The Smoky Corridor (16 page)

CHILD YOUNG

Daphne had been quite clever, spending time socializing with the school’s outcasts, the weaklings the popular kids picked on or simply ignored—the way she would have ignored them if she hadn’t been desperate to find her own Seth Donnelly.

She needed, as her heroic ancestor had said from beyond the tomb, a ghost seer—the same phrase Zack Jennings had used to describe himself to his raccoon-faced girlfriend.

After weeks and weeks of work—pretending to be sweet, sitting every day at the nerd table, smelling miserably malodorous cafeteria food, feigning enjoyment of the company of the school’s biggest losers—after a month of sheer hell, she had finally found her child.

Zack Jennings.

It made sense. Jennings was a sensitive sort. Always wasting his time worrying about others. Warped by a runaway imagination. Too compassionate, even to his dog.

She rolled the sketch paper back up. She returned it to the file drawer and pulled out the two small chalkboards sandwiched together, what the medium had called her spirit slates. She undid the strap.

During Madame Marie’s séance, the spirit of John Lee Cooper had written a message inside the chalkboards, words that the medium herself never had the opportunity to read, since Eddie had killed her shortly after she’d come out of her trance.

FIND THE BOY
BEWARE THE GIRL

Daphne assumed that the girl was Azalea Torres. If, as she claimed, she was related to the Yankee scallywag
Captain Pettimore, she could prove problematic. No matter. Eddie would deal with Azalea. The ugly Goth girl would be dead before sundown on Saturday.

Daphne chuckled softly.

The thought of Azalea dead truly tickled her.

With all that ghastly makeup on her face, she looks half dead already
.

Daphne needed to call her brother. Let him know they were a day away from redeeming their family’s honor. A day away from reclaiming the Confederacy’s gold.

She dug her cell phone out of her purse. Pressed speed dial number one.

Her brother answered on the first ring.

“Yes, boss. What’s up?”

“Eddie, I found him!”

“Our ghost seer?”

“Yes. Young Zachary Jennings.”

“Are you certain?”

“He confessed to a friend this morning. She, in turn, came to me.”

“What if this Jennings boy is just making it up, calling himself a ghost seer to impress the girl?”

“I sense he is for real. He fits the profile. However, if it turns out he’s lying, we’ll kill him, just like we killed the dowser and Madame Marie.”

“Good. When do we …”

“Tomorrow. I’m inviting Zack and two of his closest chums to come on a Saturday-morning field trip to the
cemetery so he can receive further instructions from John Lee Cooper.”

“This is wonderful news, Daphne. Must I keep pretending to be a janitor?”

“Yes. Just for one more day.”

“All right. You’re the boss. I’ll catch up with you this afternoon. Seems Mr. Crumpler has another toilet for me to unplug.”

“Eddie?”

“Yes, Daphne?”

“Generations of Coopers, the living and the dead, are very proud of us today.”

“I know.”

“One more thing: Tomorrow be sure to bring your pistol. And at least three bullets.”

64

“McNulty! Come!”

The ghost of Horace Pettimore roused his zombie from his after-dinner nap. The creature was sprawled out on the padded lining torn from a cracked-open coffin. All that remained of the corpse he had been feasting on were a chauffeur’s cap and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

“Prepare to move beyond the maze to your killing pit!”

“Yes, master.”

“When the sun rises, my soul shall slip into its new body. I shall venture deep into the tunnels to reclaim my gold. Though you do not recognize me, you will obey me, the one who holds your soul, the one who carries the mark!”

“Yes, master.”

“Move to your sentry post. Should any uninvited mortals follow the new me into the tunnels, destroy them!”

“Yes, master.”

“Destroy and devour them!”

65

Now Daphne
DuBois unlocked a second filing cabinet drawer.

She pulled out the bundle of musty old letters she had found in her grandmother’s attic when she was a child.

The letters that had sent her and her brother on their lifelong quest to reclaim their family’s honor.

