Dad was hard at another game. And Mom was helping him. She hated it. In fact, she had said at first that she wouldn’t lift a finger to help him. But she had taken a leave of absence from her position as head of her school in order to come up to Cobalt and bring me with her, so she wanted this done as quickly as possible. She tried to help without complaining, but I could see how frustrated she was. I know Dad didn’t like doing it either. I think I felt worse for him. He just couldn’t say what he felt in his heart about things.
Their first move was to visit Theobald T. Larocque himself. But the old man wouldn’t answer the door. Not being the types who would break into a house, even if they had the legal right to do it (which they didn’t, yet), they tried to reason with him through the sealed front entrance. But they were met with silence.
The same sort of silence greeted them any time they asked questions about the old man and his activities anywhere else in town. It was like the citizens had all gotten together and decided not to talk about it. Surprisingly, if Mom and Dad kept the conversation away from the case, people were quite friendly. It just seemed to be the natural way up north. People loved to talk, as long as they were talking about the right things.
Only at the Cobalt Public Library, the Haileybury Heritage Museum, and the mining museum in Cobalt did they make any progress. And that was because they could go through old records in those places. But even there, they sometimes had the feeling that some of the things they needed were curiously absent.
I tried to stay out of my father’s case. That sure hadn’t been my plan when he’d first told me the story behind it as we drove up here. Hidden treasure. Man, you have to love that! But I wanted to have some friends. In fact, I was beginning to acquire quite a few, and they were at least as much fun as my buds back home. I didn’t want to blow things. If I stuck to playing hockey (and road hockey was something else up here too), talking about Toronto, and listening to stories about the north, everything seemed fine. So we just hung out and had fun. Frank and Joe and I really started to click, on the ice and off, and we even got some wicked skateboard places going—Cobalt was amazing for that, even in the middle of the winter! We were launching ourselves into the air off huge rocks and old mine foundations and landing in five feet of snow. Very cool.
Wynona Dixon was different, in every way. She seemed a lot more serious than the others. Oh, she was fun too—in fact, she could be more fun than any of the rest of them—but she wasn’t afraid to mention what my father was doing, sometimes right in the middle of the rest of us having a blast. She seemed to be planning something. I could just tell. It was funny with her, sometimes I felt like I knew what she was thinking. And then one night, totally unannounced, she showed up at our house.
“Uh, Dylan,” said Mom, “there’s, uh, someone here for you.”
I jumped up, switched off the video game, and ran to the door. Had to be Frank and Joe. I was shocked to see Wyn standing there all alone, in that red coat with black buttons, with that blond hair flowing onto her shoulders. She’d never come over on her own before. In fact, no one ever came on their own to anyone’s house. We moved in herds, as Mom liked to say.
“Uh…” Wyn started and then looked up at my mother, who stood there smiling. Finally, dear old Mom clued in.
“Oh, sorry, yes, well, I must have a little job here I have to do. Come on in, Wynona, and make yourself at home.”
“I’d really like Dylan to come out with me, just for a while. I mean, for a walk or something.”
Gulp.
Exit Mrs. Maples.
Moments later, Wyn and I were moving slowly down the steep hill towards the frozen lake.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
“About what?” I replied nervously.
“About this thing your dad and mom are doing.”
“It’s mostly just my dad.”
“Whatever. I know the guys won’t talk to you about it, but someone has to. You can’t let your dad do this to the old man. I know he’s a weirdo and everything, but he doesn’t have anything any more. He doesn’t even talk to his sons and daughters. He just lives up there in the old house.”
We stopped and looked over at it. All we could see was that strange glow through one of the upper windows. Every time I saw it, it gave me the creeps.
“We’ve got to go over there,” said Wyn.
“Over where?”
“To old man Larocque’s house…and talk to him.”
“Are you nuts?” I exclaimed. I took two steps away from her and turned around. “Are you nuts?” I said again.
“It’s all right, he’s, uh…related to me.”
“He is?”
“He’s my great-grandfather.”
“So, we’ll just skip up there and he’ll give us milk and cookies, will he?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know what he’ll do.”
“But he’s your great-grandfather.”
