The Warrior Heir

Their benefactor nodded. “We have the Post-Telegram and the Coal Grove Democrat on microfilm, back to the mid 1850s. Those ain't indexed, either, but it makes for some interesting reading.”



Fitch had a plan. “Okay,” he said, nodding to Jack and Will. “Will and I will each take one of those cemetery books and start looking for your … uh … our dead relatives. Jack, you go through the newspaper microfilm and see if you can find an obituary or something.”



Jack chose a reel of microfilm for the Post-Telegram. Susannah Downey had died in May, 1900. He rolled forward through the film until he found May, 1900, then carefully scanned each page of the paper for any reference to her passing. After nearly an hour of reading stories about who visited whom, and who was under the weather, Jack switched from the Post-Telegram to the Coal Grove Democrat. And there it was.



“Look at this!” The boys crowded around Jack, reading over his shoulder. It was a news story: “'MRS. DOWNEY DIES IN FALL FROM HORSE. Neighbors in Coal Grove were shocked to hear of the untimely death of Mrs. Susannah Downey, late of Munroe Township, who died when she was thrown from a horse last Sunday. Lee Hastens, a visitor in the township, found her lying in the woods near the back of the family farm in the late evening. Her horse was standing nearby, all lathered up, as if he'd been ridden hard for a distance. Although known to be a capable horsewoman, Mrs. Downey took a fall onto a fence post. A severe gash to the chest was the cause of death. Reverend Eugene Carter presided over the funeral service from First Methodist. She leaves a husband and infant son to mourn.'”



“Wow,” Will breathed. “What a way to go.”



Jack had seen hand-colored pictures of his great-great grandmother from the old trunk in the attic. She had been photographed with her husband, who looked stiff and solemn. Susannah, though, looked as if she were just about to break into laughter. She was beautiful, with heavy strawberry blond hair twisted up onto her head, small graceful hands, and fine features. There was a strong resemblance between the woman in the photograph and her great-granddaughter Becka.



Fitch hit the print button on the microfilm machine.



“Does it say where she was buried?” Jack asked.



“No,” said Fitch, “but it says she lived in Munroe Township. Aren't those cemeteries listed by township?”



Will checked the table of contents of the book he was reviewing, and turned to the back. “There are eight or ten cemeteries in Munroe Township,” he reported. “Most of them seem to be small.” He ran his finger down the page. “Here! Susannah Downey, wife of Abraham. 1868 to 1900. It's in the old Methodist cemetery.”



Their voices had grown louder and louder, and Jack suddenly realized that the man in the cowboy boots had looked up from his microfilm machine and was listening with interest to everything they said. Jack shot a warning look at his friends and turned back to the book. “Wait a minute!” he said. “That can't be her. The dates are all wrong. She would have been alive much earlier.” He turned suddenly to the man with the laptop. “What if a person isn't in the cemetery book? How far back do the death records go?”



The man shook his head. “Not earlier than 1867, which is when the state began requiring the counties to keep records. There might be an estate record up at the courthouse, though that would be uncommon for a woman. Have you all been up there?”



Was there sharp interest in the man's eyes as he asked that question?



“No,” Fitch said. “We thought anything that old would be in the library.”



“No original records in here,” the man pointed out. “Only indexes and extracted records. You might want to try the courthouse, though they won't be open over the weekend. Are you boys here through Monday?”



“Probably not,” Fitch replied. “We have to be back at school, unless we can convince our mom to let us ditch on Monday. She's at our Aunt Fran's,” he added. “Do you know Frances Dunlevy, who works at the dry cleaners by the grocery in the plaza?”



Jack stared at Fitch in amazement.



“Sure, I know Fran,” the man replied, nodding. “Went to high school with her, in fact.”



By now, Will had copied the information from the cemetery book into his notebook. Fitch stood up abruptly. “We'd better go. We told Mom we'd be back by three,” he said. “Let's bring her back here tomorrow. We're not getting anywhere.” He rewound the newspaper microfilm, lifted it off the machine, and placed it in its box. Will and Jack hesitated, but Fitch continued packing up at a rapid pace. Now fully aware of the surveillance of the man in the cowboy boots. Jack reshelved the cemetery books, and Will returned the notebook to his duffle.



“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.