“My name’s Sam Hadley,” the cowboy said, handing them a card. “I’m a certified genealogist, and I do research for hire. Tell your mom she can reach me through the library if she decides she’d like some help.”
“We’ll do that,” Jack replied. “Thanks for your help. And good luck with your research.”
They paid for their copy at the front desk. Fitch jerked his head toward the men’s room, which was just inside the front door. The three of them filed into the restroom. Both stalls were empty.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Will demanded, as soon as the door closed. “Why’d we have to leave in such a hurry? We could’ve asked that man Hadley how to get to the Methodist cemetery. And why were you spinning all those stories? I was afraid there was going to be a quiz.”
Fitch calmly removed his glasses and wiped them with a paper towel. “Look,” he said. “Something wasn’t right. The dude claimed he knows our Aunt Fran. There is no Frances Dunlevy. Why would he say he knows her when he doesn’t?”
Will shrugged. “Maybe he’s just one of those people who likes to make you think he knows about everything and everybody.”
“What if he was the guy from the courthouse?” Fitch suggested.
Jack compared the tall, spare, deadly figure on the staircase with Sam Hadley’s portly build. “No. Not unless he’s some kind of shape-shifter.” They all laughed uneasily.
“He sure seemed interested in what we were doing,” Fitch mused. “Though I think those genealogy people love to talk about this stuff. I wonder how much he overheard.”
Jack shrugged. “Nothing we can do about it now. Let’s see if we can find out where the cemetery is from someone else.”
“It gave a location for each graveyard in the book,” Will reminded them. He pulled the notebook from his duffle and paged quickly through it. “It’s on Methodist Chapel Road.” He nodded wisely. “Makes sense.”
“Let’s get going.” Jack nodded toward the restroom door. They pushed it open just in time to see the man in the cowboy boots walk briskly past, his laptop swinging from his shoulder. They shrank back into the restroom doorway and watched him exit through the front door of the library. Jack sprinted to one of the front windows. A black Mercedes was pulled into one of the angle parking spaces in front of the library. The man opened the rear passenger door, tossed his laptop into the backseat, and then climbed behind the wheel. The car backed out of the space and sped off down the street, disappearing around a corner.
Fitch and Will were right behind him. “Not a local ride, I’m guessing,” Fitch observed. “He sure took off in a hurry. What if the dude overheard everything, and he’s heading out to the cemetery right now?”
“Aunt Linda told us to find out where Susannah Downey was buried and then she would call with further instructions,” Jack replied. “He’d have to know more than we do.”
“Well, that’s certainly possible, since we don’t know much,” Will muttered. They looked at each other miserably. Fitch turned without a word and headed back into the library. He stopped at the front desk and spoke to the elderly woman behind the counter. He returned carrying a piece of paper. “I got directions to the Methodist cemetery,” he announced. “I don’t think it’s too far.”
Will grinned. “The librarian’s probably conspiring with the cowboy,” he said. “Her and the whole town. They’ll all meet us at the graveyard with chain saws. Like in a horror movie.”
“Maybe.” Fitch stuffed the paper into his pants pocket. “But it might take them a while. I asked about five different cemeteries. That ought to slow them down or split them up, at least. We’ll have to wait for dark anyway, if we’re going to be digging up bodies.” He smiled, but there was little joy in it, only that famous Fitch persistence.
Who knows? Jack thought. With all that’s happened already, that might turn out to be our assignment.
The sun had disappeared while they were in the library, and it was noticeably cooler. The wind had picked up as well. Jack thought wistfully of the warm jacket he had left in Aunt Linda’s car. Which reminded him of something else.
His medicine was still in the back of the Land Rover. He’d missed his dose again that morning. Jack rolled his eyes. Becka would be all over him if she knew he’d messed up twice in one week.
It doesn’t matter, he told himself. Wasn’t a problem last time, wouldn’t be a problem this time. He couldn’t help it. Life seemed to be getting more complicated.
