Signs of You (15 page)

“Maybe we could just
destroy
it,” Kate says, maybe to herself. She kicks her legs onto the wall behind Noah's bed, creating a perfect
L
shape with her body. “Like we were going to before.” Then she tilts her legs away from the wall and starts doing air bicycle. “We could take the necklace into shop class and cut it to bits with the metal saw. Or we could melt it! With a blowtorch.”

This suggestion makes me more than a little nervous. The last time Kate and Jay suggested destroying the cross, Noah took off.

“No,” I say. “Not a good idea.”

Without realizing it, I've been tugging at the threads of Noah's bedroom carpet beside me. I've created a little pile of cream-colored fuzz, and there's a growing bald spot on the f loor. If Noah has noticed, he keeps it to himself.

“Not that this experience has made me super religious or anything,” Jay says. “But I'm not on board with destroying the necklace anymore. First of all, it's still my dad's. And second, I don't think I want
destroying a crucif ix
on my life's résumé. I mean, that can't be good, right?”

“There's no Jesus on it,” Noah pipes up. “So it's technically not a crucif ix. Just a cross—”

“OMG what does ‘nails aren't nails' mean?” I nearly shout.

“Sorry,” he says. He shoves a book my way. It's another book on Jesuit symbolism we checked out from the CPL, and he's got the page open to a drawing of the Jesuit Society's seal. “See the nails below the letters I.H.S.? How they're in a
V
shape?”

“Um, guys?” Kate says, dropping her head over the edge of the bed, looking at us upside down. “We don't need a book to explain the nails. Jesus was crucif ied.
With nails.
”

“But what if they aren't just nails?” Noah says. “What if they aren't in a
V
shape? What if they are meant to actually stand for the letter
V
?”

I pull an elastic band off my wrist and whip my hair into a knot on top of my head. “Which would mean the Jesuit seal doesn't read I.H.S. It reads I.H.S.V.?”

“Exactly,” Noah says. “Google it. You'll see what I mean.”

Jay jumps on it f irst. He pulls out his cell phone and reads what comes up, the glowing screen lighting his face. “I get a def inition from an acronyms site. It says I.H.S.V. stands for
In Hoc Signo Vinces.
Which is Latin:
In this sign, conquer.
”

“Get it?” Noah asks, his blue eyes shining. We stare at him blankly. “It's a
clue
. Somehow this sign, the seal for the Jesuit Society, will allow us to solve Ignatius's secret.
With this sign,
we'll
conquer
the secret in his book.
Get it? I think this seal holds the key.”

“Wait,” Kate says with her head still hanging over the bed. “Is that it? That's all you've f igured out? That we need this Jesuit seal somehow?” All the blood is running into her face and gravity is forcing her mouth into a creepy upside-down smile. “And did I
seriously
just bail on school twice in one day, risking groundation for life, for
that
?”

“Yeah, I don't know that this really means anything,” Jay says, still staring at his phone. He begins to scroll. “This says that I.H.S.V. is a reference to Constantine. To the Christianization of Rome. Maybe that's all it's referring to. Like, how the Christian sign was taking over.” He tosses his phone onto the carpet next to him, like it's a mini-librarian who just let him down.

I ignore them all and pull Noah's book into my lap. I study the drawing of the Jesuit seal.

Silently, I beg:
Tell me what you know.

I focus on each part of it, slowly dissecting it in my mind. It's decorated with rays of sunshine that emanate from the circular center. There's a straight ray and then a squiggly one. A straight one, and then a squiggly one. All around the seal. It makes me think of the squiggly, unconnected lines in Ignatius's manuscript—but that doesn't help. I open my backpack and pull out the original manuscript and turn to the Magis section.

Jay peeks over my shoulder. “Seriously, it just looks like chicken scratch,” he says, pointing to Ignatius's squiggly lines. “Maybe it's not even a symbol to begin with.”

I swivel and turn my back to him. “You can be a real downer, you know that? Now let me think in peace.”

