The Diviners (58 page)

“I’m sorry,” she said after a pause.

“Yes. Well. We’ve both lost someone, I suppose.” Will turned the picture toward the wall.

Evie’s hand sought the comfort of her coin talisman. There was something she wanted to ask Will, had wanted to ask him since she’d first discovered ghosts were real. Only now did she feel brave enough to do so. “These stories about people communicating with the spirits of the dead, mediums… Could you really contact someone from the other side if you wanted to?”

Will’s gaze followed Evie’s hand as it held fast to the pendant at her neck. “It’s best to let the dead lie in peace,” he said gently.

“But what if they aren’t at peace? What if they seem to need help? What if they show up in your dreams again and again?” Evie felt tears threatening again. She’d turned into a regular waterworks lately. She fought it. “What if they’re trying to get through to you and tell you something, only you’re not quite on the trolley?”

“What if they’re trying to harm you?” Will said. “Did you ever think of that?”

No. She hadn’t. But James? James would never hurt her. Would he?

“People tend to think that hate is the most dangerous emotion. But love is equally dangerous,” Will said. “There are many stories of spirits haunting the places and people who meant the most to them. In fact, there are more of those than there are revenge stories.”

“Unc, if you believe in ghosts and goblins—”

“I do not believe in
goblins
….”

“The
goblinesque
,” Evie said, rolling her eyes. “Why is it you have such trouble believing in God?”

“What sort of god would let this world happen?” he said, holding her gaze a moment too long before checking his pocket watch. “I believe it’s just time for
Captain Nightfall and the Secret Brigade
. Shall we catch it?”

“Sounds swell.”

Will flipped on the radio. Ominous music swelled.
“Wherever evil lurks, wherever shadows gather, there will you find Captain Nightfall and his Secret Brigade as they fight the forces of iniquity and keep the citizens of this country safe from all manner of villainy….”

The shadow-painted living room filled with sound effects and music and the well-modulated voices of actors pretending to put the wicked in their place.

But it wasn’t enough to chase away the ghosts.

Rain beat gently against the windows. The trees of Central Park bowed with wind. And on the street in the dark, a whistling could be heard as John Hobbes walked the sodden blocks to the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult. He passed easily into the old mansion, with its collections of gris gris bags, witches’ letters, and spirit photographs. Mere trifles. Child’s play. Umbrellas opened against a typhoon. In two days’ time, none of it would matter, anyway. But first, there was work to be done. Whistling, John Hobbes visited the old library. It was cloaked in night’s gloom, but he could see the untidy desk with no trouble. He saw very well in the dark now. First he slid open the drawer and left a small present. But he would also need something. There on the desk he saw it, winking out from under a stack of newspaper clippings. That would do. Yes, that would do nicely. He dropped it into his pocket and left the museum, singing softly, “
Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on….”

Upstairs in his bedroom, Sam woke briefly, thinking he heard someone singing, but all was quiet now, and so he rolled over and went back to sleep.

Memphis walked the leaf-strewn streets of the Upper West Side, pulling his coat closed against the brisk breeze. It was truly fall now. Chimney smoke burned the edges of the air, scenting the wind. The nights had weight.
Everything will be fine, Memphis. Stop your worrying.
Memphis walked faster, eager to get to the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult. Sister Walker had told him to keep the incident with Gabe’s ghost to himself, that he was probably seeing things out of grief and weariness. But between Isaiah’s trances, Gabe’s visitation, and the dream he shared with Theta, it was too much to ignore, and Memphis wanted someone to explain to him what was going on.

In the distance, Memphis saw the gothic towers of the Bennington peeking through the thinning leaves. That was where Theta lived, and for a moment he wished he could just run up and see her, forget this whole crazy world. But her world was just as mysterious as everything else he was worried about. He couldn’t do anything about that, and besides, he had answers to get, and so he moved on.

