“So, it doesn’t have to be stakes,” Jeremy says, as if it makes the task any easier or more tolerable.
“No,” Spencer says. “It doesn’t have to be stakes. It doesn’t have to be messy.”
“We could handcuff them to a tree,” Jeremy says.
I nod to the grocery bags on the workbench. “Did you remember the handcuffs?” I ask Spencer sarcastically.
“Rope?” Jeremy suggests next, looking around the shed, apparently searching for a coil of the stuff.
“They’d have us in a million pieces before we got that close,” Spencer says.
I sigh deeply. Trapping the black-eyed kids and allowing daylight to do the rest doesn’t sound nearly as bad as murder, even though the outcome is the same. It isn’t easy for me to wrap my head around the fact that these phantoms, as Spencer calls them, are merely disguised as children. Once face-to-face with them again, I know they’ll convince me they are just like me.
Still, deep down I realize the awful truth, and it’s just a matter of admitting it to myself. Jeremy is right; it’s either them or us.
I climb down from the lawn tractor and say to Spencer, who has had years to think about how to do this, “What’s your plan?”
“I had only one plan—find them.”
“Looks like we found you instead.”
“I have a pretty good idea where they are.”
Surprised and a little irritated Spencer didn’t reveal this earlier, I say with no attempt to hide my frustration, “Where are they?”
Spencer casts his eyes to the floor. He knows something, something he doesn’t want to tell us. It gives me a chill.
My voice trembles, and I repeat my question. “Where are they, Spencer?”
Spencer’s eyes, glassy, harsh, come up to meet mine. “Right here.”
Another chill. “Right where?”
“Here in the cemetery.”
Jeremy stutters, “In…in this cemetery?”
“According to The Edgar Manuscript, they go somewhere dark when they’re not prowling, somewhere the sun can’t reach, somewhere they can rest in peace. They’ve hijacked a tomb, undoubtedly,” Spencer says. “This cemetery has been here for over 200 years. It has hundreds of thousands of graves and tombs. It’s impossible to know which one they’re hiding in.”
“We slept here last night,” Jeremy suddenly realizes. “We walked right into the spider’s parlor.”
“We came here right after the McGoverns’ murders,” I say. “We must’ve only been a mile or two behind them the whole way.”
“They’d have stuck to the shadows,” Spencer says.
Jeremy chokes. “So did we.”
Spencer’s eyes shift away again. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” His words, his tone, cause me to cringe. “The Tyburn poem you recited this morning, the one Coop recites before the black-eyed kids arrive, I’ve only heard it one other time.”
The moment I’ve been waiting for…
“When?” I mutter, terrified of what he’ll say next, suddenly unsure I want to hear the answer.
“Three years ago, when the black-eyed kids came to our house. I shared a bedroom with my twin brother. His whispers woke me just before the doorbell rang the night they came.”
Jeremy’s eyes are wide, and he’s trembling. “Was he whispering the poem, like Abby says I do?”
“Yes,” Spencer says. “I don’t understand how both of you could know the poem yet never know each other, but last Saturday was the third anniversary of the night they came to my house. It was also my sixteenth birthday, and it would have been my brother’s too if they hadn’t killed him that night. For some reason, they’re back for the anniversary.”
No. It has nothing to do with the anniversary, because someone else had a birthday last Saturday too…
I do the math in my head, and I look at Jeremy who undoubtedly has figured it out himself based on the expression on his face.
“Abby…” he says.
“I know,” I say.
“What is it?” Spencer asks.
“They’re not back for your anniversary, Spencer,” I say. “You share a birthday with Jeremy. He turned thirteen on Saturday, the same age you and your brother turned three years ago.”
I watch the gears spin behind Spencer’s eyes, and the light goes on afterwards. “Oh, no.”
“It’s another rule,” I say.
“Thirteenth birthdays,” Spencer says.
“Golden birthdays,” I add. “Maybe just October 13th golden birthdays.”
