I could hear a wave of horrible booming noises racing toward us through the dark streets. One by one, nearby buildings began to explode under the massive barrage.
Jimmy’s hands shot up to cover his ears. Then he lowered them and shouted over the din, “But some good can come of this! I believe that. If you’ll do your bit. If you’ll just watch. Some good can come.”
Jimmy’s resolve suddenly started to melt. I saw a fat tear roll down his face as he struggled to speak, like a condemned prisoner delivering his last words. “Do you remember the question they ask you when you die?”
“Yeah. What did you do to help?”
“That’s right. Well, this could be what you answer, then. You did this, to help me. And my dad.”
“What?”
“You and my dad, you’re both still alive, so you can still change things. All you’ve got to do is tell my dad what you saw here tonight, and that I’m sorry. Okay, Johnny?”
All I could do was nod, up and down. He pointed again. “You stand right there. And you watch. Then do what you can for us, eh?”
I kept nodding.
“Goodbye, then, Johnny. Goodbye and good luck.” Jimmy’s face was illuminated one last time in the flash of an exploding bomb. He turned quickly and ducked into the surface shelter.
I did what he told me to do.
I took a spot on the sidewalk, exactly where he had said.
I stared at the surface shelter.
I heard the thudding of the German bombs all around.
The explosion that followed was tremendous. It slapped me in the face so hard that I flew backward onto the pavement. I looked up at the shelter just in time to see the force of the blast blow out all four of its walls. The concrete roof hovered for one horrible second, and then crashed down on the three people inside.
I screamed “No!” and struggled to my feet. I scrambled across the road, picking my way over the hot, jagged rocks, and stared into the pile of debris. I ran around the perimeter and tried to find a way inside, but there was none. Not that it mattered. It was too late. No one in that rubble could still be alive.
All I could do was stand there, helplessly, and watch.
Within two minutes, and seemingly out of nowhere, a crew of firefighters arrived. I backed out of the way as they went about their business, doing what they could. They used iron crowbars to move aside massive pieces of concrete. As I watched, two big men searched for the bodies of an old woman, a little boy, and Jimmy Harker.
That’s when my heart broke open. I twisted myself away from the horrible sight and stood hunched over as hot, dirty tears poured down my face.
As I stared down at the street, I expected to find myself transported immediately back to my own bed, in my own time, but that didn’t happen. I was still in London, in 1940, in the middle of an air raid, and I had no idea what to do next.
I finally straightened up and stumbled back across the street, dazed. I had always had Jimmy as my guide; now I was alone. What could I do now? What would he want me to do?
The scene around me was horrifying. The bombers had wreaked massive destruction, and the bombs were continuing to fall. Between the shattering bursts of the explosions, I could hear voices crying out in the dark, in pain and terror.
I took off running, blindly, hoping something familiar would appear to guide me through the hellish streets. My lungs were burning and my legs were sore when I finally stopped to rest. I looked up and found myself in front of a large, ornate building with the words ritz hotel written across the doors.
A car was idling in front, and a big man was running toward it. A woman in high heels was trying to follow him, but she could not keep up. As the man opened the car door, I could see that it was General Lowery. He dove into the backseat and hollered at the driver, “Don’t wait for her. Go! Get out of here now!”
The woman was Daisy Traynor. She screamed after him, “Wait! Wait!” She reached the car just as it was pulling away. In a fury, she yelled after it, “You bastard! You big coward!” She shook her fist to the sky. “Listen to me! I do have your precious memos! Every one of them! You traitor! You coward!” When her fury was finally spent, she muttered, “You’ll be hearing from me again. Believe that.” Then she limped off, right past me, into the night.
I watched her for a moment, dumbly, until the thought hit me: She’s going to the Embassy! I had a guide now, and a direction.
I gulped in some air and took off again, soon overtaking the tall figure of Daisy Traynor and other fleeing phantoms, running all the way to the telephone box in Grosvenor Square.
