by Judi Calhoun
Like most days, there was a long line of vehicles fighting to exit school all at the same time. I sat in the red leather bucket seat watching Jake struggle to squeeze into that line. Just as a spot opened up, he accelerated, then violently slammed on the brakes. My body launched forward and I felt Jake’s hand catch me before my face struck the dashboard. Good save.
The black Harley-Davidson that had cut us off stopped dead in front of us. It was no accident; the driver was arrogantly smiling, as he stared at Jake…at me.
Instantly, I remembered seeing the Harley this morning while I was waiting for Jake to pick me up for school. It had raced past my house at least five times, finally slowing like it was going to turn into my driveway, but had taken off the moment Jake arrived.
“Who is that guy?” I asked.
“His name’s Rick Steel,” said Jake.
Steel’s eyes were staring right into mine. Another flash of irritation struck me when I recalled seeing this same guy in the halls recently watching my every move. Was he stalking me?
“Why is he staring at me?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jake. “I don’t like him, he’s trouble.”
“...More like annoying, if you ask me.”
The traffic ahead of Rick moved, leaving a three-car length gap in front, and his eyes remained locked on me. Even when I looked away, I could feel his gaze.
Jake laid on the horn and the cars behind us started honking too. It didn’t seem to faze Steel.
“What’s his problem?” he asked, echoing my thought.
I wanted to jump out of the car and confront Steel. I wanted to know why he was stalking me. Why was he was intentionally blocking traffic? I had a sudden flash of brilliance. I knew how to make him move.
I leaned toward Jake. My plan was to kiss his cheek, hoping Rick would get the message, that he wasn’t bothering me at all. My lips gently grazed Jake’s cheek. Jake slipped his arm behind my shoulders, drawing me close. He pressed his lips against mine and my heart left the starting gate. I forgot all about…what was his name?
The Harley revved its engine. I broke myself free from Jake’s solar system, coming back to earth just in time to notice the spray of dirt and loose gravel hitting the windshield, as the bike peeled out and left us in a thick cloud of exhaust.
Thirty minutes later, we pulled through the cemetery gates and headed up the road to Goat Hill. Since the top half was too narrow for modern cars, we parked and walked the last quarter mile.
Thick woodlands framed the ancient graveyard. It was generally deserted, making it a perfect place to commit a murder without being seen.
It looked even spookier on overcast days like today. In my head I could almost hear the music from The Exorcist playing in the background. My mind returned to the ghost stories that the locals believed in. Baloney. Yet, today, even I might be persuaded to believe.
We found the grave where I had seen the light the last time I had been to the cemetery, the night I’d first met Jake. He ran his fingers over the top of A.E.B.’s grave.
“Ash?” he said. “Looks like someone was burning paper.”
“It’s everywhere, even on the ground,” I said, bending over to read the old limestone engravings:
A.E.B.
Born 9th May 1912
Died 31st October 1948
Death’s north wind, men’s soul doth drive.
Carry my bones; in darkness shall they forever lie.
I yanked my sketchpad from my bag. I began to draw the hollow eyed skull with wings, and repeated the words as I wrote them in an arch above the skull.
“Strange,” I said. “Why go to all the bother of writing a weird poem, and carve only initials instead of a name?”
“Maybe he wanted his identity hidden,” said Jake.
A sudden gust of wind sent my pages flapping and brown leaves scurried past me. I stood up as I heard a metal scraping sound like an old door opening slowly. A shadowy figure dressed in a long, black coat stepped out between two tall angels a few yards away.
Jake sidled up to me and took my hand.
The shadow was a mist of a man, not solid. Not human. He watched us as we watched him.
“You’re not welcome here,” he said and then vanished.
“Can we leave now?” I asked, my eyes blinking at the spot where he’d stood.
I followed Jake nervously, glancing over my shoulder, half expecting the ghost to return with another warning.
When we were back inside the car, Jake leaned toward me. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine. I… don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I know. I don’t either.”
“Then what did we just see up there Jake?”
