Ghost Soldier (15 page)

“Even if you bribe him, he'll tell,” Nicole said.

“Sounds like the voice of experience,” I told her.

“So how about the mall?” she suggested.

“So how about some historical museums?” I countered.

“What?” she demanded, tugging on her hair. “You acted like you couldn't care less about history when Mom dragged us to Petersburg on Saturday. Now suddenly you're this big Civil War fan. I'm going to the mall.”

“Okay,” I said. “See you guys this evening.”

“Mom's going to be mad if you go off alone,” Nicole warned. “So's your dad.”

“Maybe, but you were supposed to show me around. I don't think the mall is what your mom had in mind.”

“I'm not into museums.”

“This isn't the artsy kind where you have to look at paintings,” I promised. “They're history museums. And they're little ones, so we'll be out fast.”

“Will there be more cannons? And trenches?” asked Carleton.

Nicole got up, shoved the cottage cheese container in the refrigerator, and slammed the door.

“Trust me—they won't take long. Once we've seen them, we can go to the mall in whatever time's left over.”

“What about the cannons?” Carleton repeated.

“Maybe,” I told him. “We won't know until we go there and look inside.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling.

“I'm not wasting all afternoon in dusty little museums,” Nicole said flatly.

“Just think how impressed your mother will be,” I reminded her.

She considered that and said finally, “As long as we get to the mall.”

“Deal.”

*   *   *

When we were out of earshot of the kitchen, Rich asked, “What's wrong with having her come along, Red? She could be helpful.”

“She could be, but she's not. Anyway—the problem is talking to you when they're around. To them it looks like I'm talking to myself.”

Rich frowned. “I wish I could make other out-of-timers see me or hear me.”

“I can imagine Nicole's face if she saw a ghost!” I said. But the sudden surge of jealousy surprised me. I didn't want Nicole or Carleton to see Rich—he was
my
friend!

As we waited at the bus stop, Nicole said, “I'm surprised you're not tagging along with your dad, trying to do something to break things up with my mother.”

I shrugged. “I don't see what I could do.” Except get him back home and refuse to move here, I thought. No point in telling her that, though.

“You don't say much, but I've seen the way you look at my mom. I mean—it's so obvious you can't wait to drag your dad out of her clutches.”

I couldn't help laughing, and Nicole grinned. “Well—I mean, what gives? Your mom walked out on you, right? Why can't your dad look at someone else?”

I stopped laughing. “My mom's coming back.”

She was silent for a minute. Then she said, “Sometimes you sound just like Carleton. It doesn't matter what you tell him, he's got his own idea of the truth.”

“The bus is coming!” shouted Carleton, racing down the sidewalk.

I watched the bus shudder to a stop directly in front of us. “Looks like Carleton's got a pretty good grasp of the truth to me,” I told her.

Then I climbed on and found a seat. I even remembered to sit in the back so that she wouldn't question my story about getting carsick. That worked out great, because she sat up near the front and Rich and I sat together.

The museums were all downtown. The first one wasn't too exciting—it was dark, with cobwebs in the corners. Nicole rolled her eyes the minute we opened the door. Even Carleton looked disappointed. And all they had from Research Triangle Park were some regimental buttons and a battered canteen. I hoped the other museums would be better, or Nicole was going to drag me off to the mall before we saw them all.

The second museum was in an old brick house that had been restored. I could see a blue painted rocking chair with flowered cushions on the wooden porch. Beyond it, a screen door led into the hallway where a woman sat behind a little desk, reading a book. She looked up and smiled as we stepped onto the porch.

“Can I help you?” She wore a denim skirt and sneakers, and a bright gold T-shirt that said “Keep the Past Alive! Support Durham County History” with a name tag pinned to it that read “Sarah Edwards.”

I smiled at her. “Hi, Ms. Edwards—I'd like to keep the past alive.”

She laughed. “Well, if you like the shirt, you can buy one! We don't charge admission, so that's one of the ways we stay in business—selling T-shirts and history books and key-chains—all those sorts of goodies.”

I grinned and explained what I was doing there. “I was over at Research Triangle Park the other day and saw all the construction going on—and I figured they must have turned up lots of stuff that had been around since the War Between the States.”

“They certainly did!” Ms. Edwards agreed. “Our founder has friends who worked for one of the construction crews, and they brought us a lot of terrific things. We haven't sorted it all out yet. The artifacts that are on display are over in that area.” She looked from me to Nicole. “Is this pure love of history, or a project for school?”

Nicole shrugged. “Ask him, not me. It's
his
project.” She wandered over to look at a colonial house exhibit, showing mannequins dressed up and arranged as if they were sitting down to a meal.

“Your sister looks more interested in colonial history than the War.”

“She's more interested in going to the mall,” Carleton told Ms. Edwards before I could set her straight about Nicole not being my sister. “But I'm interested in history. Do you have any cannon here?”

“Oh, I'm afraid not,” Ms. Edwards said. “But we do have some muskets and bayonets. Would you like to see those?” He followed her happily.

More bayonets, I thought, heading over to the area where the stuff from the Park was supposed to be. At least this place was better than the first museum we tried.

“Alexander—come quickly! You have to get it out for me! It's here!”

Rich's hand grabbed for me desperately, and his touch seared my elbow. My whole arm went numb and got thick and heavy. I stifled a cry and Rich let go, shocked, as if he hadn't been aware of what he'd done. Hot pinpricks of feeling danced up and down my arm.

“I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you—but it's here!”

The others were busy, so I said in a low voice, “All right already—where is it?”

“Over here!” He pointed to a display cabinet in a corner, and I followed him, rubbing my tingling arm.

