Search for the Shadowman

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  The clouds grew darker, completely cutting off the straggly remnants of sun. A cold, crawling sensation slid up Andy’s backbone, and he shouted back to J.J., “Don’t take too long! Okay? We want to get home before it starts to rain.”

  Malcolm John Bonner’s tombstone was nothing more than a plain, rectangular block, but the dark red-and-black speckled granite stood out like a splotch of dried blood against the gray-flecked granite and yellow sandstone markers that surrounded it.

  Silently, Andy approached the stone. Deeply carved were Malcolm John’s name and dates of birth and death. At first, Andy saw nothing else. Then, suddenly, down in the right-hand corner of the stone, where long fingers of grass reached up to almost hide it, he made out a small carving of a snake’s head. Its mouth was open, as though it were attacking, with its two sharp fangs thrust outward.

  “Hey, J.J.!” Andy shouted. “C’mere! Quick!”

  His shout seemed to vibrate in the quiet air, whamming and bouncing off the tombstones. A soft thud came from behind him, and he whirled, but no one was there.

  J.J. appeared so suddenly that Andy jumped. “What’s the matter?” J.J. asked.

  “Look at this,” Andy said, and pointed at the snake’s head.

  J.J. bent over to examine the carving and whistled. “Wow! Did Malcolm John Bonner die of snakebite? Is that why this snake head is carved here?”

  “No one said anything about snakebite.”

  “Ask Miss Winnie.”

  A low roll of thunder rumbled from the near distance as the sky darkened.

  J.J. held out his notepad to Andy. “I couldn’t find anything interesting on the grave markers, just ‘loving husband and father’ and ‘devoted wife and mother.’ He grinned. “If one of them got shot during a poker game, the Gaspers didn’t put it on the tombstone.”

  Lightning flashed across the sky, and the next smack of thunder shook the ground.

  “We need to get out of here,” Andy said. “It’s getting close.”

  But before Andy and J.J. could move, something round and dark leaped at them from behind the tombstones. Grunting, yelling words that Andy couldn’t understand, a short, powerful figure grabbed his wrist and J.J.’s and ran, dodging the tombstones as he pulled the boys across the low hill and down to the covered porch of a small building.

  As they slammed up against the wall, a bolt of blinding lightning smashed into the ground at the rise of the old cemetery.

  “There! You see! You see! Right where you were standing!” the strange figure shouted. “You boys got grass growin’ where your brains ought to be?”

  Andy stared at a man who was not much taller than he was. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular and overlong, and his body was round as a ball. The eyes that peered from within his wrinkled, weathered walnut shell of a face were a startling blue.

  Thunder pounded against Andy’s ears, and lightning splattered white fingers into the dark sky. Crossly, the man said, “Stop gawkin’ like a pair of stupid, cud-chewin’ cows and come on inside till the storm’s passed.”

  Hesitantly, Andy entered as the man held the door wide open. J.J. followed.

  The room was small and the furniture plain, but two of the walls were lined with bookshelves to the low ceiling, and all the shelves were crammed with books. A half-filled, sour-smelling cup of coffee rested on a wooden table.

  “Sit down,” the man said, pointing to the sofa, “and tell me what y’all are doin’ in my cemetery.”

  “Your cemetery?” Andy blurted out.

  “Yes, my cemetery,” the man said. “I’m Elton, and I’m the caretaker here.”

  Together, in a scramble of words, Andy and J.J. tried to explain to Elton about their history project.

  Finally Elton shook his head. “This ain’t Boot Hill. None of them funny sayings are written on these stones.”

  “But there is something weird on Malcolm John Bonner’s stone,” Andy said. “Down at the bottom is carved a small snake head.”

  Elton nodded. “Know what it means?”

  “No,” Andy said.

  “There’s other words for snakes, you know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Got a dictionary? Look it up. Then ask the right person.”

  Andy was bewildered. “What right person?”

  “You ever hear tell of William Shakespeare?”

  “Sure.” Andy did a double take. “But I can’t ask him anything. He’s dead.”

  “That won’t stop him none from answering your questions. Or Malcolm John Bonner, neither, for that matter.”