He gets up and f lops on the bed next to Kate. I can't help but notice he reeks of cigarette smoke again.

I go back to the Jesuit seal. “In this sign,” I whisper to myself. “In this sign.”

I keep running my eyes over it, piece by piece.
Letters: I.H.S. And nails in a
V
shape below. I.H.S.V. In this sign, conquer. And a cross above the letter
H
.

But then I stop. And realize I'm wrong. The cross is not
above
the letter
H
:
it's on top of it.
The end of the cross
intersects
the H; the cross and the letter are
put together.

“You guys,” I say. I wave my arms in the air, all excited, hipster-librarian-resident-genius style, which I never do. Then I jab a f inger at the seal. “See how the cross is
touching
the letter
H
? How they're
put together
? And just like Jay said, the squiggly lines in Ignatius's manuscript look like chicken scratch. Right?”

They all look at me like I'm speaking one of the totally incomprehensible foreign languages that Google Translate has offered us in the past few days, like Basque, or Finnish, or Slovak.

“Chicken scratch.
Scratches
,” I say. “That's what made me think of it. What's on the back of Ignatius's cross necklace?”

“We already know it's the Latin word
magis
,” Jay says. “Which means more. Which was just a clue that there was more to Ignatius's theories.”

“Right,” I say. “But what
else
was on the back of the cross?”

“OMG,” Kate says. She gets off the bed and does rapid f ire mini-jumps of excitement in the middle of the room. “OMG. I get it.”

“Um, can you two code-cracking wizards f ill us in?” Noah asks, with maybe just a touch of envy, which is oddly endearing.

“The back of the cross,” Kate says, still jumping. Her black hair f lops around her shoulders as she bounces. “It's all scratched up!” Then she stands still and leans her face close to Noah. And ruff les his hair. “But maybe they aren't scratches,” she says with a know-it-all smile.

Noah looks at me, confused.

“What she means is that maybe the scratches on the cross are a series of unconnected lines,” I explain. “Just like the lines in the manuscript. And the Jesuit seal is telling us to put the cross together with the squiggly lines in the manuscript
. . .
” I wait for it to dawn on Noah and Jay. Noah gets it f irst, and his NASA blues f lare like we're well into a rocket launch countdown.

“And the scratches on the back of the cross and the squiggly lines in the manuscript will
match
,” he says. “The Jesuit Society's seal is telling us to put the cross together with the symbol in the manuscript. Maybe they'll spell a word. And if we do that—”

“We'll conquer,” Jay f inishes, as it dawns on him, too.

Hope rises in my chest like a balloon, pressing against the back of my ribcage. “And we'll know what the spirits are doing,” I say softly. “We'll know what my mother was doing with that living woman in the store. We'll know if she needs help.”

Kate resumes doing mini-jumps in celebration. She grabs Jay's hand and tries to get him to join. But he doesn't. Instead, he holds his hand out to Noah.

“Hand it over, bro,” he says. “You've had the cross long enough. We need it back now. To solve this.”

The launch-countdown excitement fades from Noah's eyes. He looks at Kate, then at Jay. And then at me. Then his eyes drop.

“I don't have it,” he confesses.

I don't have to respond. The searing, hawk-eye look I give to Noah says it loud and clear:
Then tell us where it is
.

“I can try to get it back,” he says. He gets up and gets his wallet off his dresser, and then starts searching for his car keys. “No promises, but I'll try. But you can't come with me. I can't tell you where it is. Just . . . wait for me at Jay's house.”

Jay shakes his head, his jaw tight, but he nods. And if he can agree, so can I. Kate nods, too. Of course, we all look at each other behind Noah's back. And this look, too, is clear as a bell:
We let him go. But we follow him. We absolutely and totally FOLLOW HIM.

Chapter 16

Get It Back.

My car is a pretty diff icult thing to miss, what with its stop-sign coloring and sexy, wagon-esque prof ile. There's no way we can follow Noah in it without being caught.

