I turned off the screen and met Eric’s eye. “And back to the box.”
“Of course, the box,” he said, a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth. “What’s it for, do you know? Papers?”
I thought about the flashes I’d seen at Tyler’s locker, and about the cigars that Bobby had taken from me. “I think it’s a cigar box.”
“That’s right, you had those cigars the other day, when you freaked out in the hallway.”
“I did not freak out in the hallway.”
“Okay, when you had a supernatural episode in the hallway. Better?”
“Not better.” But probably accurate, said a little voice in my head.
“Well, you describe it, then.”
“I can’t.” I huffed out a breath. “I only know I’ve started seeing things when I touch certain objects. Like when I touched Tyler’s locker, I saw that Lincoln box. Then it sort of, you know, showed up at my house. And when I touched it, I basically passed out.”
“Wait wait wait,” Eric said. “You saw that box in a vision and then it showed up at your house?” He pulled the fat three-ring binder out from where he was sitting on it. “I think it may be time to go through some of this superhero research.”
“Put that away.”
Eric did not put the binder away. “Let me get fanciful for a minute here. Maybe you’ve got a connection to your brother still. And he’s trying to communicate with you. Like, from beyond the grave.” A new idea struck him. “Or hey! Tyler used that locker every day, right? Maybe it’s haunted a little bit. Like he’s still lingering around it? And that’s what you saw.”
“But he used a lot of things every day,” I said. “So why aren’t all of them haunted? I’ve gotten visions from only a few objects. And what’s so special about that box? When I touched it . . . I’ve never felt anything like that.”
“What do you know about it?”
I put a hand on Eric’s arm, remembering. “Tyler’s friend Bobby—he called the cigars Senator Herndon’s Cubans. Maybe the box came from Senator Herndon too.”
“Pretty generous of the senator to give them away.”
Pretty generous was right. Unbelievably generous, in fact, for the Tyrant to invite Bobby and Tyler to help themselves to his expensive cigars. But how else would they have gotten their hands on them, and the cigar box as well? The Tyler I knew wouldn’t steal. There was no way.
Not if he’d really been the Tyler I knew.
“So you think this Dr. Brightman can help you figure out why the box is so important?”
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s worth a try.”
“Well, let’s find him, then.” Eric reached into his bag, pulled out an iPad, and started tapping away madly. “Okay, so here’s a Washington Post article on David Brightman from a few years back.” He tilted the tablet so I could see. “It says he’s an expert on all things Abe Lincoln—his own private collection is supposed to be amazing, but he also helps other people research and authenticate Lincoln stuff, particularly stuff from the assassination.” He whistled, scrolling farther down the page. “Look at these prices! I never realized how obsessed people are with the Lincoln assassination.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“It’s actually kind of disturbing. I heard that this museum up in Maryland has an exhibit where you can see the bullet they dug out of Lincoln’s head—along with pieces of his actual skull.” Eric shuddered. “On the one hand, I’m like, ‘Who would ever want to go see that?’ On the other hand, I’m like, ‘I totally want to go see that.’”
I made a face. “Count me out.”
“Anyhow, if it has to do with Lincoln, it looks like Dr. Brightman’s your guy.”
“Great. So, what, does he have an office somewhere? Can we email him and ask him to take the case? Like an artifact detective?”
“This article still says he works at the Smithsonian’s American History musuem. Let me see if there’s anything more recent. . . .” Eric’s brow furrowed, and then he actually flinched away from the screen, half shielding his face with one hand. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“His wife and son were killed in an automobile accident. Like three years ago. There’s a picture of the car, and . . .” He quickly scrolled away. “Wow. That’s awful.”
“Maybe he left the Smithsonian then? Moved someplace else?”
“Could be. Let me check one more thing.” He kept tapping, then raised a fist in triumph. “Yes!”
“What?”
“His name came up in connection with this major auction of Lincoln memorabilia that’s going on in New York later this year. Apparently, Ford’s Theatre in DC, where Lincoln was assassinated, is hosting a preview of the auction. It’s like an exhibit of all the items that are going up for sale. And Dr. Brightman is speaking at the opening reception this Saturday.”
