“Nobody sneeze.” Bones echoed Dane’s thoughts. “I don’t want to end up like the Wicked Witch.”
They paused at the first side passage that had not collapsed.
“What do you think?” Dane shone his light into the darkness. “Based on how fast we’ve been walking, I’d say we’re a little less than half a mile.”
“Let’s check it out.” Bones took the lead, still eyeing the ceiling suspiciously.
The tunnel ended at a set of crumbling stone steps. Dane mounted them with trepidation, and felt the mortar crunch under his feet with every step. They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door on iron hinges. He took hold of the knob and took a deep breath.
“Here goes nothing.” He turned the knob and pulled. The door gave an inch, then, with a loud crack, broke free of its hinges. Dane suddenly found himself holding up a six foot tall door. “Here.” He handed it to Bones. “Find something to do with this.”
The doorway opened into a dusty crawlspace, its floor cluttered with broken crates and moldering burlap bags. At the far end, a smaller, sturdier door led to a little-used storage room. From there, they mounted a staircase that led up to the main floor.
“This is it,” Jillian whispered. “The Great Hall of Peter Faneuil’s marketplace. Better known as Faneuil Hall.”
Dane directed his beam out into the room and started when he saw George Washington staring back at him.
“Why, hello General. Fancy meeting you here.” Bones strode into the room and gave the bust of America’s first president a noogie.
Washington’s wasn’t the only sculpture in the hall. Looking at the alcoves set in the baby blue walls, Dane recognized John Quincy Adams, Frederick Douglas, Lucy Stone, Daniel Webster, and Samuel Adams. Moving past them, he played his light across the walls, scanning the portraits that hung in gilded frames.
“Anybody see Adams? We’ve got to make this quick. The last thing we need is for someone to drive by and see our lights through the window.”
“Here he is!” Jillian’s voice trembled with excitement, pointing to a spot behind where Dane stood.
Dane turned and looked. The statesman, clad all in red, stood before a bookcase. He clutched a sheaf of papers and seemed to look down on them with a hint of disapproval.
“He looks more laid-back on the beer bottles,” Bones observed.
“That’s because it’s not Sam Adams on the beer; it’s Paul Revere.” Dane saw the confused expression on Bones’ face and went on. “They were originally going to call it Paul Revere Beer, but the name Sam Adams tested better with consumers. They’d already designed the label and, as you pointed out, Paul Revere’s is a friendlier face. So, there you have it.”
“That’s jacked-up. I’m going to write somebody a letter when we get back to base. I’ve been drinking under false pretenses.”
“How about we look for the hidden message and argue about beer labels later?” Jillian moved in close and scrutinized the portrait. “Looks like a regular painting to me.”
“Maybe on the back?” Bones tipped the bottom of the painting and peered behind it. “Nothing.”
“Hold on a minute.” Dane moved two steps closer and cocked his head. “There’s something there.”
Bones and Jillian moved back to stand beside him.
“I don’t see anything.” Bones scratched his chin.
“Most of the individual portraits from this time period have dull backgrounds — usually shades of a single color, but not this one. Look at the spine of each book. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”
After a moment’s pause, Jillian and Bones spoke on top of one another.
“I see it!”
“Whoa, dude!”
“Each spine has one of the symbols from our list. Jillian, you’ve got the key?”
She reached into her backpack and took out a notebook in which she’d copied down the key to the cipher: letters and numbers in one column, the corresponding symbols in the other. “I’m going to need a minute to figure this out. You guys keep an eye on the street.”
Dane and Bones extinguished their lights and moved to either side of the hall. The floor-to-ceiling windows provided a clear view of the street. His heart pounding out a rhythmic beat and cold sweat dripping down his neck, Dane peered up and down the street while Jillian puzzled out the clue in the painting. Twice, she had to hurriedly douse her light when Dane spotted headlights in the distance. A police car approached. That was not what they needed right now.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Jillian cried out in triumph. “I’ve got it!”
“What does it say?” Dane hurried over to see what she had written.
“The secret lies with the five martyrs.”
“Oh, that helps.” Bones exhaled sharply. “History’s filled with martyrs, and we have to figure out which five he gave chunks of his journal to?”
“This is Boston,” Jillian said. “And we’re talking about the American Revolution.”
“Hold on.” Dane’s momentary disappointment had vanished, replaced by an almost manic excitement. “Aren’t the five victims of the Boston Massacre buried together?”
“Yes!” Jillian nodded vigorously. “And the grave is right here on the Freedom Trail!”
“I think we’d better find it quick.” Bones stared out the window. “Because I think somebody just spotted us.”
They followed his line of sight and spotted the same police officer who had questioned Dane and Bones after Andrews’ accident. He strode along Congress Street toward Faneuil Hall, his eyes locked on the window where Dane and his friends stood.
“O’Meara,” Dane breathed. “Let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER 14
They hurried back through the basement area and down into the underground passageway. Dane felt confident that O’Meara, if he had even seen them, had no chance of finding them down here. By the time they made their way back to the entrance at the foot of the Revere Monument, however, he had a new worry.
“What happens if he sees us climbing out of the passageway? We don’t know where he’s patrolling.”
“We’ll have to risk it,” Bones said. “I’ll go first. If he sees me, I’ll draw him off. I can outrun him no problem.”
“Are you sure?” A few days ago, Dane wouldn’t have cared if Bones got himself arrested or not, but now he realized he’d come to like the guy, and even rely on his solid presence. “Maxie won’t like it if you get arrested.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve run from the cops. I’ll lose him and meet you two at the graveyard. Where is it?”
“The Granary Burying Ground. Unfortunately, it’s a mile or so back the way we came. We’ll have to take the roundabout way and hope we don’t meet up with O’Meara.”
As they made their way toward the burying ground, Jillian filled them in on its history. Founded in 1660, the Granary Burying Ground was the final resting place of many notable patriots, including Paul Revere, three signers of the Declaration of Independence, and the victims of the Boston Massacre.
As they passed beneath the imposing gateway, Dane recognized the sturdy columns and large, ornate entablature as Egyptian Revival architecture. He noted the winged hourglasses carved into it, as well as the many skeletons and winged skulls engraved in the weathered headstones. He looked at the macabre images and felt as if he’d been transported to another time and place. Strange, such a creepy old cemetery would be located in the middle of a bustling, modern city.
They wound through the silent cemetery, keeping an eye out for O’Meara, or any other unwelcome observers, until Jillian called them to a halt.