“I’ve never talked to him, Dylan.”
“You’ve never talked to him! This is too weird. Maybe he’s got bodies in his basement or something. We can’t go into that house. You know, my dad says he’s a thief.”
“Shut up, Maples!”
She turned around, facing the frozen lake, silent. Now I’d done it. I knew I had to explain.
“Well, he stole from the Browns, everybody knows that.”
That was when she turned on me. Her face looked nearly as red as her coat, and I wasn’t sure, but she seemed to be almost on the verge of tears. That was pretty weird for Wyn Dixon.
“That’s my grandpa’s dad you’re talking about, and the Browns just used him and left him here with nothing! You have no idea what you’re saying. So why don’t you just shut your face!”
“He’s got a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of silver, or a billion now, who knows? He’s not so badly off. You just feel sorry for him because he’s old, and he’s your great-grandfather. But my dad always says that justice is what counts.”
“Justice? I’ll bet if we knew the real story, the whole story, you’d change your tune. I’ll bet it’s the Brown family who owe my great-grandpa, not the other way around. And it’s the Brown family who turned him into a weirdo, so that he hasn’t talked to any of us for as long as anyone but Grandpa can remember. That’s how he became the town nutcase. But he was a great man once. He could have done big things for this town.” She paused. “My dad, he’s never really known his own grandpa. People like you and your dad and Edison Brown, you just don’t understand. You’ve got a lot to learn.”
“Don’t lump me in with…with Edison Brown.”
“So, do you really want to know the truth about all this?”
“Sure I do.”
“Do you want to find out what happened to the silver?”
“Sure.”
“Then we’ve got to talk to old man Larocque. Look, people up here have known about the lost silver for a long time. And they’ve known that he didn’t spend it, either. And there are rumours that something funny went on between Larocque and Lyon Brown, that the whole thing isn’t what it seems. But for some reason, my great-grandpa won’t tell anyone what he did with the silver or what went on to make him do what he did. Wouldn’t you think you’d be happy if you got away with a quarter of a million dollars? But he just…disappeared into that house. Does that make any sense? It became so awful for my great-grandma that she died, of sadness. That’s what they all say. And now, everybody is afraid of him. They think he’s some sort of monster. But you know what?”
“What?”
“I have this hunch that he’d talk to us.”
“Why?”
“Because something has to give now, now that your dad is here snooping around. And because if Edison Brown finds out that we are talking to Larocque, he won’t care, he won’t be suspicious of kids—we’ll be able to do whatever we want. But also because my grandpa once told me that he can remember when his dad just loved kids, that he used to laugh a lot, play hockey on the streets whenever he saw a game going, and tell lots of stories about the old days, amazing stories. And he wouldn’t hurt a flea, that’s what my grandpa says. I bet that inside he’s bursting to tell his story, he just can’t figure out how to do it. I think there are reasons why he can’t say anything. But I’ll bet that if we broke into his house—”
“Broke into his house?!”
“—and talked to him face to face, we could solve this thing. I need you because you’re John Maples’s son. You could talk to your dad if we got some evidence. Your dad is the enemy. But he’s our only hope, too.”
“I don’t know, Wyn.”
“If my great-grandpa gets brought to trial, it will shame him and this town. And those big-city lawyers will take everything he’s got, which isn’t much. They’ll even take his pride.”
There was silence for an instant while Wyn waited for my answer. I didn’t know what the heck to say.
“I’ll think about it,” I finally said.
“What?” she said, looking right into my eyes. “Are you chicken?”
That really wasn’t something you wanted to hear from a girl. Especially a girl who had knocked you on your butt and then popped the winning goal on your team.
“Who’s chicken? I’m NOT chicken!”
“All right, prove it. Let’s go.” She looked up towards the haunted house.
“Now?”
“Now.” She turned around and started walking up the hill, making a clucking noise as she went.
I just stood there, my heart beginning to pound. Finally, I moved. I ran up to her and turned her around.
“On one condition. If we see anything really weird, like a ghost, or….”
“A ghost?” asked Wyn, almost laughing. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“Well, sort of. You know, a ghost doesn’t have to be something in a white sheet. It just might be something, I don’t know, weird up there. Something from the past.”
