The Smoky Corridor (7 page)

The steps on both sides were made out of planks of wood that had once been painted red. A string of kerosene lanterns with red and green glass globes hung from the ceiling over each set of stairs.

But none of the lights were lit.

“I repeat: A little light down here would have been helpful, man!” Wade said to the darkness swallowing up his flashlight’s dusty beam.

The gold might be down the stairs to the right, or down the stairs to the left.

Wade chose right.

Later he’d realize right had been wrong.

Very, very wrong.

25

The bell
rang.

So far, Zack had survived homeroom, math, and science.

And so far, Malik Sherman had been in every one of his classes.

The girl with the black-black hair had been in Zack’s second-period science class and asked a bunch of questions about death and dying and wondered if maybe the class could take a field trip to a morgue sometime to see what happens to bodies after they’re dead. She seemed like a ton of fun!

Next up was history with Ms. DuBois.

“Do you like history, Zack?” Malik asked as they wormed their way through the corridors.

Zack shrugged. “Sort of. I guess. Depends.”

“Well said, my friend. I, myself, wish we’d spend more time learning about the ancient history of Africa. Did you know that the Nubians, from the region we now call the Sudan, are believed to have been the first human race and that most of their customs and traditions were adopted by the ancient Egyptians?”

“No, I—”

Suddenly, Kurt Snertz, accompanied by his three buddies, was standing in front of them, blocking their path. Other kids scurried away.

“Well, if it isn’t wacky Zacky and his little nerd friend Lick-Me.”

“His name is Malik,” said Zack. “Leave him alone.”

It was barely eleven in the morning on the first day of school but Zack was already sick and tired of being pushed around by another kid named Snertz.

Kurt Snertz grabbed Zack’s shirt. “What’d you just say?”

“You heard me.”

“If you said what I think you said, you’re dead.”

Zack narrowed his eyes. “I told you to leave Malik alone.”

“What? You’re acting all brave because you think some teacher’s gonna come along and save you?”

“No. I think you should leave Malik alone.”

Snertz leaned in. “Why’s that?”

“He had nothing to do with what happened between me and your little brother.”

“So? Doesn’t mean I can’t beat him up anyway.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Does too.”

“Says who?”

“Me.”

“What?”

“No, I’m a ‘who.’”

“Huh?”

Poor kid. Snertz wasn’t used to using his brain that much at school.

Kurt tightened his grip on Zack’s shirt and twisted the fabric to make the neck hole tighten up like a noose.

Choking, Zack thought about all the hours he had spent alone in his bedroom when his real mother had been alive and screaming at him from the other room. When she started yelling, Zack would slip on his headphones and watch old movies or play video games. He remembered all the action heroes he’d ever pretended to be. G.I. Joe. Indiana Jones. RoboCop.

A line from an old Clint Eastwood movie popped into his head.

“Go ahead, Snertz. Make my day.”

Furious, Snertz hoisted Zack off the ground with one hand, then flung him down hard on the floor.

“Zack?” Malik said anxiously.

Zack stood up. Dusted off his pants.

“Is that it?” he asked, switching to the movie
The Incredible Hulk
. “Is that all you got?”

Snertz reared back his fist. “Why, I oughta …”

“Boys?”

Ms. DuBois came out of her classroom.

“What’s going on out here?”

“Nothin’,” snorted Snertz.

“Good! Get to your classrooms, now! Mr. Jennings? I believe you are with me for third period.”

“Yes, Ms. DuBois,” said Zack.

“Me too,” said Malik.

“Well, hurry in, boys. The bell is about to ring!”

Ms. DuBois stepped back into her classroom as the second bell jangled loudly.

“Saved by the bell,” taunted Snertz.

“You’re right,” said Zack, still channeling his inner action heroes. “You were.”

“Come on, guys,” said Snertz. “We’ll take out this sack of trash later.”

“Yeah! Later!” the bully pack chanted.

“Hasta la vista
, baby,” said Zack, because it was what Schwarzenegger would’ve said.

The bullies bounded up the hall.

“Thank you, Zack,” said Malik. “By the way, exactly how many movies have you seen?”

“Too many, I guess.”

“Or just enough,” said Malik. “Come on! We’re late!”

