The Raven Read online

  First, you need a beginner who’s sure he can outfish his beginner wife.

  Second, that guy needs to be sitting in the back of the raft, where the oarsman can’t see him without turning around. (That’d be my dad.)

  And last, you need a clumsy person known for dropping expensive things off of buildings and into rivers and then trying to hide it from everyone for approximately thirty seconds.

  That’s about how long it takes for a two–hundred-dollar fly rod to vanish from view in a moving river.

  On the upside, they paid for the rod and were good tippers, which made my dad feel a little better.

  “I should have known what was happening. It was real quiet for about twenty seconds. Never a good sign,” my dad said. “Why don’t they just tell me when they drop a fly rod? I could swim out and get it.”

  “If it was you and mom on the boat, would you tell?” I asked.

  My dad rubbed the stubble on his chin and smiled. “Good point.”

  He milled around the shop, checking messages and sales on the till.

  “I hear you had a visitor from the Washington Post.”

  I asked him how he knew about Albert Vern and he said the mayor had left three messages on his phone while he floated out of cell range.

  “Sounds like this guy’s a fisherman.”

  After that my dad informed me that the mayor had offered to pay full price for an all-day float down the river.

  “But only if you guide him,” my dad added.

  I could hardly say no. Number one, a day on the river with someone who knows how to fish and loves doing it is hard to come by when you’re a guide. A large percentage of gigs are with people who have no business being on a river to begin with. And the guy seemed pretty cool, so why not?

  “I could use a day in the shop after today,” my dad said, sounding a little worse for the wear. “You go, I’ll tie up three dozen flies and set up a new guide rig. It’ll be a win-win.”

  At that moment, all I really wanted to do was stay in the shop and do research all day. The faster we figured out all the locations Sarah would need to visit, the sooner we’d know if it was even possible.

  The trail led to something, somewhere. Could be an even bigger stash of gold for all we knew.

  I got through dinner and “porch time” with my mom while the lazy summer evening took my dad into dreamland. When I got to my room I set the webcam on my laptop to record throughout the night, and called Sarah. She picked up on the first ring and I explained everything about the haunted church location before she could get a word in edgewise.

  “Cheyenne, Wyoming,” she said. “Not exactly on the way home, but not too far off the path, either.”

  I explained that I’d run the numbers — it was eleven hundred miles from LA to Cheyenne. About sixteen hours by car.

  “How come you get all the cushy gigs and I have to drive like a maniac all over kingdom come?” she asked.

  “At least you don’t have to deal with reporters and retired fishermen,” I said. Then I described Albert Vern and tomorrow’s fishing expedition.

  “Don’t trust reporters,” she warned. “He sounds like a smooth operator. Spill the beans and we’ll never get to the end of the Apostle’s trail.”

  I agreed completely, but what I was really worried about were the other locations and how she was going to convince her parents to go off route on the way back to Boston.

  My mom knocked softly on the door and I hung up before she entered without being invited in. She’s like that, my mom. The very soft knock isn’t so much a courtesy as an excuse to say, “I warned you I was coming in — didn’t you hear me knocking?”

  She asked to see my phone, which surprised me, since I’d gotten the feeling they were slacking on keeping an eye on me. I should have known better. There was no hiding who I’d called.

  “Must be hard, having her as close as Los Angeles.”

  “It’s okay,” I lied.

  “Just don’t do doing anything stupid, okay? You know how your father will react if things get out of hand again.”

  “Got it. No problem.”

  She handed back my phone, but not before saying I should reconsider reconnecting with my old friend. “Remember how much trouble you both got into before?” she asked. As if I was about to forget.

  Still, I could tell she understood. Your best friend is your best friend, and besides, how much trouble could we get into when we lived so far apart?

  Actually, quite a bit.

  Thinking about it now, I realize this is where it gets kind of scary. Like, maybe we really are stepping over a line we shouldn’t. Part of me says, Hey, Sarah is seventeen, what’s the big deal? She drove all the way out to LA by herself. She’s an independent kind of girl. Her mom and dad aren’t strict like mine. But another part says we shouldn’t be pulling one over on our parents the way we are.

  I called her back, and Sarah’s answer, regarding the detour on the way home, was: “I already talked to them and they’re fine with it.”

  Sarah had already called and asked about sidetracking to different locations. The haunted road trip documentary had been a big hit at the camp and her instructor was hoping for part two on the way back. Sarah hadn’t picked all her locations yet, but she definitely wanted to visit St. Mark’s Church.

  “It’s in the right general direction,” Sarah explained. “And how much trouble can I get into in Wyoming, anyway?”

  I got the feeling she was pretty good at convincing her parents to let her stray a little bit. As far as they could tell, she was being responsible. What I wouldn’t give for parents like that. I’m lucky my dad will let me run the river, let alone get in a car and drive across the country looking for haunted houses.

  Turns out Sarah was also making some progress of her own on the Raven Puzzle.

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think I know what’s going on with the second location. Let me work on it some more and I’ll email you.”

