Texas Gothic

41



the August heat was thick and sticky as toffee as I stood in the private cemetery on the corner of McCulloch Ranch. There was quite a crowd, but Phin and I were among the inner circle, away from the photographers and spectators. Mom had come with us, and Aunt Hyacinth was there, wearing a black and gold cheongsam she’d brought back from China. Daisy, too, even though she swore she never went to cemeteries she didn’t know, lest there be any unfortunate surprises from below the ground.

The university team attended, of course. Everyone from the first dig, plus a few official types. Mark stood beside Dr. Douglas, but when he looked across at Phin, he gave her a wink. She wrinkled her nose at this foolishness, but I didn’t miss her blush.

Speaking of blushing. Across from me was Ben McCulloch, whom I hadn’t seen since Aunt Hyacinth had returned and I’d gone back to Austin. He’d been busy, and I’d been busy, and we emailed every day and occasionally called. But seeing him in the flesh, that was different. He stood between his mother and his grandfather, and his eyes were trained soberly on the officiating priest. Most of the time. I’d caught him cutting his gaze my way now and then.

The priest said, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” and most of us bowed our heads, except Daisy, who crossed herself, which was such a pious gesture with her black nail polish and lipstick. Not to mention her miniskirt and striped socks.

I returned my attention to the priest and tried to be pious, too. “Father,” he said, “we ask you to bless the grave of this soul, whose name is known only to you.”

The grave marker read Unknown Spanish Soldier. Corporal. Died for his fellow man. Circa 1750. The McCullochs had welcomed the idea that he be interred in the cemetery, since he’d been buried on the land for so long already. Only a few—me, Ben, Phin, and Mark—knew that the gesture stemmed from gratitude, not kindness.

Or not just kindness—I caught softhearted Mrs. McCulloch dabbing at tears as the priest went on with the litany. The Roman Catholic blessing was in respect for the deceased’s faith, but I liked hearing him laid, finally, to rest and sped on his journey with prayers he would recognize.

The only person who’d objected to the service was Granddad Mac, who was still convinced the Lost Soldier, as he was now called, had hit him on the head. I’d tried to explain that the Mad Monk was only a story. Maybe it had its origins in the real fallen corporal, but the legend had gotten warped and twisted over the years, and accidents and mishaps were blamed on him. The soldier might have inadvertently nearly frozen me and Daisy a couple of times, but head bashing was merely unfounded allegation.

When the priest was done, a university bigwig stepped forward and spoke, starting with congratulations to himself and the excavation team, and ending by turning to include the priest. “And I want to especially thank the Diocese of Central Texas for arranging that the university museum should be the home of the beautiful jeweled cross that was found with our unnamed friend. When the team tracked down records and survivor reports, we were able to clear the name of this long-departed soldier who, seeing his comrades besieged and outnumbered, attempted to lead off the attackers by disguising himself as the expedition’s priest and carrying an empty chest, filled with no treasure but his honor.”

“Oh brother,” muttered Phin. Mom hushed her from the other side, so she just whispered more softly. “ ‘No treasure but his honor’? Who writes this stuff?”

From Dr. Douglas’s glare, she might have had a hand in it. But I thought Ms. Daggerspoint of the alliterative bent a more likely culprit. I’d heard she’d come to town to interview people for her new edition of the book, which would include a chapter about the bodies—three so far—dug up by the river. They’d now been dubbed “The Lost Legion of Llano County.”


After the service, when the press had left and the townsfolk had gone back to Barnett and the major players were making their way to the McCulloch house for a sort of wake-slash-celebration of Dr. Douglas’s grant to excavate the riverside site that fall, I finally got a minute alone with the guy who’d given me so much trouble that summer.

“So …,” I said, standing beside his headstone. The smooth gloss and laser-cut engraving was modern and jarring. “I suppose I should say thank you for saving me and Ben. And for getting me back in touch with my Goodnight side, though I suspect that’s going to be more of a pain in the long run, if any others like you come along.”

Then I thought maybe I shouldn’t make this all about me. “I’m glad to know you didn’t betray your comrades.” Once I knew what to look for, and with help from Lucas—history grad student as well as champion beer drinker—it wasn’t hard to find reports so we could piece together the whole story. “I’m just sorry you had to get the blame for so long.”

“Having a chat?”

I turned to examine the familiar profile—familiar, except for the bump on the bridge of his nose—of the well-dressed cowboy who’d stepped next to me. He’d told me in email that the rest of his bruises and cuts had faded. I was glad to see that for myself.

“Just saying goodbye,” I said.

Ben glanced at me with a ghost of a smile. “He’s not talking back, is he?”

“Oh no. He’s long gone.”

I faced him full on; he looked as handsome as ever. The bump on his nose sort of went with the whole package.

“I heard Dr. Douglas thinks you should go into anthropology,” he said, in a making-conversation tone.