“I wish I knew,” he said. He started the Mustang and drove down the hill, going a little faster than normal. “Let’s stop in the office. We need to find out exactly who this grave belongs to.”
The cemetery office was an isolated building at the far left of the entrance. Thick ivy vines climbed up the roof tiles and trailed over the large fieldstones, concealing most of the small building. Dust and dirt caked the tiny windowpanes. The door stood wide open.
An older man was sitting on a black metal chair, dressed in dull forest green pants, matching jacket, and baseball cap. I swear he was asleep.
“Excuse me.” Jake rapped his fist hard on the doorframe.
The dozing man was startled awake. His pocket tag said his name was Hank. “Jeez, you scared me half to death,” he said, stiffly rising from his chair. “My heart’s pounding like a scared rabbit.” He put on his glasses and studied Jake, the car, and me.
“I’d like some information on one of the graves up on the hill,” said Jake.
Hank limped over to a metal file cabinet and pulled out a long tray. A map brown with age was taped on top. “You talking ‘bout Goat Hill? Come on over here.” He waved a dirty hand at Jake, pointing to the map. “Each plot’s got a number. There’s thirty of ‘em on Goat Hill; which one d’you want?”
Jake’s eyes searched the aged map. He pointed to the area. “Right here.”
The old man whistled as he scribbled numbers on a small pad and told us to take it to the Town Clerk.
A woman at the Clerk’s office couldn’t give us any information based on the initials. She suggested we try the library.
Our librarian, Ms. Crow, sat in the very middle of a round room, with open doors leading off in all directions toward tall shelves. Balconies overlooked the desk from floors above, where the thin, tiny woman, with a long pointed nose and short-cropped grey hair, sat low behind a high mahogany desk.
Jake leaned over the counter. “Mrs. Crow?” he asked.
“Ms.,” she corrected, closing a small book and placing it neatly on top of a stack. She moved her head stiffly to look in our direction.
“We need information on a man buried in Homestead Cemetery.” Jake handed her the paper.
She adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. “Interesting,” she said. “Follow me.” She headed off to the right, never looking back, and we followed her up narrow stairs, through carpeted rooms, down hallways, and eventually stopped at a plain green windowless door.
My English teacher had told me that Ms. Crow was an expert in Genealogy. I was about to find out how just how good she really was.
She unlocked the door with a set of keys that hung on her wrist, and we stepped into a cold room. Narrow tables with small lamps lined the middle of it. Along one wall sat a few computers, some old microfiche machines, and huge filing cabinets with wide drawers, almost the same as our school Art department. The sign on top said: The Church of the Latter Day Saints.
Ms. Crow handed us several CDs and we sat down at a computer that looked much older than mine. “Mr. Binco died in 1948…” she began.
Binco. That was the first time we had heard his name.
“I’ve given you three records to access. There could be more. This one…” she held up a white labeled CD in a plastic case, “contain
s records preceding 1950. There are probably more records from the 1940’s on this other CD.” She tapped her finger on top of the case. “Should you require assistance, PLEASE come get me before attempting to jam another disk into the machine.” She glanced down at her watch. “We close in thirty minutes.”
I dragged a wooden chair over and sat next to Jake, as he placed the disk in the machine, quickly scanning the table of contents until he found the death announcement.
Arthur Edward Binco, 35- a resident of Bedford’s west side for most of his life, died on Sunday evening at his home. He was the husband of the late Bernice (GREY) Binco, who passed away in September of last year. Arthur was owner and CEO of Binco Products, a manufacturing company that produced surgical supplies for medical facilities throughout the United States. The company is currently operating under the name of Stafford Medical Supply Company. Mr. Binco sold the company only a week before his death. Arthur was a member of the American Legion Post 103 in Concord and was a long time member of the Bedford Chamber of Commerce and United Business Workers of America. Mr. Binco had an illustrious military career. He served in Special Forces during the war, belonging to the 8th Army and was one of Montgomery’s special forces in North Africa. A sister, who lives in Meadow View Nursing Home, North Reading, survives him. Funeral services will be held at the Graham Funeral Home, Arlington Road, Woburn, on Tuesday morning at 10 a.m. with Rev. Bruce Young of the Trinity Episcopal Church officiating. Interment will be at Homestead Cemetery.
