Luke's Quest 01 - Prisoner Of Time (v5.0), page 3
Now I knew a Paul Robertson had existed in 1881, as had a Lisa Collins, yet both existed in the present. The journal had to be real. I wondered if there was a small box between the graves that was too small to be a coffin. I felt certain it was there. I shuddered as I realized what my next step would be. I began to plan what I would need for my role as a grave robber.
I couldn’t resist. I dialed the number for Lisa Collins again, this time on the speakerphone. "Hi, this is Lisa. Doug and I are away from the phone, so leave a message."
"Damn, that’s some sexy answering machine," Willie said from the doorway.
Quickly I disconnected the telephone. "What are you doing here?" I asked rather sharply.
"I came by last night, but you were already asleep, so I crashed in the guest room," he explained. "I thought I was welcome."
"I'm sorry," I told him. "Of course you’re welcome. It's just that I thought I was alone."
"So who does the sexy voice belong to?" he asked with a bit of a leer.
"That’s Lisa Collins, the woman mentioned in the journal," I explained.
"So you just proved it was a fake," Willie said seeming really sad at being proven right.
"I’m not sure what I proved," I told him.
I spent the rest of the day with Willie duplicating CDs so he could have new music at work. I kept looking at the journal, the map of Arkansas and making plans for my next step.
After Willie left, I scanned all the pages of the journal into images I could save on a CD. I made a copy of it to place in my safety deposit box at the bank and put another copy in my gun safe.
Monday morning after breakfast, I walked to the bank with my back-up CDs. I enjoy walking all over town. Blissville is small, and any place is a short walk away. I grew up here and have walked to every spot in town since I was a child.
Mrs. Abernathy, the teller, was the only one in the bank when I arrived. She’s a pleasant lady in her late 50s whom I normally enjoy seeing. She often has a comment on the weather based on the pains in her knee. Mrs. Abernathy keeps her hair cut very short for a woman but spares no expense on keeping it a deep, almost coal-black color. She tries to hide the fact that she colors it by purchasing the hair dye out of town. Those who do not know her consider her "stiff and rigid" based on her posture, but she was raised to maintain a proper stance at all times. While it does create an image of rigidity, her smile always lets people know how friendly she really is.
Smiling at me, she spoke exactly the words I expected to hear from her, "We missed you at church yesterday. Were you feeling ill?"
"No," I said, "I was reading very late. I just overslept." I knew that wouldn’t satisfy her for long. "I need to put something in my safety deposit box," I told her, holding up my key in one hand. The journal and backup CDs inside a large brown envelope.
"Oh, sure thing," she said, looking for the book I had to sign to gain access to my box. "Here we go. Just sign here, and I'll get my key."
Within minutes, I had the journal secured in the vault. Other customers were starting to arrive by then, and I hurried out the door before Mrs. Abernathy could question me further.
I crossed the street and walked down the block to the post office. Our town is too small to have door-to-door mail delivery, so everyone has a post office box. I tried to slip through the front door without being seen by Clara Fox, our town postmistress. While I was checking my box, I heard the door to her office open.
"Lucas," she said in her shrill voice, "you missed some beautiful music yesterday. Karen Williams sang a lovely special hymn for us." Clara was tapping her foot to accentuate each word as she spoke. "I hope you have a good excuse."
I stifled a smile as I looked down at her. Clara and her twin sister Mabel are only about five foot two inches tall or so, with thick-soled shoes, but they can stare down the biggest man in town. Both wear their hair in buns and always wear floor-length, simple dresses or skirts and blouses. I often wonder how old they are. No one in town is really certain; they seem to have always been "old." No matter their faults, they are well loved and respected by everyone in Blissville.
"I did ma'am," I told her. "I was reading a good book Saturday night when I fell asleep without setting my alarm."
She frowned at me, still tapping her foot. "Thank goodness your mother isn’t alive to hear you."
I told her I was glad she was watching out for my well-being, but holding up an envelope, said, "I need to run this to the bank; it's a payment from a client."
"I’m always amazed that you make any money with that crazy business of yours," she said as she went back to her office.
With this check I could pay my past-due bills. I returned to the bank with the deposit. Mentally I calculated my funds. I could just squeeze out a trip, if I kept eating only oatmeal this week and the leftovers Darlene had given me.
By 10 o'clock that morning, I was at the Billingsley Memorial Library in Newport, ready for research. Small town libraries lack much the big city libraries can offer the researcher. The one exception is in local history and genealogy. Often small libraries keep far better local records and details than the large city or even the state administered libraries provide. This library had many good records, including old newspapers and tax records. Yet, I could find no mention of a Paul C. Robertson in any document. By 1:30, that afternoon I was feeling tired and frustrated. Maybe it was a wild goose chase.
