“And?” George gave her an irritated look.
“While her father’s shop was being repaired and their home rebuilt, her father moved the family to the countryside. They lived on family land, probably that wheat farm.”
“A wheat farm,” George said.
Alice gestured to the painting.
“That wheat farm,” Alice said.
“The painting?”
“Em’s father painted that painting,” Alice said.
“He did?”
“Yes,” Alice said, her voice rising with her own irritation. “It amused him to document his inept attempt at farming.”
“He wasn’t any good at farming?” George asked and shook his head. He had no idea what Alice was saying or why she was saying it now.
“They didn’t live on the farm. Mostly, the farm ran itself,” Alice said. “He didn’t need to be there. They spent holidays there, but that’s all. When they moved there . . .”
“After the great fire,” George said.
“That’s right,” Alice said. “Em said that they were mostly in the way on the farm. Her father was used to being active, so he tried to participate in farm life. Finally, the farm manager convinced Em’s father that his time would be better spent doing anything other than farming. He took up painting.”
Like a spokesmodel on a game show, Alice waved her hand toward the painting.
“And the man?” George asked.
“The one with a big ‘George was here’ green mark on him?” Alice asked.
“It’s a tracer,” George said. “I’m looking for Em. I don’t know where Em is.”
“You don’t?” Alice asked. “I just came to ask where she was.”
“I don’t know,” George’s voice cracked. “For the first time in more than three hundred years, I don’t have any idea where Em is.”
George’s phone rang. He answered it without looking.
“George?” Shonelle asked.
“Yes.”
“There’s someone here to see you,” Shonelle said.
“Can you tell my client I’ll be right there?” George asked.
“Oh, she knows,” Shonelle said. “She’s early.”
“Great. Thanks!” George hung up the cell phone.
It rang again before he could get it into his pocket.
“It’s not your client,” Shonelle said. “It’s someone named ‘Martha.’ She says she met you in Kuwait?”
“Tell her . . .”
“She has Em’s purse,” Shonelle said.
George ran out of the apartment.
Chapter Eleven
George ran down the stairs. He opened the door to the Mystic Divine with a bang. The patrons turned to stare at him as he jogged through the store. He gestured to Martha, and she followed him out of the store. They weaved their way through the traffic on Boylston Street until they were in the Central Burial Grounds on the Boston Common. Moving fast, George jingled his keys for the little red-haired Irish girl who haunted this area of the Common. Obsessed with keys, the child-ghost would harass him until she eventually stole his keys. The girl grabbed his keys and disappeared. He kept moving until he reached a large gravestone which read: “Here were reinterred the remains of persons found under the Boylston Street Mall during the digging of the subway. 1895.”
“Friends?” Martha gestured to the gravestone for the eleven hundred British-soldier remains found when the city was digging the nearby subway station.
“Some,” George said. “What do you know?”
“Did you fight in this one?” Martha asked.
“I’ve fought in them all,” George said.
“See, I would think . . .” Martha started.
“Where did you get Em’s purse?” George asked. He mingled just enough magic to encourage Martha to tell him the truth without making her suspicious.
“She came to my street, George,” Martha said, with a bat of her artificially long eyelashes. “What was Martha to do?”
“What did you do?” George asked.
“I . . .” Martha said. “You know — I don’t like your tone.”
George scowled at Martha, and she laughed. Martha’s laughter woke the spirit of a British soldier. The soldier used his remaining arm to raise his musket at them. Recognizing George, he stood at attention.
“At ease,” George said under his breath.
“George?” the soldier asked. He lowered his weapon. “What are ya doin’?”
“Talking to my friend, Martha,” George said. “Sorry we woke you, Buford.”
“No problem at all,” the soldier said. He looked Martha up and down. “Where’s Em?”
Irritated, George flicked his hand in a salute, and the soldier disappeared.
“What did you do to him?” Martha asked.
“I put him back to sleep,” George said. “Where is Em?”
“Now that’s a good question,” Martha said.
George spied Buford peering at them over a gravestone a few rows away. He nodded his head, and Buford raised his musket to guard them.
“And the answer is?” George asked.
“I connected her with what she was looking for,” Martha said. “That’s Martha. Always helpful.”
“What was she looking for?” George asked.
“If she didn’t tell you, I’m certainly not going to,” Martha said with a sniff. “After all, we girls have to stick together.”
George glared at Martha.
“All right, all right,” Martha said. “I’ll tell you on because you help Martha with her liver, and we went to Kuwait together, and we’re standing over the remains of your friends.”
Martha nodded as if she expected a “Thank you” from George. When it didn’t come, she put a hand on her hip and gave him a sour look.
“You have to tell me what she was looking for first,” George said.
“Have it your way,” Martha said. “She was looking for Bill Panon.”
“Her father,” George said.
“That’s what she said, but that man is so disgusting that I . . .” Martha started.
“How did she find him?” Fumbling, George asked the only question that came to mind.
