The Dead Gentleman (8 page)

Blast! He could understand it!

“Well, we’ll have to work on smoothing out those rougher edges, won’t we?”

I blinked, not sure what he was getting at.

“My name’s Jonathan Scott,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m a Captain First Rank in the Explorers’ Society. And I’m offering you a job.”

I blinked again. My mouth moved but nothing came out. A job? Aboard a ship that sailed under the water? Things were moving far too fast, and I felt like I was behind the conversation.

“B-but, the Duke …,” I stammered uselessly, pointing back to the shore. I saw the retreating shapes of the bridge folk as they stomped out their campfires and broke down their lean-tos. In the face of a giant underwater ship they were, wisely, striking camp. The Duke was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, that. He was just your run-of-the-mill bridge troll. Usually they stick to creek bridges, abandoned roads, that sort of thing. Every now and then, a particularly big specimen gets a mite full of himself and tries to lay claim to something more impressive. Like we have here. I reckon that now that he’s seen the
Nautilus
here, he’ll move on. In a hurry.”

A troll? Trolls were the stuff of children’s rhymes. And yet, I’d seen the Duke with my own eyes. And Merlin. And the Dead Gentleman. I’d seen a lot over the last few weeks, enough that I would never be the same.

Again the man, Scott, chuckled warmly. “No time for sorting it out in your head, my boy. Right now, you’ve got to make a choice. You can go back to the city, but you’ll still be hunted by the Gentleman’s cronies. I can’t help you there. Or you can come with me and learn to be an Explorer. You’ve got the makings of a darn fine one, unless I miss my mark. But you’ve got to choose—time’s wasting and we are needed elsewhere.”

“Where?” I asked. “The bottom of the sea?”

“No, my boy,” said Scott with a wink. “Our journey will take us to a more wondrous place. We are headed for the bedroom of one Miles Macintosh, age nine and a half!”

As Jezebel blinked and stretched herself awake, she remembered something her father was fond of saying:
Never underestimate your ability to surprise yourself
. For example, a person would imagine that after a night spent battling closet monsters in the dark, sleep would be an impossibility. Especially in the same room, next to the very same closet door that those monsters had emerged from. Yes, a person might imagine that.

But that person had obviously never met Jezebel Lemon and Her Amazingly Lazy Body. Her father also liked to remark that Jez could comfortably sleep through an earthquake, and while that had yet to be put to the test, Jez suspected he was right. Somehow, incredibly, Jez had fallen asleep, only to awake to another stormy, cloud-covered day. The weak morning sun barely cut through the gloom outside her window, and Jez awoke with a puddle of drool on her pillow.

Her room was the same unchanged battlefield from the night before. As Jezebel passed her father’s closed door she thought about knocking, but what would she tell him? On the heels of yesterday’s hysteria, what would he think of this story?

Jez walked into the living room and stood for a while, watching the downpour. It had picked up again overnight. The rain just kept coming in steady sheets. The heavy showers had the effect of blurring everything outside the window so the city looked like a painting that had gotten smeared—there were no hard lines anymore; the whole world had gone bleary at the edges.

She needed help. The boy in the basement had been creepy—scary, even. But those things in her closet had been terrifying. Still, a ghost in the basement? Monsters in the closet? Who would believe her?

Sasha’s apartment was just down the hall. The two of them had been friends since Jezebel moved in, and for a while they’d even been best friends. But over the last year or so things had changed. Small things at first, like little disagreements over movies they wanted to see or music they liked. Sasha was getting prettier every day while Jezebel was just getting taller, but that wasn’t the real reason for the distance. Sasha couldn’t wait to grow up, and while Jezebel wasn’t opposed to it in theory, she just couldn’t get the hang of it. She wasn’t sure what was expected of her or how she should behave.

Their last fight hadn’t even been a fight, not really. Sasha called Jezebel at her mom’s to tell her that she’d had her first kiss with a boy named Max Perkins. Jezebel had been quiet on the phone, and Sasha took that to mean that Jez was jealous, and in anger she’d hung up on Jez. But Jez wasn’t jealous—Max had peach fuzz on his upper lip and called everyone “dawg.” Jez didn’t
say anything because she’d heard the story before; she’d heard the rumors at school just like everyone else. Jez didn’t say anything because Sasha, her best friend, hadn’t told her first. Or even second or third. She wasn’t sure where she fit in anymore among the hierarchy of Sasha’s friends, but it was far down the list and getting farther every day.

But right now she was the best hope Jez had.

Jez knocked on Sasha’s door, and when no one answered that, she rang the bell a few times. After several minutes she heard the peephole flipping open and the door opened to reveal Sasha’s mom standing there, sleepy-eyed. She had a bathrobe on that she was holding closed with one hand; she hadn’t even bothered to tie it.

“Jezebel?” she asked. “Is there something the matter? Are you all right?”

“Is Sasha home?” Jez asked.

“Sasha … I don’t … Jezebel, it’s six in the morning!”

It was? Jez hadn’t even thought to check the time. Well, that explained why her dad was still asleep.

“So, she’s not home? Because I’d really like to talk to her. It’s important.”

Sasha’s mom scratched her head. She was obviously having trouble processing information this early on a Sunday.

“Hold … hold on, Jezebel. Just wait here.”

The door shut and Jezebel was left alone in the hall. After a few minutes she heard voices inside Sasha’s apartment, then the door clicked open and Sasha stepped out into the hall. She wore the same groggily concerned expression as her mother, but hers was colored by something else like annoyance or embarrassment. More likely a combination of all three.

“Jez, what are you doing? Do you know what time it is?”

“Yeah, it’s six. Your mom told me. Sorry about that.”

“You know as soon as I go back in she’s going to ask me if you’re on drugs.”

“Listen, I need to talk to you about something,” said Jez, taking Sasha by the arm and leading her away from the door. “But I need you to promise me that you’ll listen and not freak out. Or tell me I’m crazy.”

Sasha pulled her arm away. “You’re already acting nuts, but okay. This better be good.”

Jezebel told Sasha the whole story, starting with her trip to the basement and ending with last night’s closet monsters. Sasha raised an eyebrow at the description of the mysterious ghost boy, but otherwise she didn’t show much reaction.

When it was all over Jezebel took a deep breath—she felt like she’d just swum from one end of the pool to the other without breathing. From the shallow to the deep end.

Sasha just stared at her, her brow wrinkled with thinking.

Please believe me
, thought Jez.
Please
.

“Jez,” Sasha said after a moment. “Are you jealous of me and Max?”

Jezebel started. She felt she’d just been hit with a case of verbal whiplash.

“What? No! Of course I’m not jealous.… Did you listen to a word I said?”

Sasha smiled and winked. “Of course I listened, but you don’t expect me to believe that you’ve got monsters in your closet! Or that you’ve got a ghost boyfriend who only you can see.”

“He’s not my boyfriend! I’m telling you something serious is going on, something really scary, and all you can think about is Max?”

“Well, it’s obvious you are trying to get my attention. And besides, I know you had a thing for him.”

“I did not!”

Sasha placed her hands on her hips. “You gave him your picture.”

“I what?” asked Jez.

“He has a picture of the two of you, together. In Mrs. Leonard’s class.”

“Mrs. Leonard’s class? We
all
took pictures of each other on the last day. I even got my picture taken with Mrs. Leonard, and she’s like a hundred and hunchbacked!”

Jez was confused. She felt suddenly guilty even though she had nothing to feel guilty about, and the guiltier she felt the guiltier she looked. She probably had her picture taken with Max but she couldn’t remember.

Jez felt her face turning hot. Her voice began to crack. “Everybody got their picture taken with every—”

“Max didn’t have his picture taken with me!” Sasha said. She poked her finger at Jez, and she was no longer smiling. “He still has it. Yours is the only one he kept.”

“Huh?” asked Jez.

“He keeps it in his notebook! I saw it there when we were studying together.”

Jez felt her cheeks were on fire. She felt like she was under a hot lamp. “I … I don’t know! He … he has a peach fuzz MUSTACHE!”

The apartment door opened and Sasha’s mother poked her head out. “Girls!” she whispered. “It’s six in the morning!”

Jezebel wasn’t aware that she’d been shouting, but she was suddenly certain that she was being watched through peepholes up and down the hallway.

“Sorry, Mom,” said Sasha. “We’re finished, anyway.” And with an angry glare she went back inside the apartment as her mother shut the door behind her.

Max Perkins? Jez had lost her best friend because Max Perkins had hung on to a stupid photo? It was creepy to think that someone she barely knew was carrying around her picture. Max was creepy. Thanks to his overactive hormones, she now had no one to turn to when she was in real trouble. The universe was stacking against her.

She’d find the ghost boy. She would go to the basement, and the ghost boy would explain what was going on. Jezebel crept back into the apartment and grabbed a flashlight, careful not to wake her father. Outside in the hall, as she waited for the elevator, she worked on bolstering her courage. She’d get some answers. She just had to.

The elevator door opened up and Elevator Man was waiting for her.

As she stepped inside she kept her eyes focused on the floor—everything was still swirling around in her head.

They’d traveled down several floors before she realized that something was different. She’d been so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t noticed Elevator Man wasn’t talking. He wasn’t even looking at her; he just stared at the slowly changing floor numbers like normal people do. And he was no longer smiling.

For some strange reason this alarmed her nearly as much as anything else she’d experienced in the last twenty-four hours. She felt like she should make some small talk, break the unnerving silence.

“I missed the weather forecast,” she said. “You catch it by any chance?”

“They’re calling for sun, but they’re wrong,” he answered, but the smile was gone from his voice. “The sun’s not coming back, not ever. And you’d better tread carefully from here on out, Jezebel. The Gentleman is at the door and it’s best not to keep him waiting. He will rise up the dead and buried of this world and throw them against you.”

At the mention of the Gentleman, Jez’s breath caught in her throat and stayed there. She was suddenly keenly aware of how close they were. Gone was the smell of mint; today his breath reeked of rotten things. It was terribly claustrophobic in here, as close as a coffin.

The door chimed again and Elevator Man opened the gate.

“Bottom floor,” he said.

Jez dropped all pretense at friendliness. She bolted out of the elevator without looking back, not even daring to breathe until she’d gotten halfway across the lobby.

She was so panicked she didn’t even see old Bernie until she’d slammed into him.

“Everything all right, miss?” he asked.

“The Elevator Man! The Gentleman! He said the dead were coming!” Jezebel couldn’t help herself. Her heart was throbbing in her ears and panic had thrown all caution to the wind. It was all just coming out in a rush.

Bernie bent down and put a hand on her shoulder. His eyes peered at her from behind thick plastic glasses. When he blinked he looked like an owl. She’d never noticed that before.

“Who said this? The elevator operator?”

Jez nodded.

“He mentioned the Gentleman?”

Jez nodded again. “He said he was at the door.”

Bernie looked sharply over her shoulder and Jez followed his gaze. The elevator door was closed—the numbers up top were slowly rising as it traveled back up the floors.

“Come, little miss,” said Bernie, leading her to his door. “Come inside.”

“No one will believe me, Bernie,” said Jez, and she was surprised that her voice was hoarse. Her body was still shaking with fear.

“I believe you, miss,” he answered, and his creaky, tobacco-burnt voice turned soft. “I believe you.”

Bernie’s little apartment was a junk shop of odds and ends, and bits and pieces of machinery. She could see one uncluttered space in the whole room, a well-worn recliner with patched armrests that looked like it belonged in the trash heap. To the left was a small kitchenette, and set into the far wall was a closet door that Jez had no intention of going near. Every other square inch was covered in piles of scattered newspaper, but they obviously weren’t meant for reading; they were to catch the grease and oil of a hundred little cogs and contraptions. His apartment looked more like a machinist’s repair shop full of tools and spare parts. Spare parts to what, it was impossible to tell—she had never seen anything like it. Jez didn’t consider herself any kind of hacker whiz, but she knew the difference between a motherboard and a memory chip. But this stuff just looked like … clock guts. There were no wires to be found, or batteries. Only gears and springs.