He looked right through me without a blink.
I heard the ringing of the telephone. I ran up behind Bill Lane as he answered it. He listened for a long moment and hung up. His face looked terribly troubled as he walked over and whispered to James. After ten seconds of talk, they both took off running. And I took off behind them.
We kept up a steady pace all the way back to the remains of the surface shelter. An ambulance was parked there now. So was Canby’s car, with Canby in it.
James searched frantically around in the rubble until he spotted a row of three corpses laid out on the street. I watched from afar as he fell to his knees and cradled Jimmy’s broken body in his arms. His sobs and his desperate cries of “No! No!” echoed down the walls of that shattered block.
Bill Lane turned away from his friend and spotted Canby’s car. He walked over and pointed to Canby to roll down the window. I could hear Bill yell at him, “You built this shelter! You’re responsible for them that died in it!”
I could see Canby shaking his bald head emphatically, defending himself.
An ambulance driver and a helper lifted the bodies of the old woman and the boy up on stretchers and slid them inside the back door. They waited for James to let go of his son.
He finally did. Then he stood up, not quite straight, his head flopped over to one side like a hanged man’s. The driver and helper said a few last words to him and slid Jimmy into the ambulance, too.
After a moment, James straightened himself and walked heavily through the rubble. I could see that his fists were clenching and unclenching. As he approached Bill Lane, Bill yanked the car door open and pulled Canby out.
“You killed them, Canby!” Bill shouted. “You and your bloody cheap construction!”
Canby tried to squirm away. He protested, “No! No! That’s not right!”
James Harker walked quickly up to them, pulled back his fist, and smashed it into Canby’s face. Canby snapped out of Bill Lane’s grasp and fell hard onto the jagged pile of rocks. James stood over him, panting “You killed my Jimmy! You killed my Jimmy!” over and over until his fury seemed to subside. He left Canby lying there, corpselike, and turned toward Bill.
“James, you must go with your boy now,” Bill told him. “Go with him.”
James just stared at Bill without expression.
“Who knows, James? Maybe his spirit hasn’t left this earth yet. He’ll need your prayers. He’ll need you to be there with him.”
James asked wonderingly, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Go now.” Bill took James by the shoulders and started him walking toward the ambulance.
I watched all this, thinking,
What am I doing here? Why did I need to see this? How did I help anything? Or anybody?
Still, I stayed in my place amid the smoke and the fire. I struggled to keep control of my heart rate and my breathing, but I couldn’t. I was losing it. I realized that I could not move any part of my body. I could only stare straight ahead, feeling the thud of the bombs, smelling the stench of the smoke, sensing the heat of nearby flames.
Suddenly I saw movement up ahead of me, twenty yards away, in the dusty haze. I saw two people, two people I knew. Something horrible was happening between them. I tried to move toward them, to stop them, but I could not budge. All I could do was watch it happen, as helpless as a ghost.
I watched them until I felt myself start to fall downward again, like I was falling through the street. My fear gave way to absolute panic as I fell and fell and fell.
Then everything went black.
I don’t remember landing. I just remember being carried by strong arms. And I remember a light. I remember thinking that I might be dead and in the presence of an angel, like Nana had been.
Slowly the light came into focus. It was a large white bulb hanging from a ceiling, directly above me. I thought,
That’s a real light, so I can’t be dead.
I shifted my eyes. I saw that I was in a small space bordered by blue curtains. I could hear the sound of a machine beeping.
Then two people stood up right next to me and stared down into my face: Mom and Margaret.
I gasped, “Where am I?”
Margaret answered, “You’re at Princeton Hospital, Martin, in the emergency room.”
Mom looked very pale. She took hold of my hand, squeezed it lightly, and whispered, “We heard noises downstairs. We . . . we couldn’t wake you. You were having some kind of seizure. We had to call an ambulance.”
Margaret peered into my face. “Martin, what happened to you?”
VERY WELL THEN, ALONE!
The doctor in the emergency room had no idea what was wrong with me, so after seven hours, a skull X-ray, and a CT scan, he sent me home. My diagnosis, as written on the discharge papers, was “petit mal seizure.” I was ordered to stay in bed for twenty-four hours.
