Ghost in the Machine Page 5

  “Here,” he said, handing me a twenty with a fold in one corner. “Get yourself a new shirt while you’re downtown. Might come in handy for school.”

  Henry burst out onto the porch with the hat back on his head, all excited about getting on the road. He wanted to be back before two o’clock so they could fish the creek one last time. Dad finished up his coffee, and soon they were gone in my dad’s pickup, leaving the house empty except for me. I stayed on the porch, afraid to go up the stairs to my room.

  I was starting to hate my room.

  I finally got up the nerve to enter the house. It should have been no big deal climbing the stairs, but I took it real slow and quiet, like something bad might happen if I was too loud.

  Slowly I headed up the stairs, cursing every creaky step until I reached the top. I looked down the hall and thought about searching my dad’s room again. But I didn’t have the guts to do it. Once was enough.

  I gathered a couple of journals, some pens, and a copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s best short stories. I felt in my pocket for the twenty my dad had handed me.

  That, I figured, should buy plenty of pie and coffee.

  Wednesday, September 22, 11:30 A.M.

  The waitress my mom knows isn’t working today, which has led me to consume more cups of coffee than should be allowed by law. My hands are shaking. I can feel my heart racing in my chest. This can’t be good for me.

  Two slices of pie couldn’t have helped. That’s a lot of sugar. But I can’t drink coffee on an empty stomach.

  I’ve got ten bucks left. How much am I supposed to tip this lady? She keeps asking me if I want a refill and I keep saying yes so I’ll have a reason to stay without seeming like I’m just taking up space.

  How does one become a waitress in a dead-end town? I’ve never seen her around here before. I’d guess she’s about twenty-five. Did she move here? And, if so, what the heck for?

  She probably married a local who moved back here. She couldn’t have known what she was getting herself into.

  Bummer for her.

  From where I’m sitting I can see the library, but the black crow above the door is at an angle and too far away. To my eyes, it’s an indistinct blob of black above the door. I’ve been scouting the angle, though, and it looks to me like Dr. Watts could see the crow from the second story of his house. He’s only a half block off Main Street, and his window points in the right direction.

  I haven’t seen anyone enter or leave the library all morning. Not even Gladys, who, I assume, is holed up inside, either reading something hugely boring or concocting some sort of scheme to get me killed. I think now is my best chance to get inside the men’s room at Longhorn’s. I can’t remember what happens there on Wednesdays, but something is always going on in the middle of the day. I don’t think it’s the quilt-making club and I know it’s not fly-tying.

  My plan is to do this quickly and get back so I don’t miss it if the crow gets moved. I want to see who does it. So I’ll swing past Dr. Watts’s house and see if he really can catch a glimpse of the front of the library, and then I’ll go to Longhorn’s and return back here. I should be able to do all that in an hour. Maybe faster with this caffeine jump in my step.

  Wednesday, September 22, 12:43 P.M.

  That took longer than I expected. How was I supposed to know they were building trains up at Longhorn’s? Have you ever stumbled into a room full of model train enthusiasts? Those guys are big-time recruiters, so they wouldn’t leave me alone. They’d all heard about my accident and some old-timer told this really horrible story about a conductor who fell between two train cars and held on for dear life with both hands. His legs bounced around until finally someone found him and hauled him back to safety, but by that time both his legs were broken.

  So then this guy says to me, “Lucky he didn’t end up under the train. That‘s a whole ’nother story you don’t even want to hear.”

  I hadn’t wanted to hear the first story, either, but that hadn’t stopped him from telling it to me, and sure enough he told me this other story about the guy who fell under the train. I’m not going to repeat it. It’s a bad story.

  Once they had me standing there, I had to hear about the engines and the trains that used to run through town and look at all their models and on and on. It was pretty interesting, actually. I was standing there thinking, Hey, I could join these guys if I didn’t have school. I could get my own train and do some research on this and that. These old guys aren’t that bad.

  In other words, I was distracted.