I came to a stop directly in front of James Harker. Futilely, I screamed at him, “Mr. Harker! It’s Jimmy! He’s been killed!”
He looked right through me without a blink.
I heard the ringing of the telephone. I ran up behind Bill Lane as he answered it. He listened for a long moment and hung up. His face looked terribly troubled as he walked over and whispered to James. After ten seconds of talk, they both took off running. And I took off behind them.
We kept up a steady pace all the way back to the remains of the surface shelter. An ambulance was parked there now. So was Canby’s car, with Canby in it.
James searched frantically around in the rubble until he spotted a row of three corpses laid out on the street. I watched from afar as he fell to his knees and cradled Jimmy’s broken body in his arms. His sobs and his desperate cries of “No! No!” echoed down the walls of that shattered block.
Bill Lane turned away from his friend and spotted Canby’s car. He walked over and pointed to Canby to roll down the window. I could hear Bill yell at him, “You built this shelter! You’re responsible for them that died in it!”
I could see Canby shaking his bald head emphatically, defending himself.
An ambulance driver and a helper lifted the bodies of the old woman and the boy up on stretchers and slid them inside the back door. They waited for James to let go of his son.
He finally did. Then he stood up, not quite straight, his head flopped over to one side like a hanged man’s. The driver and helper said a few last words to him and slid Jimmy into the ambulance, too.
After a moment, James straightened himself and walked heavily through the rubble. I could see that his fists were clenching and unclenching. As he approached Bill Lane, Bill yanked the car door open and pulled Canby out.
“You killed them, Canby!” Bill shouted. “You and your bloody cheap construction!”
Canby tried to squirm away. He protested, “No! No! That’s not right!”
James Harker walked quickly up to them, pulled back his fist, and smashed it into Canby’s face. Canby snapped out of Bill Lane’s grasp and fell hard onto the jagged pile of rocks. James stood over him, panting “You killed my Jimmy! You killed my Jimmy!” over and over until his fury seemed to subside. He left Canby lying there, corpselike, and turned toward Bill.
“James, you must go with your boy now,” Bill told him. “Go with him.”
James just stared at Bill without expression.
“Who knows, James? Maybe his spirit hasn’t left this earth yet. He’ll need your prayers. He’ll need you to be there with him.”
James asked wonderingly, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Go now.” Bill took James by the shoulders and started him walking toward the ambulance.
I watched all this, thinking, What am I doing here? Why did I need to see this? How did I help anything? Or anybody?
Still, I stayed in my place amid the smoke and the fire. I struggled to keep control of my heart rate and my breathing, but I couldn’t. I was losing it. I realized that I could not move any part of my body. I could only stare straight ahead, feeling the thud of the bombs, smelling the stench of the smoke, sensing the heat of nearby flames.
Suddenly I saw movement up ahead of me, twenty yards away, in the dusty haze. I saw two people, two people I knew. Something horrible was happening between them. I tried to move toward them, to stop them, but I could
not budge. All I could do was watch it happen, as helpless as a ghost.
I watched them until I felt myself start to fall downward again, like I was falling through the street. My fear gave way to absolute panic as I fell and fell and fell.
Then everything went black.
I don’t remember landing. I just remember being carried by strong arms. And I remember a light. I remember thinking that I might be dead and in the presence of an angel, like Nana had been.
Slowly the light came into focus. It was a large white bulb hanging from a ceiling, directly above me. I thought, That’s a real light, so I can’t be dead. I shifted my eyes. I saw that I was in a small space bordered by blue curtains. I could hear the sound of a machine beeping.
Then two people stood up right next to me and stared down into my face: Mom and Margaret.
I gasped, “Where am I?”
Margaret answered, “You’re at Princeton Hospital, Martin, in the emergency room.”