It was around Central Park West and Eighty-eighth Street that Memphis became aware that he was being followed. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw them: two men shadowing him at a respectful but consistent distance. Memphis knew at a glance that they were plainclothes cops. His heart raced, and he told himself to keep calm. He had no slips on him. He was fine. Memphis picked up his pace. So did the men. They were definitely following him, then. Memphis scanned the street, looking for an escape. Along Central Park West, diggers were hollowing out the street for the new subway line. Could he hide down there? No, he’d be trapped for sure, and probably break a leg in the process. But he might be able to outrun them. Memphis waited until he saw a car coming up the street, then darted out in front of it, making the driver swerve and take up the boulevard, momentarily blocking traffic. He sprinted full-out for Central Park. His lungs burned and his shoes clip-clopped loudly on the circuitous path ambling down through trees and sharp black rocks, the sun dappling the path with little fool’s-gold promises of light. Over his ragged breathing, Memphis could hear the cops running behind him, shouting. They were faster than they looked, but Memphis aimed to be even faster. He chanced another look behind; he was losing them, he saw, and a sudden joy took flight in his chest. He turned back around just in time to see the nurse and baby carriage directly in his path, and the nurse’s expression of horror as she stood, transfixed, unable to get out of his way. He had too much momentum on the downhill. He tried to stop and skidded, rolling to a stop in the grass, banged and bruised and dazed. His trousers were torn and bloodied at the knee. Still, he staggered to his feet, ready to run. But it was too late; the men were on him, lifting him violently to his feet and twisting his arms behind his back.

“What do we have here?” one cop gasped out, and Memphis
was glad he’d at least winded them. “Looks like we got ourselves a numbers runner.”

“Not me,” Memphis said. “No slips on me.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s this in your pockets, then?” the other cop said. He pulled a wad of slips from his own pocket and shoved them into Memphis’s.

“I’d say there’s at least twenty-five slips there—enough for a judge to lock you up, boy.”

“But those aren’t mine!” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Memphis realized how stupid they were, how futile his protestations. The word of two white cops against a Negro numbers runner? It was a fixed fight.

“Call Papa Charles,” Memphis said. “He’ll give you whatever you need.”

“We don’t work for Papa Charles,” one cop sneered, and Memphis knew the cop was dirty for Dutch Schultz. “You’re going downtown, friend.”

The policemen tugged him roughly toward a waiting car that had pulled up alongside the curb. Behind him, Memphis could see the tall points of the Bennington floating behind a scrim of passing clouds, like a mirage.

It was nearly four o’clock and the day’s shadows stretched long over the curved backs of the Catskills as Uncle Will took the turnoff from the main road, just beyond the weather-beaten sign for Brethren. The road wound its way toward the valley, past a small farm whose barn bore a white hex sign on its side. The leaves had slipped into autumnal reds, golds, and oranges. Down below, the small town rolled out like a postcard photo, all gabled roofs, gas street lamps, and church steeples. There was a quaintness to the town, as if it had been stopped in time around the turn of the century. It was the sort of place about which politicians liked to wax nostalgic and hold up as a symbol of all that was American, everything the country was in danger of losing.

Then they’d driven north. The roads were muddy and now they were considerably later than they’d meant to be. They checked into a motel on the edge of town. It was a rustic, cabinlike place with a large lot for cars and wagons. Uncle Will rang the bell. The proprietor, a man with a handlebar mustache but a more modern cut of jacket, greeted them. Will signed the register as Mr.
John Smith and family, from Albany, and secured two rooms—one for Evie alone and one for him to share with Jericho.

“Come for the county fair?” the innkeeper asked.

“Why, yes. We hear it’s the finest in New York,” Will answered with a tight smile. “My son and daughter can’t wait to attend.”

Evie flashed Will a look of surprise. Still smiling, he gave her a small head shake of warning:
Play along.

“Oh, it is at that,” the innkeeper said proudly. “I recommend the First Methodist Church’s peach jam. Now that’s something special.”

“Evangeline does love peach jam, don’t you, dear?”

“Can’t get enough of it,” Evie answered.

Will took the keys and hurried them to their rooms.