We had so much to catch up on, and that was what he picked? “What she actually said was, ‘If you don’t want to waste your talents on the living, come dig up the dead with me.’ ” I looked over to where the others were milling, loading up the cars to go to the house. “I told her I’d think about it.”

“I guess you heard Steve Sparks is doing pretty well.”

“Yeah. And Mike Kelly may be out of the hospital soon.” I turned back to him, squinting because the sun was behind him. “Is this really what you want to talk about?”

His smile broadened. “No. I’m just making chitchat while we’re in public.”

“You’re not very good at it. So far you’ve covered dead bodies and attempted murderers.”

He reached out and caught a strand of hair that had blown across my face, tucking it behind my ear. “I’ll do better later.”

“Um …” My brain short-circuited as his fingers brushed my neck, maybe by accident, maybe not. “I’m perfectly willing for you to give it a try.”

His laugh was warm as the sunset. “It’s a date. You’re staying at your aunt’s?”

“Yeah. The goats really missed me.”

“I missed you,” he said, taking my hand and linking our fingers.

“How’s the bridge?” I asked, for a good reason.

“Started.” He seemed to get what I was really asking. “But I talked with Mom. I’m going back to school, whether it’s done or not. I’ve already got it squared with the university, since I only took a hiatus.”

“Ben, that’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

And I was selfishly ecstatic for me. We’d be at the same school in just a few weeks.

He scratched the bump on his nose and said, “I know you don’t like football, but I wondered if you might go to the first game of the season with me.”

I took his other hand and looked up into his steely blue eyes, very earnest, very serious. “Ben McCulloch. I’d face ghosts, claim jumpers, cave-ins, bat guano, mad cows, and tree-climbing goats for you. But I absolutely will not go to a football game.”

With a slow, rare, devastating smile, he said, “We can fight about it later, if you want. I just have to hang around until the university people leave.”

I pretended to consider it. “Oh, all right. But only if we can park overlooking the bridge.”

He kept hold of my hand as we left the graveside and joined the others. We still had too much unresolved to say we were a couple, but I didn’t mind thinking we’d have the chance to try. And after all, the human variable makes nothing certain.

In life, or in death.

In magic.

Or in love.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



This is the first book I ever started. My dad was a font of Texas legends and history, and I plotted out a very different version with him during a family trip to San Antonio. The lessons here are (a) don’t ignore your dad’s crazy stories and (b) never throw anything away. I still have the first draft of the opening chapters of this book, written on notebook paper (um, during biology class). Nothing is the same except the bones by the river and the title: Texas Gothic.

I owe thanks to Dr. Jerry Melbye, who answered my forensic anthropology questions, and to Jayme Lynn Blaschke, who shared his fantastic pictures of a cold-case crime scene investigated by the students at Texas State University in San Marcos. My fellow YA author Marley Gibson might not have realized I was picking her brain for ghost investigation hints, but I was. Likewise, author Vickie Taylor, who trains Search and Rescue dogs, was informative and awesome. And Hope E. Ring, MD, did not bat an eyelash when I asked her things like: “Say I were to throw a seventy-five-year-old man down a ravine and break his hip.… ”

All mistakes made and liberties taken with the valuable information these people provided are entirely my own.

Thanks to Shawn Scarber for naming Ray’s garage.

Here are the things that are real: the San Sabá Mission, and how it was rediscovered; the lost Almagres mine (also called the lost San Sabá mine, or the lost Bowie mine); the beauty of the Hill Country (visit in the spring, when the wildflowers bloom); Semyon Kirlian’s research in coronal aura photography; Spanish colonization and the Apache’s objection to it (and who could blame them); conflict between ranching neighbors over river easements; rum-running; and the University of Texas Longhorns. Oh, and the number of women in criminology and forensic sciences has multiplied in the last decade, and people really do credit TV shows and books that show strong females in what used to be male-dominated fields. (Personally, I want to be Abby from NCIS.)

Here are the things I tried to make as real as possible: the techniques of anthropology, the theories of paranormal investigation (with obvious liberties), and the feel of a small Texas town and its surrounding ranch community.

Here are the things that I totally made up: the spells, the Goodnights, and the logistics of fitting the body of a slender coed in the cargo space of a MINI Cooper.

As always, thanks to my agent, Lucienne Diver; my editor, Krista Marino (who really did make this a much better book than I could have ever written on college-ruled paper during biology class); and all the folks at Delacorte Press. Love to my family; my husband, Tim; and my support system of awesome: Candace Havens, Shannon Cannard, Cheryl A. Smyth, Jenny Martin, Jamie Harrington, A. Lee Martinez, Sally Hamilton, the IHOP irregulars, and the DFW Writers’ Workshop. Rock on!





ROSEMARY CLEMENT-MOORE lives and writes in Arlington, Texas. Texas Gothic is her fifth book for young readers. Look for her other books: Prom Dates from Hell, Hell Week, and Highway to Hell—all books in the Maggie Quinn: Girl vs. Evil series—and The Splendor Falls, available from Delacorte Press. You can visit Rosemary at readrosemary.com.