“Sure thing.” He waves me into the agency.
Mom’s on the phone. She gives me a Be good look and mouths, “Coffee, please,” to C.B. He winks a You betcha, and pushes a button on the coffee machine.
“You want a cappuccino?” he asks me.
“Sure.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. She knows I hate coffee. I shoot her a Don’t embarrass me look.
C.B. hands Mom the first one, and they banter till ours are ready. I put four packs of sugar in mine, retrieve the package from Mom’s desk, and follow C.B. to his private office. It’s a beige room with sheer curtains that cover a barred window facing the rear alley. The walls are covered in frames: his college degree, his real estate license, cheesy slogans like “If Not Now, When?” and pictures of a girl and boy around four or five. I stop at the one where the kids are squeezed together on the top step of a porch eating ice-cream cones.
C.B. comes over. “Patrick and Kimberley.”
“Your kids?”
“They’re seven and eight now,” he says, nodding. “Live with their mother a few hundred miles away. I don’t get to see them so much.”
“You’re divorced?”
“Pretty much. There’s still some paperwork. But yeah.” For a second he doesn’t sound like a TV ad; he’s like a guy who just misses his kids.
C.B. sits in the leather chair behind his desk and motions me to the one opposite. He breathes in his cappuccino. I take a sip and try not to make a face.
“I can’t wait to hear your questions. Your mom says you’re always thinking. A real brain. I gotta tell you, I’m not. But you’re smart enough to already know that, right?” Is he trying to get me to like him? Is he saying he knows I don’t?
“I’m not so bright.”
“Don’t kid a kidder,” he says, laughing. “Luckily I’m good at real estate. Luckier still, I like it. Anyway, something I sent you needs explaining?”
“Yeah.” I hand him the package. “According to the sales page, the Sinclairs never bought the farm, and taxes are still made out to Frank McTavish, the guy who was killed by the dogs.”
“What?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.” C.B. frowns, pulls out the material, and scans it. “I told Arlene what I wanted. She did the printouts and I passed them straight on.” He checks back and forth between the pages. “Wow.”
“‘Wow’ is right. I mean, how is this even possible?”
“Good question.” C.B. leans back in his chair. He told me to ask him anything, but he’s stumped by my first question. I watch the pressure build on his forehead. It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for him.
“Okay,” he says at last, “but this is only a guess. If I recall the story, McTavish’s wife left with their son a short time before he died. His will would likely have named his son to inherit the farm.”
“But if the son was missing…”
“…and McTavish had no other family to claim it, the farm would have sat there. Unpaid taxes would have piled up and the county would’ve taken it to settle the debts.”
“Unless somebody paid the taxes,” I say, “in which case the county would be happy?”
“Sure. Nobody’d want to step in if there was a son who might come back someday.”
“So if Mr. Sinclair’s family paid the taxes, they’d be able to use the land for free until the son returned.”
“Your mom’s right. You’re smart.”
“But the son, Jacky, never came back,” I exclaim, the thoughts coming as fast as I can say them. “Nobody cared though, because the taxes were being paid, and eventually so much time passed that nobody thought about it anymore. It was just the way things were.”
“Sure is a possibility.”
“Is that legal?”
“Well, it’s not illegal. Especially if McTavish had named Art Sinclair’s father as his executor—the guy taking care of his will.”
“Mr. Sinclair said his dad and Mr. McTavish were best friends.”
“There you are, then.” C.B. drums his fingers on his desk. “Art’s father could easily have said he was looking after the farm till McTavish’s son was found. And there’d be nothing and no one to make him sell it.”
“And then Mr. Sinclair’s father dies, and Mr. Sinclair just keeps paying the taxes like his family’s done since forever, and he gets to make money off a farm he never paid for.”
C.B.’s eyes flicker. He knows where I’m headed, and where I’m headed is trouble. “Remember, that’s just a guess, Cameron. Even if we’re right, at this point Mr. Sinclair could likely claim squatter’s rights. If I were him, I’d go to court and make it official.”