“Everybody knows Bill Panon,” Martha said. “You do, too.”
“I do?”
“He manages the building you stay at when you’re in Jamaica Plain.” Martha shook her head at him like he was an idiot.
“I’m sorry,” George said. “You’re right. I’d forgotten that was his name. I have a lot on my mind when I’m there.”
“It’s all right, George Burroughs,” Martha said. “You know Martha loves you enough to put up with your BS.”
George rolled his eyes, and Martha laughed.
“How did she find him?” George asked.
“Who?” Martha asked.
“William Panon.” George’s voice rose with frustration, and Martha grinned.
“She probably found him on Facebook,” Martha said. “Isn’t that where everybody finds everybody now?”
“I don’t,” George said.
“That’s because you’re the legendary George Burroughs,” Martha said. “You put up a profile, and you’ll have ladies lined up for blocks to get some lovin’ from you. Men, too, probably.”
George gave her a hard look, and Martha laughed again.
“What happened?” George asked.
“Martha doesn’t know,” Martha said. “Last I saw of her, she was walking into that building.”
“When was that?” George asked.
“Eleven or so,” Martha said. “I forgot all about her until this afternoon. Something made me go in there and look for her. I felt a strong compulsion. I figured you made that happen.”
“I might have,” George said. One of the side effects of tracers is that people who loved him could hear his plea.
“That’s what Martha thought,” she said. “I went in the building. Everything seemed on the up and up, so I talked to Panon.”
“What did he say?” George asked.
“Nothing,” Martha said. “He wasn’t home most of the day. Seems like someone stole the bulbs out of that fluorescent light fixture in the hallway.”
“Again?” George asked.
“Right — you know how dark that hallway can be if those bulbs aren’t in,” Martha said.
George nodded.
“Bill had to go out and get more bulbs,” Martha said. “He didn’t get back until a half hour or so before I got there. I helped him put the bulbs in. Saw Em’s purse when the light came on again.”
“Where was it?” George asked.
“Tucked into the end of the hall,” Martha said. “You know, in that corner where the window ledge hits the wall. He looked inside and saw it was hers.”
Martha nodded toward the purse in her arms. Trying to think it through, George looked away from Martha.
“But here’s the thing,” Martha said in a low tone. She glanced at the ghost of the British militiaman to see if he was listening. “I talked to old Bill when Em came.”
“You did?”
“Talked to him over the intercom,” Martha said.
“You’re sure it was him?” George asked.
“No,” Martha said. “I just . . . well . . .”
Martha fell silent.
“Well, what?” George asked.
“He looked scared, you know, when he found Em’s purse,” Martha said.
“Scared?”
“Yeah,” Martha said. “Like ‘Oh, shit!’ He played it off, but I think he was rattled.”
“Because she was gone?” George asked.
“Because she’s your woman,” Martha said. “He knows a whole ton of George is going to come down on him.”
“He’s got that right,” George nodded.
Martha nodded. As if she’d run out of things to say, Martha stopped talking and went strangely blank.
“Do you think someone mugged Em?” George asked. “Stole her purse?”
Martha shook her head.
“Then . . .?” George started.
“There’s this story, you know,” she said. “Martha don’t know if it’s true or if it’s a lie, but I think it has something to do with this.”
“Story?” George asked.
“There’s a story that old Bill is the original owner of the building,” Martha said. “Maybe owned the land before it was a livery.”
“The same Bill?” George asked.
“Very same,” Martha said. “Converted the building from a livery to apartments. There’s a couple people who grew up in that building . . .”
“And still live there.” George nodded.
“Still live there,” Martha said with a nod.
“I’ve met them,” George said.
“Martha knows you have,” Martha said. “They say old Bill hasn’t aged even one day since they moved in. Not one day.”
“You think the manager is Em’s father,” George said.
“Martha doesn’t know what he is,” Martha said. “She just knows that he knows more than he’s saying.”
George’s cell phone rang. Pulling it from his pocket, he realized it was time for his appointment.
“I have to . . .” George pointed back to the Mystic Divine.
“You go on,” Martha said. “Martha will wait right here until you’re done. We’ll go over there together.”
“You don’t have to,” George said.
“We cleared out them houses in Kuwait together,” she said. “Martha would have died without her George — ten times over. Now, George needs Martha’s help. She’s going to be there no matter what. Martha would do anything for her George.”
Martha nodded. George gave her a one-armed hug. When his head was close to hers, she said in her deep Michael voice, “We’re dancing with the devil, George Burroughs.”
He was so surprised that he backed up to look at Martha. She gave him a coy smile.
“Go on,” Martha said. “I’ll be right here.”
George jogged away.
“Take the purse!” Martha yelled after him.
George ran back to her for the purse. She gave him a saucy look and a wink. Laughing, he jogged toward the Mystic Divine. He picked up the little red-haired girl as he neared the street.
