They were totally wrong about the first part.
The second part remained to be seen.
I finished my breakfast and came back to my room. I could tell Dad wanted to insist I go outside, but Mom was pretty mad about how he was badgering me, so he left me alone. I think I’ve got a few hours of peace and quiet up here, at least until Henry gets back. After that, all bets are off. He’ll want to play cards or talk.
What’s my dad hiding? His name is on a slab in the dredge that ties him to a whole bunch of other names. He’s part of a secret society. He’s got the alchemy symbol for gold tattooed on his shoulder and that alchemist diagram in his drawer.
It has to add up to something. But what?
I’ll start with the names from the secret room — that’s my best clue. I’ll work my way down the list and figure out who these people are.
Maybe some of them are still alive.
Like the librarian.
Like my father.
Sunday, September 19, 2:00 P.M.
Other than my mom stopping by an hour ago with lunch, I’ve had three hours of uninterrupted research time on my laptop. I keep it very quiet in my room — no music or anything like that — so I could hear the ting of a butter knife on the edge of a glass mayonnaise jar as she made my sandwich. This was my signal to erase every thing I was working on. I’ve gotten to where I can do this and re-enable the software my parents think is keeping tabs on me in less than thirty seconds. Unless they’re watching with a camera, there’s no way they’re keeping track of what I’m doing up here.
I almost spilled the beans to my mom when she was in here. It’s like I want to trust her, but she’s married to my dad and he’s tangled up in this secret stuff. She’d tell him. I know she would. And she was just as mad at me after the accident. Maybe madder.
After Mom set the Coke and the sandwich on my desk, she stared out the window.
“You coming down anytime soon?”
I shrugged and popped the top on the Coke can.
“Is Henry back yet?” I asked.
My mom shook her head. “Your dad went after him. Fishing must be good.”
I hesitated a second, then said, “Have you ever been in the old dredge, Mom?”
She looked at me like I was slipping through her fingers and falling down a steep hill. You know the look. The one where your mom thinks you’re in trouble but can’t help you.
“I haven’t been out to the dredge in years. Why do you ask?”
I could see she was nervous, like I was dancing around the edge of something she was afraid to hear. So I totally backed off.
“No reason. It’s been out there a long time. I figured you’d been inside.”
She looked relieved, which made me glad I hadn’t told her I was seeing ghosts, hanging out with Sarah, and wandering around the dredge in the middle of the night getting trapped in secret rooms. My mom wanted a normal son, who was in school and didn’t get into strange kinds of trouble all the time. I can’t really say that I blame her.
“Eat your sandwich,” she said, and then we talked about something else. (It’ll make more sense if I explain it later. But we did talk some more.)
Then she left and I was all alone.
That was the only interruption I had in a very successful three hours online, as detective work goes.
Here’s what I did:
First I made a list of all the names that were on the slab in the secret room. I added Daryl Bonner’s name to the list because I don’t trust him at all. Neither does Sarah. The names became, I guess, my suspect list. Suspects of what crime, I don’t know — yet.
But I’m closer to finding some answers now than I was last night.
This was the list I began with, in the order I wanted to investigate them:
Joseph Bush
Francis Palmer
Paul McCray
Gladys Morgan
The Apostle
Dr. Watts
Jordan Hooke
Wilson Boyle
Hector Newton
Daryl Bonner
First things first: Scratch Joseph Bush from the list.
That guy is already dead.
I went back to my old journal and read my entry from September 13th. I’ve torn it out and moved it here as evidence:
Whenever I see or hear that name, my leg starts to ache and I think of all the times I’ve seen and heard what remains of Old Joe Bush. I’ve heard him with my own ears, dragging that crushed leg across the old floor of the dredge. I’ve seen footage of him — am I really saying this? — seen him through the broken window and leaning down into the secret room and moving across a camera that’s been dropped. I’ve felt him push me over a rail, high enough off the ground to kill me.
The important thing right now is that Joseph Bush is off the list. And he’s not the only worker who died on the dredge. I searched and searched for Francis Palmer and didn’t have any luck at all until I remembered all those minutes and reports from the New York Gold and Silver Company. Those were big files and there were lots of them, plus I had gone in and started highlighting different areas of interest. I couldn’t keep those files on my computer, so I’d transferred them to a flash drive and taped it under one of the drawers to my desk.
And you know what? It’s a good thing I did that. Because when I went looking for those files online a couple of hours ago, a big chunk of them were gone. Someone, somewhere, was able to classify those old files or knew someone was looking at them. Maybe they tracked my IP address to Skeleton Creek and didn’t like someone snooping around. It’s not a good sign that things from the past are being hidden away. People only hide reports if they think someone will find something bad in them.
Which is exactly what I found.
I pulled up the files from that flash drive and ran a program I have that will sift through multiple documents for key words all at one time. I put in the key words Francis Palmer. I got a return on a document dated within months of the death of Joseph Bush. When I highlighted the entry from a board of directors meeting, I realized the death of Francis Palmer took place only twenty-seven days after the death of Joseph Bush.
