Rebel Spirits (17 page)

I’M HERE, LORELEI.”
Nathaniel reaches for my hand, still warm from Evan’s. He gently tugs me to the ground until we’re sitting side by side, our backs against his gravestone. He and I have spent so much time leaning against granite boulders and tombstones. Odd way to be
dating
, if you can call it that.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” I tell him, holding tight to his hand. He does seem more substantial than he did when we spoke earlier — the rest must have done him good.

Nathaniel nods, his eyes full of concern. “I know what happened tonight in that small building up the hill. You asked me
to
listen
for you, and so I have been with you for the past three hours. I heard you plead with your parents to let you come here. I guided you to this very spot.”

Did he? Or did Evan? “I was so scared, Nathaniel.”

“I know, my Lorelei.” He’s restless beside me, a final burst of nervous energy. Maybe he’s
all
energy. How will he take what I have to tell him? I choke on my own words: “I nearly died. Would you want me to be dead so we could stay together?”

He’s quiet. Do I need to repeat the question, or is it just too hard for him to answer? Then he speaks. “I’ve been around a long, long time, Lorelei, bumbling around in your world of talking machines, some big ones and some small enough to nearly swallow, and lights so bright they sear my eyes. I don’t belong in the twenty-first century, not even the twentieth. But some things are timeless, and one of them is this: Love is not selfish. You’re sixteen.”

“Nearly seventeen,” I protest out of habit.

“You have a whole life ahead of you. It severely unnerved me when I thought you were going to leave your body too soon. Yes, I would’ve welcomed you with open heart. I couldn’t, though. You had to return to your life. I knew it wasn’t your time to cross over. So I sent a thought to a lady named Mrs. Crandall, who heard my plea.” He turns my face toward him. “I had to save you. I had to let you go.”

Right now I’d leave everything behind and go with him. We are sitting so close together and I grip his hand. He must sense what I’m feeling because he unlaces his fingers from mine. “We are here to say good-bye,” he reminds me softly. “Well, here in this moment. Not here in the sense of here in this universe. In the endless loop of time and space.”

I have to smile at that, even though my heart is shattering. “That’s the basic difference between us, isn’t it, Nathaniel? You’re cruising through eternity, and I’m firmly grounded in the earth beneath my feet.”

He reaches for my hand again. “You are very grounded, Lorelei. But you are also connected to me, and to the spirit world. That is why you are one of a kind.”

I blush in the darkness, then shake my head, coming back to reality. “We’re not here just to say good-bye, Nathaniel,” I tell him, fighting back tears. “I have to finish telling you everything.”

“First tell me how everything fits together about what happened in that small building, when the world almost lost you.”

I sprint through the horrors in the shed: the Drydens, their son Cadmus, and his girlfriend, Amelia Wilhoit. How they were desperate to find the ring to cash it in for a small fortune. “They don’t know that I have it. No one else knows but you and me.”

“And Evan Maxwell.”

“Yes, Evan.”

I can sense Nathaniel weakening by the second, no more solid than a helium balloon. If I squeeze his arm, my fingers will meet in the center of his flesh. Let go of him, and he’ll float up to the sky. There will be no string to pull him back to me.

Only minutes left. The closer we get to midnight, the less of him I’ll have to hold on to. “There’s one last thing I have to tell you, Nathaniel.” My blood is roaring in my ears and I have to force myself to get the words out. “It’s about Wince.” I take both his hands in mine; they’re no heavier than a rag doll’s. “This is really hard to do.”

“What? What is it?” His eyes lock on mine until I have to lower my head.

A deep breath fills me with a few seconds of courage. “That night, before you were shot, you were unconscious or delirious. Even if you hadn’t been, you couldn’t have seen what was going on behind your back, because Wince sat you up to spoon some more healing tea into your mouth. Edison burst into the tent, his gun loaded, determined to make your family pay for his family’s suffering.”

“Yes, we’ve been through all this before,” Nathaniel says urgently.