Mom spent a lot of that time in the basement with me, relieved periodically by Margaret. The emergency room visit turned out to be a crossroads for Mom. She treated me differently at the hospital, on the ride home, during the following day, and from that time on.
During her very first shift in the basement, she pulled the computer chair into my room, sat next to the bed, and announced, “You can go to Garden State Middle School. I’ll call them as soon as the holidays are over.”
“That’s great,” I sputtered. “But why? Why did you change your mind?”
“I’ve been changing my mind for a while now. But this helped me see it clearly. Facing your child’s death helps you see things clearly.”
I thought of James Harker. “Yes. I’m sure it does.”
“I know All Souls is wrong for you. I . . . I thought it was right for Margaret, but maybe that was a mistake, too.”
“Really?”
“She would have been just as smart in a public school.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“And I’ve never liked working there.”
“No?”
“No. Father Thomas is very tight with money. He knew I needed more; he knew I deserved more. He took advantage of the fact that I was desperate to get you two an education.” She added sadly, “He treats me like a servant.” Mom paused, as if looking into the past. “I once lived across the street, you know. With your grandfather. And we really did have servants.”
“I know. Dad told me.”
Mom seemed mildly surprised. “He did?” She went on, “I always believed in destiny. I guess I got that from your grandmother. When your grandfather got the job at All Souls and I lived there, too, and I met your father there, it just all seemed to say
This place is your destiny.
I even got married on All Souls’ Day.”
“Really? When’s that?”
“November second. It’s the day after All Saints’ Day.”
“That’s the day for the souls in purgatory, right?”
“Right. They’re on their way to heaven, but they haven’t arrived yet.”
“So where are they?”
Mom shrugged. “Someplace in between. I don’t know.” She smiled weakly. “Maybe they’re under your bed.”
I thought,
Or maybe they’re in my radio.
I asked her seriously, “Do you think we can do more than pray for those souls? You know—to get them into heaven faster, do you think we can actually
do
things for them?”
“Things like what?”
“I don’t know.” I remembered Jimmy’s words:
Will you do your bit when the time comes? On the day of reckoning?
I thought it better to change the subject. “And did you get married at All Souls Chapel?”
“No. You’ve seen the pictures, Martin. It was up in Brookline. At St. Aidan’s. Your grandfather’s teaching job was over by then.”
“Oh? Somebody else was sitting in his chair?”
Mom smiled. “Your father told you about that, too?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t know you two talked so much.”
“Just twice. Once at Nana’s funeral, and once at Christmas.”
Her smiled turned rueful. “Another jolly Christmas. He could never make it through the holidays.” She swallowed hard. “How many did he ruin for us?”
“A few. Do you hate Dad for his drinking?”
“No. Certainly not. I might hate what his drinking did to us.”
“Do you think there’s any hope for him?”
“With the drinking?”
“Yes.”
“Well, anything’s possible. But I doubt it. Unless he truly hits bottom and gets the help he needs.”
“Professional help?”
“I was thinking of God’s help. But professional help would be good, too.” Mom looked down; she struggled to say, “The flesh is weak, Martin, as the Bible says. Maybe I have given up on your father’s drinking. But I want you to know, for certain, that I’ve never given up on his immortal soul.” Two quick tears ran down her cheeks. She wiped them away and tried to smile. “Oh my. Here I am, talking your ear off, and you’re supposed to be resting. Shut your eyes for a while.”
I pretended to nap after that, but I certainly didn’t need to. I had never felt better in my life. I had never felt healthier, or more clearheaded, or more sure of my purpose.
My life, which had seemed to be such a waste just a few months ago, was now driven by a force so powerful that I felt I could not resist it even if I wanted to. I created a list in my head of the things that I needed to do, made out in the exact order in which I needed to do them. Two of those things involved people named Henry M. Lowery.
When Margaret relieved Mom, I took advantage of the time to take care of some serious business. The third trip to London had left me with several burning questions, so I passed them on to Margaret. Whether she thought I was crazy or not, she agreed to take my questions to work and to research them on the most advanced sites she could find.
