An Unmarked Grave (17 page)

Jack asked the question I wanted to ask but couldn't build
up the nerve to. To ask such a question meant I gave some
credence to the bizarre story, and that was too much of a
stretch for my own common sense. Jack muttered in disbelief.
"You mean, you think he's still alive?"

He nodded matter-of-factly. "I don't know how Grandpa
knew. Maybe he figured out how to talk to the man, but
Grandpa told me he thought the spaceman could live two or
three hundred of our years"

I didn't even bother to wipe out my glass. I splashed bourbon into it and gulped it down, not caring if the fiery liquid
burned away the grease from the old man's shirt or not. But
the story wasn't over yet.

Barton nodded to the grid on the sheet of paper. "There is
something buried there. And I think maybe Justin figured out
who it was" He paused. "I never told him. Maybe I should
have, but I didn't know how far to trust him"

Jack scooted forward in his chair. "You mean in the spaceman's grave?"

I leaned forward. "Told him what? You know what's in
the grave?"

"About twenty years or so ago, I was heading home from
a friend's house early one morning. We'd had a night of
drinking, so I was pretty snockered. I always cut across the
cemetery. That night, I spotted a pickup parked about where
I figured the spaceman's grave was. They was two men, and
they was too far away to make out" He cackled. "Anyway,
I was too drunk to recognize them even if I'd been closer. I
passed out. When I woke up next morning, I didn't remember
a thing. I started on home and stumbled over the fresh-dug
ground. Then I remembered the pickup. For some reason,
they'd dug up the spaceman's grave"

Jack's words were hushed. "No kidding?"

I arched a skeptical eyebrow. Memory gets hazy after
twenty years, especially when fortified by whiskey.

Harlan Barton peered into the past, his rheumy eyes clearing. "You see, when they went to bury the spaceman
over eighty-odd years before, they didn't mark the grave, not
with a marker. Instead, they buried the empty coffin fifty feet
due south of an old white oak tree. Lightning destroyed
the tree some years later, but at that time, there was enough
stump left in the ground to take your bearings. That's how I
know whoever was in that pickup put something down there.
And they had to be kin of them what buried the spaceman's
coffin in the first place"

I cleared my throat. "Why would they have to be kin?"

"Because," the old man snorted, "they knew the coffin
was empty, a perfect hiding place for what they had in
mind"

Jack looked around at me and whistled softly.

I rolled my eyes. This was fast turning into the kind of
oft-told tale of which myths are born. "What do you figure
they buried down there?" I studied him suspiciously.

His eyes grew wary. He ignored my question. "At first,
I figured that in the next few days word would be out that
the spaceman wasn't in the coffin, but I never heard no word
about it" He paused. His rheumy eyes grew shrewd. "Now,
you tell me, why wouldn't I hear nothing unless whoever
dug it up didn't want nobody to know he'd done that?" And
then, in a warning tone, he added, "On the surface, Elysian
Hills looks like a simple little community, but there is a dark
side that not many ever see"

His cryptic remark was too enigmatic for me to spend
time analyzing. I figured I was listening to the ramblings of
an old drunk. All I wanted were the items Justin had given
him to hold. I touched my forefinger to one of the sheets of paper. "What about the items on this inventory? Do you
have them here?"

A sly grin played over his weathered face. "I hid 'em
good. Real good" He nodded to the kitchen window. "In
one of the seed bins. Out in the bam"

Jack spoke up. "Let's go get them. I can't wait to see that
piece of metal you were talking about"

For several long moments, Barton studied us, then nodded.
He rose, staggered slightly, then grinned. "Let's go out the
back way. When we come back in, I'll tell you what I found
when I dug up the spaceman's grave" He was beginning to
slur his words. "A bunch of folks is going to be mighty surprised."

I gaped at him in disbelief. "You dug it up?"

A sly grin played over his thin lips as he reached for the
doorknob. "It was a full moon that next night. The dirt was
fresh. The small casket was only a few under the ground.
Didn't take long at all. I-" He opened the kitchen door
and suddenly stiffened. He turned slowly to us, an expression of disbelief on his face. His bony hand clawed at his
chest. He opened his lips to speak, but all that came out was
a raspy gasp, and he collapsed.

A few minutes past three. Noble's Funeral Home loaded
the gurney holding Harlan Barton into a long black hearse
for the drive to Reuben. I stood on the porch with Justice
of the Peace George McDaniel while the sheriff spoke with
the driver of the hearse.

A lanky man in his early seventies, McDaniel grunted.
"No disrespect intended, but if folks keep dying around here like they have the last few weeks, there ain't going to
be no Elysian Hills" He chuckled and glanced at me.

"Has been busy," I replied. "I'd been meaning to visit
with you about Justin Chester."

He shrugged. "Best ask the sheriff. I was down to Fort
Worth when it happened. He took care of things" He
grinned at my surprise. "We're just small-time folks here,
Mr. Boudreaux. We got to work together when things happen. Know what I mean?"

"The death certificate said Justin was drinking"

McDaniel nodded. "When I saw the truck down at Newt's
garage before he had it towed, it smelled to high heaven of
whiskey."

I looked at him in amazement, well aware of the casual
manner in which public affairs were handled in small towns.
After all, I grew up in one, and more than once I saw officials acting in capacities beyond their own jurisdiction. It
was a way of life in Louisiana. Same in Texas. Probably the
same everywhere.

