Kindred Spirits (11 page)

“Maybe
we should try to find Harold Buchanan’s house and see if it looks like
anybody’s living there.”

“Yeah,” Adam says, “but
not today. Mom’ll get suspicious if I’m home too late.”

“Tomorrow, then,” I say.
We’re almost to Adam’s house. “You know, it’s funny. The name Harold Buchanan
sounds really familiar to me...like it’s a name I knew before we started
looking up all this stuff.”

“It’s probably not that
weird that you’ve heard of him,” Adam says. “Your granny said he used to be a
big name in Wilder, and you’ve lived here all your life.”

“That’s true.” We’re
standing in front of Adam’s big pink house, and I wonder if the ghosts of the
Jameson sisters are in there somewhere talking about how they wish the message
they’d left on the bathroom mirror could’ve been read by some people with
brains, unlike Adam and me.

“What is weird, though,”
Adam says, “is that Harold Buchanan’s name sounds familiar to me, too, and I
hardly know anybody in this town. Maybe it just sounds familiar because it
reminds me of James Buchanan, the president I always forget when I try to name
all the presidents.”

“Could be,” I say. “I’m
beginning to see why all these grownups have laughed at us for trying to figure
this thing out.”

Adam shakes his head. “Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe you and I
need to find another hobby.”

The clock says midnight.
I’ve been in bed for two hours, but I can’t get to sleep. My mind keeps trying
to put together the jigsaw puzzle of the Jameson murder, but there are too many
pieces missing.

When
the closet door opens, I’m glad. If I have to be awake, at least I won’t be
awake alone.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,
look at you. You’re as wide awake as I am.” Abigail jumps onto my bed and sits
with her knees hugged to her chest. “I’ve never been able to figure out why the
living use that expression’ sleep like the dead.’ We never sleep.”

“I guess it’s because
dead people look like they’re asleep,” I say.

“Do I look asleep to
you?” Abigail says. “You mean dead bodies look asleep, not dead people. The
body isn’t the person. It’s just the container that holds the person until it
wears out.”

“I guess so,” I say.

“You’re unhappy. I can
tell,” Abigail says. She pulls down the covers and crawls into the bed beside
me. “Scoot over, will you.” She strokes my hair with her fingers, which make it
feel like a cool breeze is blowing through my hair. “There’s no need to make
yourself miserable over something that happened seventy years ago,” she says.

“But it’s driving me
crazy. There’s so much we don’t know.”

“Perhaps people would be
better off if they admitted that there’s a great deal that they don’t know and
will never know. You’re lucky, though, Miranda. You have the Sight. You get to
know more than most people.”

“I get to know more than
I want to know most of the time,” I say. “Maybe that’s why I’m so frustrated
right now. I’m not used to knowing less than I want to know.”

“Well, right now you’re
probably feeling like most people feel.  Not so wonderful, is it?

Feeling
normal?”

“I can’t feel that
normal. I’m having a slumber party with a ghost.” Then, because I can’t get his
name out of my head, I say, under my breath, “Harold Buchanan.”

“What was that?” Abigail says.

“Harold Buchanan he’s one
of the guys who could have committed the murder. We can’t find him, but the
thing that’s driving me nuts is that his name sounds so familiar to me, and I
can’t figure out why.”

“Hmm.” Abigail props up
on her elbow. “Maybe he’s a friend of your granny’s.”

“No, Granny doesn’t have
any men friends. Not that she has many women friends either.

About the only friend
she’s close to is Daisy’oh!” A picture as clear as a photograph pops into my
head.

“What?” Abigail asks.

“I can’t believe I didn’t
think of it til now. That day when I went with Granny to visit Daisy in the
hospital...Granny was making me read all the names of the patients on the hall.
Harold Buchanan’that was one of the names!” That’s where I had heard it before,
and that’s where Adam knew it from, too. Harold Buchanan was probably one of
Adam’s father’s patients!

It’s ten minutes before
school starts, and I’m waiting on the sidewalk outside Adam’s house. I’ve been
up for hours, itching to tell him about Harold Buchanan.

Finally Adam stumbles out
of the front door, his eyes still sleepy, his hair sticking up from the crown.
His backpack is flung over his shoulder, and he has a comb in one hand and a
Pop-Tart in the other. I watch him sleepily try to comb his hair with a
Pop-Tart before he realizes he’s using the wrong hand. “Hello, Mr. Morning
Person,” I say.

