The roar went on and on, until I realized we were standing in sunlight, and the noise was in my head. Dust swirled in thick clouds around us, but it wafted up into open air. The roar became a ringing, and Ben raised his head to look around in amazement that must have mirrored my own.
“Are we alive?” I asked, still in the shelter of Ben’s arms, squashed between his body and the rock wall that had saved us.
“Seem to be,” he said, turning his head stiffly to look down at me, and wincing when he tried to smile. “I hurt too bad to be dead.”
The sinkhole was now the size of an Olympic swimming pool, and we stood at the deep end. The roof of the bat cave had collapsed, at least as far as the low cavern where the solider lay. It cut Kelly and Sparks off from us, but judging from the continued rumbles and curls of dust, it might have done worse than that. The cave-in might continue far into the mine, trapping the men … or their bodies.
I looked up at Ben. His hair was white with limestone and dust. Pale dirt clung to his face and caked in the places where he was bleeding. He had new cuts, and there were probably more where I couldn’t see them. And I didn’t even want to think about the bruises.
Very carefully I stretched up and kissed the unswollen side of his mouth. “Thank you.”
“For what?” He started to smile and thought better of it. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“For making sure that I didn’t end up spending the rest of my life with you.”
He laughed, then winced, then cursed. Then he said, “The hell with it,” and kissed me the best he could. It would be giving him too much credit to say it was as good as the night before, but it was still better than ninety-nine percent of kisses in the world.
“Great Caesar’s goat.” Phin’s voice floated down from the rim of the sinkhole. “The earth caves in, and you two are making out?”
I craned my head to squint up at her. “Tell it to me when
you’ve
had a near-death experience, Phin Goodnight.”
She put her hand over her heart. “I just did. You gave me a coronary. We are going to have to invent an entire new category of the heebie-jeebies for you.”
Mark appeared over her shoulder, lacking his usual upbeat luster. “The troopers are yelling at us to stay back until proper rescue workers get here. They’re worried the cave-in is still unstable.”
Ben let me go, after making sure I could keep my own feet. “Tell them to get a move on. Amy needs to go to the hospital. She’s not as hardheaded as I thought.”
Mark nodded. “Ambulance is already on the way. We found a guy with a head injury, dehydrated, but mostly coherent, except for talking about a ghost hitting him on the head. When we saw the dust, and felt the quake, we weren’t sure …”
I waved that off for more pressing concerns. “Warn them there’s a whole network of caves under here, Mark. It’s a mine. Mike Kelly and Steve Sparks have been blasting underground, following the vein.… ”
I trailed off, thinking about the ghost’s warning. Had he
known the caves were going to collapse? Or had he caused it?
“The blasting must have destabilized the caverns,” said Ben. “They’re in there, somewhere.”
My stomach twisted in guilt, even though they’d been plotting to kill us. I looked at Ben, hoping he would understand. “Was there any way they could have survived?”
He ran a comforting hand down my arm and linked my fingers with his. “If
we
did, maybe they did.”
I hoped so. I didn’t want to be responsible for anyone’s death. Even secondhand, through my connection with the ghost.
The field was full of emergency vehicles: state trooper units, the sheriff’s department, the fire department, an ambulance, and the CareFlite helicopter on standby.
I offered to get Lila to look for the missing men, but another rescue-dog team was on the way. The EMTs wouldn’t let me do much but sit and watch and wring my hands with guilt. They wanted me to go in for an MRI, and Ben was threatening to haul me off to the hospital by force, but Mark pointed out that he’d probably keel over from his own injuries if he tried.
The state troopers were on hand to confiscate the blasting caps and the dynamite I hadn’t seen. They had no trouble chalking up the collapse to an accident by a pair of claim jumpers, though Deputy Kelly insisted that, while he didn’t condone what his brother did, since Mike worked for a mining company, he would know how to handle explosives. The state law enforcement didn’t necessarily agree, and had
some pointed questions for the deputy about why he hadn’t noticed someone was blasting underground in his part of the county.
I’d figured that Sparks and Mike Kelly had used the old Mad Monk stories to stir up the ghost hysteria—to keep people speculating about any strange sounds rolling through the hills—but I hadn’t really thought about whether they’d included the other Kellys in their plans.
Phin hung up her phone and slid it into her pocket with a decisive motion. “Mom is on her way to the hospital to meet us. Let’s go. No arguing.”
I looked up at her from my seat in one of the patrol cars. “But I want to see if they find Kelly and Sparks. Steve Sparks just got in over his head, I think.”
“Amy, they tried to kill you.”
“I know.”
“And they collapsed the cave with their own blasting caps and dynamite.”
There, I paused. “No. Well, yes. But. It was the ghost’s last act. I felt our tie unknot. I found him, and he saved me.”
She considered that for a second. “Well, that’s a fair trade. I’m sorry I called him ungrateful.”
“But that makes me responsible for …” I gestured to the massive hole in the ground, and the emergency vehicles all around us.
“How do you figure that?”
“I called the ghost. And it led us to it and then it warned me …”
She gave me a long look. “Could you have warned Kelly and Sparks?”
“No.”
“Did you make them explode dynamite and hit people on the head and try to kill you?”
“No.”
“What a relief. I was worried you’d developed an over-inflated opinion of your powers of mind control and time travel. Because that’s what it would take for all this to be your fault.”
I just stared at her, wondering if it was my headache that made her sound like she had actually mastered irony. Gingerly I touched the lump under my hair. “I don’t know what I think about your developing a sense of humor, Phin.”
“Does that imply you don’t think I
could
build a time machine or master mind control?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I didn’t.
Phin took my arm and pulled me to my feet. I thought she was going to say something else, but for a long moment she scrutinized every bruise and scrape on my face, as if she were cataloging the damage for some experiment. And then she put her arms around me in a too-tight hug.
I held in an “ow” and a little bit of a sniffle.
Then she let me go and pretended it hadn’t happened. “Now stop arguing with me. Mark and I are taking you and Ben to the hospital, because it’s obvious you two can take care of everyone but yourselves.”
t
he 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.”