At least that's the argument we use to justify stealing Noah's dad's “fancy car.” It's a white Chevy Camaro that he drives only on weekends and prizes, at times, above Noah. We f igure that, for this mission, it has two things going for it. 1) It's a weekday, so Noah will assume that it's not his father's Camaro. (Camaros have invaded Ohio like some sort of invasive insect species. They crawl over the highways in hordes, so we won't stand out.) And 2) He never in a million years would even
think
we'd have the moxie to steal his father's car.

Jay and Kate volunteer me as the most trusted driver, and they have a point.

So off we go in a stolen vehicle, our own real-life version of Grand Theft Auto. I try to hang back as much as I can, with at least three cars between us, as I follow Noah's Honda onto I-77 North.

As the trip stretches on, I really hope he's not taking us out of state. Kate squirms for all of us in the backseat as we pass exit after exit. We don't listen to music. We don't talk. Finally, north of Brecksville, Jay suggests a game.

“Test of Wills?” He looks over at me from the passenger seat and raises an eyebrow.

“And that would be?” I take my eyes off the road for just a second and glance at him. He looks giddy. He proceeds to turn on the heat in the car. In May.

“We roll the windows up and crank the heat as high as it will go,” he says. “Whoever cracks f irst loses.”

“No,” Kate says, leaning up front. “Just, no. We are
not
doing that. We are not messing with a stolen car. What if we break the heater somehow? Plus, I already have claustrophobia in this tiny tin can as it is. When I crack in the game, it will be cracking by vomiting.”

“Yeah,” I say, gripping the wheel. I pass an enormous truck on the right and remind myself that my most immediate life goal should be to avoid not only a wreck but also any scratch that would indicate it even left the garage. “That's a negative on Test of Wills, dude. Sounds horrible.”

“Fine,” Jay says, turning the AC back on. “But don't ever say I didn't try to get you to have fun.”

Kate ignores Jay by typing something into her phone, and I ignore him by focusing on Noah's Honda, which is now about ten cars ahead. It's relatively easy to stay undetected on the interstate, but it gets harder when Noah takes an exit onto Harvard Avenue and drives east. Then he turns onto a more rural road I've never even heard of: 10,000 Miles Avenue.

We pass vast expanses of empty f ields. I wonder where on earth Noah could be going. But I don't have to question for long. We pass through an unmarked wrought iron gate, and once we do, the green f ields are no longer empty. They're f illed with miles and miles of headstones.

Why did I not expect this?

It's the biggest cemetery I've ever seen. Sprinkled among the graves are tall mausoleums, all dirty-white marble with carved angels and doves and statues of Jesus holding up one hand like he's waving goodbye. I see f lat headstones like my mom's, others cracked and standing crooked like rows of broken iPhones.

Maybe half a mile in, we pass a huge white wooden sign:
calvary cemetery
.
And beneath that, in smaller letters:
catholic cemeteries association
.

I slow down, dropping far behind Noah, losing sight of him over rolling hills that seem to never end. I don't want him to glimpse us in his rearview; ours (his father's) is the only other car on this road. We pass gravesite after gravesite, little f lowering trees, a pond, and a fountain. It seems wrong that you can drive right through a cemetery. I feel like I'm gunning a convertible through the middle of a church or a hospital. I mean: you have to take your shoes off when you go in most people's houses, but it's okay to drive right through their f inal resting places?

In the distance, at the top of a tall hill, I spot a building that looks like a funeral home. That's where Noah is headed. It's one story and L-shaped, with a domed roof over the middle. And right beside the parking lot is this statue of Jesus. He's standing on what looks like a giant stone exercise ball, and he's holding both hands up to the sky. I'm not sure it's a very reassuring pose; I'm questioning the artist's choices. Something about Jesus balancing on a ball is disconcerting, and the look on his face is, well, kind of
anguished
. Or worried, at the very least. To me, he should be looking super chill and conf ident, like,
Hey, families who just buried someone: Don't worry. I GOT THIS.