“But there’s a chance he could lose. So maybe he thinks, why risk it?”
C.B. laughs. “More likely, knowing Art, he’s just never gotten around to it. Personally, I’d have it at the top of my to-do list. I hate uncertainty.”
“Me too.”
We share a look.
“What?” he asks with a smile.
“What do you mean, what?”
“You want to ask me something.”
“How do you know?”
“The way you’re sitting.”
“You’re a pretty good guesser.”
“Sales.” C.B. taps his temple.
“Okay.” I hesitate. “If this is too personal just say so, but…what’s it like not seeing your kids so much?”
He looks me straight in the eye. “It’s a bit like dying. They’re my kids. But they’ll never live with me again. And they’re doing things I’m not part of. Creating memories I’ll never share. It kills me. Yeah. It kills me.”
Does Dad miss me like that? Is that why he still tries to find me?
“How often do you see them?”
“One weekend a month. A week at Christmas. Two weeks in the summer. It’s not like you and your dad.”
I freeze. “How much did Mom tell you?” It comes out sounding mad, but that’s not how I mean it. I don’t know how I mean it. All Mom did was talk to a friend. And it’s not like he’s as bad as I thought.
“Cameron,” he says, like his eyes are seeing into my brain, like his voice is giving me a hug, “whatever is between you and your mom and your dad—that’s between the three of you. It’s none of my business.”
“Right.” I can feel my face doing everything not to crumple up.
“Another thing: I know you already have a dad, and he’s not me, and I’ll never be him. I’ll never try to be either. I promise. I’ll only ever be me. Ken. Talk to me, don’t talk to me, it’s up to you. Just know I’m here.”
“Okay.”
We both seem to know the conversation is over. It’s weird how that happens. We go see Mom at the front.
“Did you work out the ownership question?” Mom asks.
“We worked out a lot of things,” Ken says.
Mom turns to me. “So, it’s nine o’clock. You’ll be back here at noon after your swim?”
“Sure.” If there’s a swimming pool at the cemetery. “See you.” I swing my backpack over my shoulder and head out the door with them calling, “Have fun,” after me.
I don’t look back. I don’t want to know if he puts his hand on her shoulder. For now, all I know is that I’m not going to call him C.B. anymore. From now on, he’s Ken.
23
The cemetery. It’s all I can think about.
I go two blocks over and turn right, like the man from Huntley’s said, and walk down a street of old brick homes. They all have verandas with bushes at the side, big windows, and a tree near the sidewalk. A few have a cement birdbath. After the fourth street, the houses get shabbier. Some houses have dented aluminum siding. Crabgrass is growing through cracks in the cement sidewalks, and one place has a rusty jungle gym. Then I’m passing a small p
ark.
The farther I go, the foggier it gets. It’s like moving through sheets of cobwebs. Finally I come to the final crossroad. On the other side are a spiked wrought-iron fence and a wooden sign by an open gate that says: Wolf Hollow Cemetery, est. 1794.
I follow the road through the gate into a world of tombstones. How will I ever find Mr. McTavish? The road divides in two. The right fork leads to a small building with a garage and toolshed. There’s a light in the window. I knock on the door.
“Ya-llow,” comes a voice from inside. The door opens. I’m staring at a short, stocky woman in a bright yellow raincoat and work gloves. “What can I do you for?”
“I’m looking for a grave.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.” She winks. “Any grave in particular?”
“Yes. Frank McTavish. He died a long time ago.”
“You’re asking me?”
Seriously, what is it with people around here?
The woman waves me into a bare-bones office lit by a panel of fluorescents. There’s a wall heater, a desk with a computer, and the kind of chairs you see at garage sales. On the walls are bleached-out pictures of gardens and rainbows, and a large survey map of the cemetery grounds.
“Jean Currie.” She shakes my hand.
