Thurston Branch

Dad’s office was dark and cool and smelled like his bay-rum aftershave. He had already left the house. I slipped in and closed the door behind me. I carefully sat down in his swivel chair to keep it from squeaking. I wasn’t supposed to be in there. The newspaper was spread out across his desk. I was searching for the movie section.

The front page still carried news of the drought and heat wave. It had been ninety-three degrees yesterday, and it was ninety-three days since it last rained. Everyone was worried about having enough drinking water. Most houses were built on top of a hollow cement cistern the size of a swimming pool. When it rained, the water ran off the roof, down the gutter, and into the cistern. It was good clean water, and most people used the rainwater for drinking and used well water for cleaning and watering their lawns.

“Water, water everywhere,” I sang. “But not enough to drink.”

I turned the page. An article was tided BOY STILL MISSING. A boy who lived over by Crane Bay had left his house a week ago and had not been seen since. Not a trace of him had been found. His parents were begging everyone to help. This was the third newspaper story on him. It gave me the creeps.

I didn’t know how anyone could get lost on the island. It was so small, only twenty-one miles long and fourteen miles across at the widest point. It was like a freckle on the globe. Even if I got lost, broke both my legs, and had to pull myself through the cane fields with my hands, I could still make it back home.

I removed the scissors from Dad’s desk drawer and cut out the article.

“Jack,” Mom yelled up the hallway from the dining room. She was writing letters while Eric slept. “You and Pete better get a wiggle on if you’re going to the movies.”

I folded the piece of paper in half and shoved it into my back pocket. Then I put the scissors where I found them, so Dad wouldn’t pitch a fit. Quickly, I flipped ahead to the movie section. Them! and Night of the Living Dead were playing. Cool. Night of the Living Dead was filmed outside my hometown in Pennsylvania. Maybe I’ll see some of my relatives lurching out of their graves to eat human flesh.

I opened the door and stuck my head out. “Okay,” I hollered back. It’s funny, I thought, how some families actually talk face-to-face and some families just yell from room to room. And another thing, it’s like when I ask Dad to hand me something, he never puts it directly into my hand. He gets about three feet away and tosses it at me like a grenade.

Mom yelled again. “Jack! You better get going!”

“I’m movin’!” I yelled back.

Pete and I were getting ready to walk down to Bay Street and catch the bus into Bridgetown. Television in Barbados was pretty lousy and they didn’t run any good scary stuff. Every Saturday, the Rockley Movie Theatre played a double feature. They were mostly old black-and-white horror movies I had watched on Creature Double Feature back in Fort Lauderdale. The host of that TV show was a corpse named M. T. Graves. He had one huge hairy eyebrow and fake buckteeth. Every Saturday afternoon, he’d open his squeaky coffin and pop out to announce the features.

 

I ran up the hall and into Pete’s room. “Come on,” I yelled.

“I’m almost ready,” he yelled back. He was standing inside his closet, searching through all his pants pockets. His pockets were supposed to be a secret hiding place, but the only secret about them was why he couldn’t find anything once he hid it in them.

“The movie is going to start without us,” I yelled. “And you know how I hate that.” I jiggled the Lemon Squash bottle caps in my pants pocket. For ten bottle caps and ten cents you got to see two movies, plus there was a chance to win a door prize. We always got the bottle caps up the street at old Mr. Hill’s store. He saved them for us.

“I only have eight,” Pete yelled and recoiled in terror.

“Jerk,” I said and squinted as I lost patience. I dashed back into my bedroom. It was like this every week. He’d hide his bottle caps from himself, then he’d lose some, then he’d forget his ten cents, then he’d forget money for candy, and then I’d have to bail him out. As I opened my cigar box, I whispered to him, “Go ask Mom for extra candy money and meet me out front.”

“Mom,” he yelled as soon as he stepped into the hallway. “Can we have extra candy money?”

“No!” she yelled back. “And don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

 

We hurried down the street but stopped when we saw a crowd of people gathered on the Naimes’ front yard.

“Maybe someone died,” I said to Pete. “Let’s see.”

“We’ll be late,” Pete said.

“This is better than a movie,” I replied. “This is real life.”

I grabbed his hand and squirmed through the crowd until we came out into a clearing. I saw Johnny and asked him what was happening.

“Mr. Branch is searching for water,” he whispered as if we were in church. He pointed at an old man who was as thin and bent as a praying mantis. He was dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and brown bow tie. His hair was cut down to the nub and the part was a sharp line that might have been made by a bullet that just grazed his scalp. It was hot under the sun and the sweat made shiny trails through the dust on his outstretched arms.

“What’s that thing he’s holding?” I asked Johnny.

“A divining rod,” he replied.

