Chapter 7

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 11:00 A.M.

When Dad came back, the steam had gone out of his anger and he didn't say a lot about the call I'd made. He didn't give me back the picture of Joe Bush and I didn't ask for it.

"I know you're bored," he said, "but leave that poor man alone. He's new in town and he's got work to do like the rest of us. Find something productive to do."

Like the rest of us? I don't know what he's talking about. My dad is on vacation for the next two weeks while my mom keeps working at the post office like she always does. Henry and my dad will sleep late, make pancakes and strong coffee, then fish and play cards.

I keep wondering how my dad would feel if someone told him he couldn't see Henry ever again. I'm pretty sure he'd go down fighting.

The two of them are downstairs going through their fly boxes, comparing gear, getting ready to go fishing on the river for the afternoon. Skeleton Creek drains into a bigger creek, and that bigger creek drains into the River, where they'll search out winter-run steelhead (basically a giant trout). The place they're going to is an hour outside of town if my dad is driving the old pickup. He has to baby it or they'd be there in half the time.

When Dad and Henry get back they'll throw together a late lunch and help me down to the porch and we can play cards before Mom gets home.

What did my dad say to Ranger Bonner? He might not have even seen the ranger. Maybe he only said he was going to see Ranger Bonner and actually went to talk with Sarah's parents or, worse, a real estate agent. There could be a sign going up in the front yard already.

I despise all real estate agents.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 11:40 A.M.

They left here fifteen minutes ago and I drifted off to sleep. At first I thought there was a phone ringing in my dream, but it kept ringing, and on the fourth ring I reached out my arm and fumbled for the cordless. I expected it to be Mom checking on me. She has a way of knowing when I'm home alone. She tells me to rest, eat, and stay off the Internet.

I clicked on the receiver and answered groggily, hoping she'd hear the fatigue in my voice and go easy on me with the lecturing. When I answered, there was the faintest sound of — what was it? — leaves moving in the trees? Or was it water moving? It had the distinct but indefinable sound of nature. At least that's what I thought before whoever it was hung up on me.

My first thought was that my dad was calling from the stream to make sure I was staying put. But why did he hang up? I looked at the caller ID and didn't recognize the number. It was a 406 area code. Not local.

I dialed the number and waited. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Voice mail.

"This is Daryl Bonner with the Montana Department of Fish and Wildlife. I'm currently stationed in Skeleton Creek, Oregon, returning to the Wind River Station on November third. Please leave a message."

Why is Ranger Bonner calling my house and then hanging up? Was he looking for my dad and got me instead?

I shouldn't have called him and asked if Old Joe Bush was there.

What if he thinks I know something I'm not supposed to?

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1:20 P.M.

I've spent the last couple of hours scouring the web for anything about Skeleton Creek, the dredge, Old Joe Bush. I'm so frustrated. It's like I've dug up all the bones I'm going to find and they make up only about a tenth of what I'm searching for. The deeper I go, the harder the ground feels. I feel like I've hit a layer of solid rock.

I need to send a warning to Sarah, but I'm afraid to. What if my dad went to her parents and they've taken her computer? I can see them sitting at the kitchen table hitting refresh every fifteen minutes waiting for my email to come through. The death email. The email that sends me packing.

I can't risk it.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1:25 P.M.

Obviously Sarah doesn't feel as concerned as I do, because I just got an email from her. I guess that puts to rest my concern about her parents confiscating her laptop. Unless — and this is entirely possible — they're baiting me. What if they sent the email? Or, worse, what if my dad is on Sarah's laptop at her house with her parents sending me emails? It's an underhanded move, but it could happen.

I'd like to think Henry would tip me off. But how could he?

I'm hungry and tired, which sometimes makes me nervous. But seriously — I am so paranoid. It's ridiculous. Maybe I need group therapy. Me, Sarah, and Old Joe Bush.

Actually, to be fair, what I got from Sarah wasn't really an email if you consider there were no words in the message, only a string of letters in the subject line and nothing else.

So now she's diverging from Poe into Stevenson. Fair enough. I sometimes think she's trying to tell me something with these passwords. Like in this case, is she saying that Daryl Bonner is Dr. Jekyll, and the ghost of Joe Bush is Mr. Hyde? Or is Daryl Bonner both?

Or is my dad both?

I can't believe I just wrote that. I might as well be Jekyll and Hyde, I keep going back and forth.

I have to get out of this house.

Dad and Henry could come back early. I haven't covered the tracks of my two hours of searching online. I haven't deleted Sarah's email or watched the video. There's a lot to do while I have the house to myself.

I'm getting rid of everything first. Then, if I'm still safe, I'll watch the video.