Anyway, he felt good. Incredibly good, like he’d been looking at the world through a cloudy lens and the film had been stripped away. The day seemed rife with possibilities, a gift about to be opened. He couldn’t help grinning.
Will’s voice broke into his thoughts. “What do we do now?”
Jack looked at his watch. They had several hours of daylight left. “We’re going to need some things. Shovels, flashlights, sweatshirts, like that.”
“Let’s go there.” Fitch pointed across the square to a storefront. A weathered sign proclaimed, BICK’S ARMY-NAVY, and underneath, WEAPONS, AMMO, CAMO, CLOTHING, BAIT, HUNTING LICENSES.
It seemed totally fitting. “Let’s go shopping,” Jack said.
The boys were killing time in the Bluebird Cafe, feeding the jukebox and flirting with the waitress over second desserts. They were fortified with tavern food and dressed for battle. Jack wore a long-sleeved T-shirt and dark hoodie over Mercedes’s vest. Will had chosen an insulated vest with lots of pockets, and Fitch looked like a punk urban commando with a camo jacket, dog tags, and heavy boots.
The duffel bags at their feet contained flashlights and spades.
The cell phone rang, and Jack fumbled for it, flipped it open.
Linda didn’t waste any time on pleasantries. “Are you all right? Did you find out anything today?”
“Yeah,” Jack replied to both questions, his eyes on the other two. “We have a location. The old Methodist cemetery.” Automatically he looked around him. No one was in earshot, especially given the volume of the music. “Don’t know where in the cemetery, but it seems to be a small one. We got directions.”
“Good.” She sounded relieved. “Have you seen anybody suspicious? Anyone seem to be following you?”
Jack hesitated. After all, they had no hard evidence that the cowboy was up to anything at all. They were probably just being paranoid. Only . . . “There was a . . . a genealogist in the library who might have overheard us talking about the cemetery.”
Linda made a noise of irritation and dismay. “What did he look like?”
“Fat. Bald. Cowboy boots. Western shirt. He did seem to know quite a bit about genealogy. Had a business card and all. He helped us find stuff in the library.”
There was a brief silence. “Okay,” she said finally, as if reassured by this description. “But you haven’t seen the man from the courthouse? Or anyone . . . like him?” It was an odd thing to say, but somehow Jack knew exactly what she meant. No, Sam Hadley was not like the man in the courthouse.
“No,” he said. “Haven’t seen him. What have you been doing?” He had already decided not to mention the medicine. It wouldn’t do any good to worry her.
“I’ve been traveling around,” Linda said evasively. Her voice sounded brittle, breathless, barely controlled.
“What’s the matter?” Jack demanded. “Did something happen?”
“I’m just tired. I’ve been up all night, driving all over southern Ohio. Our friend has been following me.”
“Can’t you just find a motel room and hole up there, get some sleep? He won’t bother you if there are a lot of people around. Isn’t that what you told us?”
He was looking for reassurance, and she provided it, but not quickly enough to be convincing. “That’s a good idea,” she said hesitantly. “Maybe I’ll do that. Where are you?”
“We’re at the Bluebird,” Jack said. “Waiting for dark.”
“You need to be careful. I . . . I would like to come with you to the cemetery, b
ut I’m still a couple of hours away, down by the river. I . . . may have lost him, but I’m not sure.” She paused. “If he can’t find me, he might come looking for you. If you have even a hint that there’s a problem, I want you three to go back to the motel and stay there until I come. If I don’t come by noon tomorrow, call Becka.”
Jack didn’t like the sound of that.
There was another long pause, but when she spoke again, her voice was businesslike. “Now listen carefully. I’m only going to tell you what you need to know, because the man we saw could easily force things out of you. Don’t share any more with Will and Fitch than you have to.”
“Okay,” Jack said cautiously.
“The piece you are looking for is a weapon. A sword. It once belonged to Susannah. Now it belongs to you.”