I didn’t know what that was. It looked like the wishbone from a five-hundred-pound turkey. He held the two tips of the Y-shaped end gently between his bony fingers and closed his eyes. They fluttered as he slipped into a trance. He began to hum as he slowly inched forward. The tip of the divining rod wobbled up and down. Pete and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and followed at a distance. I didn’t want to get in his way. He might trip and drive that stick right through my foot.

After a few passes back and forth across the dead lawn, the tip of the rod suddenly went straight down with so much force that Mr. Branch dropped forward on his knees. The crowd “Aahed,” and a few people clapped. When he stood up, he smiled broadly and blinked sleepily at all of us who had gathered to watch him. He pulled a large white handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face and neck.

“There is good sweet water here,” he announced, tramping the dusty ground with his foot. “Dig straight down and you will find drinking water.”

Mr. Naime peeled a few crisp bills off a wad held together with a gold money clip. Mr. Branch took it, frowned, and folded it into his top pocket. “I shouldn’t accept payment for this job,” he said loud enough for us to hear. “God has blessed me with this power and I should only do it to help my fellow man … but I need the little bit of money to help out my family.”

Everyone just stood limp and slack-faced after he said that. I’m not sure why. I guessed it was because he was blessed with a gift that none of us had. So if he apologized for it, who were we to argue with him?

“Allah Akbar,” said Mr. Naime and spit on the ground. I suppose he was putting a little water back into the earth.

I was jealous of Mr. Branch. Finding things was the best way of getting stuff for free, and if I were him, I would run around all day finding anything I could. I’d start a business: YOU LOST IT, I’LL FIND IT! I’d take fifty percent of the value of the object found. Since school began full-time, Mr. Cucumber had been drilling us on fractions and percentages. He’d be very pleased to know that his math exercises were working for me.

Pete tugged on my arm. “Come on,” he whined.

I shook him off. I wanted to get a better look at that divining rod to see what it was made out of.

Mr. Branch walked over to his tiny Morris Minor. It was a British car the size of a washing machine. He opened the door, pulled out a suitcase, set it on the ground, and clicked open the latches. The case was empty except for a bunch of soft rags, which he removed and wrapped around his divining rod before shutting it in the suitcase and sliding the suitcase back on the front seat. It looked like an ordinary tree branch. As he pulled away, we waved.

“Come on,” I hollered at Pete. “We’re late.”

 

The front of the theater was decorated with a giant bottle of Lemon Squash. It was outlined in bright green neon, with little blue neon droplets of bottle sweat. Just gazing up at that bottle made me feel hotter. I was dying of thirst. The double front doors had an icy penguin on one side. On the other a sign read: COME IN. IT’S COOL INSIDE. I pushed the door open and we burst into the cold air as though with one quick step we had traveled from summer into winter.

A kid in a starched purple-and-gold uniform took our bottle caps and gave us a scrap of yellow paper with a big number hand-stamped on it. “Hang on to this,” he snapped. “You might get lucky.”

I stopped in front of the water fountain and drank about a gallon. The water was ice-cold and hurt my teeth, but it had been so hot outside I needed cold belly water to chill my innards. When I finished I held Pete up under his arms while he tanked up. Then we both ran up to the balcony. The wood stairs were so old it was like running up a flight of sponges.

Even though we were a little late we were still in luck. We slouched down into two seats and stared at the screen as if we were hypnotized. “What’s your ticket number?” I asked Pete.

“Four,” he said.

“Mine’s 17.”

Before each feature was a short movie of a race. They were always real old and silly like the Keystone Kops. The races were different each week. Last week it was motorboats. This week it was cross-country horse racing. Already they were galloping across the fields and kids were shrieking, yelling out their horse numbers and throwing candy.

We missed the beginning, but Pete’s horse was challenging the front of the pack. My horse was stuck in a mud hole. The kid next to me was cheering for number 11. Secretly, I felt good when his horse took a wrong turn into an apple orchard. For a moment Pete’s horse took the lead, but then his jockey got knocked off when he hit a low tree branch. My horse dragged itself out of the mud and picked up speed but then stopped at a lemonade stand. I groaned. Number 4 dove off a railroad trestle. Number 11 fell in love with a billboard of a horse. Number 2 was the winner.

A girl in the row behind me jumped up and let out a deadly scream right in my ear. “I won!” she squealed. “I won, and I’ve never won anything before in my life.”

I elbowed Pete in the shoulder. “Time to get candy,” I said. “Hand over your money.” I bounced down the rickety steps, hoping to get to the refreshment counter before the line got too long.

By the time I returned, the Living Dead were already chewing on some smelly old flesh. Pete was balled up in the corner of his seat. “I just love a barbecue,” I whispered, and passed him the popcorn.