SARAHFINCHER.COM

PASSWORD:

DRJEKYLLANDMRHYDE

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1:52 P.M.

I sho

uld have watched the video first! Why am I even writing this? Because it calms me down. That's why I'm writing. It calms me down. I think better when I write.

I can figure this out if I settle down.

Recap:

Sarah went to the dredge.

Ranger Bonner was there. Sarah thinks he was waiting for her. But she could just be overreacting.

She borrowed his phone. She dialed the last number in his incoming calls list.

It was my house. And it was after Dad had already gone over to talk to Bonner. Supposedly. And when I called back? He must have had the ringer silenced in case it went off while he was tailing Sarah through the woods. For once I'm glad there are cell towers scattered out there — at least she could get a signal and call me, even if she couldn't say anything.

Sarah thinks Dad tipped Bonner off. But how could he know she'd be there?

Was he in my room last night? Has he read this? He could have snuck in here just like that crazy nut job in The Tell-Tale Heart. I woke up — it felt like someone was in the room, but there was no one. Or at least no one answered in the dark.

If my dad knows, then why isn't he confronting me? Why isn't the house up for sale? Why isn't my mom freaking out? She's not, so that means he hasn't told her.

How many questions is that — fifty? I can't answer any of them for sure. I need more information. I need to narrow this down.

What's the most important question right now?

Dad. What's going on with Dad?

Twenty minutes tops, maybe fifteen. I can't risk sneaking around beyond that. They'll stop fishing when Henry gets hungry. Henry likes to eat. He'll want to knock off early. I bet they'll be here by 2:30, maybe even earlier.

I'm just going to take my journal with me — that's what I'm going to do. I'll keep writing. I'll hobble to my parents' room, right down the hall. I can make that work. I'll go in there. I know where my dad's dresser is. I know he keeps his personal stuff in the top drawer because Mom told me when I was little. She caught me in there and slapped my hand really hard and said I should never search through other people's things without asking. She said it was the same as stealing, which I never really understood.

I'm in the door. My watch says 2:03 but I'm leaving the door open so I can hear it if they come in. Henry will be loud — he'll be talking. I'll be able to get out.

My parents' closet smells like my mom, not like my dad. I'm having some trouble breathing. I just can't seem to calm down. I remember when she slapped my hand and how it stung. The blood is rushing through my leg and I can feel every part that's broken. It feels like my mom took a broomstick and started beating me with it.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

I've got this journal open on the top of the dresser. The lightbulb doesn't make it very bright in here. It's sort of a yellow light. Oh, man, I can't breathe very well. Do I have asthma? I might have asthma, the more I think about it. I've kicked up some dust in here. My leg is killing me. It doesn't like being stood up for too long all at once.

I know it's crazy for me to be writing as I do this. But I have to.

I might not get another chance to do this. And I can't rely on my memory. I have to get everything down.

The drawer is open. There's lots of stuff in here. My grandfather's belt buckle — he's dead now. It's got rhinestones in it. A stack of documents — legal stuff, I think. A cigar box with a little latch on it. Some rings and pens and old watches.

I've opened the cigar box. It's got a row of ten or twelve matching cuff links pushed into a sheet of cardboard. My dad never wears cuff links. There's a campaign button, a stack of expired credit cards and licenses. There's nothing ominous here. There's no sign of a secret society.

2:12. I have to get out of here.

Why cuff links? I bet they're from their wedding day — maybe it's all the cuff links from all the men in the wedding party. They all look alike, as if they were worn once and never again.

2:13.

I tried to pick up one of the cuff links, and the whole piece of cardboard lifted up out of the cigar box. When I flipped it over, I found a piece of paper taped to the back. I unfolded it and found something there. I can't breathe. I really have to get out of here.

2:15.

They're going to be back any second now. I can feel it. I've shuffled back down the hall to my room, dragging my leg behind me. My computer is scanning the piece of paper while I write. Come on — finish!

2:18.

The scan is done. Time to return the original.

2:20.

They're home! Henry just yelled up the stairs.

"I'm making lunch, champ! I hope you're ready for a surprise!"

I'm standing in front of my dad's dresser with the little yellow light on. I can't move. He'll come up here any second, I know he will. Then what will I do? I should run. I should get out of here. I've closed the drawer but I can't move.

What am I going to do?

He's coming.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 2:41 P.M.

I've calmed down now. I'm not shaking so much anymore. I can breathe again. My dad went straight to the hallway bathroom on his way to my room. I heard him yell.

"Just going to use the head and I'll stop in and see you. Fishing was good! Better than last year."

I made it out of his room, into the hallway outside the bathroom door. I tucked this journal in the top of my cast and sucked in my breath. The door opened with a whoosh of air.