“Why do we have to stay here?” Evie asked in dismay as she took in the dark, cedar-lined room with its lumpy bed. She’d seen a perfectly lovely old inn when they’d driven into town. This one didn’t even have a telephone.

“We’ll attract less interest,” Will said. He spread out a crude map on the chipped desk. “Now. According to this, the old camp is up the mountain, about here. John Hobbes’s grave should be in the woods somewhere beyond the old meetinghouse. There’s only one road leading up there—if one can call it a road. It’ll probably be rough going, especially if the weather turns nasty. And unfortunately, we’ll need to go close to dark….”

“According to the
Farmers’ Almanac
, the sun sets at six twenty-five,” Jericho said.

“Then we’ll need to meet back here by quarter to six at the latest.”

“Back here? Where are we going?”

“Where are
you
going,” Will corrected. “You and Jericho will attend the fair.”

“Oh, Unc. I thought you were only being polite!”

“It will be good. Make us seem like friendly tourists. Throw anyone off the scent of our true purpose.”

Evie had a particular memory of attending the Ohio State Fair and getting sick from the smell of farm animals and eating too much cotton candy. State fairs were a far cry from Manhattan nightclubs; she and Jericho would probably die of boredom before they even got to the old Brethren site. But she could tell from Will’s tone that he was resolute about this.

Evie’s sigh was long. “Okay, Unc. I’ll go eat peach jam with the yokels. But you owe me.”

Will drove Evie and Jericho to the fair before heading to the town hall to see if he could gather additional supplies for their expedition. Evie and Jericho bought their tickets and pushed into the fairgrounds with the rest of the crowd. Several long white tents had been set up, giving the whole fair the feel of some medieval encampment. An Araby of imagined delights awaited them inside: Flimsy wooden vegetable stands were stacked deep and high with fat pumpkins. Hand-painted signs promised
THE BEST APPLE PIE IN THE COUNTY
and
SCHROBSDORFF’S LYE SOAP
—
NO FINER CLEANING AGENT!
as well as sweet pickles, plum preserves, caramel corn in newspaper cones, and lace doilies stitched so fine you could scarcely tell they’d been stitched at all. A jovial din filled the marketplace: “Ferber’s Horse Equipment—right this way!” “A game of checkers, only one penny!” “Come to the automobile display and see the motorcars of the future!”

They passed through the long, wide livestock pavilion, where pens teemed with animals groomed to perfection while sober-faced farmers stood nearby, arms crossed, nervously awaiting the verdict of the men judging their worthiness.

They emerged from the pavilion to find that an old-fashioned brass band occupied a center bandstand. The band played “Abide
with Me” while gray-haired couples sat in slatted chairs, singing along to the old hymn. Children in their Sunday best ran through smiling and wonder-eyed, their pinwheels spinning madly in the breeze. Despite her earlier grumblings, Evie was enchanted. For a brief moment, she could forget that they had come for a terrible purpose. They stood in line for the hayrides, laughing as the cart’s wheels bumped over the rutted field, and then laughing again as they shook the itchy hay from their hair and clothes like dogs shaking off water. At a small wooden counter, they drizzled honey on slabs of fresh bread drenched in melted butter and gobbled it down. Evie laughed as a big drop of honey slid off the side of Jericho’s bread and he tried to catch it with his tongue.

“You missed a spot,” she said. Without thinking, she wiped her thumb over his mouth. His lips parted slightly, as if he meant to take her thumb in his mouth. He backed away, substituting his hand for hers.

“Thank you, Evie.”

“You’re welcome,” Evie said shyly. Jericho was looking at her in a way she couldn’t name. “Oh, look! Let’s ride the Ferris wheel,” Evie begged, walking quickly toward it.

They bought their tickets for a penny apiece and settled into the metal chair. It swung just slightly as they lifted, and Evie yelped and grabbed Jericho’s arm. He responded by taking her hand in his, and as the ride lifted them higher into the air, Evie’s stomach fluttered, both from the height and from the nearness of him.