Anona stands behind me with a glower on her beautiful face.
"Don't do that to me!" I fuss. "Honestly, that's like a horror-film move, Anona."
She just stares at me, unblinking.
I turn. "What? What now?"
Her lips part and a faint smile spreads. She holds a hand out to me. "You've done well, Kendall."
"Thanks, A," I say, returning the smile.
"There is more."
"More? More what?" I don't want to go back into that under-the-fireplace tunnel full of spiders and bugs, skeletons, and God knows what else we didn't discover. I certainly never want to witness the chilling black figures of death pulling another soul into the depths of hell again. That's what it had to be. I witnessed a descent into hell, no doubt about it.
"You will hear from him," she tells me and then fades away.
I yell out at nothing. "Him who? What now? It better not be that Farnsworth guy, Anona!"
There's a knock at the bathroom door and then Mom peeks in. "Everything okay in here, Kendall?"
"Yeah, Mom," I say, retrieving my brush. "You know me..."
"Yeah, sweetie, I do. That's why I asked."
I stick my tongue out and then smile. Mom just winks. The door clicks shut and I stamp my foot. "Thanks a lot, Anona," I mutter.
Great; another vague ghost leaving me a coded message. I swear, when I die (at a very old age, thankyouverymuch), if I need to come back through the veil and contact someone, I'm going to speak to them in clear, concise, complete sentences, not puzzle pieces that don't fit together no matter how hard you jam them. "Ah, well ... it is what it is."
I step out of the bathroom and head to my room. I've got some churching to do.
Right in the middle of Holy Eucharist, my cell phone starts playing the theme song from Ghostbusters. Why in the world did I let Celia talk me into letting that be my ring tone? I cringe as I pull the device from my purse and try to silence it. Every eye in the sanctuary shifts to me, and I turn nineteen shades of crimson and wish a sinkhole would open up and swallow me. Nah, better not wish that. It just might happen.
"Kendall, I told you to turn that blasted thing off," Mom hisses under her breath.
"Sorry," I whisper.
Father Mass stifles his mirth and continues with the service.
I click off the phone and stash it deep into the black hole that is my purse, although my psychic senses tell me it's something imperative. I mean, my friends know I go to church at this time, so they wouldn't dare call, and Patrick's not going to buzz me up now since he's still unconscious on Father Mass's couch after a long night of investigating followed by some much needed Kendall-cuddle time.
It's totally not appropriate of me to be thinking of our make-out session while in the house of the Lord, my place of respite from the long night and brushes with pure evil. I shift my attention to Father Mass.
"Beloved in the Lord: our Savior Christ, on the night before he suffered, instituted the sacrament of his body and blood as a sign and pledge of his love, for the continual remembrance of the sacrifice of his death, and for a spiritual sharing in his risen life. For in these holy mysteries we are made one with Christ, and Christ with us; we are made one body in him, and members one of another. Having in mind, therefore, his great love for us, and in obedience to his command, his church renders to Almighty God our Heavenly Father never-ending thanks for the creation of the world, for his continual providence over us, for his love for all mankind, and for the redemption of the world by our Savior Christ, who took upon himself our flesh, and humbled himself even to death on the cross, that he might make us the children of God by the power of the Holy Spirit, and exalt us to everlasting life."
It's like Father Mass is speaking directly at me, knowing I need to connect with my religion after what we observed last night. I do believe God protects me in my work. Why else would I have been given this gift if not to truly assist those who need me the most? Still, there's an overall sense of ickiness from our investigation that only some one-on-one time with the Almighty can cure.
Father Mass continues. "But if we are to share rightly in the celebration of those holy mysteries and be nourished by that spiritual food, we must remember the dignity of that holy sacrament. I therefore call upon you to consider how Saint Paul exhorts all persons to prepare themselves carefully before eating of that bread and drinking of that cup."