"Look at you! Up and walking around. You must really want to play some cards."

He looked happy to see me. I felt guilty about that. What was I doing?

"Count me in," I told him. "I'm tired of lying down."

"Looks like you just ran a marathon. How about lunch in bed, then we'll help you to the porch? Deal?"

"Deal."

And so Dad delivered me back to my room, and then Henry brought in a grilled-cheese-and-bacon sandwich with tomato soup. It would be easy to hide all sorts of gross things in creamy red soup or melted orange cheese. But it was late and I was starving. He wouldn't dare trick a kid with a cast. Would he?

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 2:47 P.M.

Dad and Henry will be up to get me any minute.

I printed out the scan of what I found. I'm sticking it on this page.

It scares me.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 7:30 P.M.

There's no two ways about it: Navigating stairs is complicated with a full-leg cast and crutches. Our stairwell is narrow and there are family pictures hanging like clumps of grapes all the way down both sides. I think I would have been fine if I hadn't insisted I could do it alone. Henry and Dad were watching from the bottom of the stairs when I pitched forward somewhere near the middle and lost my balance. Dad met me with outstretched arms, and my face smashed into his gray T-shirt. He smelled like a fisherman.

My hands fanned over about a dozen family pictures in frames on the way down but by some miracle of gravity none of them fell to their deaths. They wobbled back and forth and knocked into one another, but they held. It looked like a big gust of wind had rushed through.

In my defense, the cast is really heavy and … let's see … what's the word I'm searching for? … Unbending. A cast like Big Bertha makes a person want to bend like never before. I'm dying to bend my leg. It's like a ferocious itch I can't scratch. (Which reminds me: This thing itches like mad, so add that to my list of complaints.)

When I finally made it to the front porch, the floorboards creaked under the weight of my cast. I settled down on a gold, tattered couch with my leg propped up on a wooden stool and breathed in the crisp fall air.

Our porch is a lot like an outdoor living room. When a piece of furniture is replaced inside the house, the old item finds a home on the porch. After a while — a year, maybe two — the same item moves ten more feet and becomes an item in one of Mom's many yard sales. It's a natural progression, a slow but steady march off the property.

I searched the skies for flying Dr Pepper cans or other signs of Sarah, but there was nothing. Henry asked if I wanted to play three-handed cribbage. Not a great game if you ask me. I'm not sure who came up with it, but probably it was three people sitting in a room with one cribbage board and the person sitting out wanted to join in. I played anyway. It was nice to think about something other than haunted dredges and secret societies.

"How much longer?" Henry asked after a little while. He was holding his cards with one hand and tugging slowly on one rainbow suspender with the other.

"Before what?"

"Before you can walk around without something on your leg?"

"How long, Dad?"

"Seven weeks."

Henry couldn't believe it. "Seven weeks! You'll have to ship the cast to me. I'll leave a box."

"You're nuts," I told him.

"I bet it itches like termites."

"It does."

"You could jam a coat hanger down in there."

Henry is a great card player. He has this maddening way of distracting everyone with all sorts of mindless small talk. He'd never admit it, but I'm sure this is part of his strategy. It's hard to concentrate when someone's talking about having an empty cast shipped to New York. I started thinking about what the box would look like. I wondered what his twelve girlfriends would say when they saw the cast propped up against the wall in his apartment. I started feeling almost positive there were bugs crawling around inside my cast. I begged my dad to go get me a coat hanger. And all the while I made stupid plays all over the cribbage board.

Eventually I got my coat hanger straightened out and jammed it all the way down to my kneecap. That was an improvement. We basically sat there playing cards for about an hour, talking about nothing in particular — mostly, Henry was trying to throw us off, and was doing a hit-or-miss job. Eventually Mom came home, and after calling hellos, we heard her pounding away on the pipes in the kitchen.

"You should go help her," Henry said.

Henry has a lot of sympathy for m

y mom. He knows my dad isn't very good about taking on home projects. My dad is plenty capable, but he lacks motivation for certain kinds of tasks.

"You go help her," Dad said.

"What's she doing in there?" Henry asked.

"Trying to unclog the garbage disposal," my dad said. "She's under the sink, hitting the pipe with a rolling pin. Believe it or not, it usually works."

"Sounds a little like the old dredge when it was really cranking."

My mom started yelling at the sink, which prompted my dad to set his cards down, sigh deeply, and walk indifferently to her rescue.

There was something about that noise — the sound of banging on metal — that made me think again of the night I'd fallen and smashed my leg. There had been a clanging sound, barely audible, as if someone was hitting metal on metal.

I decided to ask Henry about his comment.

"What sound do you mean?"

Henry leaned back in his chair until it was only on two legs.