“Cameron Weaver.”
“And you’re looking for Frank McTavish. He’s the one got ripped apart by his dogs, right? I don’t need the computer for him. Those dogs, they’re a bit of a local legend.” She taps the cemetery map. “He’s planted with his parents in Section D, Plot 24. You take the main road up to the second turnoff. After a while you’ll come to a big maple tree on your right. Walk a bit on an eighty-degree angle, and there you go.”
I feel like a lost puppy. I must look like one too.
“All righty, I’ll take you myself,” Ms. Currie sighs, like I’m her good deed of the day. “Have to dig a hole in Section F anyhow. Gentleman from the nursing home, died the day before yesterday, ninety-six. They say he had a good dinner, then bingo. Hard to complain.”
Rewind. “You dig graves?”
“Groundskeeper, grave digger, that’s me.”
Ms. Currie brings me to the garage and has me sit beside her on the backhoe loader. We drive through the fog.
“You should come when it’s sunny,” Ms. Currie says. “Beautiful. In the summer, tourists drop by to do rubbings of the pioneer stones.”
When we get to the maple, Ms. Currie parks the backhoe and walks me over to Mr. McTavish’s grave. The marker is a plain gray slab of limestone.
McTAVISH
EMILY (COLE) McTAVISH
March 12, 1899–April 24, 1924
BELOVED WIFE OF
HENRY K. McTAVISH
Jan. 18, 1893–February 16, 1952
PARENTS OF
FRANK H. McTAVISH
April 24, 1924–June 1964
Strange. All the dates have a day, except for Jacky’s father. If they only knew the month he died, not the day, he could’ve been dead for weeks before they found him. I imagine his body in the field with stuff growing up around it. I imagine the Sinclairs knocking at his door, wondering where he is. I imagine them figuring he’s off somewhere and leaving, and him only a few hundred yards away, half eaten by his dogs. By the time they found him, how much was left?
“Are you okay?” Ms. Currie asks.
“Sure, yeah.” Not. “I just noticed something. Mr. McTavish’s mother died the day he was born.”
Ms. Currie peers at the dates. “Say, you’re pretty observant. Must have been childbirth. Happened a lot back then.”
“And there’s no second wife named, so it looks like his father never remarried. He had no other family?”
“Not that I can tell. This plot has room for six and there’s just the three of them.” Ms. Currie pauses. “Don’t mean to rush, kiddo, but I have to get digging. You can find your way back?”
“Yes, thanks. I just take the turnoff back to the road.”
“That’s the ticket.” She heads back to her backhoe. “See you later, alligator.”
“In a while, crocodile.” I haven’t said that since I was five or six with Grandma.
Ms. Currie drives off into the fog. I kneel in front of the gravestone and read and reread the inscription for Jacky’s father. He was born in 1924 and died in 1964. That means he was forty. Dad’s age. This could be Dad’s grave.
I put my hand on the cold stone and close my eyes. I see the picture Dad gave me at our last visit, the one of him and me at the beach, the one I keep hidden behind the picture of Mom and my grandparents on my bedside table. Does Dad still look like he did then? Does he wonder what I look like? What if he dies and I never see him again?
Something’s behind me. I turn my head. Through the mist I see a large, gray dog staring at me from beside a tombstone.
What does it want?
Don’t think crazy. It’s just a dog. An ordinary dog.
Is it?
The dog’s eyes are ice blue. I press my back against Mr. McTavish’s gravestone. The dog disappears in the mist. I stay frozen against the stone for what seems like forever. All I see are gravestones, angels, and crosses. I get up slowly and head toward the maple tree at the side of the turnoff.
Something’s following me. Something’s behind the stones.
I follow the turnoff to the main road. Suddenly, there it is again, right ahead of me, blocking my way: the dog.
“Go away. Leave me alone.”
The dog growls. There’s no one to help me. I think of Mr. McTavish. Then I hear a faraway voice: “Don’t be afraid. He won’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”
The dog runs off.
