Rebel Spirits (13 page)

ALL THE FAKE-GENUINE
Battle reenactments in the area are over. All’s quiet on the field.

Later that day, I find myself propped up between huge granite rocks in a narrow cutout called Devil’s Den.

I looked at a battlefield map, as Nathaniel recommended. Union sharpshooters crouched in Devil’s Den on the second day of the Battle. Across from here is Little Round Top, another intense Battle site, and between Little Round Top and where I am lies the Valley of Death. Sounds like the ideal spot to meet a ghost. It’s also secluded, meaning no one will see or hear
Nathaniel. Most people are smart enough, or chicken enough, to obey the signs that say no climbing on the rocks. Not me. A shadowy basement — that’s another story, but a few gigantic, jagged, slippery boulders aren’t going to spook me.

Dropping down into the cutout is easy. Waiting isn’t. Ten, fifteen minutes drag by. I’m drowsing in that weird dream space where you hear the grass in the breeze and the bugs scuttling under your feet, but you wouldn’t budge if a battalion of them marched across you. Asleep, but not quite. There’s a low rumble of a howl, like a distant animal baying at the moon, or a lonesome train whistle at night. And then it’s a chorus of quiet voices, no words distinct. A dozen voices, a thousand, ten thousand. The sounds take shape, like a photograph developing. They’re coming from the rocks, the singing rocks….

See this gets to Liza Lou down home in … I’m not gonna make it, Cap’n … Leave me be, get the horse, ain’t fair to the horse, it ain’t her war … Pretty soon I’ma feel nothin’ but sweet serenity … Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home …

I know these are the dead of Gettysburg, the spirits that have no peace. I lie down in the brush, in the narrow canyon between the boulders. The rocks around me thrum with sound. The voices wash over me, pump through me like my own blood.

Where ya hurt, soldier … All’s I want is a bite of Ma’s rabbit stew once more … Sun beating down … Glory be, it’s lonely out
here all alone … Stories to tell my daughters if’n I make it back to Memphis … I done run away, suh, to fight wid you …

I should be scared, wondering if I’m hallucinating. I’m not. These voices are a comforting choir. Each comes with a fleeting picture of a soldier in this valley. White, brown, northern, southern, wounded, able-bodied. And the women, children, and old folks waiting for them at home. I wonder if I’m among them, if I’m dead, and that’s why Nathaniel is so real to me. Nathaniel, who is now swinging his legs over a boulder and dropping down into the spot next to me.

The voices fade away as though they were a warm-up act for the main attraction. I rouse myself from the stupor, reluctant to let go of all those thousands of others. But here is Nathaniel, and I’m
not
dead. I am pulsing with life.

“It took you long enough to get here,” I murmur.

“I came a long way,” he says with a sweet, teasing smile. And doesn’t
that
raise a few questions that we don’t have time to explore right now? I’m snapping to attention.

“It’s okay. I wasn’t alone.”

“I know,” Nathaniel says. What part did he have in sharing those haunting, comforting voices with me? He finds a spot against gray rock, just wide enough for our shoulders to nest in. His lips on mine are so alive, warm, and eager. I turn my face
up to him for more kisses, until I can barely breathe. I’d gladly stay here, eyes closed, tasting the sweet fruit of his lips. Forever.

But we need to talk. So I pull away, angling my body to face him, my body that’s silently ticking like a clock from the nearness of him. He reads the urgency in my face, so he straightens up.

“Let’s start pulling clues together, Nathaniel,” I say. “What’s the connection between the Drydens, who are on staff at my house; Winston Carmody, who built my house; your doctor, who I now know is named Anderson —”

“Yes, now that you say it.” Nathaniel nods, squinting at the memory. “Doc Anderson — Robert, I believe.”

“Richard. Plus Lincoln’s ring, and Edison Larch. How are they connected?”

“I don’t know the Drydens …” he starts to say, but because I’m anxious about the time slipping away, I interrupt him.

“I found out that Bertha and Joseph Dryden were questioned about a recent theft in Maine, a pocket watch that once belonged to President Rutherford Hayes. Does that raise any flags for you?”

“Flags? Union, or Confederate?”

“I mean, does it remind you of anything, such as the ring that belonged to the Lincoln family?” I fill him in about Old
Dryden in my cellar, Doctor Anderson’s amputation kit, and even my nagging suspicion that Amelia Wilhoit and Bertha are in cahoots, which is an unknown word, but he figures out the meaning.

“You think the Drydens are looking for Lincoln’s ring? I can’t see how it relates to Edison and Wince, or to the man who shot me.”

“Me neither,” I admit, “but it’s there, somewhere. I feel like the ring is the key to the whole thing, but for the life of me, I can’t figure it out.”

