The Ghost Wore Gray by Bruce Coville Page B

trips to the South during the war, serving the Union sometimes as a spy, sometimes as a scout. That was incredibly dangerous, of course, but he used all his contacts and tricks from the days on the Underground and managed to survive it all.
    He was an old man by that time. The drawings and photos of him were wonderful—you could see both his sweetness and his strength. I guess you would have needed both those qualities to do everything that Samson Carter did.
    Anyway, six months after the war ended, Samson Carter went to the South as a free man, traveling there legally for the first time in over thirty years. He went to visit some friends, and to begin planning his great dream: the Samson Carter Institute, a college for the children of former slaves. The trip was a success. But while he was on his way home he passed through a town where a mob of angry men beat him to death.
    They didn’t kill him because he was Samsom Carter and had worked so hard to free so many slaves.
    They didn’t even know who he was.
    They just killed him because he was black.

CHAPTER TWENTY
    Crisis Level
    We walked back to the Quackadoodle in silence, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts. So much had happened, and so long ago. How did it all fit together?
    We did have one more piece of good luck at the museum. When we took the book back to Effie, we were so enthusiastic about it that she showed us a thin little paperback the museum sold as a souvenir. “Don’t sell many of these,” she said. “They’re about as popular as termites in a lumberyard. So I don’t bother to show it to folks. But since you seem so interested—”
    So for two dollars we had a small version of the Samson Carter story, complete with illustrations.
    It was late afternoon when we finally made it back to the inn. I wanted to check on some things in Captain Gray’s diary so Chris and I went into the lobby. It was empty. We rang the bell, but no one came. We stood there for a moment, feeling hot and impatient.
    â€œCome on,” said Chris. “Let’s check the office. For all we know Baltimore’s in there listening to Bruce Springsteen on a Walkman. Probably he just couldn’t hear us ring.”
    The idea seemed unlikely to me, but I followed her, anyway. As it turned out, Chris was about half-right. Baltimore was in the office. But he wasn’t listening to Springsteen. He was lying face down on the floor with his eyes closed. We could see a purple swelling the size of a baby’s fist on the back of his head.
    The safe, which was normally hidden behind a painting, was wide open. It was also completely empty.
    Chris, who is not as squeamish about these things as I am, bent down and put her ear against Baltimore’s back.
    â€œHe’s alive,” she said. “Just unconscious. I’ll stay with him. You go get help.”
    I could feel my hands begin to shake as I left the office. Ghosts were one thing. Whoever had bopped Baltimore was flesh and blood, and playing for real. Suddenly this mystery didn’t seem like such a game anymore.
    The first person I found was Gloria. She was kneeling in front of a wooden table, polishing it with an oily cloth. I wasn’t sure what I should say. After all, it was her husband lying on the floor in there. I tried to stay calm. “Gloria, I need some help.”
    â€œI’m sure it can wait,” she said. “You can see I’m busy now.”
    That made me angry. “It’s Baltimore,” I said sharply. “He’s been hurt!”
    What a transformation! The only other time I’ve seen anyone get to his feet so fast was one evening when I was watching TV with Chris and her brothers and Mrs. Gurley yelled “Dinner!” All six of those boys were on their feet and into the dining room before I had managed to uncross my legs.
    Gloria moved the same way now. “Where is he?” she asked.
    I told her, then hurried to keep