 

That night I took out my diary and taped the newspaper article about the missing boy on a page. I also removed a second piece of paper from my pocket. I had gotten it at the refreshment stand when I bought my candy. It was a handbill, also about Wade Block, the missing boy. I hadn’t shown it to Pete because I thought it might really scare him. There was a request for information with a police telephone number. The missing boy’s mother said he was last seen on his bicycle heading for the movie theater. He was wearing a red soccer jersey with the number 8 on the front. The bike had not been found either.

I didn’t know what the kid looked like but thought I would try something like Mr. Branch. I opened my diary to a clean page and took out a pencil. I shut my eyes real hard and tried to picture him. He had my brown hair and brown eyes. He was about my height. He wore that soccer jersey and shorts and tennis shoes.

With my eyes closed, I started to draw. When I finished I looked down at the page. There he was. It was a picture of me. I’m not lost, I said to myself. I’m right here. I closed my eyes again and tried to picture the boy. But he was gone. It was as if he had turned and run out of my imagination and left me behind. I jumped up and walked around the room.

My grandfather had told me that everyone has a double on the other side of the world. Barbados, I thought, was almost on the other side from Pennsylvania, and now I wondered if that kid was my double. I closed my diary. The thought was too creepy. “You don’t have a lost double,” I said out loud. “You sound like Pete.” But that didn’t help.

I crossed the hall and knocked on Betsy’s door. Whenever I had a dumb idea, she could always set me straight by making me feel so stupid I gave up on it. “Come in,” she shouted.

“Can I ask you a dumb question?” I said.

“How do you know it’s only dumb?” she replied. “It may be the stupidest thing ever uttered on this planet since the start of recorded history.” She turned her book over and crossed her arms. She smiled that know-it-all smile.

“I know this sounds crazy, but do you think you have a double in the world? Someone exactly like you in … in every way? Looks like you? Thinks like you? Acts like you?”

To my surprise, she gave the question some thoughtful consideration instead of snorting at me. “Some people believe it,” she replied. “But I don’t. Mostly it’s just a projection of the spiritual and emotional side of yourself.”

I nodded as if I understood, but I was lost. She had been studying psychology and I figured she was studying me like Jane Goodall studied the apes.

“Tell me,” she said. “Can you communicate with your double?” She peered deep into my eyes.

“I think so,” I replied.

“You’re schizophrenic,” she said, getting slightly excited, like a mad scientist discovering a new life form. “You have a multiple-personality disorder.”

“Is there a cure?”

“I … would … say,” she pronounced, stretching out her words, “that, on average, people spend about ten years in a mental hospital and then they give out and commit suicide.”

I blinked. “Thanks,” I said weakly, and returned to my room. For once, Betsy didn’t knock the idea clean out of my head. Instead, she made it worse. Now I felt like a nut case.

And I was. That night I had the scariest nightmare of my life. It was so hot I had moved to the concrete floor, which was cool with all that water beneath it in the cistern. I stretched out like a dog, belly-down, arms and legs spread apart. It felt so good. I put my head on my pillow and fell asleep. The next thing I knew I was paralyzed with fear. I heard noises in the yard outside my French doors. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t move. The doors opened and a boy stepped into my bedroom. I still couldn’t move; not a finger, not a toe. I couldn’t blink. I felt like a frozen side of beef just lying there, waiting for a big meat hook to be driven into my shoulder. He walked forward with his arms stretched toward me like one of the Living Dead. I tried to scream but nothing came out. My jaw was frozen. I tried to move my arm but couldn’t. He came closer and stood above me. I couldn’t make out his face. It looked like a smeared thumbprint. He reached for me and I stopped breathing. I felt myself slowly dying. I blacked out.

When I snapped awake, I was lying on the floor in the same position as when I fell asleep. I was rigid and cold but I could move again. Slowly, I pulled my knees up, then my arms. I rubbed my face. I looked at the French doors. They were locked. Nothing had changed except for me. I got up and took a hot shower.

After I dressed I went into the kitchen. I was starving.

“What were you moaning about last night?” Betsy asked. “You sounded like a ghost with a stubbed toe.”

“Just a dream,” I said.

She set her toast down on her plate. “Tell me about your dream,” she said. “Dreams are the keys which unlock the inner mind.”

I sat down and told her everything. Every detail. I wanted her to make ruthless fun of me. To tell me I was a goon, a loser, a jerk … anything. But she told me just what I didn’t want to hear.

“A paralyzing dream doesn’t mean death,” she said seriously. “It means your brain is awake with anxiety while your body is still sleeping. But I can cure you,” she added. “I want you to come into my room for an hour every day and tell me honestly everything that is on your mind. If you do that, I can figure out what you’re afraid of and cure you before you go around the bend and end up a vegetable for the rest of your life.”

“Okay,” I said. “But you can’t tell anyone what I say.”

