Revived Spirits

by Julia Watts

  As she watched, Slick pulled a mobile from inside his jacket and pushed a button, his acne-scarred complexion highlighted in the afternoon sun streaming through the roof. While he talked earnestly, Earring cocked his head in another direction and began walking purposefully toward the exit, ahead of them. Slick glanced over at their group and continued talking. Liv quickly turned away.

  Morehouse whispered in her ear as they hurried toward the escalator, “It appears Nigel’s going to watch us, probably keep Lance informed or call for reinforcements. I’d say Eddie’s gone to get their car. We can’t wait around for Tommy.”

  Down, down they rode. Signs informed them they were about to board the Jubilee Line. Morehouse bought tickets and led them through the stiles onto a waiting train. “What are we going to do?” asked Liv.

  “Lose those buggers, for starters. Then get all of us to a police station. There’s West End Central, or Marylebone, both accessible on the Central Line.”

  Morehouse steepled his fingers. “But first, some evasive maneuvers. We’ll transfer at London Bridge and ride to Camden Town, hop off and come back in the opposite direction on a different loop—”

  “I get it!” Anthony broke in, pointing at the route map on the wall above the seats. “It’s the Northern Line.” He traced his fingers in the air. “We go past Old Street and Angel, then back by Euston, Warren Street and Tottenham Court Road. We switch right there to the Central Line.”

  “Sheesh!” said Liv. “I’d ask you to repeat that, but I’m afraid you might be able to.”

  “No need to be sarcastic,” Anthony replied. “I’ve just never met a map I didn’t love.”

  The shift from Jubilee to Northern was uneventful, and the next transfer promised more of the same—not a bad guy in sight. They waited on the platform at Tottenham Court Road, ready to board for Oxford Circus with the midafternoon crowd.

  Liv could almost remember how it felt to be normal. The arriving train slowed to a stop and disembarking passengers surged from the train cars, indifferent to those eager to take their places.

  Except for one. Liv’s heart nearly stopped.

  Lance Cumpston emerged, looking straight at them. “He’s not even trying to hide. It’s like he wants us to see him,” she whispered.

  Morehouse didn’t seem to believe his eyes. “He shouldn’t be here. How could he possibly have known where we are? I’m sure we lost Nigel and Eddie a good while back.”

  Cal offered, “Maybe he has more helpers than we thought.”

  “A chilling possibility,” replied Morehouse, leading them away from the train until enough people came between them and Cumpston. Then he inclined his head toward the train and steered them back in.

  Cal shuddered. “It’s like we have a homing beacon on us.”

  They held their breath, hoping he would think they’d made their way up to the street. Cumpston followed the crowd, scanning it like a lion looking for just the right zebra, while the new wave of travelers boarded.

  “We’ll go a few more stops, then get off and find a way to call the police.”

  Frederica said, “Something’s made him look back. Here he comes. He’s getting on again—in the car behind us!”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “Off—now!” Morehouse gave Cal a shove forward and grabbed both Liv and Frederica by an arm, nearly lifting them off their feet as he raced out the door on Cal’s heels.

  Anthony followed as closely as he dared without tripping Cal, and barely made it to the platform as the doors shut on the tail of his windbreaker.

  In a flash, Morehouse was in front of him, ripping open the Velcro fastenings of the jacket and grabbing Anthony around the waist.

  Liv held her breath as she watched her brother’s arms jerk backward, pulled by the train’s forward motion. The screams of a woman passenger caused her to look up.

  Right in front of them, playing the hero, was Lance Cumpston, straining at the doors, struggling to pry them apart. Other passengers in the car shouted, cheering him on, and two men leaped up from their seats to help him.

  Their efforts failed to open the heavy doors, but it didn’t matter. Morehouse pulled Anthony free from the sleeves, turning them inside out, and the train surged ahead with the jacket blowing crazily alongside like a tortured windsock.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Morehouse said, not wasting a second as he made his way toward the exit. “To the other side.”