I pretended to sleep through most of Mom’s next shift, too. When Margaret returned, Mom went upstairs to make dinner. As soon as she closed the upstairs door, Margaret whispered excitedly, “All the names checked out. They’re all real.”
I wanted to say
I know they’re real,
but I kept quiet. She flipped open a notepad and informed me, “Harold Canby was an Air Raid Protection Warden in London. He died in a raid on December twenty-ninth, 1940. Two William Lanes were members of the London Auxiliary Fire Service. One died in the line of duty, fighting a fire on January tenth, 1941, at a place called Potters Fields. Alice Lane was listed as his widow. She later remarried, to a Sergeant Dennis Hennessey, in 1944. She died from cirrhosis of the liver in 1955.”
I stopped her. “How do you get cirrhosis of the liver?”
“From drinking. Alcoholics die of that.”
I repeated Jimmy’s words. “Mrs. Alice Lane liked her gin and It.” Margaret looked at me, puzzled. “It’s a drink. What more did you find out about James Harker?”
She checked her notepad. “James Harker was also in the Auxiliary Fire Service.”
“I know. Did he die?”
“Not that I could find. He was born in Yorkshire in 1915, but he had no death date listed anywhere.”
“Do you know where he is now?
“No.”
I looked across the room at the Philco 20 Deluxe and, thinking out loud, said, “I know he once owned a cathedral radio.”
“Is that right? Like yours?”
“Exactly like mine. And Jimmy Harker and Mr. Wissler both told me that York has a cathedral.”
“That’s right. It has one of the oldest and largest in Europe, the York Minster.”
“So . . . I have a feeling, a strong feeling, that I know where James Harker is.”
“Where?”
I pulled the covers back. “Back home. In York, the haunted city. Tell me—is it ever too late to solve a murder? Is there a statue of limitations?”
Margaret smiled. “You mean a
statute
of limitations?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I don’t think so. Not for murder. They’re always digging up skeletons to test for poison, or DNA, or whatever.” Margaret flipped her notepad closed. “How long ago are we talking about?”
“Sixty years.”
“Then definitely not. There may even be eyewitnesses to that murder who are still around.”
I thought,
Yeah, like me,
but I kept my mouth shut.
Margaret added, “King Tut was dead over three thousand years before they claimed he was murdered.” Her eyes shot to the door. She whispered, “Come on, Martin. I did all this work for you. You have to tell me. Whose murder are we talking about?”
I pointed at her notepad. “Harold Canby’s.”
I slid out of the bed. “Don’t tell Mom that I’m up. This will just take a minute.”
“Are you sure you’re okay to do this?”
“I am as okay as I have ever been in my life.” I hurried across to the computer room, bent down in front of the screen, and did a quick search. Then I wrote a short, hopeful e-mail to the General Enquiries address at York Minster.
* * *
My twenty-four hours of bed rest were up on Tuesday morning. By seven a.m., Margaret and I were on the road, the River Road, retracing the steps of George Washington’s army back to Pennsylvania.
Joan Traynor-Kurtz’s home address was within walking distance of her store. In spite of two wrong turns, Margaret and I were standing at her glass door just after breakfast. She seemed a little annoyed, but not enough to tell us to go away. Margaret said, in a perky voice, “Hello, Joan. Do you remember us?”
“Yes. From the encyclopedia.”
“That’s right. You said to come back if we had questions?”
“I said to come back? Or I said to call?”
“To call. I’m sorry. But the questions we have are of the face-to-face variety. I promise we will not take more than fifteen minutes of your time. May we please come in and ask them?”
Joan shifted her tall figure to block the doorway. “No. Sorry. The place is a mess.”
“Then may we ask them right here? Again, I am terribly sorry for the imposition, but we’re facing a deadline.”
Joan shrugged. “So, what else can I tell you?”
Margaret did not expect me to speak up, but I had to. “Please, ma’am, we need to know about Daisy Traynor’s secret papers. The ones that deal with General Lowery and the German attaché.”
Joan’s face hardened. “I told you, there are no such papers.”