The words holy mysteries are emphasized by my priest and this too I feel is for my benefit. There are many mysteries in this world that many "normal" people don't see or even know about. Some things that no man is privileged to know no matter how much he tries. This is why we have faith. Faith in ourselves. Faith in our family. Faith in our friends. Faith in our beliefs.
I believe I did right last night because I had faith in Althea and faith in Farah. I also had faith in the abilities that have been given by my Creator. This is my new way of thinking. My new purpose in life that Oliver and the counselors taught me.
The usher indicates that our row can go forward for Communion. I follow Mom and Dad with Kaitlin right behind me. We walk up the aisle to the altar and kneel on the red velvet bench. Father Mass brings the cup and the bread to us. I watch as my sister takes Communion. She makes a face at the taste of the unleavened bread and then sips at the wine like it's poison. I can't help but roll my eyes at her. Such a brat.
Father Mass stops in front of me. "The body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on him in thy heart by faith, with thanksgiving." He lifts the cup to my mouth and I drink down the too-too sweet wine. "The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ's blood was shed for thee, and be thankful." Then he pauses and places his hand on my head. "Be thankful, Kendall, for you are blessed and you will be called to service," he whispers.
"Thank you, Father." Like I haven't already been?
My priest moves on to give my mother the sacrament and I get an itch below my skin surface telling me that there's much, much more in store for this day. Has Father Mass become psychic through osmosis by hanging with Loreen and me?
He winks my way.
Does he know something I don't know?
"You have one new message."
Oh no, please not the haunted-sandwich man—who's been quiet of late. I hope I haven't conjured him up.
"First new message, received at eleven thirty-four."
I press 1 to listen. "Hello, Kendall. This is Paige Miller. I'm the assistant to Oliver Bates. He's doing a fellowship this summer in Europe to try to solve several cold-case homicides and missing-persons cases. He's putting together a team of his former retreat attendees who he feels possess special talents that could aid him. These students will travel with him and work on the cases. If you're interested and your parents would like to speak with Oliver or me, I can be reached at..."
My mouth hangs open as I sit on my bed—still in my church clothes—and listen to the message for the third time. I'm by myself in the house, as Mom and Dad took Kaitlin to her soccer team's spring picnic. Not even the cats are around to shout the news to.
Am I interested? Am I interested? Are you frickin' kidding me? No, I'm not interested at all in going to Europe with Oliver Bates. I'm not the least bit inclined to want to get near Italy in the hopes of finding Emily's parents, my grandparents John Thomas and Anna Wynn F aulkner.
Umm...
Yes! Yes! Yes!
I take a deep breath, scroll to my most recent missed call on my phone, and hit Send. This has to be big if she called me on a Sunday morning to give me the news.
"Paige Miller," the kind voice at the end of the phone says.
"Hi, Ms. Miller, this is Kendall Moorehead. You called me about Oliver's Europe trip?"
"Oh, yes, Kendall," she says. "Oliver speaks very highly of you and we'd like to
include you in his tour this summer, along with others from your retreat."
I listen intently as she details the itinerary—which includes a stop in Italy, booyah!—and what would be expected of me. I will be given a minuscule amount of information on the cases, be shown pictures of the missing or deceased, and be allowed access to some of their personal items. From that, we would try to warm up the case enough to give police clues to go on. My excitement soars like a kite on a windy beach. Then my heart plummets to my feet when Paige details the costs. Hotel and other housing will be covered by Oliver, but I would need airfare and money for food and general spending, and that just ain't gonna happen.
There's no way I can ask my parents to foot the bill for this, especially since they paid for Oliver's retreat and the plane tickets to St. Louis to see Andi Caminiti. This trip would be a total dream come true, but I just don't think we can afford it. Besides, Kaitlin's going off to soccer camp in Florida and I'm sure the parentals would like to spend some money on a nice vacation for themselves for once.
"I'll tell my parents about it, Ms. Miller. When would I need to let you know?"
