails and screws clutter the end of the table, which has an odd hole in its center, not quite large enough for a softball to sink through.

Evan squats under the table. “There’s no trash basket under here to collect things dropped through the hole. Maybe it’s to drain turpentine or water or some other fluid.”

“Blood.” Suddenly it hits me. Didn’t Dad and Bertha say this was a hospital? “I think this was an operating table.” I think of the doctor Nathaniel met, the one driven to madness because of his missing ring. Patting around underneath the tabletop, I hit a narrow drawer, which I yank but can’t force open.

“I don’t see a key conveniently hanging on a nearby nail,” Evan says, but he hands me a flat-blade screwdriver that fits in the warped wood gap. I’m able to pry the drawer open, smashing the soft old wood a little. Gertie’s on her hind legs, champing to see what’s inside.

“Forget it, Gertie. All that work for nothing.” It’s just an empty drawer lined with that brown cloth that keeps silver from tarnishing. I jam the drawer shut, disappointed.

Evan looks over, furrowing his brow. “If the drawer’s empty, Lori, why’s it locked?”

My fingers probe the bottom of the drawer under the table, snagging on splinters of rough wood. The drawer is deeper than I expected. I pull it open and peel back the brown cloth to find a small compartment of unfinished wood.

And inside is a polished wooden box about a foot long, maybe three inches high. Old-fashioned initials are carved into the box’s lid:
RVA
.

I gasp.

“What’d you find?” Evan peers over my shoulder. “Who’s RVA?”

“Maybe we’ll find out in a sec.” A tiny brass knob just begs me to pull out the box’s small drawer. My hands are clammy with dread as I slide the drawer open, expecting to see — what? — insect carcasses? Piles of Confederate greenbacks? An ivory elephant tusk? None of the above. Inside, cradled in red velvet niches, are five small, rusty knives with ivory handles. Knives like nothing you’d see in a kitchen, nothing you’d see in the twenty-first century. I quickly slide the small drawer shut and run my finger over the carved initials, RVA, wondering who he is, or was. Shaking, I unclasp the latch and throw the lid open. There’s a small handsaw inside, rusted and jagged-edged. Gertie wants to lick it, but I shoo her away.

Suddenly, Old Dryden’s words last night echo in my head:
Doctor only needed twelve minutes to cut off a whole leg. Arm, less than that.
Now I realize why he was saying that.

“I know what this is, Evan. It’s an amputation kit.”

“No way. Let me see.” He flicks his finger over the rusty edge of a knife. “It must have seen a lot of action, because this thing wouldn’t cut through a chunk of cheddar.”

I squirm. “This is what Old Dryden was looking for, I’m sure of it.” I’m feeling more creeped out by the minute. “But why?”

“The old Hunchback of Notre Doom must be planning to do some amateur surgery.”

I shake my head, mystified and horrified. “I’m taking the kit upstairs to hide until we can figure out what it’s all about.”

“Maybe I’ll do a little online research.” Evan looks pensive, and I can tell that he’s as spooked by this find — locked drawer, rusty old knives, amputation — as I am. I wonder if I should ask Nathaniel about this discovery, if he would know any more than we do.

Gertie is starting to whine; she wants out. “Let’s go.” We close the door and tiptoe up the rickety stairs. While Evan ushers Gertie into the kitchen, I dash up to my room with the box, stashing it inside the case of an extra pillow on my bed. As I’m coming back downstairs, something that’s been murky in my mind suddenly runs clear. It’s like when a tune coils through your brain, but you just can’t pull out the title until you’re doing something mindless, like sweeping cobwebs off the ceiling. Now I recognize that sweet, pungent smell from the basement. I know it from biology, from frog dissection. It’s chloroform, a drug that can knock people unconscious. Why is that scent wafting through our cellar?

FROM THE KITCHEN
window, Evan and I watch Gertie run around outside. The yard looks innocent enough in the yellowish late-afternoon glow. Up the hill’s the lawn-mower shed. Just a small barnlike building covered in pine boards, new but built to look old. Why did it feel so threatening the other night?