  They crossed the common space and slipped through the entry to the opposite platform. “Lance is probably going to get off at the next stop—Oxford Circus. I hope he’ll think we’ve gone above ground and kept moving. We’ll wait here and take the next train going in the opposite direction, then get off at Holborn or switch to the Piccadilly Line. Somewhere I hope there’s a bobby who’ll listen.”

  Liv made no effort to hide the worry in her voice. “The things you know about Lance Cumpston could get you killed— could get any of us killed.”

  “I’ll think of something.” Morehouse looked up at the schedule sign. The LED readout promised the next train would arrive in ten minutes. “That’s a long time,” he said, frowning.

  Two minutes dragged by, and the five of them waited without speaking. Liv crossed her fingers and hoped Morehouse was busy coming up with a plan.

  She looked around and wished there were people around. She would have felt safer in a crowd. Surely passengers would begin to arrive soon.

  Footsteps clattered down the hallway outside the platform area. Liv peeked around a snack machine into the open space, and relief washed over her. It was Tommy, talking earnestly on a mobile and looking in all directions.

  She glanced back at Morehouse, who couldn’t see Tommy from his seat on the bench. Morehouse didn’t have a mobile with him. The double-crossing driver was probably giving Lance’s people a blow-by-blow account of his search.

  She raced back. “It’s Tommy,” she whispered, shaking her head and making a thumbs-down sign.

  “Hide,” he said. “I’ll deal with him.” He set off at a run, leaving the four of them standing, while Tommy’s footsteps came louder and faster.

  Frederica pulled them to the edge of the platform and pointed to the tracks. “Down there!”

  “But the train’s coming in five minutes now!” said Liv.

  “So we’ll stay there for four-and-a-half. Maybe it’ll give Morehouse time to get Tommy out of here.”

  “Come on, Cal,” whispered Anthony, shoving his friend toward the edge of the concrete.

  “We can’t leave him on his own!” Cal dug in his heels and tried to resist, but the other dragged him along.

  Frederica went first, jumping and landing with surprising lightness, just reaching down to the rail to steady herself. Her hands came up black from the soot and soiled Cal’s shirt as she caught him to keep him from sitting straight down between the tracks.

  Liv leaned down to go next, then recoiled at the sight of a dozen or more black objects, scurrying away from them. “Rats!” she breathed.

  “Mice.” Anthony’s mouth was in her ear as he pushed her off the platform and scrambled after her.

  Frederica and Cal managed to catch Liv and keep her from hitting the rail, but Anthony landed with a thwack and a groan.

  “Are you okay?” Liv asked guiltily. “I’m sorry—it’s just that rats are so nasty, not to mention big and black and scary.”

  “I told you they were mice, and yeah, I guess I’m okay.” He rose to a crouch and huddled with the others. “And for your information, they’re actually brown. They just look black because they’re covered with coal dust. Kind of like me.”

  “How could you possibly know about mice in the Underground?”

  “I looked it up.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did so.”

  “Shut up!” said Cal and Frederica together, as the sound of footsteps approached again.

  “Anthony? Cal? Where’d you go?” Morehouse peered over the edge of the platform. �
�What are you doing down there? Don’t you know there’s a train coming?”

  He leaned down, gave a hand to Liv and pulled her out, then let her help Frederica while he got the boys up. “Tommy didn’t see me. Let’s take the next train. Dust yourselves off—there’ll be a crowd in here any minute.”

  They sat in facing seats, except for Morehouse. He stood, a few feet away from them, holding onto a pole and discreetly examining the ends of the car. Liv knew what he was looking for: Cumpston’s thugs on neighboring cars. They’d escaped once. She wasn’t sure they could do it again.

  She turned and studied Frederica, sitting next to her and looking out the window as if she did this sort of thing every day. She seemed to be functioning as well as the rest of them right now. If you didn’t know she was a cutter, you might not ever guess.

  Liv could see how cutting could be a hidden epidemic. The victims didn’t seem to talk about it, and it was easy for everyone else to ignore. Bringing it up was difficult—for the cutter, and for friends and family.