  It was about thirty minutes after I’d left the café that I realized I was away from my post and was probably missing Old Joe Bush himself turning the black crow on the steps of the library.

  I excused myself to use the men’s room. Once I was in there, I realized a sink is a lot easier to climb on top of when you don’t have a leg that was recently broken into a bunch of pieces. But I was determined to get that window open for Sarah. I must have been in there a long time, like ten minutes, because I had only just unlatched the top window and gotten halfway down again when I heard someone at the door peeking in, asking if I was okay, had I fallen into the toilet — the usual stuff.

  I sort of half fell, half climbed the rest of the way down and landed on my rear end on the tile floor. It’s a miracle I didn’t hurt myself. The same guy who had told me the two train stories helped me up and tried to make me feel better by commenting on how difficult it must be to go to the bathroom with a broken leg, etc., etc.

  The funny thing was, I’d had about ten cups of coffee and I really needed to use the bathroom. But I’d already been in there forever so I made for the door and headed back here, to the café, which is where I’m sitting.

  I went straight to the bathroom. When I got back, there was a glass of water at my table. (My table — how funny is that? I never come in here.)

  “More coffee?” the waitress asked me. She said it like she’d prefer it if I found someplace else to take up space on the planet. We’d been sharing idle chitchat all morning about school, my injury, the town, but generally she was a one-or two-word conversationalist and this “more coffee?” question was all I was going to get.

  “Can I just stick with the water instead?” I asked.

  She gave me the evil eye, like I was a freeloader, so I ordered a third slice of pie … and kept my eye on the crow.

  It still hasn’t changed.

  Wednesday, September 22, 12:58 P.M.

  I can’t believe what just happened.

  Ten or fifteen minutes ago while I’m choking down a bite of cherry pie, guess who I see coming up Main Street —

  Our friendly neighborhood park ranger. Daryl Bonner.

  He walked right past the library, glanced at it, and crossed the street.

  I slumped behind my journal and then thought I better not have it out or he might turn private eye on me and try to confiscate it as evidence. Can a park ranger do that? I don’t know, but he’s got a uniform and he’s a big guy, so I didn’t take any chances. I bent down and put it in my backpack, and when I glanced back up again, I heard the bell ding at the café door and watched Ranger Bonner walk toward my table.

  I’m not sure if it was all the coffee I’d drunk or what, but I was super nervous.

  “Hi, Ranger Bonner,” I said with this shaky voice. It sounded like I’d just thrown someone under a train.

  The rest of the conversation went like this:

  Bonner: “Feeling better, I see.”

  Me: “Yes, much. Thank you, sir.”

  Bonner: “Seen Sarah lately?”

  Me: “No, sir. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

  Bonner: “You know, she’s still snooping around. She can’t seem to leave things alone.”

  Me: “I wasn’t aware, since I haven’t seen her.”

  (Mind you, my voice was shaking every time I opened my mouth. No more coffee!)

  Bonner: “You’re sure you haven’t talked to her?”

&nb
sp; Me: “Oh, I’m sure. I’d remember that.” Bonner: “Very funny.”

  Me: “Not trying to be funny, sir.”

  He looked at me sideways and stood up. I could tell he didn’t trust me.

  That’s all we need — Daryl Bonner following me and Sarah.

  He made for the door without turning back, then disappeared down the block.

  I drank a glass of water, went to the bathroom again, and stared at the library.

  Sitting at the café was making me realize I don’t want to be a spy when I grow up. Too much sitting around doing nothing.

  Five more minutes just went by and I’m …

  Oh, no. Don’t tell me. This can’t be. Is that …

  … my dad?

  He’s coming up Main on the other side of the street.

  What time is it?

  1:05 P.M.

  He and Henry are back from the city like they said. But they should be heading for the creek.

  Okay, I’m just going to slide down in this booth, watch him, and take a few notes.

  He’s in front of the library.

  Looking both ways.