“Chicken. I thought so.”
I wasn’t going to let her say that one more time! As she walked away, I caught right up to her. In fact, I almost took the lead. We’d soon see who was chicken!
As we got closer to the old house we found ourselves in almost total darkness: that strange glow inside Larocque’s home didn’t light the yard, and the houses on either side were abandoned. Oh wonderful, I thought, no one will be able to hear us when he’s chasing us around with an axe or tying us up or whatever he’s going to do. To get onto the property we had to climb over a stone wall. When I landed on the other side I stepped on an old, ratty cat. It screamed, and so did I. I couldn’t believe it.
“Relax,” said Wyn. But she was breathing pretty hard herself. Her eyes looked wide and alert.
“Let’s knock,” she whispered.
“Be my guest.”
She knocked. We both stood back. For a long time we listened for movement. Then we heard a mumbling and the sound of footsteps. My heart was really thumping now. I felt like shouting out loud and racing back down the front yard, over that fence in a single bound like Superman, and back home in Olympic-record time. But I was frozen in my tracks. The steps seemed to come closer, then stop. Wynona, that fool, knocked again.
For some reason I looked up. Through a darkened window in an upper room, I thought I saw a pair of eyes looking down. It was hard to tell, but they seemed sad and set inside a face that was like a mask.
“Look!” I said.
Wyn looked up. “What?”
“A face! A face in that window!”
“There’s no face there!” said Wyn, unsure.
It had vanished. A sudden look of hatred had passed through the eyes and then it was gone. We stood in silence for a moment. Then Wyn knocked again. And again. And again. Finally she stopped and made an announcement.
“Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“We go around to the back. Go in through the fruit-cellar door. Grandpa told me about it. He grew up in this house and he knows it like the back of his hand. Then I’ll lead us to the ground floor, and then up to where that light is always on.”
“You are nuts.”
“Let’s go.
With my manhood on the line again, I didn’t feel like I had a lot of choice.
We fumbled our way around to the back of the house. The fruit-cellar doors were big, heavy things made of old planks that sat almost flat on the ground, with iron handles to pull up with. Wyn grabbed one and yanked. It came only partly open and then broke, the handle coming off in her hands as she fell backwards.
“Are you okay?” I asked, helping her up.
Then a sound came out of the darkness, the slow, creaking sound of the fruit-cellar door opening by itself and slamming on the ground. Instantly we were hugging each other. It felt surprisingly good, but I realized what I was doing right away and pulled back. So did she. And then we were running, all the way around the house to the front.
We flew through the front yard and over the stone wall and started tearing down the hill. Or at least that’s what I thought we were doing. Soon I realized that I was running on my own. I stopped, then turned around. Wyn was nowhere to be seen. For a moment I just stood still, listening. It really was incredible how silent it could be up north. No animals or human beings were stupid enough to be outside, I figured. That’s why.
I walked slowly back towards the house. And I still can’t believe what I did next. I actually climbed back over the wall and dropped down into the front yard again. Wyn Dixon wasn’t going to make me look like a coward. If she was still here. Maybe she took another route home? Maybe the old man came out and grabbed her!
I edged around to the back of the house, got down on my hands and knees, and crept up to the cellar door. It was open! Feeling around with my hands, I found the stairs leading down into the basement. I got to my feet and took each downward step like it was my last. Then I stopped and listened for a moment. I couldn’t see anything. I raised my hands and felt along the low ceiling until…I found it! A light bulb. I located the string and pulled it. That was when I screamed for the second time. There was a face. Staring at me. Inches away!
Wynona’s Dixon’s face.
“A little nervous, are we?” she said.
Oh man! Two screams in front of a girl. And she didn’t even seem upset. There was something strange about her.
“Can we proceed?” she asked.
“Abs—” My voice cracked. Perfect timing, Dylan. “Absolutely,” I said again, deeply, sounding like I was about to read the CBC National News. “Let’s find the stairs,” I said, trying to seem in control.
“I thought you wanted to look for dead bodies?”