  Liv brushed her blackened jeans with blackened hands. What would a real friend do? She’d think about it later.

  The train slowed for Holborn, and Morehouse came toward them, nodding. They followed him and fell in step with the crowd. “We’ll try for Kingsway,” he said. “It’s a big street—lots of places to lose someone who’s trying to tail you.”

  Chapter Forty

  They slowed to a walk on High Holborn, trying to blend into the crowd.

  “Blast,” said Morehouse. “Don’t look, but Lance is right across the street. Nigel and Eddie won’t be far behind.”

  He pointed to a nearby side street. “Run a few blocks, then turn right onto any street. That’ll send you toward Kingsway, a major thoroughfare. Find the police—any way you can. Stop someone on the sidewalk—ask them to call nine-nine-nine on their mobile phone. Or dash into a store and make some noise. Whatever it takes. I’ll go after Lance.”

  Anthony grabbed Morehouse’s arm with both of his and held on. “What do you mean, go after him? He’s coming at you! And I bet he has a gun! You don’t. . .do you?”

  Morehouse pulled Anthony away with his free arm and smiled. “Perhaps not, but Lance doesn’t know that. Remember who I am, Anthony—who I really am.” He took Liv’s hand and placed it on Anthony’s arm, giving her a meaningful look while his voice remained casual. “I’ve been in worse situations and done all right for myself.”

  She took the hint and was on the move before he spoke again. “Get out of here—fast.” He gave Cal and Frederica a shove. “And don’t look back.”

  They zigzagged for a couple of blocks, then spotted Slick – who must be Nigel—on a side street. Unfortunately, he spotted them, too, and nearly lost his footing spinning around to come after them.

  “Could be worse,” said Frederica as they jogged, staying well ahead of him, for the moment. “At least he’s not pulling out his mobile. He must be alone.”

  “Don’t count on it,” said Liv. “Do you know where we are?”

  “I’m guessing if we turn up the next side street, we might end up on Kingsway in a block or two. But we’re no longer close to High Holborn.” She panted and pointed in the opposite direction. “If we go that way, there’s a small park—Lincoln’s Inn Fields—and a little museum in an old house. It might be a good place to hide, but I think we’d best head toward the main street and hope to avoid Nigel.”

  They came to an alley, and Liv dared to hope they’d lost their pursuers. Then an arm reached out and clotheslined Cal. His feet flew out from under him, and in the second before he hit the cobblestones, Eddie grabbed Frederica from behind and twisted her arm hard enough to make her cry out. Nigel closed in, but Liv and Anthony tackled him, while Frederica kicked backward like a mule at Eddie, hitting the bottom of a kneecap.

  She left him hopping on his other leg, howling with pain, and the four of them shoved Nigel facedown on the pavers, knocking him unconscious. It would buy them a few minutes.

  If only they knew the back streets even a little, Liv lamented. But a couple of dead ends cost them precious time and led them to an area with little traffic.

  Eddie, limping and decidedly unhappy, came around a corner. Nigel, apparently impervious to head blows, caught up with him.

  “They’re coming—straight from the way we want to go!” Cal’s voice was high-pitched with anxiety.

  Anthony asked, “What now?”

  Liv rolled her eyes. “Run the other way—what else?”

  “Come on,” Frederica said, sprinting across the street ahead of them and up the sidewalk for a block-and-a-half, then onto the stairs of a tall townhouse.

  Maybe it was the home of someone she knew, someone with unusual taste. They must be rich—the place was huge. Its front stuck out farther than those of its neighbors. The full-sized stone maidens near the roof were eye-catching, if strange. On the front porch, in front of two full-length windows, two iron boot scrapers were mounted, though no one was likely to accumulate mud in a city of solidly paved streets and sidewalks.

  They all trotted behind Frederica, whom Liv assumed would ring the bell or pound on the door. Instead, she simply turned the knob and opened the door, motioning for the others to hurry inside. “It’s a museum,” she whispered between gasps, as they entered a large foyer paneled in dark wood. “No one at the desk—must be a slow day.”