“Doctors aren’t allowed to tell secrets,” she said and crossed her heart. She pointed up at the kitchen clock. “Meet me at three, in my room.”

I took a bite of toast and nodded.

Later, Pete and I hunted for mangoes in the trees up behind Mr. Hill’s store. Along the way, I told him about my dream.

“I had one, too,” he said. “I told Mom and she said it was from watching too many horror movies.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”

After I ate a pile of mangoes, I fell asleep under a shade tree and slept as soundly as BoBo II. I missed my three o’clock appointment with Betsy and woke up feeling better already. Pete was right. I was watching too many horror movies. I just needed sleep.

 

That evening Dad asked if we wanted to watch Mr. Branch locate Captain Kidd’s pirate treasure. Pete and I kicked each other under the table. “When?” I blurted out.

“Really?” Betsy asked. “Where?”

“Sandy Lane,” Dad replied. “Captain Winston Ward claims he has information that the treasure was buried there.”

“Does he have a map?” I asked.

“The question should be: Does he have a brain?” Dad replied. “Imagine if you were a pirate. Would you bury your treasure on the beach? Of course not. You’d carry it inland and bury it where the shoreline wouldn’t be shifted by strong tides and storms. Then you’d kill all the men who dug the holes, so they could never tell anyone. And, finally, you’d never make a map that someone could get their hands on. You’d keep it all in your head.”

That made sense. He must have given this a lot of thought. “Then why is Mr. Branch doing it?” I asked.

“Money,” Dad said. “Captain Ward said he’d give him half the treasure if he finds it.”

“Wow,” I said. Mr. Branch and I thought alike.

When we arrived at Sandy Lane the beach was laid out like a chessboard. Captain Ward had strung twine around pegs in the sand to mark out boxes three feet square. He had a map inside a folder that he kept checking. He wouldn’t let anyone else see it. Mr. Branch sat in a lawn chair with his suitcase by his feet. He stared straight out at the horizon over the ocean and didn’t pay attention to what was going on around him. He held a small Bible in his large hand and twirled it like a coin between his fingers.

After Captain Ward finished laying out his grid, he walked up to Mr. Branch and touched his shoulder. “We’re ready for you,” he said.

Mr. Branch slipped the Bible into his pocket, leaned forward, and opened his suitcase. He separated the divining rod from the rags and stood. He walked over to the left-hand corner of the grid, held out the rod with his fingertips, and stepped forward. I could hear the sand crunch beneath his leather shoes. No one made a sound. The waves crashed on the shore. The birds squawked. The sea-grape trees rustled their leaves, which were as round and wide as human faces. Mr. Branch marched on.

He reached the end of the first row, turned, and started down another. The divining rod didn’t dip an inch. When he reached the end of the third row, he lowered the tip of the rod and stuck it into the sand. The crowd came to life with little “Aahs” and “Oohs,” but just for a moment. Mr. Branch was only resting. He pulled out his big white handkerchief and wiped his face. Afterward, he picked up the rod and marched onward.

“He can’t find it,” I said to Pete. “He can’t feel it.”

“Yes, he can,” he replied.

“Wanna bet?”

“Whatever’s in my pockets against what’s in yours,” Pete said.

“You’re on.” Mine were empty.

Just then Mr. Branch tripped over a twine marker and pitched forward. I heard the rod snap as he hit the ground. So did everyone else.

“Well, the show’s over,” said Mr. Steamer. He was a rich drunk with a nose the size of a red potato. Dad had built a bar for him in his garage.

Mr. Branch hopped up and brushed the sand off his pants. He inspected the broken rod, then quickly split it in half across his knee. He whipped the pieces end over end into the ocean. A yellow dog chased after them.

“Maybe the dog’ll find the treasure,” Mr. Steamer cracked.

“You!” Mr. Branch said, pointing at me. “Fetch my suitcase.”

I was the closest one to it and had been thinking about taking a peek in it when his back was turned. I picked the case up by the handle and walked across the sand. It was light. I carefully stepped over the strings and held it out for him. He set it on the sand, flipped it open, and removed a second rod.

“Wow,” I said.

When he looked up, our eyes locked. “It’s not the rod,” he said. “The power is in the man. Always remember that. The rod is just the needle on the compass. It’s just a tool in the hands of power. Now go.”

I turned and ran, with the bulky suitcase slapping against my thigh. I was out of breath when I reached Pete. Just then the crowd went wild. I looked over my shoulder. Mr. Branch was on his knees with the rod half sunk into the sand. He raised his free hand up over his head and smiled out at us like a matador who has just plunged his sword through the neck of a charging bull. He staggered up, then tramped the ground with his shoe. “Dig here,” he called out. “I feel a powerful attraction.”

Before he finished walking the entire grid, he located two more digging spots.

“The treasure must be scattered,” Pete said.