“Golden birthdays come only once a lifetime,” Spencer begins, “but across a city the size of Mount Herod, I bet there were a dozen golden birthdays last Saturday.”
“Maybe it’s not every thirteen-year-old born on October 13th,” Jeremy says. “Maybe October 13th is sort of an…eligibility date…for those who are potential threats.”
Spencer’s eyes narrow. “Or an arrest date—October 13th, 1307.”
An expression of recognition appears on Jeremy’s face. “The Knights Templar,” he says.
“The day the number 13 became an unlucky number,” Spencer says.
“I have no idea what you guys are talking about,” I say.
“‘We have enemies in the kingdom,’” Spencer quotes. “On October 13th, 1307, the king of France issued the command to arrest an entire order of holy knights called the Knights Templar, claiming they were guilty of witchcraft. All he really wanted was their legendary treasure. The king had the knights arrested and tortured…”
Jeremy finishes Spencer’s sentence, “…but no treasure was ever found.”
“The Tyburn poem is a warning,” Spencer says. “A supernatural foreshadowing.”
“Like a sixth sense,” I say, finally understanding just how extraordinary and important Jeremy must be.
“It’s me they’re after,” Jeremy says.
“But why?” Spencer asks. “Why both you and my brother?”
The shed falls quiet for an uncomfortable length of time, during which an unpleasant thought occurs to me.
I say to Spencer, “If you and your brother were twins, maybe you’re still in danger yourself.”
Spencer stares at me blankly.
“Were you and your brother identical twins?” Jeremy asks cautiously.
“Yes.”
“Maybe they didn’t know there were two of you,” Jeremy suggests.
“Have you ever whispered the Tyburn poem in your sleep?” I ask Spencer.
Spencer ponders the question for a moment, then shrugs. “How would I know?”
With that answer, I am left wondering if dragging Spencer into this could have renewed him as a target of the black-eyed kids, if he ever was one in the first place. If that’s the case, it appears I may be the only one of the three of us the black-eyed kids weren’t sent here to kill—unless, of course, I get in the way.
“You guys, I’m scared,” Jeremy says, trying to hold back tears.
As much as he sometimes aggravates me, I can’t stand to see Jeremy so frightened. I walk up to him and try to reassure him with a touch upon his shoulder. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We’re going to figure this out.”
“Abby, if you left, you’d be safe,” he says, tears beginning to run down his cheeks. “Spencer, you too. If they see you with me…”
“I’m not leaving,” I say.
Spencer takes the manuscript back from Jeremy. “I didn’t come this far just to run away now.”
Jeremy wipes the tears from his face with both his hands. “So, what do we do next?”
I try to rationalize an irrational situation. This is unchartered territory.
Or is it?
“Read The Edgar Manuscript,” I order Jeremy. “Front to back. Ten times if you have to.”
“I’ve been over it dozens of times,” Spencer says, holding it up. “I didn’t miss anything.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” I say, “but now we need a plan, and I ha
te to tell you this, Spencer Hawkins, but you don’t have one. Jeremy’s a smart guy. He’ll come up with something.”
Jeremy stares at me, dumbfounded.
“What?” I ask. “You will. I know you will.”
“Yeah, but you’ve never called me smart before.”
I shrug. “I think you already know you’re a smart kid.”
“I knew,” Jeremy says, sniffing. “I just wasn’t sure you did.”
My heart, the one I pretend is encased in stone, breaks a bit, where no one can see it doing so.
I nod. “You’re the smartest person I know, Jeremy. So, there you go. Now you know.”
Smiling, Spencer says, “That’s sweet. We all shared a moment just now. Group hug?”
“Not very likely,” I say, heading for the maintenance door. “Where’s the closest bathroom? I have to pee.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE BATHROOMS SPENCER brings Jeremy and me to are near Cattail Pond. Constructed for sightseers on walking tours, the bathrooms are marvelously warm, sparkling clean, and brightly lit, complete with indoor plumbing and hot water. Spencer puts CLOSED FOR CLEANING signs on the path leading to the bathrooms, and he guards the doors while we use the toilets and wash up in the sinks. Afterwards, the three of us stroll back to the shores of Cattail Pond to the bench we found Spencer on yesterday.