"As soon as possible," she says.
"Thanks." I hang up the phone and look at the notepad where I'd jotted down Paige Miller's phone number. I scribble the details and the bottom-line price. Seeing it in writing doesn't make it any more affordable.
I sulk away from the phone and throw myself across the bed. I'm all ready to set the table for a gigamonic pity party when Patrick rings the front doorbell. What? I know it's him without even looking. I bound down the stairs, the notepad still dangling from my hand, and let him in. He scoops me into his arms and swings me around and around.
"You got the call too," he says, excited.
"Yeah, I did. So?"
He puts me down. "So, we're going to Europe, babe!"
"With what? My looks?" I'm way too snarky for my own good.
"Your looks will take you a lot farther than Europe. They'll take you to the moon."
Great. Patrick got the call too. I mean, awesome that he got the call, but I so don't want him going to Europe without me. All those gorgeous French girls and Italian models. Oy on the vey. I glance down at the figure scrawled in my excited, shaky handwriting and feel my spirit slope further into depression.
He reaches for my hand and grips it in his. "I'm not going without you."
"That's so sweet, Patrick. There's no way, though, that I'm letting you give up a mondo opportunity like this because of me." I pause and then ask, "How are you going to afford it?"
"I have money saved from not taking diving trips and from the job I had when I lived in Tampa," he says, trying to cheer me up. "Just talk to your parents. Or Loreen. Maybe you can do some extra hours at her store to get some of the money."
I stare at my hand where it joins Patrick's. "I don't know. Maybe."
Why can't I catch a break?
"Come on, babe. I've got to leave in a few hours. Let's go to a movie or get some ice cream to celebrate. We will be doing this together."
The thought of a sugar-free Moose Tracks milk shake lifts my spirits. I drop the notepad on the kitchen counter and grab my car keys, following Patrick out the back door.
When I return, after a bit of a tearful goodbye—or rather "see you next weekend"—hug and kiss to my boyfriend, I find Mom and Dad sitting at the kitchen table going through their monthly bills.
They're doing this to see if they can pay for Europe for me. It's written all over their faces. I glance down and see a bill from the hospital—from my surgery—and another from the lab that's doing the DNA testing for us. I've totally cost them enough money for one lifetime.
"There's cold chicken and deviled eggs in the fridge from the picnic, sweetie," Mom says nonchalantly.
"I'm not really hungry," I say. Couldn't have been the twenty-ounce milk shake I sucked down in five slurps. Nope, not at all.
Dad adjusts his eyeglasses and calls out to me. "Is there anything you want to discuss with us, Kendall?"
"Like what, Dad?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe an invitation to join Oliver Bates in Europe this summer?"
I kick at the kitchen island with my foot and don't meet my dad's gaze. "It's no big deal, Dad. You know ... whatever."
"Now, Kendall, don't act like Kaitlin," Mom snaps. "This is not 'whatever.'"
Turning to them, I say, "You guys have already spent enough on me. Look at all of these bills because of me. Maybe another summer ... another lifetime."
"Sweetie," Dad starts. "Your mom and I are looking over our finances to see if it's possible, okay?"
I raise a brow at them. "Seriously?"
"We can't promise anything," Mom says. "But we'll try."
I run to the table and hug them both. "Thanks, you guys."
Chapter Twenty-one
AFTER PATRICK LEAVES, I spend the rest of the afternoon working on the Civil War paper that's due tomorrow. Nothing like waiting until the last moment, huh? Good thing I can type extra-fast and can get the whole thing done in no time.
The Underground Railroad was a system of covert routes and safe houses used by black slaves in the United States to flee to free states or farther north to Canada. Many were aided by abolitionists who were compassionate about their cause. Started in the early nineteenth century, the Underground Railroad helped nearly one hundred thousand slaves escape; however, U.S. census figures account for only six thousand.
