“How did we miss this last time?” Sam said.
“We weren’t looking for them. We were looking for letters,” Jericho reminded him. He examined the old canister. A faint stamp on the bottom, barely legible, read, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF PARANORMAL. “These could have valuable information on them.”
“Or they could be recordings of somebody’s eighty-year-old aunt singing patriotic songs,” Sam said.
Memphis shrugged. “Worth a listen.”
“Okay. But if I hear a quavery soprano, I’m outta here,” Sam said.
“Where’s the player?”
“What’s it look like?”
“Like a phonograph player—wooden box with a big megaphone coming out of it.”
“I’ve seen it. It’s upstairs in Will’s office,” Jericho said.
They climbed back up, restored the rug to its rightful place over the cellar door, and crept into Will’s darkened office. “Don’t worry,” Jericho said, turning on a desk lamp. “He’s giving a lecture in Connecticut today. Still trying to pay off the tax bill so they don’t close this place. Here. In the corner.”
On a side table wedged into an alcove was something Jericho had always regarded as one of Will’s many curious, slightly useless artifacts. Now, watching Memphis thread the wax cylinder into place and turn the side crank, he understood.
“These sure look old. Not even sure it’ll play. But here goes,” Memphis said, dropping the needle. The cylinder spun around, spilling out its tale in pops and hisses until, finally, an echoey, familiar voice came through the attached megaphone:
“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson. How are you today?”
“Sister Walker?” Sam whispered.
Memphis nodded.
“Fine, thank you. And yourself, Miss Walker?”
“I’m very well, thank you. You know my colleagues, Mr. Marlowe, Miss Wasserman, and Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“Yes’m. Afternoon, Sir, Miss. Uh, there gonna be more a them shots today, Miss Walker?” Mr. Johnson asked in a deep, melodic voice. He sounded shy, polite, and a little frightened.
“No, no. We don’t need your blood today.”
At the mention of blood, the boys’ eyes widened.
“What were they—” Sam started, but Jericho shushed him.
“Could you state your name and age for me, please?”
“Yes, ma’am. Guillaume Johnson. I’m eighteen years old.”
“It’s him! The Diviner she mentioned,” Jericho whispered.
“How come it’s okay when you talk but not—”
“Shhh,” Memphis pleaded. He leaned in to the megaphone, straining to hear.
“What is your height and weight? Oh, and please speak into the cone, if you will.”
“I’m six foot two inches, and I weigh one hun’erd ninety pounds.”
“Big man,” Sam said under his breath. “Big as the giant over here.”
“I heard you’re strong enough to lift a wagon full of hay bales, Mr. Johnson,” Sister Walker’s voice prompted.
“Yes, ma’am. Picked the whole back end up clean off the road so’s they could change out a cracked wheel. Held it a long time, too,” Guillaume Johnson answered. He sounded very proud.
“Can you tell us a little more about your powers?”
“Yes, ma’am. Long as I can recall, I been able to ease the passing of animals.”
“Just animals?”
Pause.
“Well, uh… just people on their way out, Miss. Like Old Gertie, all ate up with consumption and pain. I helped her sleep. The good lord done the rest.”
“Are you telling me the full truth, Mr. Johnson?”
Pause.
“I been sorely tempted, Miss Walker. Like Jesus in the wilderness. It’s hard working cotton. Very hard. Long days on a hungry belly. And the landlord, he… well, he wadn’t no good man, Miss. No, he wadn’t.”
“Is that what happened, Mr. Johnson? Did you bring on that stroke?”
“I might done. I don’t know, Miss Walker, and that is the gospel truth. I only know that after, I was sick in my guts and I got a touch’a gray in my hair.”
“Can you go out to the chicken coop with us, Mr. Johnson? We need a demonstration of your powers. We’ll eat that chicken for dinner, so it’s a necessary death.”
“Yes, ma’am. I could do.”
The cylinder stopped. Memphis quickly removed it and searched through the other cylinders for more of the mysterious Mr. Guillaume Johnson, who could draw the life from things. There was only one other. Quickly, Memphis threaded it and dropped the needle. This one was quieter. Mr. Johnson’s sweet, deep voice had gone rough around the edges, as if he’d been gargling with sawdust. They leaned forward to hear. “Miss Walker, them fellas in the suits, them Shadow Men… they been making me work for ’em.”
Pause.
“They want me to… to do things I don’t feel right ’bout doin’.”
“What sorts of things?”
“I… I’d rather not say, Miss Walker.”
“If you don’t tell me, how can I help you?”
The cylinder was nothing but pop and hiss for a few seconds. Then: “They want me to use my powers to… to hurt people. To kill ’em. They told me them folks was our enemies, but… I’m sick all the time, Miss Walker. All the time. Just look at me, Miss Walker. Look what they done to me.”
Footsteps. Muffled talk. A new voice.
“Miss Walker, if you’ve finished with Mr. Johnson’s examination, we’ll take him now.”
“Hey, I know that voice,” Sam whispered excitedly.
“Shhh,” Jericho scolded again.
Sister Walker’s words crackled through the speaker. “Oh, I think Mr. Johnson should stay here. He’s… he’s ill.”
“We’ll take good care of him, won’t we, Mr. Adams?”
“Mr. Jefferson and I will take it from here.”
“Wait! Mr. Johnson! Guillaume!”
Pop. Hiss. And then silence.
A chill passed over Memphis. “What did they do to Mr. Johnson?”
“Who? Miss Walker or the Shadow Men?”
“Both,” Memphis said softly.
Sam paced in front of Will’s desk. “Those creepy fellas are the ones Evie and I saw when we broke into the old Paranormal offices. I recognize that fella Adams’s voice.”
“What about Guillaume Johnson? You think he’s still out there somewhere?” Jericho asked. “What if we could find him, talk to him?”
“I got the feeling this Mr. Johnson didn’t live too long. Sounds like his powers were making him really sick, and those Shadow Men didn’t care one bit. They’re bad news.”
Some unnameable dread tugged at Memphis’s gut. There was something so familiar about this Guillaume Johnson, something in the cadence of the man’s speech, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Besides, Sam was probably right: In all likelihood, poor Guillaume Johnson, the Diviner who could draw life from the living, had taken ill and died, killed by his own gifts.
“Memphis? You jake?” Jericho asked.
Memphis was hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his clasped hands. “Yeah. I was just thinking. Death. That’s an awfully strong power. The strongest of all, I suppose.”
Sam stopped. “You don’t get it, do you? You have the strongest power, Memphis.”