Spencer and I sit on the bench while Jeremy sits in the manicured lawn on the shore of the pond, near the paddling ducks, reading The Edgar Manuscript. Like me, Spencer is average-looking on his best day, but the stocking cap pulled down over his rat’s nest of hair isn’t doing him any additional favors right now.
But who am I to judge?
I have once again pulled my hood up over my head as a sort of disguise as well as to keep the chilly breeze off my ears. With my hair pulled back and stuffed in my hood and not a hint of makeup to add some color to my weather-beaten face, I’ve no doubt I more closely resemble a boy than a girl at this moment. Considering my face is all over television right now, maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Yet, I don’t think I have to worry about being recognized at the moment. The cemetery is mostly empty today, except for an occasional mourner dropping flowers at a gravestone a good distance away. If Mount Herod is crawling with police looking for us, they haven’t come to the cemetery, yet.
After some time, Spencer and I get to talking, and somehow the topic comes to how Jeremy and I ended up with Grandma. I ramble, but eventually I reveal the entire awful story to Spencer.
“Jeremy was three years old. I was five,” I tell Spencer. “I took care of Jeremy alone for two days while I waited for Mom to come back. I called Grandma only after we ran out of milk…I just kept thinking she’d come back.”
“I’m sorry, Abby,” Spencer says. “That’s awful.”
I don’t talk about our abandonment often. In fact, I don’t talk about it at all these days. But Spencer is easy to talk to. He emanates no judgment, probably because of what he’s been through himself.
“Yeah, well, you have your own problems, right?” I say.
“Never belittle your own feelings by measuring yourself against another.”
“That sounds like your counselor talking.”
“It might be. I mean, no one should sit around feeling sorry for themselves. Yet, turning your back on yourself is just as dangerous. You’re allowed to mourn for yourself sometimes, you know? As long as you’re not bathing in self pity and spiraling down into depression, it’s OK to reflect. Although, it seems you’re doing very little bathing at all these days.”
I check his expression to make sure he’s kidding. He wears his now patented crooked smile.
“Whatever,” I say, letting the corners of my mouth draw up a little. “Grandma picked us up and brought us back to her home, where we’ve lived ever since. Grandma’s husband died before I was born and she had no children besides my mother. I don’t know what legal hoops Grandma had to jump through or what it cost her, but she somehow worked her way through the system to become our guardian. She’s a tough old woman.” I smile at the sound of my own words. “I guess you have to be in this world.” Then I say finally, “There’s been no word from my mother since the day she left—for cigarettes, incidentally.”
“And your dad?”
“Who knows,” I say bitterly. “Jeremy and I were fathered by two different men, we think. No one knows who they were, not even Grandma, and I doubt they know we even exist.”
I regard Jeremy’s slumped posture. The Edgar Manuscript rests in his pretzeled legs in front of him. The ducks circle the pond before him. He’s too far away for him to hear me. “I’d die for him.”
I let those words hang in the air for a while, long enough for the autumn wind to carry them up to the ears of God.
“You’re not as hard on the inside as you paint yourself on the outside,” Spencer says.
“I get lonely,” I admit. “When the black-eyed kids first showed up, I wouldn’t even let Jeremy tell anyone. I didn’t want to be teased or shunned or pushed even further away from being normal.”
“Normal’s overrated.”
“Says the boy who hasn’t known normal for years.”
“And probably never will again. Although, I see my mom more than I expected I would, actually,” Spencer says, glancing at his watch. I remember he said he planned to visit her later today. “It’s weird, though, visiting her. Saint Thomas Psychiatric Hospital is such a crazy place.” He shakes his head.
“Well, that makes sense because it’s full of crazy people,” I say with a smile, then realize his mother resides there and quickly erase my smile.