  In classic Sarah fashion, she wouldn’t budge on any details. She only told me that if she was right, then they were indeed heading back east on the Apostle’s trail.

  The last thing she said had me a little worried.

  “He’s here,” she told me.

  “Who is?”

  “Him. The ghost of Old Joe Bush, Henry, whoever.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do. I can feel it. I think he’s following me.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh? Was that the best I could do?

  What do you say when your best friend tells you she thinks a man possessed by a ghost is following her across the country?

  Thursday, July 14, 2:20 a.m.

  I just woke up and I feel like someone has been watching me.

  Not a good feeling.

  Thursday, July 14, 6:30 a.m.

  Bad! Bad! Bad!

  Three hours of lying in bed and finally the sun started coming up at 5:00 a.m. so I could set foot on my floor without being terrified something would pull me under the bed. Sarah and I both have that sixth sense, where we can feel it when we’re being watched, and crawling out of bed a half hour ago, I was sure someone had been in my room. There’s a big part of me that wishes I hadn’t set my webcam to record through the night. Then I could just imagine what was in my room. There would be a part of me that could think it was a cat or the wind blowing, that nothing sinister had taken place.

  But I did record with my webcam. I even used that funky night-vision setting that turns everything green and shadowy.

  My spook meter told me that something had happened around 2:00 a.m., so I stopped the six hours of footage I had at around 1: 50 a.m. and slowly worked through the next ten minutes.

  Nothing at 2:00 a.m.

  Nothing between 2:00 a.m. and 2:05 a.m.

  At 2:06 a.m., all the blood drained out of my face.

  The door creaked open, and then, for, like, ten seconds, nothing.

  Then it moved into the room and
leaned over the desk.

  The Raven had entered my house.

  The picture went black for a moment, then he was back, towering over my bed, staring at me in that huge, hooded rain slicker.

  The camera went dark again, longer this time. When the picture came back, the Raven had moved to my bookshelf. A few seconds later he was gone.

  There’s something awful about being watched in my sleep. It’s like I’m helpless. I can’t defend myself against a giant ax if I’m asleep!

  I’ll tell you one thing: No more sleeping without a baseball bat or the hatchet from the camping supplies.

  I just hope I don’t accidentally swing at my dad or my mom if they check on me after midnight.

  I sent Sarah the webcam footage. Maybe she can do some enhancements and see something I didn’t. He was looking for the Raven Puzzle at my desk and on my bookshelf, I’m sure of it.

  Did he take anything?

  Did he know I was recording him?

  And most important, is he planning to off me in my sleep?

  When I loaded my email to send the webcam video, there was a long message waiting for me from Sarah.

  We’re getting good at this. Two days with the puzzle, and three locations down:

  — Monti cello, Jefferson’s old haunt in Virginia

  — St. Mark’s Church in Cheyenne, Wyoming

  — The Spooksville Triangle, corner of Kansas, Missouri, and Oklahoma.

  I have no idea what we’re supposed to do at any of these places or what we’ll find, but it’s a good start.

  I spent fifteen minutes online, and Sarah was right; there’s a ton of stuff about the Spooksville Triangle out there. Legend has it that a girl wandered away from her parent’s farmhouse and got lost, so the mom went out at night with a lantern searching for her. But the little girl never turned up. Now people go out there and see the Spooksville light, this unexplainable ball of orange that floats around in the field. Thousands of people have seen it, but no one has been able to explain what it is. The ghost of the mom, out there with the lantern, still looking for her daughter? It would seem so.

  The skeleton hand holding the lantern obviously represents the mom, the three roads represent exactly what Sarah said. The other side of the puzzle makes sense, too:

  The car at the bottom of the road — that’s just like the legend says. If you park on this deserted road where it rises in front of you, that’s where you’ll see the light at night.

  The stone marked E at the hideout for B and C.

  There must be an old building or something out there that can be seen from where you’d park your car. And at the back right corner of the building? A stone marked A. Now that’s what I call progress.

  Meanwhile, I need to be at the shop early and set up for my day on the river. I’m looking forward to getting out of Dodge for the day, but I’m also nervous. We’ll be floating right past the campsite me and my dad stayed at two nights ago.

  And beyond the campsite, the clearing and the giant tree.

  And the Raven with his five-foot black ax.

  I hope I don’t find him standing in the river up to his knees, waiting for my boat to drift by.

  He’s been in my house, so I wouldn’t put it past him.

  Thursday, July 14, 4:45 p.m.

  Long day with a few things to report. Just got done unloading the boat and I’m at the café on Main. Ordered a burger, fries, a Coke. I don’t feel like going home yet.

  First off, I got a call from Sarah and she left a message, which I told her not to do unless she had to. It was nice though. I’ve listened to it three times.

  “How are you doing? You must be freaking out. I just — I can’t believe he was in your room.

  If I was there you could stay at my house or something. I feel terrible for you. Plus, I miss you. It’s lonely out here sometimes.

  “Do you think you should tell your parents? I mean, this is getting crazy, right? It might not be worth it.

  “I posted that video. You can find it using the Dickens password. I think you might have missed something, unless you just didn’t tell me.