Malik dashed into the classroom.

Zack stood in the hallway, savoring the moment. He took in a deep breath.

The corridor outside Ms. DuBois’s classroom smelled like smoke again. A wet campfire.

“You got a match, sport?”

There were the Donnelly brothers. Seth and Joseph. They’d just stepped through the boys’ room door. Without opening it.

Joseph had a twisted grin on his face.

“All we need is one to have a ton of fun!”

Zack bolted into the classroom and hoped the Donnellys didn’t come in after him.

26

Zack sat
in the front row for Ms. DuBois’s history class.

There was something about this teacher he really liked. She seemed to be the kind of adult who could actually become a kid’s friend, the way Judy had.

Malik sat in the desk directly behind Zack, and the girl with the black-black hair was sitting in the middle of the first row, right in front of Ms. DuBois’s desk.

“Good morning, everybody! Welcome to sixth-grade history. My name is Daphne DuBois and this is my first year here at Pettimore Middle School.” Yep, she definitely had a Southern accent. “Is this anyone else’s first year?”

Zack raised his hand. So did the girl with the raccoon eyes. Well, she kind of flopped hers up.

Ms. DuBois smiled. “Well, come on—don’t be shy. Stand up and introduce yourselves.” She gestured at Zack, indicating that he should go first.

So he stood.

“Um, I’m Zack Jennings. I used to live in New York City but my dad’s family is originally from North Chester, so we moved back here in June.”

“How wonderful! Welcome, Zack.”

He sat down.

Ms. DuBois turned to the black-haired girl. “And you are?”

The girl didn’t stand. “Azalea Torres,” she muttered.

“Azalea. My, what an interesting name.”

The girl shrugged. “Wasn’t my idea.”

“And when did you move to North Chester?”

“We didn’t actually move here. My dad’s overseas with the army. My mom wanted to be near family. Her sister lives around here. So, you know, I came with her. I kind of had to.”

“Well, welcome, Azalea,” said Ms. DuBois sweetly. “Okay, who here thinks history means memorizing a bunch of boring dates and the names of dead kings?”

All the kids in the classroom raised their hands, except Malik, Zack, and Azalea Torres.

“And who thinks history can be fun and rewarding?”

Azalea shot up her arm first, let it dangle in the air.

“Why do you like history so much, Azalea?”

“I guess because it’s about dead people. Dead people are cool.”

“Well, Azalea, I suppose you are correct. In many ways, history is, indeed, the story of those who came before us. For instance, Captain Horace P. Pettimore. The gentleman this school is named after.” She gestured toward the copy of the Pettimore portrait hanging above the blackboard.

Zack wondered if there was a picture of Pettimore
hanging in every classroom. Probably. After all, it was his school.

“Who knows Captain Pettimore’s history?”

Malik raised his hand.

“Mr. Sherman?”

“He came here on a paddle wheel steamboat called the
Crescent City
right after the Civil War.”

“That’s right,” said Ms. DuBois, using a pointer to tap a picture on the bulletin board. “This was his ship. An old-fashioned steamboat like Mark Twain might’ve piloted on the Mississippi River. It had a big red paddle wheel in the back, two smokestacks, three decks, and a wheelhouse up top. It docked in North Chester in 1867. On board was a crew of sixty-six men, all former soldiers, who became the construction workers who built Mr. Pettimore’s mansion, which, of course, is now the main entrance to our school and where Principal Smith and Assistant Principal Crumpler have their offices. Who knows why there are these lamps with red and green globes on either side of the steamboat?”

“Ooh, ooh!” Malik, of course, knew the answer.

“Malik?”

“The red lights were on the left side, and the green on the right—so at night you could tell if a boat was coming toward you or moving away. The same colored lights are on airplane wings today. Red is always on the left. Green goes on the right.”

Ms. DuBois’s eyes twinkled. “Is that your final answer, Mr. Sherman?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Well, sir, you are correct. Now then, who here has ever heard about the two Donnelly brothers?”

Everyone’s hand went up.

“They died, right?” This from Azalea Torres.

“Yes, Azalea. In fact, they passed away right outside this room.”

The whole classroom gasped. Except Zack.

Heck, he didn’t even gasp when he
saw
the Donnellys.

