Abby rode away from the house and onto the bike trail, the rhythm of the bike wheels a soothing antidote to Jack’s outburst. The satisfying crunch of limestone gravel under the tires made concerns about a college journal seem ridiculous.
After a few minutes she noticed the heavy humidity in the air, making it almost too thick to breathe. Sweat ran down her face, attracting tiny gnats that dive-bombed against her skin. One insect stuck in the corner of her eye, and she swerved, steering with one hand until dislodging it with a dusty finger. A trickle of perspiration itched its way down the center of her back. She pulled into Dravo Cemetery behind Morton.
“You said this would be a great day to ride. Are you kidding? Once I’m sixteen I’m getting my permit and learning to drive. Then I can ride around in my air-conditioned Fiat. Maybe, if you’re nice to me, I’ll take you along.”
Morton grinned and patted his belly. “Ha. This was just a little ride. Maybe I’m in better shape than I thought. And you’re improving since we’ve been on the trail more often, better stamina, you know. This is the first time you’ve complained in almost two days. That’s a record—for you. I like riding. Besides, who’s gonna get you a car, even if you can drive, huh? There’s insurance and gas and upkeep … all that stuff you can’t afford unless you get a job, and then you’ll never have time to drive.” He took a deep breath.
Abby stuck her tongue out at him and opened her backpack for a bottle of water. “You are officially barred from my car. And think how nice it would’ve been to have me haul your butt around on rainy days.”
Morton picked up a rock and tossed it from hand to hand. “What’s the big secret with Jack the Ripper?”
Abby shrugged. “Just some college project. What do you think about him? Not much, I guess, if you call him that.”
“I don’t like him. And I’m a good judge of character.”
“Big surprise; you’re just jealous.”
“No way. He’s old already, and I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. Besides, anyone who hates M&M’s is creepy.” Morton pulled something from his bike bag. She watched while he aimed the small device to the left and right, moving at a snail’s pace through the cemetery. “What’re you doing now?”
Without even turning around or pausing, Morton answered. “Research. I hunt ghosts, remember?”
Abby laughed. “There are no ghosts, genius. Or are you earning your forensic ghostology badge for Scouts?”
Morton held out the device for her to see. “This is an EMF meter I got on eBay. It finds electromagnetic fields. The five buttons light up if there’s a signal, like from a power line or something else.”
“What kid cares about the location of a power line? You’re weird.”
“It also detects the energy given off by a ghost. And of course the perfect place to find ghosts, genius, is a graveyard.” Morton smiled in triumph and wandered away.
Abby rolled her eyes and meandered over to a tilted headstone. “It’s a shame so many of them are falling over. They deserve more respect than this. Doesn’t anyone care?” She put one hand on either side of the stone to right it. A crater of longing opened up in her being, such that she never wanted to let go.
Morton returned and peered at the stone. “Hey there, Private Munroe.”
Abby’s head jerked up. “What?”
Morton pointed at the grave. “Look at the inscription: PVT. Silas Jacob Munroe.”
“He’s the one. I found an old letter in a Bible. His mother wrote it. We have to check this out. The letter said something about Silas helping Mr. Lincoln.”
Morton’s eyebrows went up. “President Lincoln?”
“I don’t know. That’s what we have to find out. It’s meant to be. It can’t be a coincidence I found the grave of a soldier who’s in a letter I happened to discover in an old Bible.” Abby checked out the carved name. Could this be the same grave where the soldier appeared in her dream?
Morton shook his head. “This is no big deal. It’s where any local soldier would’ve been buried in those days. The family Bible would have ended up around here, too, because they obviously lived close by.”
“Yeah, whatever, Ghost Boy.”
Abby squatted in front of the tombstone on the leaf-covered grave. She studied the old-fashioned outline of the words. The weathered gray granite had been carved with block letters and outlined in a shield-shape:
Silas Jacob Munroe
PVT CO F
103 PA VOL
B: June 9, 1843 D: March 27, 1862
In script, a weathered poem below the personal information read:
When we asunder part,
It gives us inward pain,
But we shall still be joined in heart,
And hope to meet again.
Tears welled in Abby’s eyes, the burn of salt stinging. She swiped a hand across her face. “He was only nineteen years old when he died. I wonder what happened. Maybe he got shot in a famous Civil War battle. Leticia must have been so sad. Death cheats everyone. It did then, and it does now. It’s so freaking unfair.”
“Who’s Leticia?”
Abby sighed. “That’s his mother’s name, the woman who wrote the note I just told you about. It has to be the same one. How many Silas Jacob Munroe’s can there be with the same birth date? Read what she had carved on the stone; she felt the same pain losing her son as I felt losing my dad.”