The garden sprinkler is hissing. Old Dryden’s kitchen garden is a riot of color, overflowing with radishes and cucumbers, peppers and zucchini, leafy herbs and vining tomato plants. And then I can’t stop my awful thought: Is it such a bountiful
crop because of creepy Dryden’s loving, stoop-backed care? Or because this ground has been fertilized by so many human remains of the 1863 Battle?

Thankfully Evan interrupts my thoughts. “Let’s go down to the creek,” he says. “I want to talk to you about something.”

“Sounds ominous,” I tease, while inside I feel my stomach give a jump. We step outside and I whistle to Gertie. “Come on, Gertie Girl, water sports!”

She beats us down the hill and dives in like a water nymph while we wade in the shallow near the bank. Evan’s not talking, and I’m curious. I wish-wish-wish Nathaniel’s shimmery image would appear, but it’s just Evan beside me.

About halfway across the creek, Gertie’s head juts up out of the water, and she growls ferociously.

“What’s up, girl?” Maybe a water snake spooked her. She’s not usually that skittish. She swims back to me, her growl reduced to a low rumble. I love the smell of wet dog.

“So, I was wondering,” Evan says, like it’s a continuation of a chat we’ve been having all day. “There’s a thing tonight up at Herr Ridge.”

“What kind of thing?”

“A ball.”

Gertie wags her tail.
Ball
is one of her top ten words.

“Like a dance ball,” Evan elaborates. “Wanna go?”

I’m taken aback. I think of how many times I used to wish that Danny Bartoli would ask me to a school dance. He never did. Is Evan … asking me out?

“I’m not really a … ball kind of girl,” I explain. Plus, I’m supposed to meet Nathaniel later. I can’t miss that.

“Great, so I’ll come by and get you at nine o’clock.” Evan grins at me, and I laugh despite myself.

“Try to scare up a nineteenth-century ball gown,” he adds. “Plus white gloves, parasol, the whole shebang.” He reaches across Gertie and winds my hair into a bun up on the crown of my head. I’m surprised by the sudden contact, but I don’t mind it. “Nice locks for an upsweep ’do, a few tendrils on the side, maybe?”

I shake my hair loose. “What do you know about hair-dos, Evan?”

“Three sisters, don’t forget. Our shower dispenses hot-and-cold conditioner instead of water.”

I sigh. “I don’t know, Evan. Where am I supposed to find an antique ball gown in, like, four hours?”

He laughs. “I’ll bet Charlotte has something you can borrow. All the women around here have Civil War stuff hanging in their closets. I’ll ask my sisters.” He steps back in the water to look me over. “One’s about your size.”

“No! Did I say I was going?”

Evan runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “You know what you are, Lori Chase? You’re a fuddy-duddy.”

“What’s a fuddy-duddy?” I feel like Nathaniel, lost in unknown words.

“A stick-in-the-mud, a Gloomy Glinda.”

I snort. “Well, at least Glinda was the
good
witch in Oz. What was the bad witch’s name? Doesn’t matter; she’s not going to the dance, and neither am I.”

Evan laughs, nudging me. “Hey, lighten up, Lori. You’re entitled to time off for good behavior. See if Charlotte has a fan, too. Fans are fetching.”

Fetch
, another one of Gertie’s top vocab words. She trots over with high expectations, so Evan throws a stick across the lawn. Gertie races for it and brings it back in her mouth. Her eyes plead:
Again? Again!

I guess I have been a little preoccupied with ghosts and murder and amputated limbs as of late. Mom’s been urging me to get out and have some fun. Here’s my big chance. “Nine o’clock, yeah, okay.” I’ll meet Nathaniel afterward, I decide. “But it’s not a date.”

“Noooo. It’s a nice guy taking a beautiful girl to a ball on a moonlit summer night. Doesn’t sound like a date to me, either.”

A blush burns my cheeks and I look down. Evan thinks I’m beautiful? Does Nathaniel?

“I think you’re beautiful, too,” comes a warm, familiar voice in my ear. I look around, but no one is there besides Evan, and he’s busy jogging over to Gertie, who’s halfway across the lawn. The voice comes again. “I’ve always been partial to tall, brown-haired ladies who speak their mind.”