  Liv looked at the donation box and read the plaque: “Sir John Soane’s House.” Where had she heard that before? Anthony’s laptop. He’d been showing the Web site to Cal one day at home, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  She turned to Anthony, whose eyes widened as he realized the same thing. “Well, you wanted to visit.”

  He said, “I remember the basic layout from the Internet. This floor is all on the tour. The tomb of Seti is close to here, and downstairs is where the old guy would sit in the dark with his creepy artifacts. Right over our heads you can go all the way up to an attic loft with a balcony. Good place to hide and watch what’s going on.”

  Frederica offered, “I know my way around pretty well, too, thanks to yet another school field trip. I think downstairs is best—I seem to remember there’s some sort of exit there.”

  Frederica led the way and Liv followed, assuming the boys were right behind them. Halfway down, she heard rapid footsteps too far away to be Cal and Anthony. She looked back. The boys were gone.

  She tried to reverse directions, but Frederica pulled her back. She struggled to break free. “They may have grabbed them!”

  “And they may not have,” whispered Frederica, pulling Liv along. “And if they have, we must get out of here and call the police. We can’t do this alone.”

  Reluctantly, Liv followed, and they looked around for an exit, then froze at the sound of staccato footsteps on the stairs—too loud to be made by the boys’ tennis shoes and too fast to be a tourist.

  “Go!” hissed Frederica, but Liv was already in motion. They made their way through a series of twist-and-turn passages, stopping in front of an interior door labeled “China Closet.” The heavy footsteps pounded on the stone floor, slowing down as they came closer. Then there was quiet, even more chilling than the noise had been.

  Liv tried the closet’s doorknob and to her surprise, it opened. She glanced at Frederica, who nodded, and in they went.

  “We’re not safe here,” whispered Liv. “I’m pulling out the box.” She reached into her skirt and shawl bundle. “I can’t see— I’ll have to do it by feel. I’m just going to pull out the ones’ drawer a little. It should take us back a year or two.”

  “That’s good. Everything will be the same. We’ll walk upstairs, step behind something, and come back to the present. Surely we can find the boys and some staff to help us.”

  “Great plan. Hope you remember the way out of here.”

  The shadows of feet appeared in the crack of light under the door, and Frederica quietly took hold of the doorknob. She pulled hard, grunting with the eff
ort, but the knob turned and the door opened a quarter-inch.

  Liv fumbled with the box, leaned her head against Frederica to make sure they had contact, and clawed at the drawers.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The doorknob stopped turning, and everything was quiet. “Do you think we’re locked in?” Liv breathed into Frederica’s ear.

  “Let’s find out.” She turned the knob and pushed gently. The door opened and Frederica peeked into the hall. “I don’t see anyone.”

  Linking arms and tiptoeing from the closet, they stepped into dim light, though it was mid-afternoon. They crept along the hallway, inching back toward the stairs.

  Liv held the drawers of the box in position and showed them to Frederica—eighteen thirty-five. Frederica nodded and made a thumbs-up sign, then froze as a thin, reedy voice floated toward them from behind. The words were slow and deliberate, as if the speaker were writing as he talked to himself.

  “Thursday, eighteenth June, eighteen hundred and thirty-five. Dined alone.” There was a pause, followed by a sigh and a wheeze. “Again.”

  They went a yard farther, silent as the ghosts Liv could imagine might inhabit this place. If they could make their way up the stairs and past any hired help, they should be able to get outside, travel back to the present, and scream for help.

  “You may as well step in here where I can see you.” The voice was stronger now, and Liv marveled that the man had been able to hear them.

  “If you’re a robber, you can knock me in the head whilst you’re about it, and finish me off. I miss my late wife, and I won’t mind joining her.”

  The girls looked at each other, shrugged, and walked toward the voice.

  An old man sat in a chair, holding a quill pen and an open book. A short candle, fixed to a human skull, provided the only light. Wax had dripped and built up on the skull, giving it an odd little hat. Sir John Soane stated the obvious. “I was writing in my journal.”