“That makes sense,” I said. “Spread it out, put it in different holes.” Pirates were smart. They didn’t want old geezers like Mr. Steamer finding their stuff.

“I won the bet,” Pete reminded me.

“Which pocket?” I asked.

He thought it over. “Left,” he said.

I turned my empty left pocket inside out. “Take it all,” I said, and laughed.

“No fair,” he whined. He grabbed the pocket and pulled.

“Let go,” I yelled and swatted at him.

He held on to it like a mad dog with a bone. Suddenly there was a big ripping sound and he fell backward on his butt, holding the little piece of pocket cloth in his hands.

“Don’t let Mom see that,” I said. I reached over and grabbed my pocket out of his hand.

Captain Ward marched across the beach, waving his arms for attention. “Everyone, clear out!” he shouted. “We’re gonna bring in lights and heavy equipment and dig through the night. We’ll need some privacy when we find it.” Then he smiled. “There might still be some pirates among us.”

“I’m hot,” Mom said. “Let’s get a cool drink.”

“I’m for that,” Dad chipped in.

We walked the short distance to the Sandy Lane Beach Hotel. A steel band was setting up. “You kids stay out on the patio,” Mom said. “We’ll send out Cokes.”

Betsy frowned. She hated being treated like a kid.

“The lounge is too fancy for children,” Mom explained. “We won’t be long.” She leaned forward and kissed Betsy on the cheek. Pete ran over and got his kiss. I lined up for mine. “My God,” Mom said with a sigh. “I’m only going to be twenty feet away.”

As the sun went down, the steel band started up. The pan drums sounded like musical rain.

Betsy grabbed my hand. “Let’s dance,” she said.

“Is this some kind of trick?”

“No. I just love this dance floor.”

“Me too,” I said.

Dad had built the dance floor. It was made of pink-and-gray terrazzo stone that was all swirly like a giant hoopskirt spinning around. But the best part was the underground spotlights. Cemented into the surface of the terrazzo were thick glass moons and stars.

“The lights,” I yelled to Pete over the music. I pointed to the switch mounted on a palm tree. He ran over and flicked it on. Suddenly moons and stars shined up into the sky like the Bat signal.

Betsy had me dancing in circles until I was dizzy and weak. “You missed your mental-health appointment with me,” she said as she reeled me in.

So she did have more on her mind than just dancing. “I forgot,” I said breathlessly as she spun me around.

“Forgetting is the first sign of mental illness,” she said and whipped me across the floor by the wrist. She hauled me back in. “Zelda Fitzgerald was a schizoid who tried to dance her way back to mental health.”

“Zelda who?” I blurted out. “Do we know her?”

“Maybe you’re not a nut,” she said. “Maybe you’re just hopelessly stupid.” She pushed me away and I tripped over a potted palm and plunged into the croton hedge. I landed on my stomach and spit up some Coke on my hand. I had to wipe it off on my little piece of ripped pocket.

What am I? I asked myself. Sick? Stupid? Or insane?

 

It was Monday and I was back at school, slumped down in my seat. I was exhausted. That nightmare had returned. As soon as I fell asleep, I was paralyzed. My French doors opened and a boy entered the room. I tried to move but couldn’t. His face was a blur. He reached for my hands. I tried to scream. Instead, I stopped breathing. I knew it couldn’t be true, but I thought I held my breath for the rest of the night.

Usually, Monday meant a lecture on how we didn’t study enough, followed by a killer quiz. But this Monday was different. Mr. Cucumber started the day by handing out copies of a photograph of Wade Block. He looked exactly like the drawing I’d made. I thought of my grandfather’s story about the double and I got goose bumps again. Maybe I should reschedule the appointment with Betsy, I thought. She knows a lot more than I do. I suddenly felt wide awake.

“This boy has been missing for an entire week,” Mr. Cucumber said. “Do any of you know something about him?”

I raised my hand.

“Yes, Henry?”

“His bicycle is missing,” I said. “He was last seen at the Rockley Movie Theatre.”

“Any fool who reads the paper knows that,” he replied harshly. “Do you know anything new about him? Have you seen him?”

I didn’t tell him I had seen him in my mind and that I had drawn a picture of him. And that ever since he was missing I was haunted by a nightmare and was being driven insane. After his reply to the first answer I gave him, I figured if I told Mr. Cucumber what was really on my mind he’d turn the whole class against me.

“There is a reward for finding the boy,” continued Mr. Cucumber. “If you know anything, tell your parents and call the police. And,” he stressed, “if you do find him and get the reward, I expect you to donate it to the school.”

Everyone groaned. Yeah, I thought. So we can hire a teacher instead of a jailer.

He placed the photograph down on his desk and picked up his math book. “Now,” he boomed. “Let us review our metric tables.”