“If you’re going to play with ghosts, why don’t you play with me?” the girl asked in Irish Gaelic.
“What ghost?” George asked.
“You don’t know?” the girl giggled.
He looked back at Martha. She was looking at the gravestone, so he could just see the back left side of her head. For the briefest moment, a car’s headlight lit up a small round bullet hole just over her ear on the edge of her wig. The back of her wig was thick with dried blood. As he watched, the person he knew as Martha fell to her knees and then to the ground.
Martha was dead.
George’s breath caught with sorrow. Whatever Martha had done or been in this life, she had been one of the very few whom he could call “friend.” He’d been so worried about Em that he hadn’t even noticed she’d been shot.
“There was nothing you could do,” the little red-haired girl said. She dangled his keys in front of his face. “She was already dead.”
He whispered a fast prayer for Martha’s immortal soul and sniffed back a tear. He looked down at Em’s purse. Martha must have been holding the purse when she was shot. There would have been enough residual magic in Em’s purse to get Martha here.
Martha wanted him to know that she was dead. Martha wanted him to know what she knew. George nodded. Martha wanted him to find his Em. He wiped away a tear that ran down his face.
George glanced at the British soldier. No wonder he’d awoken when Martha laughed. The laugh of a new spirit always called to old spirits. The soldier moved out from behind the gravestones to stand guard over Martha’s body. George looked down at the glimmer of the little girl.
“We’ll take care of her, George,” the little girl said. “But you should call the police.”
George grabbed his keys and ran across the street into the Mystic Divine.
Em opened her eyes.
It was dark. She had no idea where she was.
She remembered this deep, blank dark. She remembered not knowing where she was.
She remembered the granite crevice and soil that surrounded her body and the bodies of her hanged friends.
She closed her eyes again to rest.
The dark enveloped her. Like the touch of a soft blanket, she let the darkness wrap itself around her. In its embrace, she was safe.
No more of life’s incessant press. No more bright sunrises. No more witches.
Only darkness. Only peace.
She sighed.
Sitting in that horrible Boston prison in 1692, she’d imagined death to be like this — dark peace and an end of the press of living. No more prison. No more accusations. No more torture or groping hands looking for witches’ tits or rape or heavy chains or strappado or gawking onlookers yelling cruelties. No more laundry to do or fields to harvest or children to raise or neighbors to get along with. Just dark peace and an end to the press of living.
She scowled.
She’d imagined death to be exactly like this — same smell, same feelings, and even the same sounds. She shook her head at herself and opened her eyes.
“Nothing in life is exactly what you expect it to be, Martha,” she said out loud.
Her voice echoed back to her.
She was lying on her side, with her nose pressed into the dirt. She let out a breath, gathered her strength, and she rolled over. Her body ached from the effort. She stretched her neck and then her arms. Like she did in yoga class, she extended her legs. She felt bruised. If she’d broken something, it had already healed.
“Let there be light,” she said.
Light emanated from her hands. She flicked her fingers to the ceiling, and a line of white light appeared on the ceiling. She was in some kind of cellar or tunn
el with granite walls. She must be under a large tree because the tendrils of roots filled the spaces between the rocks. She took a deep breath. The soil was clean, moist, and fertile.
She was not in New England.
She jerked up to sitting. When she was young, the bubonic plague had taken London to its knees. She had helped her mother and father stuff bodies into graves like this one. She looked around her.
She was lying in a long, narrow chamber with granite stones for walls. There seemed to be rooms on either side at the end of the passage. There was enough room for a child to stand, but not for an adult. She crawled toward the end of the passageway to peer into the room on her right. It was a standard burial chamber from the Neolithic era.
She grinned. She knew where she was.
She was on Rousay. She had come home.
She laughed out loud.
After the plague and fire, her family had retreated to her father’s ancestral family land on Rousay, an island in the Orkney Islands just north of the Highlands of Scotland. After the farm manager had begged her father to stop interfering with the farm, she and her parents spent any free day exploring the ancient ruins that covered almost every square inch of Rousay.
Of course, she’d thought that death would be dark peace, blissful quiet, and an end to the press of living. In a Neolithic passage tomb, death was dark peace.
She crawled back to where she had awakened. It had been more than three hundred years since she’d been in tombs like this. She didn’t remember how to get out of them. She lay back down.
The moment her spine hit the dirt, she missed George.
She’d never told him about Rousay or the glorious days of exploration in these tombs. In fact, outside of telling him she was from London — which was technically true — they had never talked about the details of her life before she’d come to live in New England.
When she’d met him, George absolutely hated the Scots. The Scottish Privy Council had just authorized field executions of Scottish Presbyterians, or “Covenanters,” not loyal to the king or caught in arms. In order to stay alive, Covenanters were abandoning their faith in droves. The Reverend George Burroughs found their betrayal to be cowardly and despicable. He had no space for deserters, especially people who abandoned their Puritan beliefs. He had railed against the cowardly Scots.
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