“Jacky?” I whisper. “Are you here?”
“No. At the farm. I haven’t left the farm since Mother went away. I told you that.”
I close my eyes. I expect to picture him in the hayloft or the woods. But all I see is a terrible darkness. Is it because he’s nowhere except in my mind? No, he’s too real. He has to be somewhere. I fill with dread.
“Jacky, where are you? Why can’t I see you?”
“Because.” His voice goes strange, like he’s smiling. Only whatever he’s smiling at isn’t funny.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Jacky singsongs. “I’m in my special place is all. No one can see me here. No one.”
“What’s your special place? Where’s your special place?”
“Ask Arty. He knows. He’s the only one who knows.”
“No. I’m asking you. If you’re my friend, tell me.”
He doesn’t say anything. Why not? Is he scared? Playing games?
I concentrate. Where is it so dark no one can see? The coal room, where I found his drawings? Someplace he and Mr. Sinclair played? Not the barn; light gets in through the cracks. But what about a place in the woods?
“Jacky, is there a cave near the boulders? Some underground hideout? Is that your secret place?”
A twig snaps to my side. Who is it? What is it? I don’t want to find out.
I run.
24
I’m at Main Street in no time. There are people and cars all around. Things are normal, at least to everyone but me. I won’t sleep till I know what happened to Jacky.
I check my phone. Ten o’clock. There’s time to go to the Weekly Bugle before I meet Mom for lunch. Now that I know Mr. McTavish died in June 1964, I can ask to get specific issues out of storage. Going back to March should cover the time from when Jacky and his mother disappeared and Cody’s great-grandmother accused Mr. McTavish of murder.
The Bugle is in an old stone building with arched windows. A bell rings when I open the door. Ahead of me, a counter blocks off a wide aisle with office partitions on either side. Beyond them there’s a printing press and rolls of newsprint st
acked on heavy shelves.
“Hello? Anybody there?”
“You gonna get that?” somebody shouts from an office on the left.
“I’m busy, Gus,” somebody else shouts from the right.
“You’re always busy,” Gus grumps and hauls himself to the counter. “What can I do for you?”
Gus is pretty gnarly, with a lumpy nose, a belly over baggy pants, and rolled-up shirtsleeves. His arms are like huge hairy sausages. Even his knuckles are hairy. You could make wigs with the stuff.
“I’m doing a history project for school. Could I please see some of the old editions in your archives?”
Gus looks at me like I’ve wandered in from Planet Simple. “Our archives?”
“Yes, please. I need to read the issues from March through June of 1964.”
“Does this place look like a reading room?”
Excuse me? I’m getting attitude from a guy who belongs in a circus?
I smile the kind of cheesy smile I use to drive Mom nuts. “No, sir. I thought this was the Weekly Bugle. And I thought the Weekly Bugle might have copies of the Weekly Bugle. Because I thought the Weekly Bugle publishes the Weekly Bugle. Or maybe I’m wrong?”
Gus glares like I’ve made his hangover worse. “They’re stored at the library.”
The librarian is way nicer, maybe because I’m the first person she’s seen in days. She takes me into what she calls “The Weekly Bugle Room” at the back. It’s basically a floor-to-ceiling filing cabinet. Issues of the Bugle are bound by the month on wooden frames and hung in rows around the walls. At the center of the room is a large walnut table with a hard-backed chair on each side.
Ms. Browning—according to her name tag—finds what I’m looking for in about ten seconds. “Take all the time you need,” she says cheerily and glances at my backpack. “Just a friendly reminder: no food or drink in the library, and cell phones off, please, and thanks.”
I make a big show of turning off my phone and putting it in my no-food, no-drink backpack. Ms. Browning breezes out, leaving the door open. I’m not sure if this is to let in air so I can breathe, or so she can keep an eye on me. Who cares? All that matters is the murder.
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