The Mapmaker and the Ghost (11 page)

Goldenrod and Birch had been sitting side by side against the cavern wall for only a few seconds when Goldenrod had to ask, “How did you get here?” She whispered it to him, keeping an eye on Lint's massive back, which was blocking their exit.

Birch looked guilty. “I followed you,” he finally whispered back.

“Why?”

“I dunno. I was bored. Whatever you were doing seemed like more fun than being at home … What
were
you doing, anyway?”

Goldenrod shrugged. Considering all that had happened, it now seemed silly to keep her mapmaking such a big, dark secret. “Oh, I was just drawing a map,” she finally said.

“A map?”

“Yeah, a really detailed map of all of Pilmilton. That's why I was exploring the woods.”

“Is that why you're all green and brown and stuff ?”

“Well, I was trying to blend in so they wouldn't see me—” Goldenrod started.

“Cool!” Birch's blotchy face suddenly brightened, and Goldenrod had to smile. If only everyone else in the world was as big a fan of hers as he was. For a moment, she thought about telling Birch all about Meriwether too. But when she looked into his eyes and saw dark pools of worry, she reconsidered. It seemed like Birch might have already had enough frights for one day and ghost stories were probably not going to help.

“How did you land in the middle of that clearing?” Goldenrod whispered instead.

“I lost you for a minute when you started running. And then I was just following the sound of your footsteps, and before I knew it—”

“Jonas and Charlie,” Goldenrod interjected.

“They call themselves Brains and Lint here,” Birch whispered. “And the girl is Snotshot. And then there's No-Bone and Toe Jam.” Birch counted off on his fingers. “And, of course, Spitbubble.”

Goldenrod was impressed. “Looks like you've picked up a lot.”

“Yeah, well, I also happened to hear all about their plan
to break into the museum tomorrow. Which is probably why they're not going to let us go.” Birch looked sad again.

Goldenrod had gathered as much too, though she still couldn't figure out what on earth they could want from the science museum. “Well, we're here together now,” she said brightly to Birch. “Like Dad always says, two Morams are better than one!”

Birch gave a weak smile. He was silent for a minute before speaking again. “I did something kinda bad to get here,” he finally said.

“What do you mean?”

“Mom—she thinks I'm sick and in bed. She has to know by now that I'm gone. She'll be so upset …” Birch's voice trailed off.

Goldenrod put her arm around his shoulder and whispered even more softly, close in his ear, “We'll find a way out of here. We have to.”

Mrs. Moram had spent a very satisfying morning in her garden, pruning and weeding. Her dahlias were coming along exceptionally well this summer, a particularly bright, purple one causing her an immense amount of cheer. She'd have to take a picture and send it in to the Dahlia Society. It definitely had a shot of ending up in next month's newsletter.

She'd hardly noticed the time go by as she worked in
the sun. It had been cool and breezy for July, one of those perfect gardening days, and she had so enjoyed her time outside that she all but forgot her other responsibilities.

It was only when she heard Mr. Chen, one of her neighbors, call in his son for lunch that she realized she was hungry. And goodness, Birch must be too.

Mrs. Moram first went into the kitchen and rummaged around in a cabinet. She found a can of chicken noodle soup in the very back. She popped it open and set about heating it up which, unlike Mr. Moram and his obsession with food creation, was about as complicated as her cooking skills ever got. While the soup was bubbling, she poured a glass of orange juice and toasted a piece of bread in the special “smiley-face” setting of their toaster. She smeared the toast with some strawberry jam, ladled the soup into Birch's favorite bowl, and set up the whole meal on a little tray. Then she took out a small, skinny vase and filled it with a few of the budding goldenrods that she had plucked that morning.

She smiled as she artfully arranged the tall, bright yellow stalks. Mrs. Moram knew that goldenrods were an odd choice of favorite flower for a gardener. They weren't necessarily the prettiest and, in fact, were often mistaken for weeds. But she found them beautiful and resilient. She loved their bold, unapologetic yellow color. She loved that they were wildflowers, not easily killed or intimidated like a lot of the other more traditionally cultivated species. They were
strong instead of delicate, and she thought that every garden should have a good mixture of both.

When the whole thing looked just right, Mrs. Moram took the tray and set off upstairs.

She entered Birch's quiet room. He was lying very still on his bed.
He must be really sick
, she thought to herself, feeling sorry for her poor son.

She gently put the tray down on his bedside table and went to rearrange the covers around him.

BUZZ!!!

It was their exceptionally loud doorbell. Mrs. Moram jumped and, in doing so, moved the covers a little with her hand, causing her to think that Birch had stirred.

“Seed of the Month Club Delivery,” she heard a loud and cheerful voice calling.

“Oh, I'm sorry to wake you, sweetie. Let me go get that, and I'll come check on you in a bit, okay? Have some soup,” she said, as she hurried excitedly out of Birch's room and toward the front door.