Then another piece of the puzzle fell into place. The library had a listing of each cemetery for the county. I found a burial for Paul Robertson listed in a cemetery in Jacksonport. Paul had died while saving the child from the fire. He died a hero's death. Leaving the library, I noticed a small florist shop across the street. Carefully counting my money, I had just enough to purchase a small bouquet of the cheapest flowers they sold. The woman noticed I was counting my money, so she inquired as to my need. I explained I was about to visit the grave of a man who was very important to my past, but I had only just learned where he was buried. She kindly offered me some flowers she was about to discard. She mixed them with the ones I purchased, and they looked very nice.
I returned to my car with all my notes and the flowers. I had uncovered a few additional facts about the town of Jacksonport, and I drove there first. It was only a few miles. The town had suffered in the last several years. A tornado had damaged much of the town. A state park and a few homes were all that remained. Currently the population is less than 200. The town sits on the White River. In order to get to the town, one must drive over an earthen dike and down into the low-lying area.
I drove over the second earthen dike to a state-operated campsite on the White River. During the summer, families gather there for swimming, picnicking and other outdoor fun. On this cold April day, however, I was alone. The park is along a bend in the river. Standing on the rocks, I could readily imagine the steamboats that had sailed up the river. The farmers here would have grown cotton and food to send back to Memphis or even to New Orleans. It was easy from a historical researcher's point of view to see why Paul and Lisa would have come to Jacksonport when they did. The year 1881 would have been a classic year to study the life in a river port town before the railroad killed it. I walked about the empty fields where the town had once stood and tried to envision the past buildings like the Wolff Mercantile and the Wood's House Hotel. I wondered where the newspaper office had been. I tried to imagine Paul, Lisa and the rest walking about town, but it was more of a daydream.
I located the cemetery and easily found Paul's grave. It was in poor condition. Apparently, no one had visited the grave in many years, if ever. With some rags I had in the trunk of my car, I cleaned the headstone the best I could. I pulled the weeds with my bare hands. I placed the flowers against the headstone. Using my digital camera, I took a photograph of it for the file I was amassing.
Imagining the writer of the journal lying there, I said, "You did a great deed saving Joel Cailin Bradley and allowing me to come into existence. I’ll repay your good deed somehow. I promise I’ll find whoever trapped you in the past, my friend."
I left Jacksonport for the drive to Sulphur Rock. I had spent too much time daydreaming along the river. I hurried to find Paul's ancestor's cemetery just as the sun was setting in the most dazzling shades of red and orange streaks mixing in the broken clouds, as if calling attention to the heavens and perhaps Paul watching over me. It took two times walking the grounds of the old cemetery, pausing to read every headstone, before I found one for Albert C. Robertson and one for his wife Sadie. I tried to measure the distance between the headstone markers. I compared it with the other markers around them. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
I hoped I stood close to the buried box. I had no doubt the box was there. Everything else had been proven factual, so I knew the box was there, as well. The action I was considering was a crime, so I decided to take one more precaution. I spotted a tree nearby with some large branches broken by a recent windstorm. I found a thin, long branch that was reasonably straight. I broke it off the larger branch and stripped the smaller twigs away from it. I now had a stick about five feet long. The ground was cold, but not too hard. The wet winter was a help to me. I began to press the stick into the ground between the two graves. At least, I hoped I was between the graves.
It took only four probes until I hit something solid about 12 to 14 inches deep. I kept probing until I had an outline of holes resembling a small square. It was too small to be a casket. It had a feel of metal when I hit it. Also, the 14 inches, at least in theory wasn’t deep enough to be a coffin. Most of the time graves have at least two feet of dirt on top and sometimes as much as four feet. Still, if caught digging in a cemetery 14 inches or four feet didn’t matter; it was the act of disturbing the grave without a court order that was the crime. I broke the stick into smaller pieces placing one in each corner of the box to mark the spot. Now I felt like a criminal and not a researcher. Until now, I had never broken any law, at least not knowingly.
Guilt started overtaking me. I looked around the area, but could see no one watching me. There was no house close. I made note of the cow pasture that leads from the road back to the cemetery. The sunset had been pretty, but now the twilight was fast fading. I hurried back to my car and started it, letting the engine warm. In truth, I shook not from the cold, but from fear.
I had verified the existence of the people Paul had mentioned meeting in Jacksonport. Gathering the names from the 1880 census could explain that portion of the journal. There was a metal box buried in the cemetery where he claimed it was. I couldn’t prove the burial date of the box. I wanted to exhume that box. If the device was there, then the story had to be true, ALL OF IT! Why did the last part of that thought suddenly send even more chills through me?
If I exhumed the box, though, I would be committing a felony. I kept asking myself if this type of research was worth a possible criminal record.
I had prepared for this moment and had put my shovel in the car along with a flashlight. I decided that my car might attract more attention than I wanted right now. I drove into Batesville where I filled the gas tank again so I would have plenty of gas for the trip home. I found the local Super Center and walked around looking at the various computer items and dreaming of things I wished I could afford.