"The dredge was incredibly loud. Tons of rocks were scooped from the ground and dumped inside. The conveyor belts were rimmed with thick planks of wood that kept everything from falling out. It was like a long water slide — you've seen those? — but instead of water shooting through, it was boulders. It echoed like mad, which seemed to quadruple the rumbling. Such a horrible sound. A crew of four was required to run the dredge, and they were separated by quite a distance. One was stationed at the gears in front where they watched everything come in. That person greased the machines and pulled the stop-chain if things got jammed up. Another was at the far end, watching the tailings dump out. There was a man at the control booth and one more we called a roamer — a guy who fixed things on the fly from a running list of problems."

"But the sound — the banging — what sound was that?"

"The workers couldn't hear one another. They couldn't yell that loud. So they used signals. They banged metal wrenches or hammers against the iron girders of the dredge to tell each other things. It was like Morse code, simple but effective in those days."

When Dad returned, the conversation veered quickly away from the dredge. I didn't want him to hear us talking about it, and maybe Henry didn't, either. Instead, we all played cards and talked about the Yankees and the Mariners. After a while, Mom brought the casserole with the crispy cheese top and the last of the late summer bees started swarming around the porch.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 9:00 P.M.

I've spent a lot of time away from my bedroom today, which makes me feel anxious. I feel like the FBI has scoured my mattress and squeaky box spring, taken pictures, dusted for fingerprints — all the while with two-way radios wired to the kitchen so Mom could tell them if I was on my way and they could jump out the second-story window. I know this sounds stupid, but it's how I feel all the same.

The room appears untouched. Before I left I took Sarah's advice and found a better hiding place for this journal. I slid it inside my ninth-grade annual from last year and put the annual between a whole bunch of other books. I also taped it shut. It doesn't look to me like they found it. The seal hasn't been broken.

They'll leave me alone for a while — Henry's got all their attention — so it's a good time to email Sarah and tell her about what I found in my dad's dresser.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 9:20 P.M.

Too late, she already emailed me. It was a short, bad email. The worst kind.

So I emailed her back.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 9:40 P.M.

Is it normal to get in the habit of erasing everything? I get the distinct feeling I'll be doing it for the rest of my life. I'll grow up to be a conspiracy theorist. The government will be out to get me. I'll erase my identity and move to a South American fishing village but they'll track me down and drag me back and my parents will put me in a group home.

I hate technology.

It's a good thing I'm writing everything on good old-fashioned paper. Someone is going to find this after I'm gone. When you get to this part and I've disappeared, go back and watch the video of when I fell. The one with theraven for a password. Listen to those distant sounds of metal on metal. I did. I listened to the sounds over and over again, and now I'll never forget them even if I try.

Go on. Go back and listen.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 10:15 P.M.

I'm feeling less gloomy and more edgy in the last half hour. Surfing online always has that effect on me. It tends to fry my nerves. I found an image with all the Morse code letters and I read all about how the taps and the gaps in sound are supposed to work.

I figured out that what I heard on the dredge was like Morse code, but not entirely the same. The longer sound — the one made by the dash — that one doesn't match up. That's been replaced instead by a different tone.

There are two tones on the dredge that represent the dots and the dashes. I imagine the dots being a hammer hitting iron, and the dashes being a wrench hitting the same spot. The two sounds are different in tone instead of length, so it still works.

This is the message that played on the dredge the night I fell:

The dots are the hammer, and the bars are the wrench. The message asks a question.

Are you the alchemist?

Eerie, right? I'll admit — I'm freaking out. Because when I was measuring it all out, I didn't think it would add up to anything. I thought it would be nonsense.

But no.

It's a question.

Whatever asked the question was expecting an answer it didn't get. Sarah won't know the answer tonight any better than she did the night of the accident. Maybe the ghost of Old Joe Bush has a message for someone — the alchemist. It would be useful if I knew what an alchemist was.

And there's the piece of paper I found.

The Alchemist Diagram of 79 for Paul McCray

Paul McCray. That's my dad. So there's no doubt anymore. My dad is somehow entangled in this mess, and so is the Crossbones. Was my dad making the sounds? If so, maybe the ghost of Old Joe Bush is trying to make contact, trying to find something or someone.

Are you the alchemist?

What about Daryl Bonner? He looks like Old Joe Bush. He could be the alchemist.

What would happen if I knew the answer and I gave it to Old Joe Bush on the dredge? What would he tell me? What would he do to me?

Whatever it was that made the sounds that night saw Sarah and me as intruders in its secret domain. We didn't understand the question, so we didn't reply. And because of that, it got angry and came for me.

I need to make sure Sarah doesn't go back there again.

She can't go back.

Not ever.