“For the life of you … for the death of me. That puts it all in balance.”

My watch says five thirty. “I’ve got to get home for dinner, or Mom will send the vigilantes after me. I don’t know how this works, Nathaniel, but can you sort of listen for me, in case I need you to come? I’ll meet you out by the creek. We have a lot of work to do before midnight.”

“If you concentrate deeply, you can communicate with me across time and space, but I’ll stay near the creek, I promise. Now, let me get you home like a proper gentleman.”

“My parents —”

“Don’t fret; they won’t see me.”

Gertie sitting on my feet is the only thing that keeps me from escaping during dinner. We’re eating Chinese takeout in the kitchen, dipping our chopsticks into the cartons. Mom would never have allowed such primitive behavior back in Philadelphia.

“I cannot believe we’re doing this,” Mom says, popping a soggy leaf of bok choy into her mouth.

“You know, Miriam, people eat from communal bowls in most of the developing world.”

“Yes, Vernon, but we used to be developed,” Mom says, smacking her lips.

Gertie has no interest in snow peas, so she’s happily dozing under the table, holding out for more hearty grub; the kind that’s poured out of a twenty-pound bag.

“Are we done?” I ask.

“What’s your hurry, Lorelei?” Dad asks.

“Only three hours of daylight left.”

“So? Where do you need to be?” asks Mom.

“Nowhere.” I fidget. “It’s just that it’s the last Battle Day, and people will be checking out tomorrow, and we’ve got to turn the rooms around for new guests, and then all the Harleys will be here for Biker Week.”

“Next week, honey. Tonight’s a breather,” Mom says.

“I need to check my e-mail.”

Mom sighs. “All right, go.”

On my way to the stairs, I pass the giant map posted on the wall by the front entrance. All the guests study it when they check in, and then they get a welcome packet with a copy of it showing the position of our land in relation to the major battles. The wall map’s captioned in an old-fashioned font:

Coolspring, 1860

Something looks funny about it to me when I see it this time, and I do a double take. I grab one of the eight-by-ten copies of the map and take it back to my room to study, to figure out what’s giving me such a nagging feeling.

Amelia Wilhoit passes Gertie and me on the stairs. She’s got a smug look on her face. “Where are your parents?”

“Out for a walk.” Not sure why I’m lying to her. Well, yeah, I do know why.

“Perhaps I’ll run into them.”

I hope not.

My laptop cursor’s winking as I open my e-mail. What’s so important that someone sent me six messages in an hour? The most recent one says:

I
do
want to talk to him about that, but this map’s calling for my attention right now. I look at the paper. There were a lot more trees then. Some had to be cut down to clear space for the house. Orienting myself to the north/south position, I see the original house at the top of a small hill.

I mentally sketch in the current house, larger than the one that burned down a century ago. I picture myself looking out my high window in the 1860s, sweating like a goat in one of those miserably hot dresses, tight at the neck and skimming my lace-up boots. In my daydream, old-fashioned Lori — Lorelei Cordelia — gazes down toward the creek and the row of trees on the other side of it.

Wait. There’s no creek on the map. What? I blink at the paper, and double-check the east/west orientation. Here’s the front of the house, here’s the hill leading down to the creek. Where’s the creek? My eyes travel to the space where the shed will be built. There’s something there on the map darker than the rest of the drawing. Water? I lean closer, squinting, and I can just make out the faint words:
Coolspring Pond
.

What’s a pond, anyway? A small lake? A round creek? A fat stream? A babbling brook? Googling
pond
only confuses
the questions. Evan does landscaping — maybe he would know. I give him a call.

“Lori Chase? Phoning me? Call the TV stations!” Evan answers. “Sorry for the sarcasm. Talk to me.”

“It’s about ponds and creeks.”

“This ought to be a stimulating conversation,” Evan says, laughing.

“It could be, if you’ve got an answer to the latest weird development in my life. I’m studying that map of the grounds from 1860. You know the creek? It’s not on the map. Instead there’s something called Coolspring Pond, and it’s where the shed stands today. The shed, obviously, isn’t underwater. Do you know why?”

“Very observant, Ms. Chase. I can help you with this one. A pond does this thing called succession, meaning that over time — I’m talking centuries or it could be just decades, plant life on the bottom — do I hear you yawning in boredom?”

“I’m tingling with excitement.”

“Right, so the bottom of the pond builds up and, abracadabra, the pond changes into a landform, like a meadow or grassland. The pond disappears. And over time, rainwater or springwater forms a new pond in a low point of the area. Such as the creek.”

“So, you’re telling me that Coolspring Creek is new?”

“Relatively. Maybe a hundred years.”

“And the original 1860s pond is now grassland?”