“Miranda!” He stuffs the
comb in his pocket and rubs his eyes. “What’s up?”

“I figured out where we
know the name Harold Buchanan from,” I say. “He’s a patient at the hospital.
He’s on the same hall where I ran into you that day I was visiting with
Granny.”

Adam
wags his Pop-Tart in excitement. “Buchanan! Yeah’that’s right! That’s the name
of that old guy who’s been in the hospital for months. When I help out Dad he
always says not to bother going into his room that the old man’s really sick
and just needs to rest quietly because he’s probably not going to make it too
much longer.”

“Which is probably why
his phone’s disconnected,” I say. “He knows he’s not going home.”

“Sad,” Adam says, and we
walk in silence for a while.

“Yeah. So...do you think
it would be really bad if we tried to talk to him?”

“Not necessarily.” Adam
swings the school door open. “If we caught him sometime when he was awake, he
might not mind talking to us. He might even be glad for the company.”

“Yeah, but if we go there
and he seems too weak to talk, then we should just leave him alone and try to
forget about this whole thing.  Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, we can try to
forget it.”

We stop at our lockers to
get our books. When I open my locker and see what’s inside, I choke back a
scream.

A black stuffed toy cat
is dangling inside my locker with a noose around its neck. Pinned to its chest
is a note in bloody red magic marker: CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT.

“Okay,” Adam says, his
voice shaky, “that’s freaky. I think you’d better tell the principal or the
police or somebody.”

I take down the cat,
throw it in the trash can, and cover it up with papers. “I’m not going to tell
the principal or anybody else. Somebody’s just trying to scare us, that’s all.
And I refuse to be scared.” But my hands are shaking.

At lunch Adam says,
“Look, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should just chill out a little while.”

“What
do you mean, chill out?”

“You know, stop asking
questions’ stop trying to figure things out. These notes’ the one that came to
my house, the one just now they’re threats, Miranda. And I’m not anywhere near
as scared of the ghosts in my house as I am of the person who’s sending these
notes.”

I lean over the table and
look right at him. “Don’t you see what these notes mean? They mean we’re close
to the truth’ so close that whoever did it is getting scared. Listen, Adam, if
you’re afraid, if you want to quit, that’s fine. I don’t blame you, and I won’t
hold it against you.” I lean back in my seat. “And if I have to, I’ll go on and
figure out this thing without you.”

“No!” Adam says, so loud
that a few people turn their heads to look at our table. They probably think
I’m putting a curse on Adam or something. “If you’re not quitting, I’m not
either.

Listen, I was just going
to go over to the hospital to see Dad after school today. You wanna come, too?
Maybe we can talk to Mr. Buchanan.”

I grin. “I’m there.”

When we peek into Mr.
Buchanan’s room, we can tell he’s really sick. He is drawn and thin and his
skin looks like crumpled up white tissue paper stretched over skull and
skeleton. He is connected to tubes and machines that pump him full of medicine
and keep track of his heart and breathing. He looks small and alone. Only the
flowers and cards on his dresser and bedside table show that there are people
who care about him.

I’m surprised when his
eyes open. “Young people,” he says. His voice is thin and shaky. As soon as his
eyes meet mine, I feel like someone hit me, hard, in the back of the head. The
pain is so intense I’m afraid I’m going to pass out, but around the pain, I can
feel my Sight trying to connect with Mr. Buchanan, trying to get inside his
thoughts. But I can’t see because I’m blinded by pain and fear.

I
don’t know how long I’ve been standing there, hurting and shaking, but once I
can focus on something oustside of myself, I hear Adam saying, “I’m Dr. So’s
son. My friend and I wondered if we could bring you anything to make you more
comfortable. Would you like an extra blanket or maybe a drink from the Coke
machine?”

“Well...” He glances over
at the dresser, “there is a Hershey bar on the dresser, if one of you would
bring it to me.”

“Well,” Adam says, “We’d
better move your bed up if you’re going to eat something.” While Adam fixes the
bed, I go get the candy bar off the dresser, but my knees are so weak I can
barely walk. I manage to make it over to Mr. Buchanan’s bed. When I hold out
the candy bar to him in my shaking hand, he says, “No, honey, I’m too weak.
You’ll have to feed it to me.”