“The whole thing with the priest telling her about this cemetery, it’s just weird, you know?”
“Did she ever tell you the priest’s name?”
“No, and there’s no one else to ask. I’m afraid anything I say to anyone could cause the doctors to keep her locked up even longer. I just want to bring her back home, get her out of that place.”
I watch my brother on the shore of the pond. He’s still reading. He cradles his chin in his palms, and his elbows rest on his knees. An idea which has been in the back of my mind since our visit to Oswulf’s Stone this morning occurs to me once again.
“How would someone destroy Oswulf’s Stone if they wanted to?”
Spencer smiles. “I’ve considered it myself, Abby, but it literally weighs tons. That part of the cemetery is clogged with headstones and overgrown with trees, so trying to sneak machinery back there would be impossible. Even if we could budge it, I don’t know what we’d do with it. Remember, Queen Victoria had it buried, and it still haunted London.”
I recall a story from Sunday school about the destruction of an infamous false idol.
“Moses burned the golden calf in a fire,” I say.
“Sandstone will melt, but the golden calf was made from gold and it wasn’t very large. It was small enough and light enough for Moses to throw into a fire by himself. Oswulf’s Stone is over seven feet tall and weighs around two tons. We’d have to keep a huge, super-hot fire burning for days, maybe weeks.”
“That’s not going to happen without someone noticing.”
“We could do it much faster with hydrofluoric acid,” Spencer suggests, “but that stuff is on a watch list. It’s not easy to get. Even if we had the money and the means, it’s ridiculously dangerous—even a small splash can kill a person, and we would need barrels of it.”
At our age, our options and means are inadequate. The fact that we’re dealing with something beyond belief makes recruiting any help from adults impossible. We can’t trust anyone. One wrong move, and Jeremy and I could go to trial for the murder of the McGoverns or end up victims of the black-eyed kids before we even get that far. Spencer, for his part in this mess, could lose all contact with his mother if the wrong people find out she’s been encouraging his hunt for the black-eyed kids from behind the barred windows of Saint Thomas Psychiatric Hospital.
> “Can we call London and tell them we found their stone?” I say, only half-kidding.
Spencer shakes his head. “There’s nothing uniquely different about that stone to ever prove it’s actually Oswulf’s Stone. There are no photos, no drawings, no descriptions of the original Oswulf’s Stone. As far as everyone in England is concerned, Oswulf’s Stone is forever lost. They would think it was a hoax.”
At that moment, Jeremy folds the manuscript closed, stands, and walks over to Spencer and me. He says to us, “I know what to do.”
Inside, I leap for joy at the possibility of new-found hope. “Tell us.”
“Spencer’s right. They’ve hijacked an unbeliever’s tomb somewhere in the cemetery, but there’s no way to know which one. What we have to do is lure them out to the garden shed using me as bait while someone hides outside. If I don’t let them in, they’ll return to the tomb on their own just before sunrise, and someone can follow them. Once we know where the tomb is, the next night I’ll lure them out again. While they’re out, you guys seal the tomb so they can’t return. They will be caught in the sunrise, trying to get back in.”
I watch Spencer sink into deep consideration, but I say immediately, “Sounds complex and dangerous. Why in the world would you volunteer to be bait? They’re trying to kill you, Jeremy, not spank you.”
“All I have to do is not let them in.”
“No way. They’ll convince you to open the door and let them in. It almost happened once already.”
“Yeah,” Jeremy says, jabbing a finger at me. “To you.”
I recoil, then snap back, “If it can happen to me, it can happen to you.”
Spencer finally emerges from his thoughts. “It’s not a bad plan. We have them outnumbered; it’s our only advantage so we might as well use it.”
“No way,” I say. “It’s too risky.”
“Not if we plan it right,” Spencer says.
“Abby can follow them. She’s super fast,” Jeremy says.
Curse of the Black-Eyed Kids (Mount Herod Legends Book 2) Page 19