Jake searched further ahead to find out how he had died. There was one article under the police reports. “Listen to this. Mr. Art Binco was found dead in his home on Monday morning. Police say an assailant who broke into his home Sunday afternoon stabbed Mr. Binco repeatedly. Mr. Binco was the former owner of the multimillion-dollar medical products manufacturing company, known as Binco Incorporated, repeatedly. Police estimate the time of death at 11:00 p.m. Police Sgt. Beckett says they are further investigating the robbery gone wrong. The rear door showed evidence of forced entry. Many valuables remained untouched, however, Mr. Binco’s wallet was taken, but the amount of cash is undisclosed-”
The door opened suddenly and Ms. Crow announced the library was closing in five minutes. She gave Jake a slip of paper with the disk numbers and we left the library.
“I’m more confused now than before we started. And worse, I still have no proof to show mom.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find some. You know I keep wondering,” said Jake. “Is it just a coincidence that Binco and Kellogg were murdered the same way?”
My mouth fell open. “You’re right.” That got me thinking. Was it even possible that the same person could have murdered them both?
The next day after school, I had just enough time to scarf down some microwaved mac and cheese, when the doorbell rang.
I opened it, expecting my aunt; instead, a tall skinny teenage boy with brown spiky hair and creamy pale complexion leaned against the doorframe. He was wearing a dark blue hoodie over a white tee.
“Peter?” I asked.
“The one and only,” he said. His smile was so contagious, I found myself smiling back. I was completely relieved that he wasn’t a little kid.
“Come on in,” I said.
“For a moment there I didn’t think I had the right house. You’re a lot prettier than I remember.”
A flash of heat hit my cheek. Amazing. I felt like I had been close to him all my life. Sure, we were related, but it wasn’t like we had spent loads of time together growing up, and he was definitely different from that freckle- faced, gap-toothed kid at family picnics. He was taller than my five foot six frame, with a girl-crush cute, innocent face, and the strangest lime green eyes I’d ever seen. To my intense surprise I liked him, and didn’t know why, except he made me smile and I really needed to smile.
“Where’s Aunt Linda?” I asked, glancing out the window.
“She dropped me off. She wanted to surprise your mom at work.”
I took Peter on a small tour. We stopped in front of my bedroom at the top of the stairs, both staring into my messy room. My cheeks grew hot. I kicked some clothes out of the way and quickly shut the door. No one ever said I was a neat freak.
“Yep, that’s where I sleep, but hey, look, here’s an actually clean room...yours.” I pointed to the guest bedroom across the hall from mine. The queen size bed was made up with a rose colored quilt. The nightstand and antique dresser did not match, yet they had been dusted; some of Gram’s doilies covered the flaws.
“So, Peter,” I asked, making small talk. “You get to take three weeks off of school. That’s cool...right?”
“Home-school,” he said, flashing me that Cheshire cat smile. “Makes it easy for things like this.”
“Sweet!”
I thought maybe I would leave, give him some privacy. “Well I’ll let you unpack,” I said, heading for the door.
“Wait.”
I turned around.
Peter studied me, his eyes squinting. “How well do you know Ian?”
I stood like a moron with my mouth open. “Why?” I answered with a question.
“Curious, that’s all,” Peter smiled, “...um... forget it.”
Either Peter was extremely perceptive, or hiding something, he knew.
“What I mean is,” he began again like he could read my thoughts. “It seems like your mom only just met him and now this big commitment, I’m a little confused.”
“You’re right, a short unexpected romance. She’s not pregnant if that’s what you’re thinking.”
His grin widened with amusement. “No, I didn’t think she was. Like I said forget about it.” He placed his suitcase on the bed.
I turned again to leave, when his next words stopped me cold.
“I know something about you,” he said.
* * *
Chapter 10