At that moment. Sheriff Perry headed back toward us as
the hearse pulled onto the dirt road for the drive to Reuben.
He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the porch
and muttered, "When I go, I hope it's fast like that"

"Yeah," Jack muttered.

Sheriff Perry grunted. "Been expecting something like
this for years"

McDaniel chuckled. "Yep. Old Harlan, he was probably
the primary reason Jim Beam stayed in business so long.
Alcohol ate his brain away."

Sheriff Perry laughed, but I just stared after the hearse.

Jack spoke up. "He have any family?"

"Nope," McDaniel replied. "Last of the clan" He gave
his head a shake. "The Bartons were one of the first families
to settle here back in the 1850s" His brow knit in sadness.
"Seems like an awful shame. The Bartons in Elysian Hills is
now nothing but history." He drew a deep breath and blew
it out through his lips as he stepped down off the porch.
"Reckon I best get back to the feed store, Sheriff. Getting
close to the rush hour. Can't afford to miss no business"

"Yeah. See you later, George" Perry cleared his throat and
turned to me. A little too enthusiastically, he said, "You're
just about finished up around here, huh?"

I had the feeling Perry wanted us out of Elysian Hills.
But why? Inadvertently, I glanced over my shoulder in the
direction of the barn. I knew we weren't leaving until we
had a chance to search for the list of items on the inventory.
"Just about. I wanted to pay a visit to the cemetery. Take a
couple pictures"

Perry frowned. "Pictures?"

I grinned at him. "Justin's family wants them. I suppose
they want some memories of where he lived." With a shrug,
I added, "Everyone to his own thing, right?"

Perry arched an eyebrow. "I suppose"

Perry stood on the porch watching us as we headed on
down the road to the cemetery.

Jack scooted around in the seat. "What about the barn?"

"We'll go back when the sheriff leaves"

Several acres in size, the cemetery covered the crest of
a gentle hill. We took one of the narrow lanes to the top
and stopped. Ancient hickory and oak dotted the cemetery, splashing shadows onto the grassy carpet spreading over
the hill.

Peering through the windshield at the rolling countryside,
I was struck by a sense of peace and tranquility. "Pretty place,
huh?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Just a cemetery. Like all of them.
Nothing but dead people."

I laughed. "You always could cut through the nonsense,
you know that, Jack?"

"Well, once you seen one, you've seen 'em all." He
glanced over his shoulder.

"I've always admired your capacity for compassion, Jack"

He ignored my sarcasm. "He's leaving."

"Huh?"

"The sheriff. He just turned onto the road back to town."

I looked into the side mirror as Sheriff Perry crossed
the old wooden bridge. About a quarter mile ahead of him,
a white car disappeared around the first curve in the S.

Taggert?

After the sheriff vanished around the same curve, I started
the pickup and drove to the northeast corner of the cemetery.

"Where to now?"

"Let's see if we can find that metal rod Harlan Barton
told us about."

With an indifferent expression on his face, Jack nodded.
Suddenly, the lack of interest on his face crumpled into a
grimace of alarm as my words soaked in. "The metal rod?
Why?"

I shrugged. "Curious. Wondering it it's still there, and
what it was Harlan found when he dug up the coffin twenty
years ago"

Jack remained silent.

When we reached the marked spot on the map, I stopped
the Silverado and climbed out. "From the middle of the
junction, twenty feet southwest. Isn't that what he said?"

Jack remained in the pickup. "Yeah. I think so. Yeah, yeah.
That's what he said."

I glanced back. "You coming?"

Glancing around the peaceful cemetery, he shook his
head emphatically. "No. I'll wait here for you."

"Come on, Jack." I laughed. "After all, you said it yourself. There's nothing here but dead people." I paused and
added. "And maybe one or two zombies."

He muttered a disgusted curse and climbed out.

I stepped off about twenty feet, then began feeling for the
metal rod with the soles of my feet. "Here it is!" I exclaimed
after several minutes of prodding the grassy carpet.

With obvious uninterest, Jack muttered, "So now you
found it. What next?"

"Well," I replied, looking up and admiring the beauty and
tranquility of the peaceful scenery, "after we finish searching through the barn, we'll get us some shovels and dig up
the casket"

Jack's eyes bugged out. "We'll what?"

e pulled around Barton's old house so the pickup
couldn't be spotted from the road. The ancient barn was
even closer to falling down than the house. About fifty feet
long, the barn was typical of such construction in the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The two-story building was gabled at either end, and long sheds stretched the
length of the barn on either side. On one side, the shed had
collapsed. The other remained upright, sheltering rusting
farm implements. The double-wide opening to the barn was
canted several degrees to the right. One door had fallen,
and the other hung by a single hinge.

Jack whistled softly. "You're not going to go in there, are
you? Finding that stuff the old man talked about would be
like searching for a needle in a haystack, Tony. Impossible. Besides, a strong wind might come up and blow the
whole shebang down on you"

I had the same sense of trepidation. On the other hand, Barton said he had hidden the items on the inventory list inside the barn, in a seed bin. I wanted to see the items, especially the piece of aircraft skin. "Look, he hid them in the
seed bin. There couldn't be more than one or two seed bins
in the barn"

Jack remained skeptical. "What's a seed bin?"