The courage has abandoned me, so I swallow deeply and rush through the rest. “Wince struggled with Edison —” I stop, seeing Nathaniel’s face contorted with grief. I don’t want to reveal this awful fact to him. And yet, he’s waited a hundred and fifty years for the truth. “The two of them tumbled to the ground. Wince ripped the gun out of Edison’s hand and … and …”

Nathaniel pulls my hands to his lips. His words vibrate through my trembling fingers. “Wince pulled the trigger, is that what you’re telling me?”

Softly, I say, “Yes. I’m so sorry. It was a terrible accident.”

Nathaniel settles into himself, silent and separate from me for a few seconds. His voice is wavery, but he manages to say the most astonishing thing. “Don’t you see, Lorelei? I would have been dead either way. But Wince allowed me to travel into the next world with dignity, at the hand of a true friend, not a bitter enemy. And all these years I didn’t know.”

It takes me a moment, but now I can see it the same way he does. There’s no need to burden him with the knowledge that Wince suffered in guilt all the rest of his days. Nathaniel, at least, is at peace. I take my hands back and fold them calmly in my lap as he speaks quickly, the energy leeching away from him.

“Do you know whose family plot this is?” He pulls me to my feet and turns me toward the four headstones in a straight row, like a pew. Nathaniel’s gravestone is here at our end, then there’s a bit of space before the next two, which are nearly touching, like lovers’ shoulders. The farthest one is small. A child’s? I shine the flashlight, careful not to lift the light all the way up so Evan sees my signal. Not yet.

The letters carved in the granite are faint, but I can make them out. Next to Nathaniel’s grave is Vienna Joost Carmody, 1844–1901. Beside her lies Winston Jeremiah Carmody, 1841–1904. And at the end, the smaller marker:

NATHANIEL JONATHAN CARMODY

1865–1865

BELOVED SON

THERE IS A GILDED ROOM IN THE MANSION OF HEAVEN

FOR THOSE TAKEN TOO EARLY

Tears fill my eyes. “Oh, Nathaniel! He named his son for you.”

Nathaniel’s quiet, staring at the small gravestone.

“Wince was a true friend,” Nathaniel says. “No matter what really happened that night. He was not like Edison Larch, deranged with vengeance.”

There is so much more to say, and also little more that we can say to each other. He speaks quickly: “You’ve given me the serenity I’ve sought for a century and a half, Lorelei. I’ll be eternally grateful. I’ll not need to return to this place year after year.” He puts his arm around my waist; his arm is nearly weightless. I feel him shimmering, like moonlight on water. “I love you, Lorelei. I think I’ve loved you for a thousand centuries.”

“I love you, too, Nathaniel.” My voice is thick with tears and trembling. “Will we ever meet again?”

“Again and again,” he assures me, “but not here, and not as Nathaniel and Lorelei. Now, it grieves me deeply, but I must leave you. There’s one last thing I’m asking you to do for me.”

“Anything.”

“Evan Maxwell. He’s a good man, and he cares for you. Give him a corner of your heart — will you do that for me, my Lorelei?”

I nod. Nathaniel pulls me toward him. I turn into his embrace. That jagged scar on his right shoulder shimmers under my fingers, assuring me that he was once truly flesh and blood. I lift my eyes to look into his. They’re nearly lifeless black pools now. I’m losing him second by second. His lips
brush mine like a feather. He gently lifts my arms off his shoulders, kisses my palms, and lowers my arms to my sides.

He backs away. Two steps and he’s already blended into the night, into timeless eternity. I wait alone, hugging my own shivering body a few aching minutes before I raise the flashlight heavenward.

EVAN ASKS NO
questions in the car back to Coolspring. Mom and Dad also give me a pass when they see my zombie expression. Mom walks me upstairs, helps me into my pj’s, and lets Gertie sleep at the foot of my bed. Gertie keeps glancing at Mom to ask,
Really? You mean it?

I slide my pillow down to the other end of the bed and curl around Gertie, so glad not to be alone tonight.

In the morning, wildfire gossip rampages through the house. Everyone’s buzzing about the cops at our door and the events in the shed. I learn from Dad that Amelia Wilhoit, Cadmus, and Old Dryden are behind bars. Bertha’s been released but warned not to leave the county. She may stand trial along with the others.