  Now looking off toward Dr. Watts’s house.

  He’s going up the steps.

  Has his hand on the crow.

  I can’t see what he’s doing!

  He’s down the steps and crossing the street.

  Coming toward me?

  He can’t come in here. No way!

  Here he is, right in front of the window, about to reach the door.

  Hold your breath, Ryan — that always helps.

  Keep your head down. Keep writing.

  He’s walking like he’s got somewhere to be.

  He’s gone down the street, toward my house and out of sight.

  That was way too close. If he saw me watching him, I don’t know what I’d do.

  Or what he’d do.

  I can’t see the crow. I should have brought binoculars!

  Hold on. Something else is happening.

  Wednesday, September 22, 2:19 P.M.

  Okay, the past hour has been a whirlwind, but I’ll try to explain fast. I couldn’t go back to the café or I’m sure that waitress would have been like, “What is your problem?”

  I can’t take that kind of stress right now.

  So I’m sitting at the station house. Not under the station house, with the blue rock, but on the steps leading up to the door that’s never unlocked.

  I wonder what’s in there?

  Scatterbrain!!!!

  I need someone to slap me so I can calm down.

  So here’s what happened in the past hour:

  I packed up my stuff and left the café. I’ve never walked around in our tiny, hanging-on-for-its-life downtown with so much anxiety. I’ve never worried about who might be watching me. My dad could be right around the corner. Daryl Bonner might be staring out from behind a window. Gladys Morgan could come out at any moment and point her shotgun at me. And that Dr. Watts guy — he might have his binoculars trained on me, call some thug on his phone, and they’d find me wrapped around a tree in the creek tomorrow morning.

  I turned down a side street as soon as I was outside the café and walked away from the library, toward the woods. There are woods all around Skeleton Creek, but the café was on the side of the street opposite the big mountains. I glanced up at them and saw how small the library was in their monstrous shadow. All those books don’t add up to a hill of beans against one big mountain. I turned down a side alley and couldn’t stop thinking about a pile of books — like every book ever printed — and I wondered if all those books would be as big as the one mountain. Makes a guy wonder about who made mountains and why they were made so big.

  So all these thoughts were running through my head, which kept me from being too nervous at the thought of turning a corner into my dad or Ranger Bonner or Gladys ready to slap me across the face with a copy of War and Peace or Lord of the Rings. Before I knew it, I was walking past the library, glancing up at the black crow as my throat tightened. It was a very quick glance, like reading a clock and going back to my homework, but that was all the time I needed to see that my dad had changed the time.

  A straight shot to Martha’s at ten past the knob.

  A straight shot to Martha’s at ten past the knob.

  A straight shot to Martha’s at ten past the knob.

  I kept repeating those words because I’d memorized them from The Alchemist Diagram of 79.

  Before I knew how I even got there, I was across the street, down a block, and sitting on the curb, shaking uncontrollably. I thought about the mountain of books and my body not growing. I breathed the mountain air in and out until I felt a little better. It dawned on me then that I should keep watching from where I sat. No one had seen me — or at least if they had, they hadn’t stopped me. Maybe something else would happen. I stood and peeked around the corner onto Main Street. I sort of leaned on the brick building like I was playing it cool in case anyone walked past.

  I waited.

  Five minutes went by. 1:51.

  Five more minutes passed. 1:56.

  People walked by the library, but no one appeared to look at the crow. No one went inside the library. It just sat there until 1:58, when Gladys Morgan opened the door and came outside. She stood there a moment looking up and down Main Street.

  Then she looked at me.

  I didn’t move, and it wasn’t because I wanted her to see me. I just couldn’t move.

  She stared right at me and I half expected to hear her whisper, “Don’t make me come looking for you.”

  But she acted like she hadn’t seen me at all. Gladys is ancient, so I was likely nothing more than a cataract-induced blob next to a fuzzy building. Still, it was creepy the way she stopped and held her gaze right where I was standing, like she knew someone was hiding just outside her ability to see.