“Ain’t nature grand? Anything else on your mind? Such as a movie this weekend?”

“I’ll get back to you on that. Gotta go now.”

“Yeah, that dead guy is waiting for you,” Evan says, with a slight edge. “See ya.”

I hang up and keep staring at the map. Okay, so what does all this mean? Absolutely nothing to me … yet. I have to find Nathaniel if I’m ever going to solve the mystery, and it has to be before midnight tonight. When we were talking before, Nathaniel tried to tell me why he can only stay in Gettysburg during the Battle Days. It’s a promise he made to himself a hundred years before I was born. And so his physical being withers like autumn leaves by midnight, July third, and turns to the winter of his soul. That’s the way he explained it.

I still don’t understand. All I know is that after midnight tonight, he’ll be gone, and I’ll be left here without him. At least if I can solve the murder, I can send him off in peace. But it’s awful, unfair, and horribly sad, and I won’t get over it. Ever.

IT’S THAT TIME
on a summer evening, sevenish, when the sun is bright and burnishing, and you think it can’t possibly get dark, but it will. Time is sprinting away, and Evan’s slowly crisscrossing the lawn on the riding mower, not that seven p.m. is the ideal time to mow, and not that it needs mowing. I’m sure he just wants to get near me, sitting down here by the creek, the
new
creek, but he’s not sure how. He’s been amazing to put up with my attitude and the fact that I’m mooning around over some other guy, a ghostly one at that. I start to think,
Get a life,
Evan
, but the truth is, he’s funny and smart and helpful. I like him, and I sure need a friend right now.

Gertie follows the lawn mower and whips around the U-turns with Evan. Each time they pass me, a swath closer to the creek, Evan shouts out something — lines of a song or a famous quote. “She’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain when she comes….” or “Quoth the raven, nevermore….”

It’s calculated to make me smile, and it works. I’m always on the verge of tears around Nathaniel, and I used to be a person who only cried at sappy movies. I once read that Victorian women caught their tears and stored them in small bottles. If I had one of those tear catchers, it would be overflowing with Nathaniel’s contagious sweet sorrow and my grief over losing him by midnight.

Nathaniel and Evan are polar opposites. This guy on the riding mower is a hopeless optimist. He’s like confetti, sprinkling me with colors, which makes me wonder: Am I happier when I’m miserable? That’s sick. Or is that what love is supposed to feel like? Love and loss and love lost.

The next time Evan rides by (“We all live in a yellow submarine …”) I wave him over, and he’s quick to turn off the motor and join me on the bank of the creek. Gertie circles a spot between us and drops down for a nap. Our chaperone.

“Can I talk to you about the Edison factor?” I ask him.

“What, the dead-soldier mystery again?” Evan rolls his eyes, but then smiles at me. “It’s all right. I’m a sucker for a spicy murder and a spunky girl detective.” He leans forward, and without much warning plants his lips on mine.

I stagger back. “Hey, what’re you doing?”

“It’s called a kiss, that thing people do with their lips, remember?” He straightens up, flashing me questioning eyes:
Okay?

“It’s okay.” In fact, it was pretty nice, considering that he’s the second guy to kiss me today. Or this year. Jocelyn won’t believe this when I tell her. I feel a flash of guilt when I think of Nathaniel. Is he somewhere nearby? Did he see Evan kiss me?

“So, what about the Edison factor?” Evan asks, bringing me back to earth.

I shake my head, trying not to blush or dwell too much on our quick kiss. It’s funny how things
don’t
feel awkward.

“I’m wondering,” I say, “if the evidence is persuasive enough to tell Nathaniel that Edison’s the one who shot him. He doesn’t want to believe a friend could do such a thing. But I have to tell him tonight. Tomorrow’s too late.”

Evan shrugs. “The guy’s waited, what? A hundred and fifty years already? He’s got eternity stretched out ahead of him
like an endless lawn that always needs mowing. What’s the big rush?”

“It’s just something I need to do. I don’t get it myself, but I know he’ll be gone by midnight,” I tell Evan, feeling my brow and nose wrinkle in a way that would make Mom say,
Loosen up, honey. You’ll get creases before you know it.

Evan’s face is down-turned in an exaggerated frown. “You can do it. You do difficult stuff in tricky situations all the time, right, catcher? Batter hits a pop-up, you gotta toss off your mask and sprint to the infield to catch it, toss it to first.”

“You play softball? Baseball?” I ask hopefully, then remember his pathetic fumbles.

“Nah, but you do. I watched a YouTube video of your team from last summer, Liberty Bells vs. Wranglers.” I’m surprised and a little flattered. He grins. “So, let’s say there are a bunch of murder suspects warming up in the bullpen. It’s the bottom of the seventh, two outs, score’s three to two, your team. The dead guy’s covering first base. Edison saunters up to the plate, swinging his mighty bat. Pitcher throws a yakker, Edison bunts. Woohoo, it’s all up to you to nail it. Mask flies off into the dirt, you seize the ball and fling it to first. Thud, right in the dead guy’s glove. He tags Edison just to be sure. Game over. Your team slides by in a squeaker.”

“That was amazing, Evan!”

“Yeah, I’ve been getting the lingo down to impress you.” His eyes crinkle as he grins. “Now let’s take a dip,” he adds. “I think better underwater.”

The water does look enticing, and I’d really like to let it roll over me, especially in this steamy heat. We both kick off our shoes and slide down the bank. The creek’s only three feet deep, but squatting gives us plenty of cool water up to our necks. My T-shirt balloons around me. It’s only now, with my wet hair slapping the back of my shirt, that I realize how tense I’ve been, every muscle knotted. The weight of water on my chest begins to relax me until I lean back and float, squinting at the sun slowly fading in the whipped-cream clouds drifting by. Evan and I, we’re floating side by side so peacefully, our fingers barely touching, even though my mind is racing, sifting through the names and facts and guesses that plague me.

“Come on in, Gertie,” Evan calls, and Gertie makes a giant splash in her dive. What an attention grabber. She swims to the center of the creek and suddenly begins whimpering, just as she did the other time we were out here.

“What is it, Gertie Girl?” I ask. Evan and I both tilt to our feet and walk across the sandy bottom of the creek. Gertie’s going nuts, growling and whimpering and pawing the water. Fear heightens the blue rings of her eyes. “What is
it?” I ask, now glancing at Evan. “Is there a sandbar? A sudden drop?”

I think of something I heard on the ghost tour about Weinbrenner Creek — that there were wounded soldiers who drowned in the flash flood of July fourth. My heart pounds. Is there a body under the water? Then I remember that this creek didn’t even exist in 1863. But there could have been a soldier buried here when it was dry land. Nathaniel told me about the shallow graves and makeshift markers of dead wood.

Before I can warn Evan about the grisly thing he’s about to find, he goes under where Gertie’s frantically treading water, pokes his head out for a deep breath, then dives back down. Gertie scuttles to the bank, panting and barking and shaking water in a wide, splashy arc. I can’t bring myself to duck under and encounter what might be there.

Evan comes up with a curious look on his face.

“What? What’s down there?” I ask anxiously.

“Just this,” he says, placing something in my hand. It’s slick and slimy, too large for my fingers to fold around, but it fills my palm. It feels scummy, like a wad you’d find stuck in a kitchen pipe, and my first impulse is to toss it back in the water, until Evan says, “Whatever this is, it sure spooked Gertie. Look at her over there.”

We both surface and slog over wet sand, up the bank to where Gertie’s pacing. One look at the thing in my hand, dripping water and slime between my fingers, and she backs off and yowls in a way I’ve never heard before.

Our clothes cling to us. We’re shivering despite the lingering sun.

“What do you think this is?” Evan asks, touching the square package in my hand. It’s wrapped in something rubbery, sealed tight. My fingers can’t pry it open.

“Where did you find it, exactly?”

“Floating in a pile of decayed leaves, anchored by silt. It was probably buried in the ground a long time ago, but as the silt built up and the creek eroded the ground as it formed, this thing came to the surface. That’s my semiprofessional, as-yet-uneducated opinion. Open it.”

“I can’t. It’s sealed watertight, but it’s real squishy and disgusting.”

“I have a Swiss Army knife in my pocket, if it hasn’t floated away.” Water slurgs out of his clothes as he stretches to retrieve the knife. Gertie is way up the hill, crouching in the bushes in front of the house. Evan cuts through the black, rubbery stuff, and it opens like a flower in my palm. Inside’s a teakwood box about two inches square. The size of a ring box. Excitement
bursts like fireworks deep within me; I can hardly catch my breath.

The ring.

This is
it
!

Evan’s knife pries the ring box open. There’s a large piece of paper folded and refolded into a square to fit in the box. I peek under the paper and see a small green bag. I open it and out falls a ring. A tiny, beautiful gold ring.
The
ring — Abraham Lincoln’s son’s ring. It must be!

“Oh, wow,” Evan breathes.

My hands are trembling. Quickly, I stash the ring back in the bag. I have a sense I need to protect it.

“What’s that piece of paper?” Evan asks, pointing. “Can you unfold it?”

“Wait a sec,” I say. “You got a towel up there on the mower? I need to make sure my hands are totally dry, because if I’m right, the paper is more than a hundred years old.”