During lunch I snuck around to the back of the school building. There was an empty swimming pool in the shape of Barbados. At one time it must have been beautiful. Now it was filled with dried leaves and dirt and little balled-up pieces of notebook paper. I opened my lunch bag and pulled out a small divining rod. Actually, it was a slingshot, but I had taken off the rubber straps. Still, it was the same Y shape. As Mr. Branch had said to me, “The rod is just the needle on the compass. The true power is in the man.” If that was the case, I could make a rod out of a wire coat hanger. But if Mr. Branch used wood, I’d use wood. I figured he hadn’t told me everything he knew in one sentence.

I walked down the pool steps into the shallow end, which was at the bottom of the island. I closed my eyes and concentrated. I had used a Ouija board before and thought I should ask a question, then discover the answer as I walked. “Wade Block, where are you?” I murmured. I held the rod out in front of me like Mr. Branch and took a step forward. I slowly marched up the island into the deep end. I turned and marched back. I didn’t feel any downward tug. I asked the question again. “Where are you?” I rolled my eyes up into my head and paced up the middle of the island. Nothing. I turned, and as I walked back, I felt my hands jerk downward, just like getting a strike on a fishing rod. It scared me so much I yelped and jumped into the air.

When I landed, I stared down at the spot which was marked by the shadow of the rod. With my shoe I kicked away the leaves. Castle Rock was painted on the bottom. It was a tiny town on the edge of the Castle sugarcane plantation. Maybe he was kidnapped and hidden up there. It was pretty remote. Or maybe he was injured and no one could find him. I could save him. I’d be a hero. Then everyone would know that I had the power and I could start charging for finding stuff.

I went back to the classroom and studied the wall map. I took out my diary and wrote down the roads I’d have to take, then left the room before Mr. Cucumber returned and quizzed me on kilometers, sea-level elevations, latitude and longitude. He was always thinking up ways to use real life for test questions.

After school I decided to take the west coast road up the island and stop in at Sandy Lane to see if Mr. Branch had located Captain Kidd’s treasure.

I rode right up to the beach and walked my bike along the sand. Mr. Branch was standing on the edge of one of the holes while mindlessly twirling that little Bible through his fingers like a magician. All the lights and digging equipment were gone. Next to the NO TRESPASSING sign was a tourist with a metal detector. Mr. Branch sneered at him.

“How’d it go?” I asked.

He turned and recognized me. “Witness it with your own eyes,” he said sadly.

I looked down into the hole. The sides were lined with plywood and shored up with two-by-fours to keep the loose sand from caving in. It was about fifty feet deep and half filled with water.

“Saltwater,” he said. “It’s like rubbing salt in a wound. This is a puzzlement to me. This is the first time I haven’t found what I’m looking for. I guess God didn’t mean for me to find a treasure that was ill-gained. I guess that was it. For punishment he took my power away.”

I looked down into the other two holes. There was nothing but water. “Maybe you’re just really good at finding water,” I said, trying to sound positive.

“Not so,” he replied. “I’m a finder. I find things. Anything. Like that missing boy. I’m going to find him for the family. God will restore my power when I put it to good use.”

“I read about him in the paper,” I said. I pulled the picture out of my pocket and unfolded it. “We got this in school. There’s a reward.”

“Reward?” he asked. “How much?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

He lifted the paper out of my hand and stared at Wade Block. He closed his eyes and placed the palm of his hand on Wade’s face. He threw his head back and concentrated on something only he could see. “What do you know about this?” he asked and stared down at me with his wide eyes bugged out like a horror-movie madman. “Tell me!” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I feel that you know something.”

“Nothing,” I replied. I backed away from him. “I don’t know any more than you do.”

“You’re lying,” he snapped.

I couldn’t tell him about the drawing and the nightmare. “I have to go,” I said.

“Well, I have to find him,” he insisted, and poked himself so hard in the chest I thought he was going to knock himself backward into the hole. “I must prove I’ve got my power back. That Captain Ward called me a fraud. He can’t call me that. God gave me the power to find things. If he calls me a fraud, it’s like calling God a fraud.” He was shouting.

I turned and picked up my bike. “Good luck,” I said. I walked to the road and took off for Castle Rock. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following me like some fiendish stalker with a machete the length of my arm. But he wasn’t that kind of a stalker. What really scared me about him was the same thing that scared me about Betsy. That both of them could just look at me and see into my own mind, spy on my thoughts and feelings, and read me like a book.

I wanted to know if I had the power to see and feel things that other people could not. Once I ordered a pair of those X-ray glasses advertised in comic books. But they were fake. I couldn’t see anything past my nose. Even back then I knew I couldn’t get power from a gimmick. Power was drawing that boy’s face in my diary before I saw the photograph. I hadn’t figured out what the nightmare meant yet.

