The Smoky Corridor

2

The two men trudged through boot-sucking mud in the dark.

Eddie was following Mr. Timothy Johnson, who, according to Eddie’s boss, was the best dowser in the world. That was why Johnson was holding out a divining rod—a forked branch from a witch hazel tree.

“Find anything, sir?” Eddie asked as they made their way through the forests surrounding Pettimore Middle School.

“Silence,” said Mr. Johnson. “I must remain focused.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Now the only sound came from the chorus of crickets and cicadas chirping in the nearby meadow.

Eddie did not want to throw the little man in the bowler hat off course. Johnson was a pro when it came to finding things with his Y-shaped stick. Hidden things, like freshwater, gold mines, oil geysers, and most importantly, buried treasure.

The clues the boss had already pieced together had brought them this far, to the woods surrounding what had once been the Horace P. Pettimore estate near the town of North Chester, Connecticut. Now Eddie was counting on Mr. Johnson to tell him exactly where to head next.

Where to dig.

“The tip!” Johnson whispered excitedly. “Look! It’s bending down.”

“You found it?”

“That which we seek is close at hand!”

Some unseen force yanked Mr. Johnson forward. He sailed through the brambles and branches, hanging on with all his might to the stiff twig twitching in his grip. Eddie followed.

They stumbled out of the forest into a clearing. No, it wasn’t just a clearing. As they walked through the darkness across the dewy meadow, Eddie realized they had entered a cemetery.

“This way!” said Johnson, leading him through the rows of tombstones. They marched down a gently sloping lawn to the muddy edge of a river.

“This is the Pattakonck!” Eddie exclaimed. “Why, old Horace Pettimore could have sailed his steamboat straight up here from the docks down in North Chester. This is where he buried his gold! He buried it with all the dead bodies!”

“No,” said Mr. Johnson, his stick now hanging limply in his hands. “The effluvia emanating from the water’s surface must have overwhelmed the witch hazel.”

“Say what, sir?”

“The moisture from the river temporarily threw my rod off course!”

“Oh.”

The answer sorely disappointed Eddie.

“You’re joshing me, right?” he said as politely as circumstances allowed.

“No. We need to start over. Perhaps we ventured too far from the school. We’ll try again.…”

Eddie shook his head. “Nope. You, sir, are done.”

“What?”

“Your services are no longer required.”

“What? Don’t be preposterous!”

“Excuse me.” Eddie reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out his cell phone.

“What … what are you doing?” the dowser demanded.

“Calling my boss.”

The stick quivered in Mr. Johnson’s trembling hands. “Wait. As I said …”

“Sorry for disturbing you,” Eddie said when the boss answered. “This Johnson fellow? He is absolutely worthless.”

“What? How dare you!”

That was when Eddie pulled out his pistol.

“No! Don’t!” Mr. Johnson pleaded. “Tell your employer that we will try again … tomorrow night.… I know I can find the hiding place.… I’m positive!”

Eddie cocked back the brass trigger.

Mr. Johnson quit babbling.

“So, what would you like me to do, boss?” Eddie asked.

Eddie smiled. He liked what he heard:

Do it now.

Make it look like an accident.