I’m not talking, just serving breakfast robotically, still deep in the grief and confusion of last night. People are trying not to stare at me and the sunglasses that hide my bloodshot, swollen eyes.

Dad whispers over a stack of dirty dishes, “We’re going to have to talk about it, you know.”

Everyone’s checking out — going to spend the Fourth at the Poconos or somewhere more festive, no doubt — so the inn is starting to feel weird and empty. It’s Independence Day, but I feel trapped.

After the McLeans leave — vowing to come back next summer — my parents and I settle in the parlor. I know what’s coming, but I’m too numb with sadness to worry about their interrogation.

“Miriam, please put the feather duster aside and sit and relax,” Dad says. “You too, Lorelei. Where would you like to start?”

Yeah, where? Feed it to them slowly so they don’t mentally choke on it? I mean, they’re great parents, but they’re living in another century. They’re probably a lot like Nathaniel’s parents. I take a deep breath and plunge into the shallow end: “So, now you realize that Amelia Wilhoit really can’t be trusted.”

“At least she alerted us to something we should know about,” Mom says.

“Who is this boy you’ve been meeting, and how old is he?” Dad demands.

What can I tell them that won’t make them crazy? The truth, but something just short of the
whole
truth. “His name is Nathaniel Pierce. Nineteen.” At least he was, in 1863.

“From Gettysburg?” Dad asks. “Have we met his family?”

“No, he’s from Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, like the groundhog. Can we talk about this later? There’s a lot more we have to deal with now. The shed, for starters.”

“Yes,” Mom affirms. “The police sketched it out for us, but we’re in the dark about your role in the whole thing. Enlighten us, please.”

So, I ramble on about Old Dryden in the cellar and Dr. Anderson’s amputation kit and Wince and the Lincoln ring. I explain how Evan was my partner in investigating everything, and this seems to please them. But they are also concerned.

“Oh, Lorelei, you expect us to buy into this fantastical idea that the ring belonged to President Lincoln?” Dad asks, frowning.

“It did; it came off the finger of Lincoln’s son, William. He was eleven when he died. I know it for a fact.” If Wikipedia is factual.

“Honey, if this ring is the genuine article, it would be quite valuable, wouldn’t it?” Mom asks.

“Yes! That’s what the Drydens and Amelia Wilhoit were looking for last night, why they tore up the garden shed,” I explain. “There used to be a pond there. They thought the ring had been buried underwater.”

Dad gives me his narrowed eyes, the kind that say,
What are you hiding?
“Where is this ring now, Lorelei?”

I hesitate. “If I tell you where it is, you’ll take it away like you did my cell phone.” That’s a low blow, which Dad sidesteps.

He sighs. “Today’s the Fourth of July. Nothing will be open, but tomorrow I’ll call the Lincoln Library to inquire about this find. You’ll have that ring in the palm of my hand by tomorrow, right?”

Saved by the Crandalls! Mr. Crandall comes down the stairs, a suitcase in each hand. Mrs. Crandall trails behind with her Macy’s bag stuffed with orange knitting.

“Splendid timing,” Dad mutters.

Mr. Crandall says, “It’s been an inspiration spending these days with you, Chases. Put us in your book for General Buford next July. We’ll make it an annual tradition, shall we, Mother?”

“To be sure!” Mrs. Crandall winks at me and says, “Look to the future, my dear.”

“Good advice, Mother, but let’s remember, the future isn’t what it used to be. Tallyho, Chases! Happy Fourth!”

As soon as they’re gone, my parents turn to me again. This time, it’s Mom who starts the interrogation, but it’s not about the ring.

“I’m still confused about something, Lori. This boy, Nathaniel. What is the story on him?”

I take a deep breath.

“Okay, remember when I was ten and I told you Great-Grandpa Tunis sang ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’ after he was dead?”

Mom nods. “We thought it was adorable that you imagined such a thing, Lori.”

“He sang it to me. I heard him, I saw him. I wasn’t sure back then. I know it now.”