She started to back away, but I stopped her. “Ms. Traynor-Kurtz, I have to talk to you, in private.” I turned to Margaret. “You’ll have to wait by the curb. What I have to say is for her alone.”
Margaret gulped. She whispered, “Okay,” and drifted back toward the car.
I waited until Margaret was out of earshot; then I turned to Joan. I extended my hand, as she had done at Seraphim, and fluttered it in the space between us. “Ms. Traynor-Kurtz, you asked me before if I had ever felt a presence. I said no. I acted like I didn’t know what you were talking about. But I was lying.”
Joan watched my hand until it stopped. When she looked up, I locked eyes with her. “I have recently been contacted by a spirit. He may have been an angel from heaven, or a soul from purgatory, I don’t know. But he was real enough to me, and his message was real. Do you believe that things like that happen?”
She answered simply, “Yes, I do.”
“I know that you are a spiritual person. And that’s why I have to share part of the message with you. I have not shared it with my sister, or with anyone at the encyclopedia, or with anyone, period.”
Joan shifted from foot to foot. She couldn’t leave now if she tried. I told her, in measured words, “Daisy Traynor did keep copies of the correspondence between General Lowery and the German attaché, Von Dirksen. She wrote the copies out in her own hand, on scented paper. She tied them up with pink ribbon and stored them under her bed in a red hatbox. She referred to one man as ‘mein Herr.’ She referred to another as ‘MM,’ or ‘Mickey Mouse.’ ”
Joan’s mouth literally dropped open. “How . . . Where did you hear all that?”
“I received a message, and I am passing it along to you. I don’t know anything beyond that.”
Joan’s eyes began to flutter wildly.
I asked her simply, “Is it the truth?”
She whispered softly, “Yes.”
“Then maybe it’s time for the truth to come out.”
Joan’s head dropped down to her chest, like she had passed out. She seemed to look inside herself. Then she looked back up. “You wait here.”
I stole a glance at Margaret. She raised her hands in a “What’s going on?” gesture. Before I could reply, Joan returned.
She had a red hatbox in her hands.
She spoke very deliberately. “I am going to trust you, young man, because you invoked the spirit world. And because I believe this is the right thing to do. If this is some trick, for some cheap tabloid story, then your soul is in for a lot of torment, and I wouldn’t want to be you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I assured her. “I understand.”
Joan regarded me fiercely. She finally said, “I’ll want these back when you’re finished. However long that takes.”
“All right.” I took the hatbox in my two hands. It felt solid and round, and it still emitted a light, delicate scent. Joan closed the door without another word. I turned and carried the hatbox back toward Margaret reverently, like a chalice. She jumped into the car and opened the door for me. We shot down the steep road and then pulled over. Margaret demanded to know, “What is that?”
“It’s a box full of Daisy Traynor’s secret papers from London. Copies of messages that she was sent to deliver.”
She snapped, “Pass it over here!” Margaret removed the round red top, set it on the backseat, and started to finger, very carefully, through the papers within. As I watched and listened, Margaret came as close to cursing as I had ever heard. She kept muttering “Holy crap!” over and over, in ever-rising excitement.
After a while, I started picking up the papers, too, and reading the curly, feminine handwriting. They weren’t really memos, they were more like notes about memos—full of names, and dates, and places.
We must have sat there for twenty minutes. Margaret finally reached back for the lid, covered the letters, and handed the box to me. “Here. You hold this. You’re the one who discovered it.”
Margaret threw the car in gear. Soon we were on the wooden bridge over the Delaware, bouncing across to New Jersey. I felt giddy with excitement. “How big a deal is this?”
“This? This is as big as King Tut.”
“No!”
“Yes. This is primary source material, Martin. Verifiable. Cross-checkable. Incredible. I see why the Lowery family has worked so hard to deny its existence, and to discredit Daisy.” Margaret actually took her hands off the wheel and threw them up before regaining control. “Good God! Daisy Traynor has reached out from the grave! And you, Martin, are her instrument.”
“Instrument? For what?”
“For revenge on Lowery. To bring him down.”
I thought of Daisy’s last, angry words to Lowery during the air raid. I said, “Yeah. Well, maybe he was just using her, you know? And then he abandoned her.”