And the Confederacy’s stolen gold.

There was the original handwritten letter from John Lee Cooper, who had first tracked the villainous Captain Pettimore to North Chester, Connecticut, in 1873. Letters from other Coopers who had journeyed north from Georgia and Tennessee, seeking the gold.

And then there was
the
letter.

The one written on an old-fashioned typewriter by the hero teacher who, one hundred years earlier, had taught mathematics in that very room.

66

THE PETTIMORE SCHOOL FOR CHILDREN
Old Pike Road · North Chester · Connecticut

January 10, 1910

Dearest Grandmother Amanda:

I write you from the festering human cesspool of Connecticut, whose murdering sons killed so many of our brave soldiers during Mr. Lincoln’s War of Northern Aggression.

As peculiar as this may sound, I bring you greetings from your beloved husband, my esteemed grandfather, the late John Lee Cooper, CSA.

Now, before you think me mad, consider how noble and strong your husband’s spirit was in life. Know, then, that his soul lives on past death and that his spirit lingers in this realm, longing to finish the unresolved business of a life so villainously cut short by thieving Yankee devils.

Grandfather has found a way to communicate with me through the medium of a young boy named Seth Donnelly, one of my students. Having developed a certain confidence with the lad–a shy, sensitive type with one bully of a big brother, no other family, and no friends—I was not in the least bit surprised when he came to me claiming to be a “ghost seer” with a message from beyond the veil.

“The ghost of your grandfather, John Lee Cooper, told me where to find the entrance to Captain Pettimore’s treasure tunnel.”

The boy, who is also a member of the scouting group I chaperone, then showed me a rubbing he had made of the carvings in a most peculiar stone he had found where grandfather had sent him. To Seth, the angled scribbles above and below the single easily decipherable line held no meaning. I, however, immediately recognized them for what they were: a coded message. Having researched the dastardly captain’s history prior to moving here to become a teacher in the same buildings where the vile beast lived for so many years, having studied grandfather’s diary, I knew that Horace P. Pettimore had been a Freemason long before he became a powerful high priest in the voodoo cult.

Oh, Grandmother Amanda, you should have seen young Seth’s eyes widen when I told him the markings were a voodoo curse scribbled by Captain Pettimore and meant to harm small children, such as he and his brother, if they dared look at the stone a second time without an adult who knew the chants required to shield them from the witch doctor’s “juju.”

Meanwhile, I took the paper from the lad and deciphered the secret message.

I now know where the entrance to Pettimore’s treasure tunnel is located. I have no fear of the “zombie” he so brazenly claims guards his gold, as I know it is simply another of the villain’s heinous lies, meant to scare off any honorable sons of the South brave enough to venture into the labyrinth to reclaim what is rightfully ours.

Tomorrow, dearest Grandmother, I will secure the stolen gold and redeem our family’s good name.

Of course, I will need to dispose of Seth Donnelly, and his brother, Joseph, as well, for I fear that those two share secrets.

I will have Seth lead Joseph and me to the spot where the stone and tunnel entrance are located. I will then execute them both in the most merciful fashion, a single bullet to their heads. I will do this late at night, when the school is deserted, so I might drag their bodies back to the building and, in a cramped corridor I know of, start a fire that will consume both their bodies and melt the lead bullets nestled inside their skulls. I will make the whole thing look like a tragic accident brought on by the boys’ own careless acts and will appear to have attempted a dramatic rescue before escaping from the blaze out my classroom window.

Next week, or perhaps next month, I will resign my position at the school, claiming to be overwrought with grief from the death of my two “precious charges,” and return to Georgia with our gold. The South shall rise again!

Be well, Grandmother.

Know that your husband’s work, thanks in no small measure to his own indomitable spirit, finally nears its completion.

Give Louella my love and kiss my babies for me. Tell them my mission in the godforsaken land of the Connecticut Yankee demons nears its completion and I will soon return home to the bosom of my family.

