“Gilda, what do you want?”
“Something weird just happened.”
“Every time you go somewhere something weird happens.”
“Wendy, I don’t even have to go anywhere and weird things happen.”
“So what happened this time?”
Gilda told Wendy about the dream and how it seemed to contain a message of some kind. “And at the end, there was a gun pointing at me.”
“Oh.” Wendy grew quiet for a moment. She was well acquainted with ominous nightmares; during a trip to England, she had experienced some very disturbing dreams that made her feel certain that her life was in danger. She suddenly felt more sympathetic toward Gilda. “It was probably just an anxiety dream. You know; you’re on your own in the big city and everything.”
“But everything else about the dream seemed so significant.”
“Or maybe the gun was just there because you were dreaming about President Lincoln. You know, he got assassinated, so that’s not far-fetched.”
“But it felt like he had something to tell me. Why me?”
“You’re a psychic investigator, aren’t you? Maybe Lincoln’s ghost just wants to get to know you.”
“I guess. . . .” Gilda’s voice trailed off. She caught her breath because a light suddenly flashed in her room. She put the telephone down and watched as it happened again—and then again—a repetitive series of flashes: on, off, on, off.
“Gilda? Are you there?”
“Something’s going on here, Wendy,” Gilda whispered.
“What’s happening?”
“I need to check this out. I’ll call you later.”
“But—”
Gilda hung up the phone and realized that the light was coming from outside her window. She opened the blinds and looked across the courtyard into rows of apartments that were dark—except for one fifth-floor window where lights were flashing: on, off, on, off. Gilda watched for a minute, transfixed. What was going on in that apartment?
Gilda remembered how the mousy woman had stared through that same apartment window. Her face had been plain. Maybe she wore glasses. There was nothing striking about her at all, but the simple fact of seeing her staring with such intensity through the window had filled Gilda with trepidation.
TO: GILDA JOYCE
FROM: GILDA JOYCE
RE: ADDENDUM TO PSYCHIC REPORT--MYSTERIOUS ELECTRICAL ACTIVITY IN CATHEDRAL TOWERS APARTMENTS
Following recording of potentially psychic dream and conversation with Wendy Choy, lights are seen flashing in a 5th-floor apartment where a suspicious-looking woman lives.
Is this a coincidence, or is there a connection between the dream about Lincoln and the lights? Could the lights be a signal of some kind--or possible evidence of a poltergeist?
Now feeling even more bewildered and intrigued than when she had first awoken from the dream about Abraham Lincoln, Gilda pulled a book entitled Haunted Government: The Famous Ghosts of Washington, D.C. from her suitcase and turned to a passage about Lincoln’s ghost.
LINCOLN—OUR “GUARDIAN GHOST”?
Abraham Lincoln’s ghost has appeared to many visitors at the White House. Some have claimed to see his somber silhouette standing at the window of the Oval Office, gazing out at the nation with an attitude of concern.
Lincoln experienced personal tragedy and profound grief during his term in office, and the weighty emotions associated with his life may be one reason his spirit continues to linger after death. Adding to Lincoln’s deep concern over the plight of the nation during the bloody battles of the Civil War was the trauma of the death of his beloved son Willie, who passed away from an illness during Lincoln’s presidency. Lincoln’s wife held séances in the Green Room of the White House, some of which Lincoln was reported to have attended.
President Lincoln was also known to sit for hours by his young son’s tomb, weeping openly and even asking that the crypt be opened so he could view the boy’s lifeless body once more.
While the moments of anguish associated with Lincoln’s family are sufficient explanation for his ghost’s moody presence around the White House, a perhaps more intriguing theory put forth by some psychics is the notion that Lincoln remains a “guardian spirit” of the nation, appearing at times of danger. Whether his ghost’s message is perceived depends on the emotional and psychic sensitivity of the officials in the White House at any given time.
If Lincoln’s ghost is a “guardian spirit” of the nation, is it possible that he has a message for me, is it possible that this word “Oakhill” and those flashing lights are pointing to some type of spy activity I’m supposed to investigate?