  Andy gulped. “You can’t talk to the dead.”

  Elton leaned forward and grinned, his teeth gaping like little brown nutmeats, as he chuckled soft and low. “I can,” he said. “That’s how I know why Malcolm John Bonner ordered that snake head to be carved on his stone.”

  “C’mon. You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Andy heard his voice tremble.

  Elton swept an arm toward the cemetery that lay outside his door. “Kidding? Not on your life. There’s nobody around here but me and the dead. Who else have I got to talk to?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  At the dinner table that evening Andy said, “After school me and J.J. rode our bikes out to the cemetery, but it started to rain hard and thunder and lightning. We sat in the caretaker’s house until the storm was over.”

  “Good thinking,” his dad said.

  “J.J. and I.” Andy’s mother corrected him.

  “Elton said he talks to the dead. Do you believe he can do that?” Andy put down his fork, waiting for an answer.

  “Far as I know, he could talk to anybody,” Mr. Thomas said. “The big question is, do the dead talk back?”

  “Bill!” Mrs. Thomas said. “What a thing to say!”

  “Maybe they do.” Andy laughed but shivered.

  “Mom, the odd thing at Malcolm John Bonner’s grave is the snake head with the big fangs carved near the bottom of the tombstone. You told me there was something strange on the stone, remember?”

  “A snake,” his mother murmured. She squinted as though she were trying to see the stone again. “That’s right. I’d forgotten. It was a snake.”

  “Not a whole snake. Just a snake head,” Andy said. More at ease now that his parents were involved in the story, he took a mouthful of mashed potatoes; then he continued. “Elton said there were other words for snake. He told me to use the dictionary. He said William Shakespeare is probably the best way to understand. I’ve only read Romeo and Juliet, and not even the whole play. Next year we read A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “Shakespeare,” his father said. “That’s interesting. What are words for snake? Reptile … serpent …”

  “Serpent!” Mrs. Thomas smiled. She looked pleased with herself as she said, “Perhaps Elton’s referring to King Lear. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’ I still remember that quote from freshman English in college.”

  “What would that have to do with Malcolm John Bonner?” Andy asked.

  “I have no idea,” Mr. Thomas said.

  “Maybe we should ask Miss Winnie if she knows what the snake head means,” his mother added.

  “No!” Andy realized he’d answered too loudly. As his parents looked at him with surprise, he shrugged and hunkered down in his chair. “This is my school project,” he said. “I should be the one to ask Miss Winnie.”

  “Of course.” His mother nodded and smiled.

  Andy wasn’t about to bring up the subject with Miss Winnie. He realized his mother had already explained the identity of the thankless child. He was shocked to think of how hurt and unforgiving Malcolm John must have been to have ordered a carving of a snake head on his tombstone.

  “Elton Gillie took over as caretaker from his grandfather. He probably inherited a passel of stories from the old man, too,” Andy’s father said.

  “Do you think he knows why the snake head was carved into Malcolm John Bonner’s tombsto
ne?” Mrs. Thomas asked.

  “Perhaps, or he’s built some legend around it. Andy, you might find it interesting to talk to Elton again and discover what he knows.”

  “I’d just as soon he didn’t.” Andy’s mother stood and picked up her plate and glass. “I didn’t like the idea of Andy and J.J.’s going to the cemetery in the first place, and I don’t like what Elton told them. Talking with the dead! That’s creepy.”

  Andy tried to look upset, but secretly he agreed with his mother. He’d found the answer to his question because his mother remembered her freshman English! There’d be no reason to see Elton again.

  Mr. Thomas pushed back his chair. “I need to do some work on my computer. You won’t need it for a little while, will you, Andy?”

  Andy shook his head. “It’s my night to do the dishes, and after that I’ve got to interview Grandpa and Grandma.”

  As Andy put the last plate into the dishwasher, his dad came into the room. Holding out a sheet of paper, he asked, “I take it you’re known in genealogy circles as Hunter?”

  Andy’s face grew warm. “You told me to use a screen name.”

  “Right,” Mr. Thomas said. “Well, Hunter, you received an e-mail letter from MLB321 in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She’s got some love letters for you.”