Spitbubble was proud of his height; it allowed him to look rather menacing when he walked, as he placed one firm marchlike step in front of the other. It also helped that he kept his fists balled up at all times, as if ready for a brawl with anyone in his warpath. But he knew that his strongest weapon was his black glare, the way it could, and had, stopped many people in the middle of a conversation, made them falter, made them show weakness.

He was using this glare now as he stared across a glass counter to a leather-faced man with a stringy ponytail hanging morosely from his otherwise bald head. The man was examining Toe Jam's gold coin minutely.

“Looks dirty,” he finally grunted.

“That's because it's old. Antique. Check out the date.” Spitbubble pointed to the ancient date inscribed on the coin's surface.

“Humph,” the man, called Barnes, said.

They were standing inside Barnes's Barn, Pilmilton's tiny pawnshop that was filled to the brim with useless junk that people had cast off through the years. The case Barnes and Spitbubble were leaning over was filled with probably at least fifty items in and of itself: clocks that had no hands, tarnished earrings with no mate, an object that might have either been a medieval torture device or a really dirty spork.

Spitbubble, however, knew that this junk wasn't how Barnes really made his living. The store mostly served as a front for the kinds of things that Barnes really collected and sold to handpicked clientele. Things like famously misplaced paintings and the rare and valuable coin he was now turning over in his hands.

“I'll give you seventy-five bucks,” Barnes finally said.

“That's not what this is worth,” Spitbubble said calmly.

“If you can find someone else who's willing to pay more, I'll gladly consider a counteroffer,” Barnes sneered. Being the only pawnshop owner in town had its advantages, especially if you also happened to be okay with more than a little dishonesty.

Spitbubble thought for a minute, took in a deep breath, and then quick as a flash snatched the coin out of Barnes's hand and returned it to his pocket. “All right. No biggie. See you later, then.”

He barely got a glimpse of Barnes's utterly startled face as he calmly turned on his heels and strode the two steps it
took to reach the front door. He had just pushed it open when he heard, “Wait.”

He turned around calmly and stared at the man, who was now stretching his cracked lips into something that might be considered a smile in a creepy, horror-movie-bellhop sort of way. “I can see I'm dealing with a pro here,” Barnes said.

“I don't have time for your hot air,” Spitbubble said breezily. “We both know that I have a one-of-a-kind and valuable item.”

“And we both know it wasn't exactly left to you by your dear, dead aunt Gertrude,” Barnes grumbled.

They glared at each other for a moment. “Three hundred,” Barnes finally said.

“Five hundred,” Spitbubble said.

“Three-fifty is my final offer,” Barnes said. “I could have you arrested, you know.”

“Ditto,” Spitbubble said coolly. He used his black glare one more time with his hand still on the shop door.

“Fine! Four hundred. But that is absolutely it, you sniveling brat.”

Spitbubble smiled as he marched into the most perfect-looking suburban block any television show creator could have imagined. The whole street was lined with big, leafy maple trees, and each house was a slightly different color
combination than the next. One was pink with a gray roof. The next, green with a black roof. The next, yellow with a blue roof. And so on. Each different, but the same.

With his infamous glare, Spitbubble zoned in on one particular house, the gray one with the black roof, and strode up to it. He opened the gate of the house's white picket fence, marched up the driveway, and banged a fist on the front door, causing it to swing open easily. He strode into the quiet, pristine house as if he owned the place, smirking a little at the mahogany furniture, matching beige sofa set, and, most especially, ginormous framed black-and-white photo that hung over the fireplace. It was of a young dark-haired boy in a patterned sweater, grinning a missing-toothed grin, and posing with one hand under his chin.

“Stannie, is that you?” came a low female voice from some other part of the house.

“Yeah, Ma,” Spitbubble said. He strode through the front hallway and down a few steps into the den, which was filled with more matching furniture and a fake green Persian rug with an intricately hideous pattern on its surface. He sat down on a sunken violet couch and took out a large wad of cash from the pocket that had once housed the heavy, gold coin. The cash was a lot less shiny, but a lot more attractive to Spitbubble's eye.

At that moment a tall, dark-haired woman walked into the den. She was wearing a beige short-sleeved blouse and
a shapeless brown skirt:
teacher clothes
, Spitbubble thought, even though it was still summer vacation and she wouldn't be back in the classroom for a few weeks yet.

“How was your day, Stannie?” she asked her son.

“Good, Ma,” he said as he counted out the money one more time to make sure that Barnes hadn't shortchanged him.

The woman walked over and squinted at what he was doing. “Another good garage sale find?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

The woman chuckled as she patted Spitbubble on the head. “Oh, Stan. You have such a head for business. Lord knows how you spot these things. Who are all these stupid people selling their valuables in garage sales left and right?!”