Faithfully yours,
your loving grandson,
Patrick J. Cooper

67

Lunch wasn’t
much fun for Zack on Friday.

The two tables had grown to three, but Zack was worried about Malik, who had brought his calculator to the cafeteria and kept crunching numbers instead of munching his food.

“What’re you working on?” Zack asked.

“Hmm? Oh, this? It’s nothing.”

“Then why are you working on it?”

Malik blinked about a hundred times. “Just for fun.”

Azalea wasn’t there for a snappy comeback. She was six or seven chairs away, over at table three with Benny, who hadn’t even asked Zack today what he was going to blow up next.

So Zack ate his PB and J in silence.

Finally, Ms. DuBois—who was like twenty minutes late—came to the table. She sat down directly across from Zack, in the seat where Azalea usually sat.

“Sorry I’m late. Mr. Crumpler has me filling out more forms. Stop by this afternoon and we’ll finalize our plans for the trial-run field trip tomorrow.”

“Cool, can I come?” asked a boy named Riley Mack, whose guardian ghost was, believe it or not, a German shepherd named Thor. He’d been the family pet. Died the year before. Riley was his favorite. Used to sneak Thor a hamburger whenever the family cooked out.

The dog didn’t tell Zack all this. It was more like telepathy or something.

“I’m afraid tomorrow’s field trip isn’t for everyone, Riley,” said Ms. DuBois, her voice dripping with honey. “It’s something of a practice. Zack, Malik, Azalea, and I shall be the guinea pigs. If our adventure proves fun and educational, we’ll still take the whole class the weekend before Halloween!”

“Awesome,” said Riley.

“What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?” Ms. DuBois asked Zack.

“That’s okay. My mom and dad can drop me off.”

“Don’t be silly. I drive right past your house anyway. Shall we say nine a.m.?”

“Okay.”

“Um, I don’t need a ride tomorrow,” said Malik. “I’m gonna bike it.”

“Very well. How about you, Azalea?”

“Sure. Nine will be fine.”

Okay, that was extremely weird.

Not only did it rhyme, but just the day before, Azalea had told Zack she never, ever woke up before noon on Saturday or Sunday!

68

“I saw
Captain Pettimore,” Joseph said to Seth.

“Where?”

“Drifting through the tunnels. I asked him, ‘How’s tricks?’ and he says he’s shoving off in the morning. Returning to the distant shore.”

“Can he do that?” asked Seth.

“Maybe. Remember, kiddo, he’s always boasting about being a big-cheese voodoo king. Says he can do all sorts of neat tricks we can’t.”

“Mr. Cooper told me Pettimore was a witch doctor—back when I found the stone.”

“Yeah, well, the captain says he found himself a new ‘earthen vessel’ and will be coming back down tomorrow to fetch his gold.”

“You know what that means?” said Seth, his eyes widening.

“Yep.” Joseph’s smile grew so wide his teeth ran from ear to ear. “Some other folks will see what he’s up to and come down here after him! Adult folks!”

“So we can leave here, too!”

“Hold your horses, little brother. First we need to set things right. Undo the wrong done to us!”

“Will killing an adult set us free, Joseph?”

“Maybe. I think so. And if killing one grown-up don’t make me feel better about moving on, well, by gum, we’ll find us another one to lock inside that smoky box! And if that don’t work, we’ll keep killin’ ’em till I say we’ve killed enough!”

Seth just nodded. He always did what his big brother told him to.

“Where’s your zombie?”

The creature loped out of the darkness, his arms flopping limply, his knuckles nearly scraping the floor.

“Tell him to stoke the furnace,” said Joseph.

“Stoke the furnace.”

“Yes, master.”

“We need it smokin’ by morning! Go on. Tell him!”

“We need it smokin’ by morning.”

“Yes, master.” Seth’s zombie hobbled over to the woodpile, pried a log free, carried it to the furnace, and jammed it into the first firebox.

Then he repeated the trek a dozen or more times while Joseph broke out in song.