Scratch Francis Palmer off the list.
Dead.
He and Joe Bush were both in the Crossbones and both of them died on the dredge within a month of each other. I had a brief moment of concern as my dad’s face flashed before my eyes. Twenty percent of the people on the list had already been killed off, and I hadn’t even been investigating for an hour.
The next two people on the list were Dad and Gladys Morgan, the librarian. I at least know these two are still alive. For some reason I just couldn’t go searching around online for my dad. It was too weird. Who knew what kind of junk I might dig up about Paul McCray? He was involved, he was alive, he was secretive like everyone else in town, he’d lived here his whole life, he had a diagram with symbols and strange statements on it, he had a secret tattoo, and he was living in the same house as me.
So I moved on to Gladys Morgan, expecting to find out she was a dreary old windbag with a long, eventless life full of long, eventless days, weeks, and months.
Boy, was I wrong.
The first thing I found? Gladys Morgan hasn’t always stayed in Skeleton Creek, contrary to what she tells everyone. She also spent some time in New York City, if you can believe that. How do I know Gladys Morgan was in New York City? Because the New York Times is archived online, and Gladys Morgan once made the news. That’s right — our Gladys Morgan — in the New York Times! And here’s the most interesting part: She was in the news right after the accidents on the dredge occurred.
Here’s a small part of the article I found:
What was she doing there? I get that she was angry, but going all the way to New York to complain with a bunch of other small-town folks? I think there was more to it than that. What if she was there as a member of the Crossbones? Two of them were dead in the span of a month. Or maybe the whole thing was a cover, especi
ally her participation in this rally, and she worked for New York Gold and Silver all along. She could have killed them both. It’s possible. She sure has the temper for it.
In detective terms, I think the evidence clearly points to Gladys Morgan as a person of interest.
The next name on my list, The Apostle, led nowhere. I couldn’t find anything online that made any sense or connected anyone with that title to Skeleton Creek or the dredge. The only thing I can think of now is to check with one of the old churches in town. Maybe they know something. With a name like The Apostle, a house of worship seems like the most obvious place to look.
Dr. Watts — now that one’s interesting. He was surprisingly easy to find in the Skeleton Creek historical archives. I was right in the middle of working on this lead when I heard my mom making the sandwich downstairs. That’s why, when I went down there, I steered the conversation to Dr. Watts, because I figured she would have heard of him. When I mentioned his name, she cringed.
“That old geezer?” she said. “He had the worst bedside manner of any doctor I’ve ever met. And he hated kids. I know, because I was one of his patients.”
“Is he still alive?” I asked.
“Far as I know. I guess he retired about twenty years ago, before you were born. He’d be about eighty by now. He’s reclusive. But he lives right off Main Street.”
“You mean he doesn’t get out much?”
“I mean he never gets out. At least I haven’t seen him. Mary over at the store delivers his groceries and cleans up after him. She says he’s obsessed with alchemy. You know what that is?”
I shook my head, not wanting her to know how much or how little I knew. The fact that Dr. Watts was into alchemy was a big deal.
“Well, it’s sure not good medicine. Something about mixing metals or chemicals. I think it’s making him soft in the head, whatever it is.”
Very interesting. Dr. Watts is alive, so that makes three. And, just as important, he’s messing around with alchemy, which has to be connected to the alchemy chart I found in my dad’s dresser. And speaking of threes — the last three names on the list inside the dredge were connected. Here’s how I figured it out:
First I searched each of the names separately: Jordan Hooke, Wilson Boyle, Hector Newton. The searches for those names didn’t lead anywhere interesting. Then I put all three names in at one time and searched them together. To my surprise, things started adding up. It was only the last names that mattered, and it quickly became clear that the first names were bogus, placed there to throw an outside observer off the track. Jordan, Wilson, and Hector were there for show, but Hooke, Boyle, and Newton? Those were incredibly interesting last names when taken together.
Sir Isaac Newton — obviously I’d heard of him. Gravity and all. But the other two — both with the first name Robert — were even more interesting. Robert Hooke and Robert Boyle were contemporaries of Newton’s and often worked right alongside him (if not in his enormous shadow). All three scientists were fiercely competitive and laid claim to similar finds.
Here’s where the dots start to connect: Boyle in particular was a great enthusiast of alchemy. It was a secret fascination. As I read more about it, I began to understand that alchemy is, at least in part, the science of trying to turn one kind of metal into another. Boyle — I almost fell out of my chair when I read this — was totally obsessed with the properties of one thing in particular: gold.
Alchemy, gold, the dredge, the Crossbones, Dr. Watts — these things are all connected somehow. And that chart in my dad’s dresser drawer, The Alchemist Diagram of 79 for Paul McCray.
Henry and my dad are going to be home soon. I should go downstairs and sit on the porch so they don’t wonder what I’m doing up here. No sense getting them suspicious when I don’t have to.