I stared at him for a moment. “Eric Bowling,” I said, “research truly is your superpower.”
If he’d had feathers, he would have preened.
“And,” I continued, “it seems today is my lucky day.”
“Why is that?”
“Ford’s Theatre? My mother just happens to work there.”
CHAPTER 6
I TOLD MY MOTHER I WAS WORKING ON AN EXTRA-CREDIT history project. Given the weeks of school I’d missed, all my unfinished assignments, and what she had begun calling my “isolation,” a school project—and the old friend who came with it—were all the reasons I needed for Mom to put us on the guest list for the opening of the exhibit.
I figured we would take the Metro, but Eric preferred his own car. “Are you sure your mom doesn’t mind you driving me around so much?” I asked when he picked me up to head into DC. “I can kick in some gas money.” Even in elementary school, Eric’s mom had been big on conservation and teaching the value of a dollar.
“She’s cool with it,” Eric said. “She likes me to have life experiences.”
I raised my eyebrows at that. “If you say so. . . .”
Eric navigated us into the city, and we left the car in an ungodly expensive parking garage by the Verizon Center, where the Washington Wizards played. We wove through the milling tourist crowds, past the blindingly bright marquee flashing ads for upcoming events (Barry Manilow! Disney on Ice!), and two blocks over to Ford’s Theatre.
From the outside, it looked like all the other old buildings in DC, redbricked and many windowed. It might have been an office building. The exhibit guests spilled out the front doors and onto the sidewalk, a mingling, chatting blur of power ties and designer perfume. I stopped short, my gaze caught by one particular dress, and Eric crashed into me from behind. I couldn’t help but stare; the flowing fabric was a true Tyrian purple—a color I’d seen only once, in a Roman mosaic at the Natural History museum. In my mind, it was reserved for ancient emperors. I took in all the rich fabrics and expensive patterns around me. I supposed if we had emperors today, these people were them.
We went into the lobby—gold and white with marble floors—where I spotted my mom right away. I felt a sudden urge to hug her, but I knew how she felt about keeping professional spaces professional. She shook Eric’s hand and walked us past two park rangers in full uniform scanning tickets. In the narrow hallway outside the theater, a woman in a black pencil skirt and matching sweater set greeted exhibit guests.
“Genevieve,” my mother said, resting a hand on the woman’s sleeve, “have you met my daughter? Megan, this is Genevieve Herndon, our head curator here at Ford’s. But you probably know her as Emma’s mom.”
My heart stuttered in my chest, and I forced a smile. Emma’s mother. The wife of Senator Herndon—the owner of the box Tyler had probably stolen. Eric took one look at my face and jumped to my rescue, quickly introducing himself. Mrs. Herndon shook his hand before turning back to me.
“It’s nice to see you again, Megan,” Mrs. Herndon said. “I met you at the funeral, of course, but I’m sure you don’t remember. I can’t tell you how sorry
I am.” Her face was creased with concern, her sleek brown bob sharp edged enough to cut paper. “Emma is still recovering from the shock of it all, and I know it’s been so hard on your family. I’m just glad I got to spend time with Tyler before he passed.”
My mother blinked. “You did?”
“Well, yes,” Mrs. Herndon replied. “He’d been volunteering in the museum on the weekends for the last few months. Every so often, when his baseball schedule allowed. I assumed you knew about that.”
Mom’s eyes widened, her jaw clenching. She clearly had not known about that. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Herndon for a moment,” she said to me. “Why don’t you two go look around? We’re displaying the artifacts on the stage of the theater itself, but Eric, have you ever seen the permanent exhibit downstairs?” I opened my mouth to protest, but Mom held up a hand. “I know. You’ve seen it all before. But humor me. Take Eric downstairs. I’ll meet you in the theater in fifteen minutes.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Herndon,” Eric said, as I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the staircase that led down to the museum.
