Lair of Dreams

Jericho narrowed his eyes. “You. And me.”


“We could go to the fights, or head to the Kentucky Club to hear Duke Ellington play. I could introduce you to some girls. It’d be swell times!” He gave Jericho his most convincing smile.

Jericho didn’t return it. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response, especially when we have more important matters to tend to. We’ve got a museum to save and an exhibit to put together, if you recall.”

Sam figured it was best to leave the giant his pride and change the subject. At least they could agree on saving the museum. “What’ve we got so far?”

Sam followed Jericho to a table that held a paltry assortment of items. “Let’s see. We got a gris gris bag. Liberty Anne’s diary. A very shriveled mandrake root…” Sam held the grizzled thing up to the light. “Or possibly the world’s hairiest potato. And something that looks like chicken bones?”

Jericho swiped the bones into a trash can. “Last night’s dinner.”

Sam held up a photograph with a gauzy white smear in the background. “Is this a spirit photograph, or is that mayonnaise?”

Jericho snatched the ghostly tintype away. “Spirit photograph.”

Sam picked through the rest of the meager collection, his hopes flagging. “This is it? It’s not any different from what we already got going on.”

“Sam, this entire museum is a Diviners exhibit. I don’t see why you haven’t grasped this yet.”

“This is gonna be a three-legged dog of an exhibit,” Sam grumbled. “Buncha spooky knickknacks and haunted doilies. Nobody’s gonna line up for this junk!”

“I’ll remind you that this was your idea.” Jericho spread his arms wide in challenge. “Fine. Why don’t you curate this exhibit, then? See what you come up with.”

Jericho headed to the collections room, and Sam followed, complaining.

“Gimme something to work with. A curse. The bloodstained waistcoat of a murdered aristocrat. A hotsy-totsy medium who, uh, felt the spirits move through her, if you catch my drift—ouch!” Sam said, tripping over a spot on the rug that sent him tumbling into a sideboard.

“Watch it,” Jericho said, steadying the sideboard. “These are rare artifacts.”

“Thanks for your concern. I’m fine,” Sam muttered. He pulled back the rug, exposing the scarred outline of a door with a metal ring attached. “That’s the culprit,” Sam said, tugging on the ring. “What is this?”

“An old cellar.”

“No kidding. What’s in it?”

Jericho shrugged.

“Hold on—you’ve never been down in the cellar?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Freddy, it could be a gold mine down there!” Sam tried the ring again. It wouldn’t budge. “I gotta loosen around these boards. Hand me that sword up there, will ya?”

“You mean this antique that’s probably worth more than you are?” Jericho shook his head slowly.

“Fine!” Sam flicked open his Swiss Army knife and sawed the blade around the edges of the door as best he could to loosen the thick layers of sticky, packed dust, but the door still wouldn’t give.

Jericho sighed. “Here. Move.” He grasped the ring with one hand and gave a slight pull, and the door creaked open.

“Holy smokes, Hercules. What are they feeding you?”

Jericho coughed as the dust spiraled up in thick clouds.

“I coulda opened it, you know,” Sam added.

“No, you couldn’t.”

“I was this close.”

“Wrong.” Jericho waved away the last of the dust motes circling in the air. A perilous-looking wooden staircase draped in cobwebs led down into the gloom. “You think those stairs are still any good?”

“Only one way to find out,” Sam said. “Let’s grab some flashlights.”

The wood protested loudly under Sam and Jericho’s sudden weight as the two of them made their way down the old steps into the dark hole, their flashlight beams bouncing across the fragile architecture of cobwebs. They jumped to the bottom, landing on a dirt floor in a large room connected to a long, narrow passageway.

Sam whistled. “The bootleggers would kill for this.”

He and Jericho walked the passageway, which was scribbled and scratched with names: James Beardon. Moses Johnson. Maisie Lafayette and children. My name is Osay. There were several X’s instead of names, and a vast mural whose muted colors were ghosts of their former hues. In it, a slave family entered a promised land of bright sun and leafy trees. High above the sun’s rays, someone had etched the word freedom. The mural had clearly been painted by several different hands over time, each artist adding to the story, but the message was the same.

“Looks like the Transcontinental wasn’t the only railroad Cornelius Rathbone built,” Jericho said, shining a light around the cavernous space.