This is what I have so far:
Joseph Bush — dead
Francis Palmer — dead
Paul McCray — my dad, alchemy chart
Gladys Morgan — New York visit
The Apostle — send Sarah to check the churches
Dr. Watts — alive, alchemy, reclusive
Jordan Hooke — fabricated
Wilson Boyle — fabricated
Hector Newton — fabricated
Daryl Bonner — shows up mysteriously, can’t be trusted
A few hours’ work and I’ve cut the list in half.
Not bad.
Sunday, September 19, 10:00 P.M.
It’s clear my parents are serious about keeping me out of my room. And they’ve enlisted Henry to help them.
Is it really ten?
I’m tired.
As soon as I got out on the porch, Henry and my dad came back home. They’d caught a slew of fish (September is always good up here on the creek) and they didn’t let up for almost an hour talking about this fly pattern and that rising fish and the one that got away. This is a little bit like watching a golf tournament on television, more background noise than anything that requires serious concentration.
About a half hour into this endless stream of fish talk, my mom informed me that Randy and Dennis were coming over for HBs with their parents. This was not good news. Randy and Dennis are brothers who live in town. My mom keeps trying to set us up, sort of like a playdate for teenagers.
These guys are about as interesting as dirt. We have exactly zero things in common, plus they’re loud and they like to beat up on each other. I’m not even saying they’re bad people, exactly — just that I can’t think of a single reason why I would want to spend my Sunday evening listening to them talk about video games, dirt bikes, and farts.
But they showed up anyway because I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mom to cancel and, truthfully, it was almost worth it for the HB.
An HB, in case I die and this journal is found in a ditch somewhere a hundred years from now, is a Henry Bomb. This is a burger that is huge beyond all reason. Part of the fun of having an HB is to see how much of it you can eat. No one, to my knowledge, has ever finished a Henry Bomb. My mom and Randy and Dennis’s mom split half of one HB, if that tells you anything. And my mom is no slouch. She can put away a Whopper no problem. But this thing? Half an HB is like a whole meat loaf.
Our grill is pretty good size, but Henry only cooks one Henry Bomb at a time because they’re extraordinarily “made to order.” Tomatoes, lettuce, onions, special sauce (it’s a secret, it’s orange, and it’s awesome), every kind of pepper, about a dozen ziplock bags filled with seasoning salt of varying degrees of heat (total wimp all the way up to blow your head off). Don’t even get me started on the HB buns, which Henry makes himself from frozen bread dough (think Frisbee and you’re in the ballpark).
I tried and failed to eat an entire HB. It took a long time. Just checked my phone and Sarah texted me: 9 EMV at 630am. MU EL Delete. Nine means her parents are watching. They must be paying closer attention than usual. Emailing Video at 6:30 A.M., she misses me, ends with Evil Laugh.
Actually, I’m sort of glad she’s not sending me a video until tomorrow morning. Half the time I get these things at night and then I can’t sleep.
I’m taking five minutes to write her an update on alchemy and The Apostle and every thing else I figured out, and then it’s lights out.
Monday, September 20, 6:30 A.M.
Monday morning. Exactly one week from now I’ll be getting ready for school. Maybe classes and homework will make my life feel normal again.
The second I woke up, I sat up and looked at all the walls in my room. There was no new writing. Either I couldn’t find a pen in my sleep last night (this is possible since I made a point of putting every pen I have at the back of a drawer and shutting it tight) or whoever wrote the first message doesn’t feel like he needed to tell me twice.
And then there was this other, worse feeling as I woke up and looked at the poster I moved. If I lifted it and looked underneath, would the words even be there?
Don’t Make Me Come Looking For You.
This
is how messed up my memory is becoming.
Can I even tell the difference between truth and fiction?
I checked my phone — no password. I checked my email — no password. Then I looked out the window and saw a piece of paper was taped to the outside.
This can’t be good.
I pulled the window up just far enough to reach my hand under and take the note.
I could hear my parents talking down the hall, getting ready to leave for work. Henry would sleep in late and probably go fishing. Pretty soon I’d have the house to myself.
Here’s what the note said:
That might be the best password yet. Very impressive.
And she’s right. I did miss having her there to eat half my dinner. Being a glutton about it didn’t make me any less lonely. Plus I got a stomachache.
The blue rock. A hassle, but at least it’ll be safer with Daryl Bonner snooping around. Ever since that guy came to town a few weeks ago, there’s been nothing but trouble. What’s his real reason for transferring here?
I can hear people in the house.
Dad’s shaving, Mom is making coffee.
I better make a showing. Then I’ll come back and check the video.
Monday, September 20, 7:45 A.M.
Parents are gone and Henry is still asleep downstairs.
Time to check that video.
SARAHFINCHER.COM
PASSWORD:
CASTLEOFOTRANTO
Monday, September 20, 8:15 A.M.
I really hope that all librarians aren’t like Gladys Morgan. Because I’d really like, at some point, to walk into a library and not be afraid for my life.
It definitely looked like she was trying to hide that wooden crow. But why bother? I’ve seen it dozens of times over the years and never thought twice about it. I even remember thinking it was crooked once and thinking someone should nail it up there tighter so it wouldn’t fall off if the wind blew down Main Street.
Ghost in the Machine Page 2