  “Da-aad! Cut it out!”

  Mr. Thomas grinned. “I didn’t say they were to you. I said they were for you. They’re letters that someone named Coley Joe Bonner wrote to his fiancée—Felicity Strickland.”

  Andy gasped. He snatched the sheet of paper from his dad. His heart thumped with excitement, and it was hard to keep his fingers from trembling. “She says they’re letters Coley Joe wrote from El Paso! On his way to Hermosa!” Andy looked up at his father. “MLB321 wants to know my name and address or fax number. She’ll send me copies of the letters. Dad?”

  “I think it’s safe enough to give her the fax number, but stick to ‘Hunter’ for now.” Mr. Thomas smiled. “Go ahead and answer her e-mail, before you squirm a hole right through the floor. I’ll wait to use the computer until after you’ve finished.”

  His father had left MLB321’s e-mail letter on the screen, so Andy clicked on reply and wrote to thank MLB321 for the offer. He gave his dad’s fax number, then clicked on send. A picture of a mailbox popped up on the screen. The mailbox sprouted wings and seemed to fly off somewhere deep inside the computer.

  Andy collapsed against the back of the chair he was sitting in, finally able to breathe normally.

  Letters from Coley Joe! They were bound to tell him something or give a clue as to what had happened. How long would it take for copies of the letters to arrive by fax? Was MLB321 sitting at the computer now, waiting for his answer? Or was she the kind that booted up once a week in her spare time? “Come on, MLB321! Do something!” Andy mumbled.

  The phone on the fax line rang. His father’s fax machine beeped and went into action. Andy jumped to his feet, ran to the fax, and removed the sheets of paper as they came up. There were three letters, each addressed to “My Dearest Felicity” in a swirly, scratchy kind of handwriting that Andy found hard to read.

  Mr. Thomas came into the room. “Are the letters going to be of any help with your project?” he asked.

  “Project?” As he stared at the handwriting of an ancestor whose whereabouts had become a mystery, Andy realized he had forgotten he was searching because of his history assignment.

  “Look, Dad!” Andy said, and waved the sheets of paper toward his father. “Real letters, written by Coley Joe.”

  “That’s good?” Mr. Thomas asked.

  “It’s cool. Really cool. All I have to do is figure out the handwriting so I’ll know what he wrote.”

  “Have you thanked MLB321?”

  “Ooops. I’ll do that right now.”

  Andy went back to MLB321’s e-mail letter, clicked on reply, and wrote: “Letters received. Thank you very much. Hunter.”

  He sent the mail and turned the computer over to his father. It was a terrible temptation to go up to his room and pore over Coley Joe’s letters, but he had to keep his interview appointment with his grandparents. For safe-keeping, Andy tucked the letters on top of the poetry book inside the drawer of his nightstand. He took a quick call from J.J. and filled him in before he ran across the lawn to his grandparents’ house.

  Grandma Dorothy ushered him into the den, where Grandpa Zeke, dressed in sweatpants and an old Dallas Cowboys T-shirt, was stretched out in a recliner. Grandma Dorothy picked up the remote control and turned off the television set.

  “Hey!” Grandpa Zeke exclaimed. “That blond girl from Idaho was just about to give the answer.”

  “We promised Andy we’d tell him family stories,” Grandma Dorothy said. She sat in her armchair and smiled at Andy.

  “Well, then, let’s get it over with,” Grandpa Zeke said. “That hospital soap opera’s coming on next, and I don’t want to miss it.”

  Grandma Dorothy smiled at Andy. “Your grandpa’s just kidding,” she said. “Go ahead, Andy. Ask whatever you like.”

  Andy gulped. “I forgot my notebook.”

  “Looks like you forgot your pen, too,” Grandpa Zeke told him.

  Andy looked at his empty hands, surprised. “I’m kind of excited,” he said. “I just got something special faxed to me.”

  “A course on how to improve your memory?” Grandpa Zeke asked.

  “Now, Zeke, don’t try to fluster the boy,” Grandma Dorothy said. She got up and fished through the top desk drawer until she found a notepad and pencil. “Here,” she said to Andy. “You can use these.”