11
The Museum Ghost
Surrounded by an assortment of antique toiletries including “Southern Rose” hair oil, “Dri-Dew” deodorant, perfume bottles, and a silver hairbrush and mirror, the Spy Museum’s manager of exhibit production stared at the lipstick pistol and secret-camera brooch he had just installed in the Sisterhood of Spies room. His name was Roger Selak, and although he resembled a young college student dressed in a baseball cap and blue jeans, he was actually a new father who had been up for exactly half the night pacing through his apartment with a colicky newborn. The other half of the night had been spent dozing on the couch and having whispered arguments with his wife about the possible cause of their baby’s sleeplessness and which of the two of them was more tired than the other. Roger assumed it was sleep deprivation that caused him to feel light-headed and dizzy as he considered the lipstick gun and spy-camera brooch in their case—objects he had originally intended to place among secret weapons of the Cold War. On the other hand, maybe the problem was the sneaky, vintage femininity of the exhibit, which was designed to resemble a dressing room of a Southern belle who was also a spy. The display contained dolls with hollow china heads, tiny Bibles containing secret handwritten notes, and a fake beard and mustache—the various tools of female spies who smuggled communications behind enemy lines during the Civil War.
Behind Roger, a film about female spies was projected from an ornate three-way mirror. Black-and-white photographs of women’s faces emerged from the mirror, growing larger, then fading as the soft-voiced narrator told of the lives and deaths of spies including Mata Hari, Harriet Tubman, Sarah Edmonds, and Edith Cavell, the last of whom was executed by a firing squad.
I need sleep, Roger told himself, allowing himself to close his eyes for just a moment.
His thoughts were interrupted by a crackling, static sound. The image of Edith Cavell’s face dissolved into grainy pixels and the narrator’s voice fell silent. Great, he thought. All I need is for something to go wrong with the show software. He checked all the connections and hidden cords in the exhibit but could find nothing wrong.
The normal exhibit film had completely stopped. Roger stared at the mirror, first seeing his own reflection, then watching something that resembled a plume of smoke moving inside the glass. The plume of smoke grew darker and larger until it resembled a human head. . . . Was it a woman’s face? Whatever that is, it isn’t a film image, Roger thought. It was something more real and present—something that seemed to watch him. There was also an aroma—a sweet floral perfume that also smelled old, reminding him of a box of dried flowers or aging bottles of vanilla extract and bags of stale marshmallows in the back of his kitchen cabinet at home.
Roger often worked alone in the museum, so it was unusual for him to have the feeling he suddenly had—the immediate, childish knowledge that above all, he didn’t want to be alone. He actually felt scared.
Leaving a rolling cart of tools behind, he hurried toward the staff offices, wanting to forget what he had just seen.
12
The Promotion
Sitting at her desk in the Spy Museum, Gilda logged into her computer and typed the words “OAK HILL” into a search engine just to see what she might find.
To her delight, a site for Oak Hill Cemetery in Washington, D.C., appeared. She clicked on the site,
then grew even more excited when she realized that Oak Hill Cemetery was in the same neighborhood as Boris’s house in Georgetown.
Surrounded by a quiet Georgetown neighborhood on R Street, Oak Hill Cemetery is a historic and atmospheric destination in Washington, D.C. You will find many graves from the Civil War era, including a family mausoleum where President Lincoln’s son Willie was buried during Lincoln’s presidency—until the president himself was assassinated, after which time both bodies were laid to rest in Springfield, Illinois. During his term in office, the president was known to spend hours sitting by his son’s tomb in Oak Hill Cemetery.
IMPORTANT DISCOVERY!
There’s a link between the word “Oakhill” and President Lincoln! If Lincoln’s young son used to be buried there, that explains why he was pointing to that word.
Still-why would the ghost of Lincoln want to tell me about the place where his son was buried?