  Gladys turned around, looked at the black crow, and went back into the library.

  2:00 P.M.

  I lingered.

  I don’t even know for sure why. It wasn’t like I had it all figured out or anything, but something told me to stay. This little dance wasn’t done yet.

  At 2:03 P.M., my dad came back.

  He walked casually up the sidewalk and jumped the two steps to the library door.

  He didn’t see me.

  I watched him reach up and move the crow, and when he did, I realized he was doing the job The Apostle had once done.

  The Apostle will see you now.

  Could my dad have written those words?

  If he did, he’s crazy. Meet my dad, escapee from the nuthouse.

  Or was it worse than crazy?

  Was it deadly?

  No. I couldn’t think about that.

  He would’ve been just a kid when Joe Bush died.

  A kid like me.

  I walked to the blue rock so I could leave a note for Sarah. Now here I sit with the sun beating down on my head. Stress makes you do things you shouldn’t. It’s that whole fight-or-flight thing. I worked my leg way too hard today without even realizing I was doing it. It didn’t hurt then, but it hurts a lot now.

  I hope I haven’t reinjured it.

  I’m not looking forward to the long walk back home.

  The lies I’ll have to tell about what I’ve been doing all day.

  The questions about the shirt I didn’t buy with the money my dad gave me.

  But wait — who’s the real liar here?

  My dad moved the signal, then moved it back.

  Everyone in the Crossbones knew they were supposed to look between 1 P.M. and 2 P.M. on Wednesday. Maybe they’ve been looking for years. Who knows? Probably it’s all part of some elaborate system. The crow moves the first time and everyone knows it will move again at 1 P.M. the next day? Could be. That would make sense, because my dad is gone all day every day. But Dr. Watts and Gladys? They’re right here. Maybe Dr. Watts goes to his top window every day, points his binoculars at the library, and
then goes back to whatever it is he does in that old house of his. All Gladys has to do is glance out the door she steps through every day.

  Wednesday, September 22, 5:05 P.M.

  Sarah is going to email me in a few hours, but right now I’m sitting on the front porch, trying to play it cool. The old couch is getting some holes, but it’s the most comfortable place to rest, outside my own room. I hope my mom doesn’t move it to the yard and try to sell it.

  Dad and Henry are still at the creek fishing, which doesn’t surprise me. Some of the best bugs come out in the late afternoon and early evening. They might not be back until 7:00 or 8:00, especially if they’re trying to avoid another dinner like last night. I’ve had the house to myself all afternoon and Mom won’t be home for another hour. I brought my laptop downstairs at three, and for the past two hours I’ve been digging around.

  Three cans of Coke later, I’ve found some amazing stuff.

  I have decided that I’m obsessed with Robert Boyle, Robert Hooke, and Sir Isaac Newton. As far as I’m concerned, these guys were rock stars. I can see how a secret society would be interested in them. Who doesn’t love a mad scientist? But after the research I did today, I think I’m starting to see a bigger reason why the members of the Crossbones have been interested in Boyle, Hooke, and Newton.

  A brief history of these three people is worth writing down. First Hooke. Robert Hooke.

  Many historians believe Hooke was the first person to use the word cell in relation to biology. That alone makes him larger than life. Imagine being the first person to use the word pizza or football or movie. Those are nothing compared to the word for the building block of all life as we know it (including pizza, footballs, and movies). Impressive.

  Robert Hooke did all these experiments with air pumps and springs and elastic — a bunch of really great stuff. A lot of people give Hooke credit for inventing the balance spring, which is what makes small timepieces possible. He theorized correctly about combustion decades before anyone else understood it. He invented barometers, optical devices, microscopes, and universal joints. Hooke was one of the first people to accurately mea sure weather, to see objects too tiny for the naked eye, and survey huge parts of London so it could be rebuilt after the great fire of 1666. (He also figured out some very important stuff about elasticity, but I have to admit I don’t really understand it.)