Minutes later that didn’t seem so far-fetched. As we moved gingerly through the filthy, freezing basement, winding our way past old boxes, prospector’s pick hammers, and smelly miner’s gear, we approached the stairs, dim in the fading light at the far end of the basement. But at first there didn’t seem to be any way up, because the bottom four or five steps had disappeared, as if you were expected to float up there. Then Wyn noticed a long wooden box leaning against a wall.
“Dylan!” she whispered loudly. “Help me get this box down and we’ll use it to climb up.” We grabbed it and shoved it to the floor. It landed with a resounding thud and made a hollow sound. Something made me glance down at it as Wyn jumped onto it. By the time she had gripped the side of the stairs and was trying desperately to pull herself up, I was staring at the letters on the box, which I could see clearly now.
“Dylan! Dylan, shove me up here. Will you give me a hand?!”
But I was silent.
Wyn fell. She landed on the box and looked very displeased.
“Dylan, what the hell are you doing?!”
“Get off the box, Wyn.”
“What do you mean?” She looked at me and saw the strange expression on my face. “What?”
“There’s a name on the box, Wyn.”
“So what?”
“It says, ‘Theobald T. Larocque.’”
“So?”
“Wyn…it’s a coffin.”
When Wynona Dixon jumped, her head nearly went through the ceiling, and she set her very own world record: for greatest distance ever leapt from a coffin. For an instant she actually got behind me, but then she realized what she was doing and stepped forward, trying to seem calm.
“Wh-why do you think he’d have a coffin down here, Dylan?” she asked, shakily.
“Not just a coffin, Wyn, his own coffin.”
But Wyn didn’t answer. She was moving towards the cellar doors, walking backwards, as if she had to keep her face towards danger. I hesitated, wondering if this was my moment to seem brave and suggest that we go forward. But it wasn’t my moment. No no no. Soon I was going with her. I had left one of the cellar doors wide open and we were making for it on the double. But only halfway across the basement floor we heard a loud SLAM!
We didn’t have to say anything. We both knew what it was. The cellar door had shut again, in the wind or whatever. Worse, when we arrived, we couldn’t get it open. The handle must have jammed shut on the outside. There were no windows in the basement and now, it seemed, there was no way out. Unless it was over that coffin, up the vanishing staircase, onto Theobald T. Larocque’s first floor, and out the front door.
“We have to go up the stairs,” I said grimly.
Wynona nodded.
Being a couple of inches shorter, Wyn went first, with a boost from me. Then it was my turn. I stepped lightly on the coffin and kept moving around on it, as if a decomposing hand might suddenly come up and grab me by the ankles. Before long I had pulled myself up and the two of us stood there, shaking, at the entrance to the first floor.
Wyn let me lead this time. I put my hand on the old door. A spider ran across it. I shook it off, violently. Then I took a deep breath and pressed the door open. It creaked and swung wide. I took a few baby steps inside and Wyn followed. It was as cold up there as it had been in the basement, and the smell was overpowering. It was like a compost heap, like rotting food. Behind me, I could hear the door close and a sudden intake of breath from Wyn.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
“It’s the door. It closed and locked from the other side too. I can’t open it now.”
“We’re not going back anyway. Let’s just find the front door and get out of here.”
We looked around but couldn’t find a door leading outside, anywhere.
“Don’t you know where the front door is?” I asked. “No.”
“What do you mean, no? I thought you said your grandfather told you where everything was.”
“Well, I sort of lied. My grandpa wouldn’t tell me anything like that.”
“Why?”
“Because he thinks great-grandpa is crazy. Crazy and dangerous. He wouldn’t have ever wanted me to come in here. I didn’t tell you that because I knew you wouldn’t come if I did.”
“Oh, great!” I said. For an instant I had forgotten where I was. I had spoken loudly, in complete exasperation.
We each held our breath. There was numbing silence. Then the sound of…something getting to its feet…and footsteps!
They were on the upper floor. They moved at a slow, terrifying pace. And there was a dragging sound, like chains scraping across wood. A cane hit the floor with each laboured stride. Something was moaning: like the wind, but human.
Wynona Dixon and I froze.
Then the footsteps started coming down the stairs.