Gilda heard the sounds of museum security guards, information-desk attendants, and retail clerks arriving for work, pouring coffee, and slamming the refrigerator door shut as they put away lunches.
“You have a good night? Feels like you just left, huh.”
“There’s Mr. History. Oooo! You look sweaty! You run all the way to work today?”
Matthew Morrow made some comment Gilda couldn’t quite hear.
“Only ten miles? You slackin’ off, boy!”
Gilda heard voices approaching and turned to see Matthew and Jasper Clarke standing in the doorway and speaking in hushed, concerned tones.
A moment later, Janet trudged past Jasper and Matthew into the office. “Oh.” She regarded Gilda with thinly disguised disappointment. “You’re here early.”
I bet she was hoping I’d be late so I’d get in trouble with April again, Gilda thought. I can tell she’s the competitive type. “I couldn’t sleep thinking about these cipher wheels that need to be finished,” Gilda fibbed.
“Now we’ve got a lot more than cipher wheels to give us insomnia,” said Janet, moving closer to Gilda’s desk and speaking in a low voice. “April’s freaking out because one of her Spy Camp counselors canceled at the last minute with a family emergency. Roger’s freaking out because his colicky baby is keeping him up all night. When I passed him in the hallway just now, he told me he was heading home ‘either to rest my eyes or be killed by my wife,’ which sounded kind of disturbing. He looked like he had just seen a ghost.”
“What kind of ghost?”
“Um, I think that’s just a figure of speech.” Janet opened her large purse and unloaded a can of Slim-Fast and a paperback titled Love’s Fever into her desk drawer.
“Whatever you do,” Janet added, “don’t have any problems today.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
April abruptly burst into the room with a colorful flurry of silk scarves, tote bags, and morning stress, pushing between Matthew and Jasper and breaking up their conversation in the process.
“Excuse you,” said Matthew.
“Sorry, but I have an emergency.” April tossed a tote bag onto her chair impatiently.
“Is everything okay? Is Gabriel sick again?”
“Gabriel’s fine; it’s our Spy Camp that’s in trouble.”
“We already heard about it,” said Janet, clearly enjoying being the first to know.
“Heard what?” Jasper and Matthew looked perplexed.
“April is short one counselor,” Janet announced. “I heard you talking on your cell phone in the hallway,” she explained, noticing April’s slightly annoyed stare.
“I already knew about it, too,” Gilda added.
Janet rolled her eyes. “Gilda only knows because I told her.”
“The first session of Spy Camp starts tomorrow, doesn’t it?” Jasper leaned in the doorway casually, but he looked concerned.
“That’s right; it starts tomorrow.”
“So who are you going to call for a substitute counselor?”
“I’ve been calling everyone I can think of, and so far, everyone is working, out of town, or just avoiding my phone calls.”
“I’m sure nobody in this city would avoid your phone calls, April.”
April fixed Matthew with a broad, false-looking grin. “That sounded like the helpful comment of a volunteer. Yes! You, Matthew, are going to be my new camp counselor.”
“Um—I don’t think so.”
“He can’t,” said Jasper. “We just accelerated his deadline on a couple of publishing projects, and he needs to be available to answer calls from the press.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Matthew, turning to Jasper. “You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”
“I’m not sure I’m doing you a favor; it would probably be more fun to do Spy Camp.”
“What do you mean, ‘probably’?” April slumped in her chair. “It would definitely be more fun.”
Gilda cleared her throat loudly. Why wasn’t April jumping at the chance to make her a camp counselor? She was sitting right there!
“I think you might have one volunteer.” Matthew tilted his head in Gilda’s direction.
“I’d love to,” said Gilda, standing up. “I’m great with kids.”
“You are a kid,” said Janet.
I definitely do not like Janet, Gilda thought.
“Yeah, she’s a little young,” said April. “I mean, I appreciate that you’re offering to help, Gilda, but you’d only be a few years older than some of the kids.”
“So give me some of the younger ones and I’ll whip ’em into shape. By the time they leave this place they’ll be running circles around the CIA.”