27

“As you
have undoubtedly heard, Seth and Joseph Donnelly were playing with matches in the hallway, which used to be paneled with wood. They were burning the loose-leaf pages of their notebooks, watching the hot ashes rise up and float on the swirling currents of air.”

Ms. DuBois wafted her hand through the air as if it were a drifting autumn leaf. The class was mesmerized.

“Soon, the two boys started ripping pages out of their textbooks, setting those on fire, too. It wasn’t long before the fire spread. First to an old corkboard filled with thumbtacked notices. Then to the wooden frame of that board. Then to the wood-paneled walls and the oil-stained floor. Fortunately, this all took place after school hours and no one else was in the building.”

“Except the brave teacher,” Zack mumbled.

“That’s right, Zack. Mr. Patrick J. Cooper. A young mathematics instructor. This used to be
his
classroom.”

Another gasp.

Ms. DuBois strolled to her desk. “He was seated right here, at his desk, working late, grading papers, when he smelled smoke.” She sniffed the air dramatically. “Fearing
the worst, he boldly raced out into the smoky corridor and discovered the two Donnelly brothers trying to beat down the blaze they had just ignited.”

“Why didn’t they just run out the fire exit doors?” asked Malik.

“Well, the exit closest to the wood shop was only put in after the tragedy, and the doors at both ends of the hallway were locked. Poor Mr. Cooper didn’t have the keys.”

“Who locked them?”

“The newspapers all said the Donnelly brothers did—to prevent anyone from finding out what they were up to.”

“Well, why didn’t they just come in here and escape out the windows?” asked Zack.

“I’m afraid they couldn’t.” She tapped the classroom doorknob with her pointer. “The door accidentally locked behind Mr. Cooper when he rushed into the hall to save the two orphan boys.…”

“Orphans?” said Azalea.

“Oh, yes. The Donnellys had no family. No father, no mother. They came here from a place called Saint Cecelia’s House for Wayward Children over in Brixton. In fact, according to young Seth’s diary, he considered their math teacher, Mr. Cooper, to be as close a thing to family as he and Joe had ever had.”

“So how’d they die? Was it gruesome?”

Man. Azalea sure had a one-track mind.

“Well, Azalea,” said Ms. DuBois, “the teacher and the two boys were trapped in that narrow, smoke-filled corridor
with no exit. In mere minutes, they succumbed to what we would now call carbon monoxide poisoning. Mr. Cooper’s body was found slumped in front of that doorway, the key to this classroom in his hand. All three were dead long before the fire turned that cramped corridor into a broiling hot oven that cremated their bodies. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“That Mr. Cooper was a very brave man!” said a guy in the middle of the classroom.

“That he was. Which is why I am proud to say he is a distant relative of mine.”

“What? Really? Wow!” The whole classroom bubbled over with excitement.

“That’s awesome, Ms. DuBois,” said Malik.

“Yes. It is. I am quite proud of my great-great-great-great-uncle Patrick J. Cooper.”

She pointed toward a framed portrait sitting on her desk—a sepia-tone print of a man with a high forehead, beady eyes, and a bushy goatee. He looked kind of angry and, in Zack’s humble opinion, not extremely heroic.

“I am even prouder to be teaching here in the same classroom where he once taught. Now then, who here besides Azalea, whose father is bravely serving overseas, has a hero hiding in the branches of their family tree?”

Most of the kids shrugged. They had no idea.

Zack figured his grandpa Jim, who had been the sheriff in North Chester years earlier, was probably pretty heroic. But he didn’t want to show off.

“Well,” said Ms. DuBois, “I have a feeling some of you, perhaps all of you, have incredible ancestors. That is why, this month, you will each construct your very own family trees.”

“Cool. Awesome.”

All of a sudden, every kid in the class
loved
history.

“All right, everybody, let’s open our textbooks to chapter one.…”

Zack flipped his book open.

But he didn’t read what was written on the page.

He had that feeling again.

Somebody was watching him.

He slowly raised his eyes.

That picture of Horace P. Pettimore hanging over the blackboard?

It was staring at him.

It was also smiling.

28

The ghost
of Horace Pettimore oozed into yet another copy of his portrait and studied the children seated at their desks.