Noah parks his car in front, gets out, and disappears inside.

Only when there's no chance he'll spot us do I park the car on the side of the road beside a tree. I get my bag out of the back, and we all make our way up the hill to the building. Kate and I tiptoe up to one of the windows and peek in, to see if we can catch a glimpse of Noah. But it's too dark inside to see much.

Jay gently opens the front door, sticks his head in and motions for us to follow.

It's not quite as dim inside as it seemed from the window. Late afternoon sunlight blinks through leaves that cover the skylights above. Jay takes off to look for Noah in the side rooms, while Kate and I stay in the main atrium. There's an altar at the front. I look around and notice the walls are covered with big squares of marble. Little bunches of fake f lowers jut out of each one like perky prom corsages. Kate and I walk a bit closer. Etched into the marble squares are names. And dates. Of birth and death.

“Dude,” Kate whispers, grasping my arm. “Are there, like, dead people in the
walls
?”

“Looks like it,” I whisper back.

“I'm out. Can't. Cope.” And she slips out the backdoor of the chapel and into the bright sunshine behind the building.

“Noah?” Jay calls as he comes back into the atrium. “Come out, man. We're here.”

Silence.

He sighs and sits down in a pew. “I don't get it. Why would he come here? Cam isn't buried here. And where did he go?”

Kate pops her head back in the door. “You guys,” she hisses. “There's a little house out back. Down the hill. You can't see it from the road. And it looks like someone lives in it.”

We follow her outside. She's right. On the slope behind the chapel, maybe a hundred yards away, stands a little white house. There's a garden full of dying tomatoes, a porch swing by the front door, and a Dodge Durango sitting in the driveway. At f irst, the house looks normal enough, but the longer I stand there, the creepier it seems. It's like a faded photograph, worn around the edges. Chunks of paint are peeling off the wooden siding and several roof shingles are ajar, tilted toward the sky like crooked teeth. Its green shutters are warped and the windowpanes must be the original glass—thick and wavy like old fashioned Coke bottles.

“You think Noah . . . went in there?” Kate asks.

“It's worth a try,” Jay says.

As we walk toward the house, I squint at the windows, trying to see if there's any movement inside. There isn't.

We get close enough to see a heavy iron door knocker on the front door. It's in the shape of an angel, but he looks like an angry angel. Or at least a miserable angel. There's a window on the side of the house by the garden, so we crouch down and make our way toward it. Slowly, we stand up and peek in.

I draw in a sharp breath.

There's Noah. He's sitting in a wingback chair, talking to one of the most disheveled, pathetic-looking men I've ever seen. He looks homeless, but I'm guessing this is his home. His dark hair hangs down to his shoulders, matted and speckled with gray, and it's twisting in every direction. His beard is no better, kind of smashed in on one side and bushy on the other. Food stains are splattered down his white T-shirt and his blue jeans are full of holes.

My eyes drift across the room. Junk and tchotchkes are strewn everywhere; half-empty liquor bottles sit on every available f lat surface. Underneath all the chaos, though, I spot some really pretty pieces. There's a giant grandfather clock ticking away in the corner; I can hear it, muff led but strong, through the glass. And beside that there's a beautiful piano piled high with dirty dishes and two broken lamps.

The man is talking, and his voice is getting louder and louder. Noah responds, but I can't understand what he says. The man looks unhappy about whatever it is. His voice starts to boom, his beard trembling as he yells. Finally, he gets up and storms out of the room.

Noah follows.

We run to the front door and start pounding like mad. I bang the angry angel door knocker, and Kate and Jay use their f ists. We hear more yelling inside. I lean against the window beside the front door and press my ear to the glass. I can only catch bits and pieces of what the man is yelling.

“Not one more thing,” he booms. Then something about the Bible. Adam and Eve. The apple. The words
knowledge
, and
ruins
, and
us.

“What do we do?” Kate asks. “Break in? Call the cops?”