Jasper Clarke made a move to leave. “Well, it looks like you have this under control, April.”
“Very funny.”
“I have a meeting with our advisory board to discuss some museum development plans. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave the four of you to figure this out.” Jasper paused. “For what it’s worth, I think you should give Gilda the job. She’s a natural spy, so they’ll never guess that she’s only fifteen.”
Make that fourteen going on fifteen, Gilda thought, a little guiltily.
The room fell quiet for a moment after Jasper left.
“I guess I could give her a smaller group,” April suggested, “maybe some of the younger kids.”
Janet looked skeptical. “Won’t the younger kids be more difficult for her to control?”
“They might be more likely to respect her,” said Matthew.
“I think we’re forgetting the art of disguise,” said Gilda wondering why nobody in the room was addressing her directly.
Everyone stared at her with surprise, as if she had just belched loudly.
“Aren’t we in the Spy Museum? It shouldn’t be hard to look a few years older than my real age with makeup and wigs.”
“While we’re at it, we could make you look like a little old man.”
Janet and April wrinkled their noses as if trying to imagine Gilda disguised as an old man.
“Well!” April stood up and brushed invisible lint from her pants. “The bottom line is that there are a few busloads of kids showing up to attend this camp, so we’d better hustle. Gilda, I hope you’re done cutting out those cipher wheels because you have some camp-counselor training to accomplish today.”
“Awesome! And don’t worry; I won’t disappoint you.”
13
The Dead-Drop Message
Instead of going directly into her apartment building after work, Gilda decided to investigate Oak Hill Cemetery to see if she could find any more clues to explain the strange dream about President Lincoln. She made her way down Wisconsin Avenue, past the rumbling of idling delivery trucks parked outside businesses, past the high wall of the Russian Embassy with its security gates and wary guards, and past Guy Mason Park, where toddlers played in the sand as bored nannies watched. As she neared Georgetown, the air filled with the smoky aroma of Rockland’s Barbeque and an assortment of Thai and Italian restaurants wh
ere people sat at little tables along the sidewalks, fanning themselves in the heat.
Gilda turned onto R Street where the atmosphere was sullen with humidity and a heavy silence. Again, the street gave her the ominous feeling of being watched by quiet, empty houses—houses that knew things. Sweat trickled into her eyes and between her shoulder blades, staining the back of her yellow sundress.
Gilda froze: she suddenly spied Boris Volkov heading up the walkway toward his house, his black jacket slung over one shoulder, his arm gently resting on the back of a well-dressed, middle-aged woman whose hair was dyed a very unnatural shade of red and styled in a stiff, hair-sprayed do. That must be Boris’s wife, Gilda thought. She had an impulse to run up to the couple and say hello—to ask Boris’s wife why she had wanted those KGB artifacts out of the house. Instead, Gilda hid behind a tree just as Boris turned to glance behind him.
Boris, you’re breaking the “Moscow Rules” of spy tradecraft, Gilda thought. Never look behind; it makes you look paranoid.
More than anything, Gilda wanted to spy on Boris. She wished she had had the foresight and technical skills to set up some kind of surveillance bug inside Boris’s house when she and Matthew had visited him.
Realizing it would be too dangerous to actually peek into the windows of Boris’s house, Gilda decided she had better continue to Oak Hill Cemetery.
Gilda passed through the walled entrance to the cemetery and found herself gazing down over a terraced hillside and what looked like a little village of graves: cherubs, marble angels perched upon pedestals, tall obelisks. Under the trees, the play of light and shadow upon gray and white stones was eerily beautiful.
Gilda had printed a cemetery map from the Internet—a maze of swirling lines demarcating intertwined walkways dotted with numbers indicating the graves of notable people from the Civil War era including Lincoln’s war secretary, a bunch of Union generals, and several women who had been “hanged as confederate spies.” Then Gilda found what she was looking for on the map: at a distant edge of the cemetery was the grave where Lincoln’s son had been buried.
The Dead Drop Page 7