Mom and Dad exchange a parental glance that looks like it means,
Get a shrink on speed dial
.

“Gettysburg brings this spirit thing out in people,” I explain. “I mean, six thousand soldiers died here in three days, and another twenty-five thousand were wounded. It gets to you if you let it. I’ve had other experiences like Great-Grandpa Tunis,” I admit, but I don’t tell them about the boy in the crystal ball. Not yet.

Dad says quietly, “Your mother and I do not talk to dead people, nor do they talk to us. Why you?”

“It’s not like it’s inherited, like dimples or big feet. I’m just lucky, I guess. Or not.”

Mom asks, “Has Randy heard about this?”

“He says I’m on the
kalunga
line. That’s a West African thing, the line between the living and the dead. It’s not either/or. It’s two parts of the same thing.”

“The
kalunga
line,” Dad mutters. “Where do our kids get these ideas, Miriam?”

I can’t back down now. “It’s a gift of second sight. Charlotte has it, too, by the way. And so do the Crandalls. For me, it’s been in there all my life. It just never got totally switched on before we came here. Like when you get a new cell phone, and you can’t use it until it’s activated. Coming here to Gettysburg activated my circuits. I’ve had some pretty strange experiences this week, and Nathaniel is the most amazing.”

“Nathaniel, the boy you like from Punxsutawney?” Mom says.

“Yes. He was a Union soldier, here during the Battle.”

“What?” They both gasp it together.

I nod, standing tall. “I fell in love with him during the Battle Days.”

“With a ghost? In three days?” Dad shouts. He sinks into his chair and blows air out his mouth. “This is more than I can handle without pastry, Miriam — lots of it, the gooier the better. In fact, give it to me intravenously.”

Mom heads for the emergency stash of cream puffs in the freezer.

“Don’t think of Nathaniel as a ghost,” I say. “Think of him as a spirit.”

“There’s a difference?” Dad asks in disbelief.

“Yes. And, look — for spirits, a day that they’re here on earth is a bigger slice of eternity. I’ve been operating on their timetable the last week, not ours.”

As Mom comes into the room with the mini cream puffs, Dad says, “This Nathaniel person, he’s who you met at the cemetery?”

“Yes, to say good-bye.” So, I unload most of the rest — how Nathaniel was murdered and how he asked me to solve the
murder; about Edison Larch and Wince Carmody and the four graves; and how it’s all related to Lincoln’s ring.

Dad’s popping one mini cream puff after another into his mouth, and Mom’s breathing like an asthmatic, but on the whole, they’re handling this pretty well, for parents.

The dark shadows are lengthening up in my tower room. My parents have gone into town to see the fireworks, and didn’t push when I said I’d rather stay home and rest. I’ve already e-mailed both Jocelyn and my brother all the updates about what happened, not quite having the energy to talk to them each about it. Once Jos is back from camp, and Randy back from Africa, I’ll be able to sit down with them both, face-to-face, and discuss everything. By then, hopefully, time will have healed my wounds a little, too.

I gaze out the window, wishing I could watch the fireworks with Nathaniel, and wondering if he can see them from wherever he is. Then I think of Evan. Of the promise I made to Nathaniel.

Ever since the incidents of last night, Evan has
gotten
it — that he should make himself scarce while Mom and Dad and I figure out what’s next. But I know he’s waiting to hear from me. I decide to give him a call, and he picks up right away.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Gloomy Glinda.”

I hear the smile in his voice. “Tough times, huh?”

“Can you meet me at the creek?”

“Be there in ten.”

On the bank, I drag my feet through troubled water that reflects the darkening sky and my darker mood. Evan comes and sits beside me, doesn’t say a word, waits.

“Thanks for everything,” I tell him finally. “What would I have done without you, Evan? You’re a really nice guy.”

He grins. “
Reliable
. Like my old Camaro.”

I nudge him in the side just as the fireworks start booming overhead. We watch the dazzling display of reds, whites, blues, and golds. We’re silent, our faces tilted upward, but I don’t resist when Evan reaches for my hand, guides my head to his shoulder, and locks his arm around me. I’m surprised to realize that we fit together. Our feet swish through the cool water in sync.

“Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night?” Evan asks. “I’ll take you to Dobbin House.”

“I’m not sure,” I tell him truthfully. Everything still feels like such chaos inside. With the wrenching memory of saying good-bye to Nathaniel, I’m not sure I’m really ready to move on.

“Okay, let me know tomorrow,” Evan says, his tone reassuring. I understand that he’s fine with waiting, and for that I am grateful. We sit together at the creek until the night air turns cool and it’s time for us to part ways.

First thing the next morning, while Charlotte is polishing the parlor furniture, Dad calls the Lincoln Library and connects with someone who seems to know what he’s doing. Charlotte, Mom, and I watch a dozen expressions flicker across Dad’s face until he says, “I see. Well, thank you,” and he lays the Victorian phone in its cradle in slow motion.

“Well, Vernon?” Mom asks.

Dad’s clearly shocked. “The library already owns the ring that belonged to William Lincoln.”

“What?” I whisper, my stomach dropping.

“And what about the ring Lori found?” Mom asks.

Dad shakes his head. “He’s heard about this other ring, which surfaces every few years like an urban legend, but it’s bogus. So much for financing Lorelei’s college education by selling it to the Lincoln Library for a million bucks. It’s worthless.”

I’m deep in thought. Charlotte leaves the room, saying she has an errand to run, and I go upstairs to have another look at
the ring, wondering if it’ll seem any different to me now. When I shake my spare pillow, the RVA amputation kit tumbles out, and Wince’s onionskin letter, but there’s no ring bag under it. I rip the sheets off my bed, dump the two pillows out of the cases, and slap around under the bed feeling for the ring. All I find is my bat, which I roll across the floor.

I’m crushed, even if that ring never dug into the flesh of William Lincoln’s feverish finger — even if it
is
worthless — because the ring is my memory of Nathaniel. But it’s gone, just like Nathaniel.

Later, I’m trudging downstairs when I bump into Charlotte on the third-floor landing. “I have something for you,” she says, arm deep into her bag. She pulls out a small package wrapped in a soft red maple leaf and tied with gold thread. It looks out of place, like an enchanted relic from a distant time. We sit down on the chaise below a shelf full of Gettysburg history books. Her face glowing, Charlotte motions for me to open the package.

My hand’s shaky as I untie the thread. The leaf falls open to reveal a small green silk bag, which sends my heart racing. I recognize this bag!

“How did you …?” I ask, glancing at Charlotte.

“I borrowed it as a favor to … a friend of yours.”

“Nathaniel?”

She only smiles.

“Look inside,” she urges.

Something shiny is puddled at the bottom. I tilt the bag and pour out a gossamer-fine chain, from which dangles a tiny ring.
The
ring.

I catch my breath.

“It was his idea to put it on a chain for you,” Charlotte explains softly.

So Charlotte has heard from him. I don’t feel jealousy — only the sweetest sense of peace. Again, I realize that there are things I might not yet know about the spirit world. Perhaps, wherever he is, Nathaniel can still commune with someone like Charlotte, who is more experienced than I am. Perhaps I will be able to fully possess my gift someday.

I close my fingers around the necklace, pressing it into my flesh. It radiates warmth, and when I open my hand, the sun glints off the gold and casts a rainbow around the room.

Charlotte whispers, “There wasn’t time to get it engraved.”

An uneasy thought flickers through my mind: engraved, meaning
in the grave
, and I have been so preoccupied with
graves and gravestones, with the dead and undead. She threads the chain through the ring. “It’s a gift,” she says, carefully fastening the chain behind my neck.

The ring drops with a whisper-soft
pling
to my throat, like a sweet, reassuring touch. I know then I’ll always wear the ring, no matter where life may take me. I’ll wear it as a memory. A legacy.

I’m too choked up to speak at first, but I manage to thank Charlotte, and give her a hug. She hugs me back, and says, “I’m sorry I wasn’t more in touch with you the last week, Lori. I wanted to be sure you figured out things with Nathaniel on your own terms. Do you forgive me?”