I keep silent rather than saying:
If we call the cops, we're the ones who will get arrested for trespassing and driving a stolen car.
I press my ear back to the glass. I hear something about a dogwood tree. A drainage pipe. Then a door slams.

“I'll try to f ind a way in,” Jay says. He takes off down the porch steps and disappears around the side of the house. Inside, the voices go quiet. Kate bangs again with the angel knocker. No one answers.

But Jay appears around the corner, waving at us to follow him.

There's another steep hill behind the house. And Noah is at the top of it.

Heading away from us. With a shovel.

Quietly, we follow. He
makes his way down the other side of the hill and stops at a pond that's ringed with dogwood trees. Sticking out in the middle of the water, past cattails and the sludgy banks, is a corrugated drainage pipe. Noah squints into the sunlight and appears to be counting trees.

“Dogwoods,” Jay whispers. “You guys know the legend?”

“Please don't—” Kate starts.

“The blossoms. They have four white petals and each has a little blot of red at the end. Legend is that Jesus's cross was made of dogwood bark. So the tree was cursed and forever carries drops of his blood.”

I look at the dogwoods.
So you have secrets, too?

“
Shhh
,” Kate hisses. “Look.”

Noah walks to the third tree to the right of the drainage pipe and inspects the trunk and the dirt around it. Then he plunges his shovel into the ground.

I take off running before I'm even aware of what I'm doing. Jay and Kate call me back, but I don't listen. I sprint as fast as I can toward Noah. And when I reach him, breathless, I drop my bag off my shoulder and hit my knees. I start digging with my hands. Because I know what he's trying to f ind in the dirt: the cross that will lead me back to my mom.

“Riley,” Noah says. He kneels down beside me. “You shouldn't be here.” He looks back in the direction of the house. His lips turn downward when he spots Jay and Kate at the top of the hill.

“You really thought we wouldn't follow you?” I ask.

“But I promised him I wouldn't tell anyone—”

“Just keep digging.”

He shakes his head but acquiesces. And after what feels like ages, his shovel hits something. He tosses it aside and we both go at the hole with our hands. I see a glint of dirt-covered silver as Noah unearths the necklace. He holds it up in the dappled sunlight coming through the dogwood branches.

“He didn't even put it in a box or anything,” Noah says slowly as the necklace gently sways in front of him. “I gave it to him for safekeeping. He was a prof on the team with Jay's dad. He helped f ind it. So it seemed right to give it back to him.”

But I'm not listening to Noah. Not really.

Instead, I'm staring at the muddy cross and thinking one thing only:

Tell us your secret.

Jay and Kate reach
us, and I pull the manuscript out of my bag. I'm afraid, but I'm not about to stop.

Wherever my mother went after we buried her six feet under, whatever it is she's doing with the living, whatever it is she wants
. . .
I need to know.

We huddle in the grass as I f lip through the pages.

“Here it is.” I point to the series of unconnected lines in the Magis section. Noah lays the cross on the page next to it. Just looking at them, they don't seem to match.

“I need a pen and someone's hand,” I say. But no one has a pen. “Then somebody open a drawing app so I can sketch these two things together.”

Kate gets her phone and opens her art app, which gives us a blank screen. With my f inger, I carefully draw the scratches from the cross and the lines from the book on the same screen. And they
do
match
.
They
make letters.

“The f irst word is—P-O-R-T-A-E. Maybe? Somebody pull up GT.” I rub my f inger over the cross, making sure I've gotten all the dirt off, copied every etched line. “And if that doesn't work, try a Latin dictionary.”

“On it,” Noah says, pulling his phone out of his back pocket.

I keep going. “I'm thinking the next letters are A-D and then C-A-E-L-U-M? Does that mean anything?”

“
Portae ad caelum
,” Noah says slowly. He types in the words. “And the words before the symbol are—”

“
Nos omnes sumus
,” I say. “I got that earlier from a Latin dictionary. He wrote
omnostria
, but I think he was going for
omnes.
Because he sucked at Latin when he wrote this.”