Mom looked very pale. She took hold of my hand, squeezed it lightly, and whispered, “We heard noises downstairs. We . . . we couldn’t wake you. You were having some kind of seizure. We had to call an ambulance.”
Margaret peered into my face. “Martin, what happened to you?”
VERY WELL THEN, ALONE!
The doctor in the emergency room had no idea what was wrong with me, so after seven hours, a skull X-ray, and a CT scan, he sent me home. My diagnosis, as written on the discharge papers, was “petit mal seizure.” I was ordered to stay in bed for twenty-four hours.
Mom spent a lot of that time in the basement with me, relieved periodically by Margaret. The emergency room visit turned out to be a crossroads for Mom. She treated me differently at the hospital, on the ride home, during the following day, and from that time on.
During her very first shift in the basement, she pulled the computer chair into my room, sat next to the bed, and announced, “You can go to Garden State Middle School. I’ll call them as soon as the holidays are over.”
“That’s great,” I sputtered. “But why? Why did you change your mind?”
“I’ve been changing my mind for a while now. But this helped me see it clearly. Facing your child’s death helps you see things clearly.”
I thought of James Harker. “Yes. I’m sure it does.”
“I know All Souls is wrong for you. I . . . I thought it was right for Margaret, but maybe that was a mistake, too.”
“Really?”
“She would have been just as smart in a public school.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“And I’ve never liked working there.”
“No?”
“No. Father Thomas is very tight with money. He knew I needed more; he knew I deserved more. He took advantage of the fact that I was desperate to get you two an education.” She added sadly, “He treats me like a servant.” Mom paused, as if looking into the past. “I once lived across the street, you know. With your grandfather. And we really did have servants.”
“I know. Dad told me.”
Mom seemed mildly surprised. “He did?” She went on, “I always believed in destiny. I guess I got that from your grandmother. When your grandfather got the job at All Souls and I lived there, too, and I met your father there, it just all seemed to say This place is your destiny. I even got married on All Souls’ Day.”
“Really? When’s that?”
“November second. It’s the day after All Saints’ Day.”
“That’s the day for the souls in purgatory, right?”
“Right. They’re on their way to heaven, but they haven’t arrived yet.”
“So where are they?”
Mom shrugged. “Someplace in between. I don’t know.” She smiled weakly. “Maybe they’re under your bed.”
I thought, Or maybe they’re in my radio. I asked her seriously, “Do you think we can do more than pray for those souls? You know—to get them into heaven faster, do you think we can actually do things for them?”
“Things like what?”
“I don’t know.” I remembered Jimmy’s words: Will you do your bit when the time comes? On the day of reckoning?
I thought it better to change the subject. “And did you get married at All Souls Chapel?”
“No. You’ve seen the pictures, Martin. It was up in Brookline. At St. Aidan’s. Your grandfather’s teaching job was over by then.”
“Oh? Somebody else was sitting in his chair?”
Mom smiled. “Your father told you about that, too?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t know you two talked so much.”
“Just twice. Once at Nana’s funeral, and once at Christmas.”
Her smiled turned rueful. “Another jolly Christmas. He could never make it through the holidays.” She swallowed hard. “How many did he ruin for us?”
“A few. Do you hate Dad for his drinking?”
“No. Certainly not. I might hate what his drinking did to us.”
“Do you think there’s any hope for him?”
“With the drinking?”
“Yes.”
“Well, anything’s possible. But I doubt it. Unless he truly hits bottom and gets the help he needs.”
“Professional help?”
“I was thinking of God’s help. But professional help would be good, too.” Mom looked down; she struggled to say, “The flesh is weak, Martin, as the Bible says. Maybe I have given up on your father’s drinking. But I want you to know, for certain, that I’ve never given up on his immortal soul.” Two quick tears ran down her cheeks. She wiped them away and tried to smile. “Oh my. Here I am, talking your ear off, and you’re supposed to be resting. Shut your eyes for a while.”