“I don't see any box—”

And then I saw it, even before Rich's jabbing finger slid through the glass as if it were a wall of water and tapped at the object inside the case. It was a silver locket, open, hanging from a pin stuck through a loop that would have held a necklace chain. Even if Rich hadn't said anything, I'd have known this was what we were looking for. The woman in the locket's miniature portrait had thick black hair, like Rich's, and expressive black eyes that seemed to burn across the years. Beneath it, a card read: “Locket belonging to the Chamblee family, circa 1860.”

“So that's what Louise left for you,” I said softly. “Not a note where she was going, but her locket.”

“My mother's locket,” Rich said quickly. “Louise treasured it and would only wear it on special occasions. I don't understand how she could leave it behind.”

“I guess she wanted you to have it,” I said. I studied the portrait. There was something familiar about the face—probably the resemblance to Rich.

Coiled in the other side of the open locket was a black lock of hair. Was it Louise's hair, or their mother's? Then I read the card beside the locket again. “Wait a minute—was Louise's name or your mother's name on the locket?”

“No,” Rich said, shaking his head. “Neither one.”

“Then Louise must have left you something else inside the box—something signed.” I pointed to the card. “How else would they have known the name?”

“She must have written a note and signed it! But where could it be?” Rich cried, looking around frantically. His hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it back.

“I see you found the Research Triangle Park's greatest treasure, at least from our point of view,” said Ms. Edwards.

“Ask her!” demanded Rich. “She must know where the note is!”

“It's beautiful,” I said, honestly. “She still looks—so alive.”

“It's a miracle,” Ms. Edwards said simply. “Especially considering the condition we found it in!”

“Where's the note?” Rich cried. He was looking through all the cases.

“What do you mean?” I asked, hoping he'd figure out I was getting to that, but I couldn't ask her directly without making her wonder how I knew about the box in the tree in the first place.

“This wasn't something the construction crew dug up,” she explained. “It was tucked away in a hole in an old oak tree, of all places! They found it when they were cutting the tree up as they cleared the land.”

“Really?” I tried to sound surprised. “How did you know who the locket belonged to? Did it have a name on it?”

“Not on the locket itself, but the locket wasn't alone.” She smiled. “It wouldn't have survived all that time on its own. No—whoever put it there wrapped it in a piece of heavy paper first. We think it must have been a strip of wallpaper.”

Rich's head whipped around.

“They also used the clean side of the wallpaper to write something,” she went on. “My guess is that it was left for a soldier coming back from the War, who wouldn't know what had happened to the family—perhaps a relative, or a sweetheart.”

“What did the note say?” I could scarcely keep the excitement out of my voice.

Ms. Edwards looked puzzled. “Why are you so interested in this discovery?”

“Well,” I began, wondering what to say.

“He loves history,” Carleton said. “He got excited when we went to Petersburg. They shot off a real cannon—Pow! Alexander almost got sick, he was so excited!”

Thanks, I thought. Now she'd never tell me anything.

“What have you found this time?” Nicole asked. “Hey—this locket's cool.”

Ms. Edwards smiled, and she looked relaxed again. “It sounds as though you're quite the history buff—Alexander, was it?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I admitted.

“Well, Alexander, I'm afraid the note was barely legible. It was wrapped around the locket, then the two of them were placed in a tin box. The box was sealed quite tightly and would have kept them safe for several years, but over time the tin deteriorated and water seeped in.” Ms. Edwards sighed. “By the late 1860s it was hard to get ink in the South, and many people made their own from a mixture of lampblack—that's the soot left over from a kerosene lantern—and linseed oil. That ink smeared when the paper got wet, so parts of it were badly smudged.”

“Could I see the note?” I asked, mentally crossing my fingers.

“Oh, it's not out on display,” she said. “It was too badly damaged.”

“But you must have cleaned it up enough to read at least part of it,” I said. “You didn't just throw it away after that, did you?”

Rich gasped at the thought.

“Of course not!” Ms. Edwards looked shocked, too. “It's stored between plates of glass in the back. But that room isn't open to the public.”

I looked at the locket again and at the reflection of Rich's desperate face in the display case. I turned back to Ms. Edwards. “I can't explain it,” I said, which was true enough. “But there's something about that woman's picture.” And about the ghost who looked so like her, I thought to myself. “I'd
really
like to see that note.”

Ms. Edwards hesitated a moment longer. Then she said, “Well, why do we have these things if people can't see them? That's what I hate about big museums—they always keep the best treasures locked away.” She looked around as if someone were about to sneak up on us. Then she grinned. “Can you two keep a lookout?”

Nicole just studied the portrait, playing with her hair thoughtfully.

“Sure!” Carleton shouted.

Ms. Edwards led me through a door behind a display of Confederate uniforms and flags, and Rich followed, his pale face full of hope and drawn with fear. She switched on a bright overhead light and pulled open a shallow metal drawer in a wide cabinet. There were other things in the drawer, but she carefully lifted out two pieces of glass, with Louise's note sandwiched in between them.

I heard a hiss of indrawn breath from Rich and felt a cool breeze shudder through the room. Ms. Edwards looked around nervously and tried to smile, but I could see she was afraid that something was wrong. I bent over the glass plates quickly.

I could barely make out the writing on the torn piece of wallpaper. As Ms. Edwards said, the ink had faded and was blurred where it had been partially washed away. The top line looked something like:    
My d
    
r
    
bro
    
er.

After that I could only make out single words, or parts of words:

    h rm
        
gone
        
drew
        
etter

    Bake
        
Ill no
        
airo
        
sur

    ait fo
           
appro
        
eet
        
oth loc

    our
ey