“A . . . uh . . . okay.” With some effort, he stopped himself from repeating her words, from asking the questions that crowded in. Why would Susannah have a sword? Could it be a Civil War piece, perhaps? And why would it belong to him? Susannah had died long before he was born. It seemed that his mother or Linda would have a better claim.
“It will be buried behind her gravestone in a case of some kind. Now, this is important. You must be the one who opens the case. No one else. I’ll give you the charm you’ll need to open it.” She paused, as if expecting a question, but he didn’t ask it. “Are you listening, Jack?”
He nodded without thinking, and then said, “Yes.”
The words sounded like Latin, a soft and familiar music, the truth that lay under all the languages that he knew. He repeated them back to her several times, until she was satisfied, ignoring Will and Fitch, who were staring at him as he memorized the phrase.
“You won’t forget?”
“No.”
“Make sure the sword is in the case, then close it up and carry it back to the motel. I’ll pick you up there.”
“Uh, Aunt Linda?” He looked across the table at his friends. “Maybe I should just go by myself.” It was half statement, half question.
There was another long silence. “Maybe you should.”
“They won’t like it.”
“Let me talk to them.”
Wordlessly, Jack extended the cell phone toward Fitch, who put up both hands and shook his head. “Forget it, Jack. I’m not going to let her talk me out of it. I’m coming with you whether you like it or not.” Will had his arms crossed over his chest, looking scared and yet stubborn as stone.
“They won’t talk to you, Aunt Linda.”
She sighed. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I should not have brought them into this.” She paused. “All right. They can help dig. Just get in and get out quickly. Go back to the motel and wait. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll call you a little later.”
It was definitely colder when they left the Bluebird, but Jack hardly noticed. His lingering worries were overshadowed by a kind of euphoria. He felt taut and catlike, full of power, barely contained within his skin. His fears of the day before were forgotten. Something ancient had kindled deep within him, a bright and powerful thirst for adventure. He felt invulnerable, as if the strangers and their agenda were irrelevant. He looked at his two companions and grinned. Anything could happen. And that seemed like a good thing.
The church was a modest white structure on a narrow strip of flat ground along the road, perhaps two miles out of town. The hills rose up behind, a dense black nothingness against the brighter sky. The building was in the plain Methodist style, with a traditional steeple and a large double front door. A simple sanctuary and little else. A white wood framed sign with magnetic letters stood off to one side. PASTOR: WILLARD F. GUFFEY. SUNDAY SERMON: ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUST.
There was a small gravel parking lot between the road and the church. It was empty. There were no lights anywhere around the building.
They cut away from the roadside and approached the front of the church. Jack shone the beam of his flashlight over a brass plate above the double doors. FIRST METHODIST CHURCH. FOUNDED 1850.
The cemetery was marked off from the rest of the churchyard by two brick pillars about twenty feet behind the building, probably gateposts of a fence that had long since gone. The first grave markers clustered just on the other side of the posts.
Jack looked back at Methodist Chapel Road. They had seen very little traffic, and the church was surrounded by dense forest. As far as he could tell, they had not been fol-lowed. There were no houses in sight. Once they moved to the back of the church, it seemed unlikely they could be seen from the road.
They passed between the pillars into the cemetery beyond. Jack soon realized there were many more grave sites than were listed in the book. Some of the stones were broken, worn away, and unreadable. Grass was growing over some of the markers, and others had toppled over. The oldest, most dilapidated stones seemed to be closest to the church.
He found a legible one just inside the old wall. He knelt, shining his light over its surface. BRAM WHALEY, 1863. DIED AT CHANCELLORSVILLE. A metal GAR marker stood alongside. “Susannah died in 1900,” he said. “Do you think that her grave would be farther back, because it’s later?”
“Maybe,” Fitch said. “But families tended to be buried together. So you might find early and late markers in the same plot.”
“How do you know this stuff?” Jack demanded. The three of them divided the graveyard into three sections and proceeded to move methodically through, shining their lights over the cold stone surfaces, scraping moss away with their fingernails, yanking weeds that obscured the base of the stones, sometimes digging in the dirt with a stick to expose the lowest row of lettering.