I pedaled as hard as I could against the traffic. The roads were narrow, and every time a car passed by, the wind pushed me toward the open gutters. If I fell in, I’d crash and be covered with sewage. I passed rows of wooden chattel houses and hotels. I continued up past Alleynes Bay, Read’s Bay, and Mullins Bay. I looked at my watch. I was making good time. If I found the kid I’d be a hero and wouldn’t have to worry about when I got home. If I didn’t find him, I’d have to pedal like a fiend to get back in time for dinner.

At Speightstown I turned up Highway 1 toward Castle Rock. There was less traffic, but the roads were steep and uneven. The cane was low. Without water the crop was stunted. At Portland Plantation I stopped by a store and drank from the tap. It tasted rusty. I was tired but didn’t have time to rest. I hopped on my bike and kept going. After Diamond Corner I took a left toward Castle Plantation. Castle Rock was a town made out of old slave quarters. I pulled over and stopped. I reached into my backpack and took out the little divining rod and held it in my hands. “Wade Block,” I murmured. “I’m here to find you. Speak to me.”

I waited a moment. Nothing. “Speak to me,” I said. Nothing happened. I put the rod away. Then I headed into Castle Rock. There was only one road. “Speak to me,” I whispered. I waved to an old couple sitting on a porch. They waved back. Then I saw the boy. Someone had painted the image of a soccer player on the side of an aboveground water tank. But they had only painted his outline in big white brush strokes. A number 8 was painted on his chest. The soccer ball was at the tip of his foot. The face was a white smudge, as if someone had painted a face they didn’t like and tried to rub it off with a rag. When I saw it, I knew it was my nightmare. I could feel my skin crawl. The hair on my head became spiky. My muscles stiffened up. Get out of here, I said to myself. Before you’re so paralyzed you fall over and can’t roll out of the way of a car. I stared up at that smudged face and felt my throat tighten. I jerked my head away, stood up on my pedals, and sped back through Castle Rock. I took a left on Highway 2-A and cut through the middle of the island, past acres of cane fields and row after row of royal palms. Wade Block, I thought, you’re scaring me to death.

I got home in time for dinner. Dad was in a great mood. “I ran into Captain Ward,” he said. “He was a mess. He was down at the Pig’s Ear having bacon, eggs, and beer for breakfast. He’d been up all night. They didn’t find a cent. It cost them a bundle to rent the backhoe for the night, but he was laughing about it. Said it was a great time. When the sun was rising they sat on the shore singing, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum. I guess if you have the money, you can spend your life digging in the sand like a kid with a bucket.” He was smiling. I knew he wished he was there with them. This was just the kind of adventure he’d go for. Me too. We both liked to find things. Maybe we would have been pirates together if given the chance. As it was, we were already living like pirates, landlocked pirates, moving from different towns and countries, searching for the easiest way to earn a quick fortune.

 

That night Betsy woke me up. When I opened my eyes, she had her hand damped over my mouth.

“You’re having a nightmare,” she said. “Calm down.”

It had returned. I thought I had prepared myself against it. I had stacked a bunch of empty tin cans by the French doors, so if they opened, they’d make a huge noise. Plus, I fell asleep with a flashlight in my hand. It was still there. I was so paralyzed with fear I couldn’t turn it on.

“I need to work on you,” she said. “Before it’s too late.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said.

“It’s your funeral,” she replied. “I really don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’d better get outside help.”

I need to find Wade Block, I thought. I won’t rest until he shows up. When she left the room, I sat up in bed with the light on. I felt a little better. Betsy didn’t really know what was wrong with me. She was brainy, but didn’t have that much power.

I was still awake when the newspaper arrived. The Wade Block story had made it onto the front page. It was announced that Mr. Branch had entered the search. He had already found the bicycle in Holetown. He was quoted as saying he expected to find the boy shortly. I turned the page to continue the story. There was that photograph of Wade Block wearing a soccer shirt with a number 8 on the front. I got goose bumps the size of bee stings. My hair felt like needles digging into my scalp. I threw the paper down and ran to my room.

After I got dressed I taped my divining rod to the top of my bicycle headlight and took off down the road. I wondered what might happen if the rod suddenly pointed down. Maybe I’d fly over the handlebars.

Nothing scary happened until I arrived at school and Mr. Cucumber gave us a pop quiz. He had devised a set of Wade Block math problems to test us on kilometers and geometry. One of the questions read: If Wade Block was riding his bicycle in a perfect circle at ten kilometers per hour and the police were driving in a perfect isosceles triangle where all points touched within the circle, at what speed would the police have to travel to intercept young Block at the third point?

I read it and put my head down on my desk. He was heartless.

“Is this how you behave in the United States?” Mr. Cucumber asked, as he patrolled for cheaters.

“No sir,” I replied. “I just don’t know the answer.”

