Page 86 of In the Pursuit of Haven
I noticed that the word was right below the triangle.
Jessie sucked in his breath.
Was that triangle supposed to bring attention to “reward” instead?
I glanced up at the phrase above it:“Populo interea Damnum effuse.”I didn’t want to admit it, but the triangle could be trying to bring in that entire phrase above—“Populo interea Damnum effuse remuneraretur.”I let out a breath. “If you use that entire phrase above it, it says, ‘The people would be richly rewarded for the damage.’”
“Break open the stone,” Jessie said.
That’s what I was afraid of. And still I fought it. “We need special permission to remove the stone. I have connections—I can do that!” Luther would fight for me. “I have access to X-ray machines at the museum. After that, we’ll see what we’ve got.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Hunter would never beat us to this by the time we go through all that red tape,” he said sarcastically. “It’s just like how that hole in the cemetery’s retaining wall is getting covered up. Someone higher up is working against us.”
“But…” I stared over at the crack, wracking my brain for another argument. “If this has been opened before, then it’s not there.”
His shoulders tensed. Finally, I was speaking his language. “There’s only one way to find out,” he whispered.
“Don’t even think about it,” a low voice snarled behind us.
We both twisted around. My flashlight highlighted a Revolutionary soldier in full uniform. Bringing my light up further, I saw it was Scrooby. My hand went to my heart. “You scared me.”
“Youshouldbe scared.” Scrooby didn’t look like he was messing around.
Jessie barked out a laugh, refusing to be intimidated by one of his best friends. “You trying to blend in with the ghosts out here?”
“Tomorrow’s Glover’s reenactment,” he said.
It was already that time of year again? Marblehead’s first navy was famous for paddling George Washington across the Delaware River in the colonies’ first successful surprise attack against the Hessians. Glover’s Regiment was a big deal here. One more night and we would’ve disturbed a whole regiment in the cemetery reenacting Glover’s march with erupting cannons and the works.
No hint of a smile broke Scrooby’s unusually stern composure. “Unfortunately for you, you get Joe Brown tonight.”
He looked the part, with a black tricorn hat and a close shave against a dark jaw so hard that it might as well have been chiseled from a walnut tree after the rain. He’d been building on his costume for years, and appeared especially dashing in white pantaloons, buttoned over high stockings and leather shoes. The broadness of his shoulders was enhanced by a long blue regimental coat edged in scarlet.
I really did feel like I was facing down the angry ghost of Joe Brown for disturbing his slumbers. Scrooby clutched a tin baker’s lantern in his tight grasp. The light released from the tin punched holes cast images of stripes and stars against the gravestones.
“You won’t find what you’re looking for here,” Scrooby said.
I gulped. How much had he heard?
“And you’re right,” Scrooby said. “Someone did break that stone before you—back in the ’70s. Sorry, you’re a little late.”
So… he’d overheard absolutely every crazy thing we’d said, and judging by his lack of shock when he faced us, he knew what we hadn’t said too.
He turned with his lantern like a deceased night watchman leading the way into the underworld. “Step into my office. Let’s talk.”
Jessie didn’t argue with his best friend. He pushed to his feet, helping me up with him.
Scrooby headed down the hill towards the junction in the street where his house stood. “That damage at The Old Burying Point Cemetery in Salem was your doing,” Scrooby said. “Wasn’t it?”
Jessie’s hand tightened over me. “What do you know about that?”
“More than they’re telling us. You finally found Crabb’s grave, didn’t you?”
Jessie didn’t answer, and I followed his lead, not sure why he was keeping quiet, only that he wasn’t ready to fess up to his friend yet.
The shadow of Scrooby’s brightly painted colonial home began to diffuse into blue-gray as we came closer. A golden cod was set above the door as an ode to the fishing industry. A plaque showing the home once belonged to some important historical figure was set against the shingled home.
Scrooby had inherited the place, though I wasn’t sure how long it had been in his family. If his ancestor’s name was on that plaque, he very well could be a part of what was known as “the codfish aristocracy” in our area—those who’d gotten rich off fishing.