I pretended to nap after that, but I certainly didn’t need to. I had never felt better in my life. I had never felt healthier, or more clearheaded, or more sure of my purpose.
My life, which had seemed to be such a waste just a few months ago, was now driven by a force so powerful that I felt I could not resist it even if I wanted to. I created a list in my head of the things that I needed to do, made out in the exact order in which I needed to do them. Two of those things involved people named Henry M. Lowery.
When Margaret relieved Mom, I took advantage of the time to take care of some serious business. The third trip to London had left me with several burning questions, so I passed them on to Margaret. Whether she thought I was crazy or not, she agreed to take my questions to work and to research them on the most advanced sites she could find.
I pretended to sleep through most of Mom’s next shift, too. When Margaret returned, Mom went upstairs to make dinner. As soon as she closed the upstairs door, Margaret whispered excitedly, “All the names checked out. They’re all real.”
I wanted to say I know they’re real, but I kept quiet. She flipped open a notepad and informed me, “Harold Canby was an Air Raid Protection Warden in London. He died in a raid on December twenty-ninth, 1940. Two William Lanes were members of the London Auxiliary Fire Service. One died in the line of duty, fighting a fire on January tenth, 1941, at a place called Potters Fields. Alice Lane was listed as his widow. She later remarried, to a Sergeant Dennis Hennessey, in 1944. She died from cirrhosis of the liver in 1955.”
I stopped her. “How do you get cirrhosis of the liver?”
“From drinking. Alcoholics die of that.”
I repeated Jimmy’s words. “Mrs. Alice Lane liked her gin and It.” Margaret looked at me, puzzled. “It’s a drink. What more did you find out about James Harker?”
She checked her notepad. “James Harker was also in the Auxiliary Fire Service.”
“I know. Did he die?”
“Not that I could find. He was born in Yorkshire in 1915, but he had no death date listed anywhere.”
“Do you know where he is now?
“No.”
I looked across the room at the Philco 20 Deluxe and, thinking out loud, said, “I know he once owned a cathedral radio.”
r /> “Is that right? Like yours?”
“Exactly like mine. And Jimmy Harker and Mr. Wissler both told me that York has a cathedral.”
“That’s right. It has one of the oldest and largest in Europe, the York Minster.”
“So . . . I have a feeling, a strong feeling, that I know where James Harker is.”
“Where?”
I pulled the covers back. “Back home. In York, the haunted city. Tell me—is it ever too late to solve a murder? Is there a statue of limitations?”
Margaret smiled. “You mean a statute of limitations?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I don’t think so. Not for murder. They’re always digging up skeletons to test for poison, or DNA, or whatever.” Margaret flipped her notepad closed. “How long ago are we talking about?”
“Sixty years.”
“Then definitely not. There may even be eyewitnesses to that murder who are still around.”
I thought, Yeah, like me, but I kept my mouth shut.
Margaret added, “King Tut was dead over three thousand years before they claimed he was murdered.” Her eyes shot to the door. She whispered, “Come on, Martin. I did all this work for you. You have to tell me. Whose murder are we talking about?”
I pointed at her notepad. “Harold Canby’s.”
I slid out of the bed. “Don’t tell Mom that I’m up. This will just take a minute.”
“Are you sure you’re okay to do this?”
“I am as okay as I have ever been in my life.” I hurried across to the computer room, bent down in front of the screen, and did a quick search. Then I wrote a short, hopeful e-mail to the General Enquiries address at York Minster.
* * *
My twenty-four hours of bed rest were up on Tuesday morning. By seven a.m., Margaret and I were on the road, the River Road, retracing the steps of George Washington’s army back to Pennsylvania.
Joan Traynor-Kurtz’s home address was within walking distance of her store. In spite of two wrong turns, Margaret and I were standing at her glass door just after breakfast. She seemed a little annoyed, but not enough to tell us to go away. Margaret said, in a perky voice, “Hello, Joan. Do you remember us?”