She ran her hand over the name on the surface of the cold stone. As her fingers connected with the carved letters, a face wavered in front of her eyes—the face she had seen before. She longed to make the sad eyes brighten, to push the shock of dark hair across his forehead, to kiss the full lips—
“Where’s the letter?”
“What?” Abby started and the image disappeared, leaving an emptiness in her heart.
“You said there’s a letter.” Morton nudged her shoulder.
“Right. Letter.” Abby shook her head to clear it, wondering if losing one’s mind felt like this. She rummaged through her backpack, pulling the old note from a waterproof inside pocket; she handed it to Morton. “Be careful, it’s fragile.”
Morton squinted as he read, “She’s not much of a speller. But she lived around here. Boston is in Elizabeth Borough, and the borough used to be called New Store.” He finished reading. “Yuck, beef tea? That doesn’t sound good, even to me.”
Abby leaned over his shoulder. “I wonder what she meant, the part about ‘secret must be kept … he lies in shame.’ Did you ever hear about anything like this? If he did something for the president, he should be a local hero, even a national one, not some unknown name in an abandoned cemetery.”
Morton studied the paper. “Nah, I never heard of him. Maybe she thinks he’s a hero because he’s her kid, and the shame is because he did something bad. That makes more sense. If he’s a hero, why keep it a secret?”
Abby tapped her foot in the grass. “My point exactly. It makes no sense. And who are Gene and William? I have to look through the antique Bible again. Maybe there’s another letter or something I missed the first time.” Once again she traced the name Silas with her finger, the indentation faint on the weather-worn stone. A tingle ran up her arm.
“It’s just some old story, who cares? She must have been in denial.” Morton looked toward the river. “Let’s go home and get the inner tubes. We can float down the Yough and cool off after the ride. Or we can make a snack. How about beef tea?” He laughed.
Abby rested both hands on her hips. “Who cares? Me. This is an actual event, not some crazy ghost story. My dad would have tried to solve a Civil War mystery—we would have done it together. Once I start something I can’t give up until it’s done; strange, right? But I am going to figure this out. I want to do it; I have to do it.” She meant to say she would do it for her dad. But her voice whispered, “For Silas.”
Morton rolled his eyes. “You’ll never find out the truth, you know. It’s not like you can call and ask for an interview or look up a video on YouTube.”
“I’m not sure what to do.” Abby looked at Morton. “You know a lot of local history. Would you help me?”
“You want my help? Really? Cool beans, dudette. This is awesome.”
“Morton, you’ll agree to anything. And then there’s the graveyard and all that ghost crap.” Abby paused, reconsidered, then started again. “Look, it’s none of my business, but you spend a lot of time alone in a cemetery, you don’t seem to have any friends your own age, and you and your mother, well, I don’t know.”
“Is there a question in there?” Morton frowned and ticked off answers. “Because I’m interested in lots of things; I like it here, it’s quiet and peaceful; ghosts are my hobby. I have friends and my mother, she’s great …” He trailed off, stared at the ground, and blinked several times.
“Either tell me the truth or to butt out. Either way, it’s okay.” Abby waited, surprised to feel sorry for someone other than herself for a change.
Morton took a shuddering breath. “Here’s the deal. I do like the cemetery—the history, the ghost stuff, you know. That’s the true part. And my mom is great, but she can’t go out or do things with me. She has a disease that makes her muscles jerk around. When I had friends they made fun of her, so I quit them. I don’t like to talk about it much.” He pulled a small brown bag from his pocket and chomped several M&M’s, mouth moving rapidly like a hungry squirrel. “Comfort food.”
“We won’t talk about any of it unless you want to. And you’ll help me solve the mystery about Silas, right?”
Morton looked at her and stuck out his right hand. “Partners?”
Abby shook his hand. “Sure, partners. Maybe Jack can help, too.” She ignored Morton’s frown. “I know the Historical Society is open tomorrow because I was there a week ago.”
Morton shrugged. “Why didn’t you go back already if it’s so important to you?”
“Because I hadn’t made the connection with this grave until now. We’ll go after breakfast, see if the Bible gives us any more clues, and then decide what to do next.” She checked her watch. “Let’s get out of here.”
Morton held up his device. “I’m staying for a while. After you leave I want to check out my EMF meter. Ghosts don’t come out if there are too many people around, you know.”
“Sure. Later.” Abby climbed on her bike and steered onto the trail. She watched a fat groundhog waddle out of the switchgrass and cross the path ahead. It would be good to focus on something other than her own problems.
As she rode away from the cemetery, thoughts of Silas absorbed her.