The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed by Bruce Coville Page B

from the war,” Ms. Bond said. “It doesn’t have the subtlety of his later work. Still, it made his reputation.”
    After I had studied that picture, and the ones that followed it, I said, “It’s hard to believe these were painted by the same man who did ‘Love and Flowers.’”
    I wanted to ask what had happened to change him so much. But I remembered the way Carla Bond had reacted to my curiosity on Saturday, so I let the question hang.
    Either Chris had forgotten the woman’s snappishness or she didn’t care, because she asked, “Is it true that he went mad?”
    I waited for Ms. Bond to blast her with one of those looks, but she just nodded. “Quite mad,” she said softly.
    I decided she must have considered my Saturday questions pure nosiness. Now that Chris and I were trying to get some culture, curiosity was all right.
    â€œWas it because he lost his legs?” pressed Chris.
    Ms. Bond looked a little startled. “You two have been busy, haven’t you?”
    I was afraid Chris was going to get smart-alecky again, but she just said, “We learned about it in the library.”
    Ms. Bond relaxed a little. “Well, I can only approve of such diligent research. Of course, there was much more to it than that. But the family kept the story to themselves. People weren’t so public with their tragedies in those days.”
    â€œBut you know what happened, don’t you?” persisted Chris.
    She had pressed too far. “Whatever happened, it was long ago,” snapped Ms. Bond. “If the family didn’t want it talked about, I don’t see that people need to dig it up now.”
    That was pretty much the end of our conversation with Carla Bond. Chris blushed a little, Ms. Bond calmed down a bit, we talked some and then got out of there as quickly as we could.
    It was almost time to meet my father anyway. The quickest way to our meeting point was back across Columbus Circle.
    Since we had a few minutes and since it was only a week or so after Columbus Day, we stopped to take a look at the statue. While I was staring at it someone grabbed my arm from behind.
    I felt a surge of panic. “Hey!” I said, trying to pull free.
    â€œListen, missy,” hissed a scratchy voice. “People who hang around with artists have to be careful!”

CHAPTER TEN
    Dark Vision
    Yanking my arm free, I spun around. I found myself face to face with a skinny old man who had stringy hair, bad teeth and about two days’ worth of gray stubble on his chin.
    Before I could say anything, Chris shouted, “You leave her alone!” I could tell she was ready to kick the old guy.
    â€œWait, Chris,” I said. “It’s okay. I know him.”
    â€œYou know this guy?”
    â€œI see him on Saturday sometimes,” I said. “Don’t I, Jimmy?”
    â€œThat’s right, missy,” he wheezed. “Saturdays. But I seen you this Saturday. Yes, I did. You, too,” he added, pointing to Chris. “You were up to the Watson place. You want to be careful when you go up there.”
    â€œWhy?” I asked. “Why do we need to be careful, Jimmy?”
    â€œThere’s something terrible up there.” Shaking his head, he backed away from me. “Something terrible, something wonderful. And folks who hang around up there best be careful.”
    â€œWhat is it, Jimmy? What’s in the house?”
    The old man’s eyes got big, and he put his finger on his lips. “Never did tell,” he whispered, “never will tell. What kind of a guy do you think I am?”
    â€œJimmy!”
    â€œNever did tell, never will tell,” he repeated. Then he turned and moved away from us as fast as he could.
    Chris started after him.
    â€œDon’t bother,” I said. “He won’t tell us anything now.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI’ve seen him like this