Eric was instantly captivated by the exhibit, which traced Lincoln’s presidency from his arrival in DC through his assassination. I tugged on his arm. “Hurry up! We’ve got to get upstairs before this Brightman guy leaves.”
“I’m sure he’ll still be . . .” Eric trailed off, his attention caught by a printed sign. “Wait, Lincoln’s first vice president was named Hannibal? That’s hilarious!”
“Ten minutes,” I warned him. “That’s all the geek-out time I’m giving you.”
I would rather have been in the Hirshhorn, surrounded by a gallery of Joseph Cornell boxes, but the museum at Ford’s was not without its pleasures. When I came to see my mother, I usually wandered around, looking at the photographs, playing a game of Who’s Got the Worst Civil War Facial Hair. But today, I only had eyes for John Wilkes Booth.
Of course Tyler had been coming here, I thought. If you’re obsessed with Booth, where better to come than a museum chock-full of his belongings? Right over there was his diary, there was the boot he wore the night of the assassination, and along that wall was a whole collection of photographs of him working his day job as an actor.
I walked over to look at the photos: Booth in a toga, Booth in a silky top hat, Booth with a walking cane. I pulled Dr. Brightman’s book out of my bag to compare the image on the cover to the ones on display. He was a good-looking guy, that John Wilkes Booth, with his piercing eyes and artfully tousled hair. And if Brightman was to be believed, he was also athletic, charismatic, and a bit of a playboy.
He sounded a lot like my brother, to be honest. Was that what made Tyler so interested in him? Did Tyler see, in the handsome face of this actor-turned-assassin, something dark that he recognized in himself?
The thought sickened me. Tyler might have had secrets, and he might have gotten involved with drugs, but he hadn’t hurt anyone, and he hadn’t planned to. Had he? I shook my head, trying to wipe my traitorous mind clean.
I walked past the life-size statues of all the conspirators who’d been involved in the assassination plot, pausing to stare into Booth’s white, unmoving face. A small crowd had gathered in front of the gun that Booth had used to kill Lincoln, a pocket dueling pistol called a derringer. It floated in its case, held up by nearly invisible supports. So tiny—no longer than my hand—and yet no matter how many times I walked past it, my eye always wandered back to its curved wooden handle, its ornate silver barrel, its round, looping trigger. It was . . . pretty. You know, for the world’s most famous murder weapon.
That’s where Eric found me. Staring at a gun, daydreaming about my brother.
He came up beside me and nudged my shoulder with his own. “Ready to go find this Brightman guy?”
“Finally. Yes. Let’s—” A series of beeps from my phone stopped me. Messages from Nathan.
Trying to think of a good reason to text.
So it won’t look like I’m just checking up on you.
No luck so far.
When I looked up from the phone, Eric was grinning, his head cocked to one side. “Nathan Lee from DC, I presume?”
I forced the cheesy smile off my face. “Okay, smartass. Let’s go.”
Eric and I walked up the staircase from the museum and entered the theater. My mother waved us down the aisle and up a short flight of stairs to join her on the stage. The mingling of the bright and the fancy continued here, as people wandered among long rows of display cases, browsing the auction items on exhibit.
“Well, that was quick,” my mother said.
Eric grinned at her. “Don’t worry. I’ll come back.”
My mother patted his arm. “Good boy. The artifacts downstairs belong to the National Park Service, but these are all part of a private collection that’s being auctioned off in a few months.” She shook her head. “I have to admit, these auctions always make me feel a bit sad. I guess, when it comes right down to it, I think history should belong to everyone, not just people who can pay top dollar to take home a piece of it.” She sighed. “Do you want me to stay and walk you through the exhibit?”
Eric was already scouring the crowd with narrowed eyes, stretching up on his toes to get a better view, on the lookout for David Brightman.
“No, that’s okay,” I said quickly. “This is great. Thanks, Mom.”
“I’ve got work to do here all afternoon, so I’ll see you at home tonight.” She squeezed my arm and disappeared into the crowd.
“Any sign of him?” I whispered to Eric.
He clutched my arm. “There he is!”