My shaky hands make it
almost impossible to open the wrapper. “Don’t be nervous,” Mr. Buchanan says.
“I know I don’t look too pretty, but I’m perfectly harmless.”

Tell that to the Jameson
sisters, I think. “I...I just have unsteady hands,” I say. “It runs in my
family.”

Adam gives me a weird
look, but I ignore it. “Just break off small pieces for me,” Mr. Buchanan says.
“I won’t be able to eat much.”

I break off a tiny piece
of chocolate for Mr. Buchanan. He opens his mouth like a baby bird, and I put
the candy on his tongue. I want to scream, to cry, to run away, but instead I
break off another piece of chocolate.

“Ah,” Mr. Buchanan sighs.
“Chocolate is still good, even when you’re dying.” He lets another piece melt
on his tongue. “Pancreatic cancer,” he says, looking over at Adam. “Your daddy
says I’ve got maybe three weeks left.”

“I’m
sorry, sir,” Adam says.

“Me, too,” Mr. Buchanan
says. “I’ve had a good long run of it, though.”

“Yessir,” I say, feeding
him another bit of chocolate.

“It’s strange being so
weak,” he says. “I was never a weak man. I used to be a powerful man in this
town, just like my daddy before me. And my son well, he’s a powerful man,
period. A state senator. He came down to see me this weekend.” He opens his
mouth for more chocolate. “Mm,” he says. “You know, scientists say the reason
people like chocolate is because it makes them feel like they’re in love. And
love...well, love is even better than power. I know that now.”

“Is...is Mrs. Buchanan
alive?” I ask.

“No, she’s not,” he says.
“But I wasn’t thinking about Mrs. Buchanan just then.” He smiles a little. “I
shouldn’t be saying things like that to you children. You’re too young. You’ll
have to forgive me. My illness makes my mind duller than it used to be. Did you
ever tell me your names?”

“Miranda and Adam,” I
say. I’m less woozy than I was a few minutes ago, but there’s a big knot of
fear in my stomach.

“Miranda and Adam,
Miranda and Adam,” Mr. Buchanan says, almost singing. “Wait...Bill Bradley came
to see me this morning and told me a girl and a boy came by his house yesterday
asking all kinds of questions. A red-haired girl and an Oriental boy...named
Miranda and Adam.”

Even though I know that
lying there in his sickbed, Mr. Buchanan can’t do anything to harm us, I feel
more afraid than I can ever remember feeling. “Yessir,” I manage to choke out,
“we’re working on a project...for school.”

“Well,
I would advise you to find another topic for your project,” Mr. Buchanan says.
“There are certain people in this town who want to make sure that things in the
past stay in the past. And I would hate for you children to get into any
danger.” He looks at Adam, then at me. “Well,” he says, “I think I’ve had
enough chocolate. And I’m sure you children will understand if I run you off
without answering any of the questions you no doubt wanted to ask me. My future
is short, and my past is my business.”

“Whoa,” Adam says, once
we’re out in the hall. “I think we made him mad. I feel bad for upsetting him,
as sick as he is.”

“Adam, it’s him.”

He looks at me like I’m
speaking Russian or something. “What do you mean, it’s him?”

“I mean’” I stop for a
second, realizing that it might not be a good idea to say what I’m going to say
out loud in the middle of the hospital’s crowded lobby. I pull Adam out the
front door, then whisper, “I mean he’s the murderer.”

“How do you know?” Adam
doesn’t sound like he believes me.

“I know because I felt it
as soon as he looked at me. That’s why I didn’t talk at first.  I was in too
much pain.”

“Whoa. You are kind of a
spooky girl, aren’t you?”

I decide to ignore this
comment. “It’s just like Abigail said.  She said when you meet the murderer,
you’ll know.”

Adam shoves his hands in
the pockets of his baggy pants as he walks. “Look, it’s great that you know and
everything. But it still doesn’t do us much good. I mean, are we supposed to
convince the police that this sick, old man who used to be one of the people
who ran this town is a murderer because of the way he made you feel? We’re
going to have to get some proof.”

“I
know,” I say, “and that’s what worries me. Because I have no idea how we’re
going to get it.”