About 10 p.m. I began my return trip to Sulphur Rock. I had noticed a road on the far side of the cow pasture. I could park the car there and walk through the pasture. With luck, no one would see me. I would carry everything I needed with me. Fortunately, the moon was about three quarters bright. That would be just enough light to help find my way without depending on a flashlight. Flashlights often attract attention from a distance.
I had chosen to wear black pants, black T-shirt, and my black sweatshirt. I had thought of using a burned cork to blacken my face as the soldiers do in the war movies, but was a little nervous about how I could explain it if anyone saw me.
I stopped my car near the cow pasture. I parked some distance from the cemetery. I walked across the pasture that adjoined the cemetery. I did everything I could to avoid being seen.
I was delighted to find everything exactly as I had left it. It appeared that no one had been here since my last visit a few hours earlier. I doubted anyone really visited this cemetery that often and no one after dark.
My love of Shakespeare caused me to pause for a moment. I couldn’t help but let the graveyard scene in Hamlet float through my mind. "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy," are Hamlet's words as he holds a skull. It occurred to me that I might find a skull in my digging and not a time-travel device. It also occurred to me that I would have a hard time explaining to anyone, especially a law enforcement officer that I wasn’t digging for a skull but for a time-travel device. I couldn’t believe I was doing this, so why should they believe me?
I was getting close when suddenly something white rose up from the ground. It was moving through the air at me. I hadn’t thought about ghosts in the cemetery. Nowhere in my reading and study of genealogy had I ever heard of a researcher being attacked by a ghost. Snakes and bugs might attack people during the summer, but this was still cool weather for early spring. Yet something was flying at me. I ducked to the ground just as a large owl flew over my head. Its wings were white on the underside, creating a ghostly apparition.
This seemed like a good time to drink some water and have a snack. I needed a break for a moment to calm my nerves. I had been sitting only a few minutes when I had a terrible thought. It occurred to me that someone might have already been here. The box might be empty. I shook my head to clear that thought and went back to work.
After several minutes of digging, my shovel struck metal. I scraped the dirt from the lid and the edges. I would have to dig just a little wider to be able to open the box. I was relieved that it was too narrow to be a coffin.
It was metal and hinged with no lock. The maker had built something like a box in a box, which had sealed it from the ground water. Inside, I found a wool blanket. The blanket was dry, so the box had protected the contents from moisture. I lifted the blanket, which began to fall apart in my hands as I unwrapped it.
The item inside the blanket wasn’t what I had expected. I held a laptop computer. Under the laptop was another journal. Every cell in my brain told me to open the journal right then. I was so overjoyed the device was there, I didn’t even think about turning it on. Just its existence was enough for the moment.
I fought temptation. I refolded the remains of the blanket around the laptop before placing the treasure into my backpack. I used the flashlight to double-check the box. There was nothing else in it.
I closed the lid and replaced the empty box into the hole. Carefully, I began to refill the dirt on top of the box. I had wanted to take the box with me as further proof, but it would have left a large and noticeable hole in the ground, and I wanted to attract as little attention as I could.
After shoveling the dirt back into the hole, I then replaced the turf. It looked to me as if it fit very well. I poured the rest of my bottled water carefully along the edge of the turf, hoping it would help to seal the soil.
I double-checked the ground and area where I had been working. I could see there was nothing left out of the ordinary. I had left nothing behind to incriminate me.
I started back. It was after I got about midway across the cow pasture that I found another heart-stopping image: I stood face to face with a 12-point buck deer. He was watching me. I stopped. I wasn’t sure if he would attack me or not. I couldn’t remember if deer attack humans or not. I took two small steps. He looked at me as if I were crazy. He was probably right. I must be crazy. I just kept taking small steps getting closer to him. I thought this would be a great story to tell, being this close to 12-point buck. But if I told the story, I would have to explain why I was in a cow pasture at 4:15 in the morning. I would never be able to tell anyone this story.
The buck decided I was no threat but did move away from me some. I reached the fence, crawled through the barbed wire, and looked back. The buck was still there, but now eight does surrounded him. How I wished I could tell this story!
I started the car and let it warm both the engine and the inside of the vehicle. I wondered if anyone would notice the digging. I was certain eventually someone would notice. I had reburied the box, but anyone who looked at the spot would be able to tell that there had been digging here. I quietly prayed that the county officials in this part of Arkansas wouldn’t have the resources nor the desire to do that much of an investigation.
It was lucky for me that the agency for which Paul worked had its headquarters in Arkansas. The journal clearly never left the state from the day he wrote it until it reached my hands. Even more wonderful for me was the fact that I was only a little more than an hour and a half away from the center of what had been his world in 1881.
It was only after I had driven back home without stopping that I began to feel some relief. Did I even dare to hope that the laptop still worked? I hadn’t seen any cars while at the cemetery. Unearthing a box in a cemetery in the dark of night caused me to doubt my own sanity. I had never broken any law until now. I even buckle my seat belt when I drive around town. I’ve always taught others to respect cemeteries for the information they store for historians on the headstones. I lecture about the desecration of cemeteries by vandals, yet I had become a grave robber myself.