My fingers fly over the keyboard, logging dates, names, and historical facts and figures. I cover the Fugitive Slave Law of 1793; William Still, the father of the Underground Railroad, who helped as many as sixty slaves a month to their freedom; Harriet Tubman, who made thirteen trips to the South and back to aid people; terminology along the route; and the route itself. I scroll through the document, and I'm quite proud that I've been able to pull it all together in the eleventh hour like this.
Of course, I purposely leave out the part about there being a station in Radisson, Georgia, under Farnsworth House. There's the secret tunnel under the fireplace, but I really have no proof of what occurred there other than what I learned from Althea. Sure, archaeologists and historians could dig through that passageway and probably make great findings to add to Radisson's already rich history. But that's up to them, not me. My job was to help those spirits into the light—and now it's to write a paper that will wow Mr. Rorek and get me an A in his class.
I do feel the need to editorialize a bit at the end, based on my experience with Althea. I stress in my paper the horrors of slavery as a whole and how our nation can never return to such atrocities. I also praise those who had the courage to leave their families behind for the freedom they sought. The unsung heroes are those who aided the slaves, oftentimes hiding them in their homes or farms or businesses, sometimes sacrificing their own lives for what was right and just.
The lesson we learn from the War Between the States and the valiant effort of those who worked in the Underground Railroad is that we must never allow history to repeat itself. That you should treat others as you want to be treated. As Thomas Jefferson wrote in our own Declaration of Independence: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." Let that be the lesson of the Underground Railroad.
"There," I say, happy to be done. If I don't get a good grade on this, Mr. Rorek's been drinking way too much coffee and it's damaged his brain cells.
I hit the Print button, and my BlackBerry rings. I dive for it, thinking it's Patrick telling me he got home safely. It's Rebecca, though.
"Hey, Becca."
"Hey, I wanted to check on you and see how you are after the investigation."
"I'm actually okay," I tell her. "Not nearly as exhausted as I usually am after a spirit crossing. Then again, Loreen and Patrick were there to help."
"Good. I was worried about you."
"No worries. Have you looked over any of the footage?"
"Yeah. A lot of mists I can't explain, some black shad
ows crossing the screen, and a whole hell of a lot of EVPs that are just a little too creepy to listen to so fresh off the investigation."
"That's okay. We'll get to them in due time. I know it's hard for you and Cel to follow along when so much is going on, like it did last night."
I know she's smiling into the phone. "I trust y'all will tell us if we're in danger or anything."
"You know I will!" There's an underlying sense of giddiness from my friend that she's not revealing to me—something about a journey ... a competition. It's not totally clear, so I push her for information. "So, a trip and a contest?"
Becca laughs. "You're good, Kendall. Yeah, I've actually been bouncing off the walls today. It's been hard to concentrate with such amazing news."
She's going to tell me she's going to Europe too.
"I got picked to go to Paris this summer for the DanceFest Parade, which is this huge four-day street party where DJs from all over the world get to spin their music. There are vendors and tattoo artists and palm readers and food and—oh my God, you name it. And they want me!"
I cram down my jealousy and sing her praises. "Of course they want you. You're the best damn DJ around. No one spins like you, Becca!"
"I'm beside myself," she says with a happy sigh.
"How did you get invited?"
"Some guy on the committee saw my Facebook page and clicked on some of my mixes. He said they're trying to get younger DJs involved. There's a scholarship for the under-twenty DJs who go and spin. Can you imagine if I can win actual college money?"
"How are you paying for it?"
"Dad's letting me use some of the savings my grandmother left me. Other than that, I'm going to backpack and stay at youth hostels and just ... live."
"That is fantastic, Becca! I'm super-juiced for you." And I am. It's not a lie. I just wish I could go with Oliver Bates's crew or with Becca.
"You have to come, Kendall."
I snort. "Yeah, right. And do what?"
"Set up a booth. Do tarot readings, fortunes, anything. You'll make a ton of money."
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