I followed his gaze. Whatever I might have been expecting, Dr. Brightman was no rumpled history professor. He looked like a white guy who’d stepped out of a Japanese fashion show. The legs of his close-fitting gray suit ended an inch above his ankles, and his black boots were crisscrossed with silver buckles. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his suit jacket, and underneath it he wore a black T-shirt that looked effortlessly expensive. And he was wearing sunglasses. Weird ones. The lenses were completely opaque, and a wire ran down from one earpiece of the thick black frame, disappearing into the collar of his coat.
My mind went as blank as a fresh sheet of paper. The speech I’d been mentally rehearsing for days vanished in an instant. Without a glance in my direction, Eric set off across the stage toward Dr. Brightman. I tried to hold him back, but his shirtsleeve slipped through my fingers. I hurried after him, a sick feeling growing in my stomach.
Eric stopped a few feet from Dr. Brightman and gestured for me to go ahead. I shook my head, and he gave me a little shove, as if I were a reluctant toddler.
I forced out a fake cough, hoping to get Dr. Brightman’s attention. Then I inhaled some spit and genuinely couldn’t stop coughing. He turned and glared at me.
“Dr. Brightman,” I sputtered, gasping for breath. “I’m . . . Megan Brown. Camille Brown is my mother—she helped organize this event?”
“Yes, of course.” His face radiated disinterest. Not trusting my voice, I reached out to shake his hand before he could turn away. He wore thin black gloves, and the silky fabric slid against my palm.
“I was hoping you might be able to help us with an artifact. A wooden cigar box. We’ve been trying to figure out its history.”
Dr. Brightman spared me only a half glance. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“It’s important.”
“I don’t deal in ordinary objects,” he said. “The city is full of reputable dealers who handle that kind of thing.”
I gaped at him. “But if you could just—”
“I told you, I’m not interested.” His tone was final. “Excuse me.”
He turned away from us toward one of the display cases. Inside was a small square of yellowed cloth, stained with age. The case was labeled Clara Harris: Assassination Dress, 1865. As we watched, Dr. Brightman removed his sunglasses and rested them on top of his head. Then he reached down and opened th
e case.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to open the . . . ,” Eric began.
Dr. Brightman ignored him and pulled off one of his gloves.
Eric spoke up again. “And I really don’t think you’re supposed to touch the . . .”
“Please, Dr. Brightman,” I said, “I’ll only take a minute of your time.” As he picked up the piece of cloth, I reached out to get his attention, and my hand brushed the tiny square of fabric.
The pain hit instantly, dark and blinding, with a shock like plunging into cold water. The dim lights flickered, sickly green, and the world around me congealed into a thick, dense fog.
But then the pain dialed back, as if controlled with a knob. The flashes of light stabilized, and my vision began to clear.
I heard voices, talking in that stilted way actors do when they’re performing for a crowd. Then laughter, very close by. I looked around for the source, and what I saw disoriented me completely. I was no longer on the stage, where I’d been moments before. I was high above it instead, standing on one of the balconies.
I glanced to my left, where a bright shaft of light fell across a man in a red-upholstered rocking chair. His back was to me; all I could see were his broad shoulders and a head of dark, curly hair. He laughed again—a warm, deep laugh, the kind that makes everyone else want to laugh too.
A woman sat near him in an elaborate, old-fashioned white dress, like those reenactors my mother sometimes hired to work this kind of event. Then the woman stood abruptly, and the box erupted in a blur of sound and movement. I couldn’t see anything clearly, except for her. She glowed brightly, casting everything else into darkness. All of a sudden she turned toward me, as though she was looking right into my eyes, and she screamed, reaching out to me for help. Her dress was covered in blood.
I jerked my head away from the sight and found myself looking directly into Dr. Brightman’s eyes. They were such a dark brown that I could barely see the outlines of his pupils. He stared long and hard at me before reaching up and snapping his glasses down onto his face. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them again, I was back on the stage of the theater. The world looked normal, and the woman and the man in the chair were gone.
The Hidden Memory of Objects Page 7