  “The Raven left something behind.

  “Okay, call me, right? Let me know you’re okay.

  “Hug.

  “Sarah.”

  It’s nice to be missed. What I wouldn’t give to sit up all night working out clues together. But that’s not about to happen. I feel bad she’s lonely. And I’ve been thinking the same thing all day: I need to tell my parents. The Raven stepped over the line by coming into the house. That was WAY out of bounds. I guess this entire thing will be taken up by the authorities (whoever they are) and the game of cat and mouse will come to a screeching halt. Sad, really. Sarah and I are so close to the end.

  What’s she mean about the Raven leaving something for me? Now I feel like I should have skipped the hamburger and gone home for dinner. At least I’d be one step closer to my laptop and whatever was left behind in my room. Then again, I’d have to endure dinner with my mom and dad, and right now, I’m afraid I’ll come uncorked and tell them everything.

  Quick recap of the fishing trip: It was awesome. I could stop there, but for future reference, Albert Vern can fish with me anytime. He arrived at the shop with the mayor two steps behind, hounding me to call the Seattle Times to answer some of their follow-up questions. It was the last thing I wanted to do, and Albert was cool enough to tell the mayor we were late getting on the river already (not actually true) and the interviews would have to wait. The mayor, perpetually bowled over by a reporter from the Washington Post, slinked away, but not before pleading with me to make the call as soon as I got off the river. (Check that, did it at the shop. More boring answers that got me off the line three times fast).

  Mr. Vern’s back had straightened up and he was raring to go. He wore a smile all day, fished like a true enthusiast, and tipped like a grandparent. (In other words, his tip paid for my dinner and then some.) He only asked a few questions, which I deflected with ease. It might be he’s just trying to get on my good side before grilling me with the real zingers. Maybe that’s what really good reporters do — soften you up before breaking out the heavy artillery.

  “You know, I have a mind to do this again tomorrow,” he said when we pulled back in and my dad was there waiting for us.

  “That can be arranged,” my dad answered, and I could see in his eye that one day off the river was one day too many. If Albert Vern did go out again, it would be with my dad and I’d be left in the shop.

  Fine by me.

  I just ate an entire hamburger and a plate of fries in under five minutes and burped so loud the waitress called me a cow. Ouch.

  Better get back home, see what Sarah found.

  Thursday, July 14, 5:40 p.m.

  Mayor Blake is getting downright annoying. When I got home he was sitting on the porch eating my mom’s leftover Jell-O with marshmallows in it. He said he was there just to visit, but I knew better. Within ten seconds he was asking if I’d called the Seattle Times. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s got something up his sleeve. Maybe he’s even caught up in this whole Crossbones thing. Never trust a politician.

  It took forever to get rid of him and call it an early night on account of completing my best fishing day of the year. My dad grunted at me, said tomorrow would be even better, and I hightailed it for my room.

  Sarah and I have a few secret passwords we’ve saved up in case she needs to leave one like she did on the phone. The “Dickens password” is one we’ve had saved up for a while: edwindrood.

  I’m not going to get into what was on the video until whoever is reading this journal checks out that video. Maybe I’m dead and gone, done in by the Raven, and my exclusive story has been given to Albert Vern at the Washington Post. Wouldn’t that be something? Mr. Vern, if you’re reading this, you’re a heck of a fisherman. I’ll see you on that big river in the sky where the fish are always biting.

  You might be sensing that my mood has bri
ghtened. I can’t tell why until you watch what Sarah posted. Craziest video ever.

  Do that, then come back. I’ll be waiting.

  sarahfincher.com

  Password:

  EDWINDROOD

  Thursday, July 14, 6:10 p.m.

  Watching that video the way Sarah edited it down just about sent me running through the house screaming for my mom. I wish I was kidding. The second time through, where she messed with the lighting, it was obvious the Raven had put a new book on my shelf.

  It didn’t take me long to find it, because most of my books are paperbacks.

  This one is old, and it’s got a hardback spine, one of those cloth covers.

  I set it on my desk and stared at it for about a minute.

  There’s no writing anywhere on the outside, and there aren’t very many pages.

  My first thought? This thing is loaded with toxic yellow gas that will pour out the second I open the cover, like in one of those ancient Batman shows. But curiosity got the better of me and I carefully lifted the cover.

  Nothing.

  I don’t mean nothing happened. I mean there was nothing inside. I flipped through the yellowed pages with my thumb and they were all blank. It was like a ghost book — nothing on the spine, no words or drawings or pictures inside. The whole thing was forty-two pages.

  New York Gold and Silver gave each of its assets a number before the company went belly-up a long time ago. One of its assets was the Skeleton Creek dredge. And its number?

  42.

  Coincidence? Somehow I doubt it. With the Crossbones, everything is connected. Everything has a meaning.

  There’s something else. At the very back of the book, after the forty-second page, I found two sheets of folded paper.

  A death threat from the Raven?

  I sat there and told myself no matter what kind of message I was about to read I was absolutely going straight downstairs and telling my parents everything. I thought about the Crossbones three-part mission: