58

Amherst, Massachusetts

The late-morning sky over the West Amherst Cemetery was aggressively slate in color and feel. There must be a poultry farm nearby because the smell of fowl and damp was blowing in, coating the headstones, rolling like fog over the low spots, carrying with it a primal scent of survival and butchery.

“We’re looking for Lot 53, Grave D.” Bel held the cemetery map and led the way, the graves laid out in a roughly triangular pattern.

Salem was jittery, a leaf before a storm. One two three breathe.

“1737,” Ernest said, pointing at the tipping white tongue of a gravestone, its inscription so worn by rain and sun that it had nearly disappeared. “Mercy, you see this? Think of it. The person buried here was alive three hundred years ago.”

The girl stayed close at his heels, not saying a word. Salem thought that if they made it out of this cemetery with whatever they’d been sent for, the first thing she’d do was buy Mercy a doll. No little kid should be without one.

Bel stopped so suddenly that all three of them almost bumped into her. She glanced down at her map and up again. “There.” She pointed ahead at a wrought iron fence surrounding four headstones, three of them tall, thin marble tablets, and the fourth a squat marble monument. A bronze plaque mounted in the fence read “In Memoriam, Emily Dickinson, Poetess.”

The first thin tablet inside the wrought iron marked Emily’s sister Lavinia’s grave, the second Emily Dickinson’s, decorated with flowers, coins, and trinkets, and the third belonged to Edward, Emily’s brother. The fourth was inscribed for Dickinson’s grandparents:

Samuel Fowler Dickinson
Died April 22, 1838 Aged 62 Years
——
Lucretia Gunn
His Wife
Died May 11, 1840 Aged 64 years

“Why’s that grave different?” Mercy asked, pointing through the fence.

“Emily Dickinson’s grandparents weren’t originally buried in this cemetery,” Salem answered. “They were dug up and brought back here, to their hometown. Maybe that’s why?”

Mercy’s eyes grew wide.

Salem knelt in front of the gravestone, the wrought iron separating them. Mercy stood at her shoulder.

“Keep watch,” Bel ordered Ernest, kneeling next to Salem.

Salem stuck her hand through the 4-inch-wide opening in the iron and felt the cool stone of Samuel and Lucretia’s grave marker, running her fingers over the grooves spelling “Gunn.” The name was an inch high, four inches long. The stone around it felt solid. In fact, other than the line separating the information on Samuel from Lucretia’s, the whole inset name panel appeared to be one unbroken chunk of rock. The gray of the sky pressed on Salem’s shoulders.

“Do you see anything?” Bel asked.

Salem shook her head. “I’ve never worked with stone.” She didn’t want to alarm Bel by telling her that she didn’t even know what to look for. If this were a dresser, or an armoire, or even a wooden beam, she’d at least know where to start.

Mercy threaded her hand through the fence and knocked on the face of the gravestone. She had to grip Salem’s shoulder for balance. Her hand felt warm and tiny. Salem found herself protectively covering it with her own hand.

With her palm over Mercy’s, she felt something unexpected.

“Do that again.” Salem listened carefully, still covering Mercy’s hand with hers.

Mercy knocked the inscription panel again.

“Now knock on the stone outside the panel.” Salem’s heartbeat danced.

Mercy did as directed.

“Do you hear that?” Salem asked.

Bel shook her head.

“Here.” Salem transferred Mercy’s hand to Bel’s shoulder. “Mercy’s body is serving as a sound transmitter. You have to feel it rather than hear it.”

Bel closed her eyes and listened as Mercy repeated the knocking. Her eyes shot open. “It sounds different. The panel. Hollow, maybe?”

Salem nodded, a smile playing across her lips. “I think so. It’s still thick, though, even if there’s a compartment underneath.” She stuffed both hands through the fence and began feeling the edges of the panel. “If we can find a trip switch, we won’t have to bust it open.”

“Hey,” Ernest said, softly. If they hadn’t been standing so close together, they wouldn’t have heard him.

“What?” Bel asked crossly.

“Men in suits,” Ernest said. “Two of them.”

Salem glanced over her shoulder. Agent Lucan Stone and another man who looked like a heavier version of the actor Ed Harris were charging up the hill toward them.

Her throat hitched. “They’re FBI.”

Ernest grabbed Mercy and threw her over his shoulder. “Run!” he yelled.