Clare Vanderpool - Moon Over Manifest

We made our way into and out of a few stores, asking if anyone had heard of the Rattler. No one seemed inclined to shed any light on the matter.

“The Rattler could be any one of them,” Lettie breathed. “But I still say the Rattler could be dead and buried by now.”

“Or maybe not,” Ruthanne said with authority. “Look.”

It was the undertaker, all dressed in black, hauling a slab of granite into the Better Days Funeral Parlor.

“Maybe it’s Mr. Underhill,” Ruthanne whispered. “He’s always itching to carve somebody a grave marker. Maybe he even killed a few bodies himself.”

“The letter didn’t say anything about murder. We’re just looking for a spy, right, Abilene?” Lettie asked.

“Yes, but …”

“But what?” Ruthanne asked.

“Well, say there was a spy. What do you think he was spying on?”

Lettie and I looked at Ruthanne. She rolled her eyes and gave a sigh, like she was disgusted to have to explain something so simple. I figured she was just stalling till she could think up an answer.

“There was a war going on, you know,” Ruthanne said.

We kept staring.

“And in wartimes there’s always secrets that need keeping from the enemy.”

Still staring.

“So what makes you think Manifest didn’t have a few secrets of its own that some spy might want to find out about?” Ruthanne asked.

Since Lettie and I couldn’t come up with a better explanation, we shrugged and turned our eyes back to Mr. Underhill, who’d come outside. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and looked up at the cloudless sky.

“Look at him,” Ruthanne said. “He’s sniffing for death in the air.”

A breeze picked up and when Mr. Underhill crossed the street, walking in our direction, I thought for sure he’d pluck one of us for that new grave marker. We backed into an alley and watched as he passed by. He hunched forward and his arms didn’t move as he walked. They just hung stiff by his side.

“Come on,” Ruthanne whispered, and we all three took off after Mr. Underhill. He headed to the edge of town and skirted around the trees near Shady’s place. Lettie stepped on a twig, snapping it in two, and Mr. Underhill turned around. We stayed still in the darkness of a tree until he moved on.

“Where’s he going?” I asked.

“Where else would an undertaker go?” Ruthanne pointed ahead to the wrought iron fence that surrounded hundreds or maybe fifty or so graves. “Come on, there’s an opening on the other side.”

This was one of the universals I had so far avoided. In other places, I’d seen kids who followed their leader like blind mice, right into the carving hands of the farmer’s wife. Being an outsider, I didn’t usually fall under the leader’s spell. But I’d never been on a spy hunt before. So here I was, traipsing after Ruthanne, enjoying the excited, scared feeling that made my spine shiver.

Ruthanne went first, squeezing through the fence where there was a missing iron rod. Then Lettie, then me.

“Over here,” Ruthanne said, crouching behind a tall tombstone. We followed, then waited. And peeked.

Mr. Underhill plodded over to a grassy spot between two graves and stretched his arms between the markers. His fingertips barely brushed the stones on both sides. I’ll be hung if he didn’t lie flat on his back then, like he was ready to die himself. From our hiding spot, we could only see his knees poking up as his long legs butted against another grave marker in front.

He lay there, seeming a little too comfortable. Then he got up and made some notes on a pad of paper and, arms hanging down again, walked out of the cemetery.

We waited for the gate to quit squeaking before we gave up our hiding spot.

“He’s measuring for somebody’s grave,” Lettie said.

Ruthanne looked over the grassy space Mr. Underhill had recently occupied. “The way his legs were bunched up, looks like there’s not enough room for a full-grown adult.” She stretched out her arms, measuring length, as the undertaker had done. Then, with one hand about the same height in the air, she turned real slow. “In fact, I’d say there’s probably just enough room for someone about the size of … one … Soletta Taylor!” She placed her hand on Lettie’s head.

“You stop that right now, Ruthanne McIntyre! Or I’ll tell your mother that you used her colander for catching tadpoles.”

Ruthanne laughed. “Oh, don’t get your knickers in a knot.”

“Let’s go home, Ruthanne,” Lettie said. “I’m thirsty and Mama will be awful upset if she finds out I was clear out in the woods. It must be near midnight.”

“For heaven’s sakes, Lettie, it’s barely dark.”

“Still …” Lettie whined just a little.

“Oh, you’re probably right. Supper will be waiting at my house too,” said Ruthanne.

I hated to see them go. “Maybe we can find a creek to fill our pop bottles,” I suggested.

“There’s nothing more than a trickle within a hundred miles of here. Everyone knows that,” said Ruthanne, kicking up dust as we walked.

“My daddy said he’d heard the drought hadn’t taken hold here like it had in other parts.”

“Bad enough,” she answered, stuffing a wad of grass in her lip like tobacco as we made our way back to Shady’s place.

“Still,” said Lettie, “Uncle Louver says folks around here are lucky. Least there’s underground wells to draw from to keep people watered. He says places not that far west of here are so dry people shrivel up like November leaves and blow all the way to California.”

We started back toward the tree house to get Ruthanne’s pack.

“I’m tired,” Lettie groaned.

“Nice to meet you, Tired. I’m Hungry,” Ruthanne answered, pulling a half-eaten apple from the pack.

Truth was we all seemed to be getting a little tired of the spy hunt and probably would have dropped the whole thing right then if it hadn’t been for what happened next.

When we got back to Shady’s property, we saw that there was a note nailed to the trunk of Fort Treeconderoga. At eye level, right on the knobby bark. Someone didn’t want us to miss it.

“What’s it say?” Lettie asked.

I tore it off the nail and adjusted the paper to read it in the dimming light. There were only four words written on it, each one capitalized. I read it out loud.

“Leave Well Enough Alone.”

It was more jarring than scary. But it was scary too. To think that somebody not only knew we were on the trail of the Rattler but had taken the time to write a note to three girls. What had we stirred up? What was the writer of the note afraid of?

“That means the Rattler is still here,” Ruthanne said, “alive and kicking.” She took a bite of apple.

“How can you eat at a time like this?” Lettie said with a shiver. “He knows we’re looking for him.”

Ruthanne continued munching, pondering the situation. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come right out and asked about the Rattler.”

It was a little late for that revelation, I thought. “What are we going to do now?”

“What are we going to do now?” Lettie repeated. “Aren’t we going to leave well enough alone?”

Ruthanne looked at Lettie like she’d given the wrong answer to two plus two. “Of course we’re not going to leave well enough alone. We’re going to start up our spy hunt again first thing tomorrow.”

I put the note into my pocket for safekeeping. We made plans for Lettie and Ruthanne to come back the next morning and said our goodbyes.

The saloon-church looked warm and inviting with its light glowing through the stained-glass windows. But I wished Gideon was there waiting for me. To say good night to me. I reached for the compass to hold, but it was gone. My heart pounded, and even though I hadn’t moved, I felt like I’d lost my bearings. The compass was my most valued possession and I’d lost it twice in two days! I must have snagged it when I’d squeezed through the cemetery fence.