My heart is racing and I’m trying to fight my blush. I wait until Evan is out of earshot until I whisper, “Nathaniel! I thought you weren’t going to spy on me or do the invisible number, remember?” But the truth is, I don’t mind anymore.

“How could I resist this time? He’s taking you to a fancy-dress ball.” Just like that, Nathaniel shimmers into the space before my eyes, taking on his solid form. I hear Gertie across the lawn starting to bark like crazy — she must sense Nathaniel’s presence — but Evan distracts her by tossing the stick again. They can’t see us.

Nathaniel sighs, looking disappointed. “Since you will be otherwise occupied at our appointed meeting time, might you stay here now so we can talk?” He jerks his head in Evan’s direction. “Hopefully he will leave you be for a while.”

“You’re jealous!” I soften my whisper. “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe what?” Evan asks, jogging over with a barking Gertie at his heels.

In a flash, Nathaniel disappears, and I’m left stammering.

“I didn’t say
believe
,” I lie, glancing at Evan. “I said bee — beehive.”

Nathaniel laughs in my ear.

Evan frowns. “I haven’t seen bees around. A few wasps, maybe.” He shrugs. “So, I’ll come by at nine, okay?” Evan waves to me, then starts back up the lawn toward his car. Gertie runs panting after him, and thankfully, he pauses to let her back into the house.

“Nathaniel? Are you still there?” I whisper.

I stand and wait in the gathering evening. It’s weirdly quiet; not even the whistling song of cicadas in the trees. The musky smell of decaying leaves wafts up from the creek, not unpleasantly. Lights blink on in one room up at the house as a guest comes back from dinner. Ms. Wilhoit, I think. Shadows have started to lengthen under the trees around me.

“You look magical in the fading light of day, like a fairy princess,” Nathaniel says, materializing by my side.

I wish I could stop blushing. I’m not sure what to do with all these compliments.

“A princess in a Phillies T-shirt and cutoff jeans,” I say. He has no idea what the Phillies are, or even what jeans are, but I wonder if his otherwordly eyes see something different in me.

“So, this Evan Maxwell is taking you to a ball,” Nathaniel says, and he sweeps off his hat, pressing it to his chest. “This maims my tender heart.”

I want to throw my arms around him but I resist. I catch sight of the elderly Mrs. Crandall on the porch, yellow in the fake kerosene lamplight that’s trying to brighten the dusk. Her knitting needles click.

I turn back to Nathaniel, keeping my voice low. “I wish
you
were taking me. But let’s meet at the creek after the dance — before midnight. That’ll get me through the evening.”

“I’ll be there.” Does he mean the creek, or the dance?

“Listen,” I whisper, “I found a strange box — a kit, really —”

Then I hear footsteps and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Who’s coming? Who’ll see Nathaniel? I turn around and spot Mr. Crandall in an old-fashioned neck-to-knees swimsuit.

“Evening, Miss Lori,” he says. “Thought I’d take a little dip before the sun’s gone.”

He jumps into the water, feetfirst, swims the length of the creek and back, then rises out of the water with leaves and muck clinging to him. “Ahhh! That was refreshing. Carry on, folks!” and he drips his way up the hill toward the house.

Folks? He sees someone here besides me?
Nathaniel hasn’t moved. I’m surprised he didn’t do his vanishing act when Mr. Crandall appeared.

Before I can ask Nathaniel about this, I see the McLean boys coming our way. Max, the six-year-old, is choking a brown paper bag and shouting, “We’re gonna feed the ducks! Mrs. Hannah in the kitchen gave us her stale toast.”

“This isn’t a pond — there are no ducks here,” I start to say, and this time, I see, Nathaniel’s an undulating image, like a flag waving in a brisk breeze. He’s going.

The boys don’t seem to notice anything strange; they just tromp closer to the bank, looking in vain for ducks.

As I start back toward the house, I hear Nathaniel faintly say, “Try not to have too good a time at the ball tonight.”