  “Thanks, Grandma,” Andy said. He looked toward the screened porch and lowered his voice. “Is Miss Winnie back there?”

  “Miss Winnie’s gone to bed,” Grandma Dorothy said. She settled back into her chair.

  Andy leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I asked about Coley Joe Bonner on the Internet’s genealogy bulletin boards. I didn’t use Dad’s name. I used the name Hunter. A little while ago I got copies of three letters. They were written by Coley Joe Bonner to his girlfriend, back in Corpus Christi.”

  Grandma Dorothy blinked, then frowned. “I heard Miss Winnie tell you not to question her about Coley Joe Bonner.”

  “I’m not questioning her, Grandma. I’m trying to clear Coley Joe’s name. Do you know about Coley Joe and that his family thought he stole their money?”

  “Yes, I know the family story. But the Bonners didn’t just think Coley Joe stole their money. They had some kind of proof.”

  “Proof? What kind of proof?”

  “I have no idea. I doubt if Miss Winnie even knows. If she does, she’s never mentioned it to me.”

  Grandma glanced toward the hallway that led to Miss Winnie’s bedroom. “I really wish you’d forget about Coley Joe,” she said. “Every time you’ve mentioned him, it’s upset Miss Winnie. She doesn’t want anyone to know about him.”

  “Miz Minna knows. She said something about a skeleton in the Bonners’ closet. She said something about proof, too.”

  Grandma Dorothy sighed. “Over the years Miz Minna has held the story of the theft over Miss Winnie’s head.”

  “Why?” Andy asked.

  Grandpa Zeke broke in. “Why? Because Miz Minna’s family from way back has been livin’ in high cotton. The Bonners, on the other hand, came to Hermosa poor and hungry, then made something of themselves. Miz Minna considers the Bonners upstarts. I guess she wants to keep Miss Winnie in her place and—”

  “No more about Coley Joe,” Grandma Dorothy declared. “Ask the questions you need for your report, Andy. We’re ready to answer them. Did I ever tell you that when I was a little girl we didn’t throw away socks that had holes in them? We learned to darn the holes with tiny, woven stitches.”

  Andy heard about outhouses and when electricity first came to rural West Texas and having to memorize the multiplication tables through twelve. Grandpa Zeke’s story about the first time he milked a cow and got his
milking stool kicked over made Andy laugh. And his mouth watered as Grandma Dorothy described kneading and slicing homemade fudge, which her parents gave to all the near neighbors and friends at Christmas.

  “Got enough information, Hunter?” Grandpa Zeke asked. He winked as he used the remote control to turn on the television set. “It’s nine o’clock, and my program’s on now.”

  Andy smiled as he got to his feet. “You gave me a lot of good background,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Grandma Dorothy said as she escorted Andy to the front door. “If you come up with any more questions, we’ll be glad to answer them.”

  She placed a hand on Andy’s shoulder and paused, glancing with a worried frown toward Miss Winnie’s bedroom. “But please, Andy. Do me a big favor. Please forget all about Coley Joe.”

  Andy smushed and crackled his way across the leaf-strewn lawn, remembering too late his intention of raking the leaves for Grandpa Zeke. Saturday, he told himself. Saturday would be a good day.

  Once up in his bedroom, Andy yanked the copies of Coley Joe’s letters from the drawer and spread them on his desk. He pulled the magnifying glass out of a “young detective” kit his grandfather had given him on his eighth birthday. So far, all he’d done with the kit was use the glass, along with the sun, to set dried leaves on fire.

  “Hey!” Andy laughed. “I’m being a detective right now!” He bent to scan the words through the glass. He could make out the narrowest, threadlike sweeps, and he saw where tiny ink blots widened some of the letters. Before long, as if he were learning a foreign language, Andy began to feel at home with the spidery writing and understand it.

  The letters were dated the first, eighth, and fourteenth of December 1877.

  The first letter began:

  My Dearest Felicity,

  I think of you night and day and long to return to Corpus Christi to claim you as my bride.

  Andy grimaced. He wished Coley Joe had written straight, plain letters, without turning so mushy over some girl.