Kindred Spirits (16 page)

“Well, I apologize just
the same,” Mr. Buchanan says.

“So
what was it that made you decide to come clean?” the sheriff asks.

“Well,” Mr. Buchanan
looks at me. “It was because of a visitor I had.”

“A visitor?” the sheriff
asks.

I look Mr. Buchanan in
the eye, trying to send him the message: Please don’t tell him about Helen
visiting you from the other side.

“Yes,”Mr.Buchanan says.
“I was visited by my conscience. It...spoke to me.”

“Well,” the sheriff says,
popping the tape out of the tape recorder. “I hope you feel better getting this
all off your chest. But I’ve got to tell you, from a legal standpoint, there’s
not a thing we can do about this. I remember reading in the paper a few years
back that Charlie T died. And there were no witnesses to the crime that we can
call on. And even if there was, what would be the point? Your health isn’t good
enough for you to go through a trial, let alone serve time in jail.” The
sheriff pats Mr. Buchanan on the shoulder. “After all the good things you’ve
done for this town over the years, Mr. B, it seems like it might be best if
what you just said in this room stays in this room.”

“No!” Mr. Buchanan says
with more force than you’d think somebody so old and sick could muster. “Don’t
you see? No matter how much good I did later, I still killed two women and
ruined one man’s life. And what about all the other people I hurt? All the
innocent people who got run out of town because of my lies? This secret has
tortured me for seventy years, Tom. It has to come out in the open so I’ll be
free and so that the little Thomas children will know their granddaddy wasn’t a
murderer.”

The sheriff shakes his
head. “Well, I reckon I could run over to the district attorney’s office and
see what he has to say about it. You’re sure that’s what you want, Mr. B?”

“I’m
sure.”

“Well, all right then.”
The sheriff stops in the doorway. “A seventy year old murder case solved by a
couple of grade schoolers, and one of the biggest bigwigs in Wilder begging to
tell the world he’s the murderer. It’s been an interesting day.”

I look at Mr. Buchanan.
Now that he’s told the truth, I can look at him without feeling pain. “That was
brave,” I say.

“Yeah,” Adam agrees.

“No,” Mr. Buchanan says.
His face looks drawn, tired. “If I was brave I would’ve told the truth seventy
years ago.”

“But the sheriff offered
to keep the whole thing quiet, and you told him not to. That was brave.”

“Nope,” Mr. Buchanan
says. “I was just afraid of what would happen to me in the next life if I
didn’t let the truth come out. Helen told me it wouldn’t be pretty.” He yawns.
“You know what? For the first time in a long time, I feel like I could really
sleep.”

“Well,” Adam says, “we
should go and let you rest, then.”

“Yes,” Mr. Buchanan says.
“Would you close the curtains and turn out the lights first?”

Adam pulls down the
shades, and I dim the lights. On my way out the door I turn back to say goodbye
to Mr. Buchanan, but he is already asleep.

Today’s my birthday. I
don’t know how being twelve will be, but the last couple of months being eleven
were pretty exciting. Thanks to the district attorney and Mr. Buchanan’s son,
Senator Harold Buchanan III, the governor agreed to pardon Charlie Thomas for
the murder of the Jameson sisters. The governor said he wasn’t in the habit of
pardoning dead people, but that Charlie T had obviously been a victim of the
times he lived in. As soon as the pardon came through, Charlie Thomas Junior
sent Adam and me a whole sweet potato pie and a note saying he was going to
frame the pardon and hang it in his restaurant.

Something else happened
when the pardon came through. The handprints on the living room wall
disappeared. There was one final message on the bathroom mirror, though. Adam
saw the words one night when he was getting out of the shower:
He is at
peace.

Mr. Buchanan is at peace,
too. He died in his sleep a few days after he confessed to the murder.

When
Roy Silcox told Adam and me that he’d put us on the front page of the newspaper
if we solved the case, he probably never guessed he’d have to make good on his
promise. But if you look at last week’s
Wilder Herald,
you’ll see Adam
and me, as big as life, along with pictures of the Jameson place and Helen,
Mildred, and Charlie T.

Somebody in Lexington
must have gotten a look at the
Herald,
too, because yesterday a pretty
reporter and a camera crew came all the way here to interview Adam and me for
the TV news. The reporter talked to Granny, too, and thought she was so
interesting that she’s going to come back and do a story just about Granny as
part of a series about Appalachian folk life. I wonder if the fact that she’s
going to be on TV will make Granny finally break down and agree to buy one. I
probably shouldn’t get my hopes up.

And so tonight, for my
birthday, Adam and I are sitting in my room with a bowl of popcorn in front of
the little portable TV Adam has brought over, getting ready to watch ourselves
on the news. Abigail is sitting as close to the TV as she can get without blocking
our view. “Just look!” she cries, staring at the screen and clasping her hands
together. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“It’s just a Burger King
commercial,” Adam says.

The news comes on, and
there is a shot of downtown Wilder and the Jameson place. Then we see old
photos of the Jameson sisters, Charlie T, and Harold Buchanan. Then there’s
Adam and me, looking at the microphone in front of our faces like it’s going to
bite us. Abigail squeals when she sees us on the screen, and Adam says, “Ugh, I
shouldn’t have worn that shirt.  It makes me look diseased.”

“Shh,” I hiss, so I can
hear the reporter ask, “So how did you, a couple of grade-school kids, figure
out that the police had been wrong about a seventy-year-old case?”

I
watch us stand there looking terrified until Adam says, “Well...uh, I know a
lot about searching for information on the internet and stuff, and my mom
helped some, too.”

“And you, Miranda?” the
reporter asks.

I watch myself think for
a second, then say, “Well... sometimes I just have a...a sense about people.
Oh, and my friend Abigail helped some, too.”

Abigail shrieks and wraps
her cold arms around me. “I can’t believe you said my name on television! I’m
famous!”

I shush Abigail long
enough to hear the reporter finish by saying, “...a seventy-yeear-old wrong
righted by a pair of precocious sixth graders.”

For a second I’m sad
because I know we didn’t right the wrong done against Charlie T. What good does
it do to prove somebody innocent after he’s already dead? But Abigail reads my thoughts
and says, “You still helped him. You set his spirit free.”

“You’re right,” I say.
“Thank you.”

“Thank you for what?”
Adam says.

“I was thanking Abigail
for what she just said,” I tell him.

“But Abigail didn’t say
anything.” Adam is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“But she did.”

“No,” Abigail interrupts
me. “I didn’t say anything out loud. I was talking to you silently, in your head, and you heard
me.” “Really?” I’m shocked. “I’ve never been able to do that before.” Abigail
smiles. “You’re another year older, Miranda. Your powers are getting stronger.”

She’s
right. I feel like a door’s been unlocked in my brain, and I know everything
that’s behind it. I know that Adam and Abigail and I will stay friends and have
more adventures together. I know that Granny will be upstairs soon carrying a
homemade apple stack cake with twelve birthday candles. And I know that Mom
will be right behind her, carrying a big present wrapped in purple tissue
paper. And I won’t have to unwrap it to know what’s inside.