“Perhaps you did not study your math and geometry,” he suggested. Then he turned to the class. “Can anyone help Master Henry solve this problem?”

Four hands shot up into the air.

I shook my head. Nothing is going to be solved until they find that kid, I thought. I’m thinking about life and death and he’s thinking circles and triangles. We are worlds apart.

I took an F on the test.

After school, things got worse. I was pedaling down Rockley Road when Mr. Branch pulled up alongside me.

“You,” he hollered out his window.

He startled me. I jerked my wheel to the right and almost slipped into the gutter.

He nodded toward the divining rod taped on my headlight. “Don’t fool with God’s power,” he shouted. “It’s dangerous.”

“I just want to help out,” I yelled back.

He reached out the window and pointed his long bony finger at me. “Stay out of the way,” he said sternly. “You don’t have the power. I’ve already delved into your spirit. It’s not in you. You only have fear.”

“You just want the reward,” I shot back. “You don’t care about the kid.”

“That’s a lie,” he shouted furiously. He snatched one side of the Y on the divining rod and gunned his engine just as I hit the rear brakes. The rod split in half like a wishbone as he swerved to avoid a car, then sped away. I was left with the big piece and made a wish. “I hope one of us finds you soon,” I said to Wade Block. “I can’t sleep at night and now I have a maniac after me during the day.”

The rest of the week I didn’t do anything after school but ride around with my map of the island and cross off streets that I investigated. But I didn’t get a nibble. The newspapers continued the Wade Block report and every day the reward grew larger. The police were out combing the cane fields. They were checking the beaches to see if he washed up. Dogs were called in. Wells were examined. The radio and television asked for volunteers to search every square inch of the island. Still, they couldn’t find him. I couldn’t. It was up to Mr. Branch and he was waiting for the reward to go sky-high. He had the power, but he was just sitting on it. I was sure of it.

 

On Saturday I snuck back into Dad’s office. The newspaper was on his desk, where it always was. I leafed through the pages. I read the headlines of every article. There was nothing about Mr. Branch or Wade Block. I knew they hadn’t found Wade yet, because he was still finding me. I had hardly slept a wink. Toward the back of the papers were the movie listings. Mothra and Invasion of the Body Snatchers were playing.

It was still too early to wake Pete. I went out to the back yard and with a stick drew a map of Barbados in the dirt. “One more time,” I said with the half a divining rod in my hands. “Wade, where are you?” I stepped into the map. The rod went straight down. “He’s in Bridgetown,” I said. “Castle Rock was just a runaround.”

I hopped on my bike and sped down our street. I took a right at the bus stop and followed that route to Trafalgar Square. I locked my bike to the steel fence around the statue of Lord Nelson. Then I ran the rest of the way.

When I arrived at the theater, the neon lights were off. An ambulance was parked out front. On the corner I could see Mr. Branch’s Morris Minor half parked on the sidewalk. A few people stood around the ambulance. They didn’t look official, so I pushed open the front door with the chilled Penguin and went in. It was not cool inside. It was hot and muggy and greasy-smelling and something else, something nasty. The lobby was empty. I went over to the drinking fountain.

Just then the inner door to the seats was pushed open from behind. Mr. Branch stepped forward. “Don’t drink from that water,” he said sternly. He held out his hand as if he could control me from the other side of the room. But he didn’t have that kind of power and I was thirsty.

I leaned over the water cooler.

“Don’t!” he shouted. “It’s tainted.”

I stopped. Behind him I heard the stretcher wheels wobbling up the aisle. Farther back, someone was crying. Mr. Branch held the door open for the ambulance crew. When they came into sight I knew I would never speak with Wade Block or ever see him again in a dream. It was over. Mr. Branch lowered his head and made the sign of the cross. He could see everything in his mind, but I could not. I had to look. Wade’s body was zipped up in a thick plastic bag like a fancy suit. Water trickled from a hole in the side. The smell was hideous. I pulled the rim of my T-shirt up over my nose.

His parents walked by. Both of them had their hands pressed over their red faces. Tears ran down their cheeks and chins and left dark drops of water on their shirts.

Mr. Branch drifted across the lobby and stood next to me. “I found him in the cistern,” he said quietly. “He was wearing a bathing suit. During the movie he must have slipped through a hole in the floor to take a swim. A lot of boys do, but this one got lost.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I just do,” he replied. “I have the power.”

I didn’t. I didn’t know what I had. I could see things, but maybe that wasn’t special. When I closed my eyes, I saw Wade in the darkness calling out for help. But with the movie and the screaming kids he couldn’t be heard. But what I saw didn’t need a special power. Anybody could see that, if they closed their eyes and thought about it. Anyone who wanted to help. And I did. If I was down in that hole I’d want some boy looking for me. I’d tried, but I was too late.