They worked their way back from the church to the hill, in line with each other, afraid of missing something. The trees grew closer together at the rear of the property, and in some cases their roots had heaved stones completely out of the ground, dividing families. The moon had risen, but it burned dimly behind a thin curtain of clouds. They could see nothing outside the circle of their flashlights. Soon they were almost in the shadow of the cliff.
“Here’s a Downey,” Jack said quietly. He was in a small grove of trees, to the far left of the cemetery. Will and Fitch came to see. It was a small white marker with a death’s head at the top. JOSEPH DOWNEY, 1823–1872.
“Here’s another,” said Will. It was close to the one Jack had found, for a child, JEREMIAH DOWNEY, AGE 18 MONTHS, S.O. JOSEPH AND MARTHA. DIED 1860.
They crept farther under the trees, scanning stone by stone.
It was Will who found it. A large stone, set a little apart from the others, almost up against a wire fence that marked the edge of the property. SUSANNAH HALE DOWNEY, 1868–1900, BELOVED WIFE OF ABRAHAM, GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN.
“Look at this!” Fitch scuffed his foot across the neatly clipped grass that surrounded the gravestone. “This whole place is grown up in weeds, but your grandmother’s grave looks like somebody’s garden.” The stone had been cleared of moss and debris, and spring bulbs were pushing their way through the turf. A small dogwood tree had been planted behind the stone.
“Where’s my great-great grandfather?” Susannah’s was the only name on the stone. Maybe Abraham had remarried. If so, Jack had never heard about it.
“Look at this!” Will gathered up the remains of several long-stemmed roses that had been scattered over the plot. The blackened petals spiraled gently back to the ground as he lifted them. “Is there still family around here?” Will asked, looking over his shoulder as if one of them might appear at any moment to challenge him.
“I don’t know.” Jack shook his head. Even if there were, Susannah had died a long time ago. There couldn’t possibly be anyone still alive who would remember her. He thought of the laughing young woman in the photographs. GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN. She looked like someone who would be hard to forget.
“Now what?” Fitch shivered and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. “I feel like a grave robber.”
Jack knelt and unzipped
the duffle bag. He pulled out the two short spades. “Now we dig. Aunt Linda said we should look for something buried behind the stone.”
Will took one of the spades from Jack and chose a spot about a foot in back of the marker, far enough away to keep the stone from toppling.
“Couldn’t your grandmother have kept her heirlooms in the attic like everyone else?” Fitch asked, leaning against Susannah’s stone. “And how does your Aunt Linda know there’s something here?”
“I don’t know,” Jack replied, sinking his spade into the dirt a few feet away from Will. “But I guess this was something that my grandmother didn’t want falling into the wrong hands.”
“Like ours, maybe,” Fitch said dryly. It felt like the earth behind the stone had not been disturbed for a century. Or ever. It was clay and shale and full of tree roots. Fitch kept watch while the other two handled the shovels. Once in awhile they could see the lights of a car along the chapel road. The trees in the woods on either side complained as the wind moved through them. Otherwise the only sound was the clink of shovels against stone and the labored breathing of the diggers.
Eventually they’d dug a fairly large hole, three feet long and perhaps three feet deep. Despite the cold air, Jack was sweating from the exertion. And then his shovel hit something with a dull clunking sound that was different than before. And then again. He continued to dig, lifting away smaller amounts of dirt until they could see a rough rectangular outline. Will dug with renewed energy, enlarging the hole, trying to find the other end of the box, if that was what it was.
Jack cleared the earth away from the sides, so they could see how deep it was. Now they had all four of the top corners exposed. It was about three feet long, and narrow.
Jack leaned wearily on his shovel. Something strange was going on. His head was spinning, and there was a murmuring in his ears, the sound of a thousand urgent voices. He sat down heavily on the edge of the hole, his legs dangling, and put his hands over his ears.
The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III Page 8