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Before she left her yard, she asked Sombra, “What would Sherlock Holmes do?”
The coydog wagged his tail.
“Exactly,” said Gutsy. “Let’s go.”
Her first stop was the porch where the Chess Players were always to be found. Mr. Urrea was asleep, his straw hat pulled low over his face, arms folded over a comfortable belly, legs stretched out, and ankles crossed. He was usually barefoot, as he was now.
Mr. Ford was awake and he sat cross-legged, polishing the little chess pieces and putting them into place on the board, ready for another game. There was a set of wooden shelves against the wall on which were more than forty chess sets of different kinds. They were specialty sets salvaged from abandoned towns or obtained through barter with traders. The sets had themes, with the figures carved from wood or stone or cast in metal, and included both World Wars, the Civil War, Napoleon and Wellington, the Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Disney and Warner Bros. cartoon characters, classic monsters and monster hunters, and others. The Chess Players loved to share the stories behind each set and often regaled Gutsy and her friends with memorized scenes from those based on novels. The Wizard of Oz set was one of Gutsy’s favorites, though it was missing three flying monkeys and two Munchkins, and so was seldom used. The set currently sitting atop the chessboard was based on the old stories of Robin Hood and his Merry Men against the evil Prince John and the Sheriff of Nottingham.
“Well,” said Mr. Ford as he polished a Maid Marian queen, “you clean up pretty well. More like a girl and less like a Dickensian waif.”
“Thanks. I think.” Gutsy wore old but clean blue jeans, a plain green T-shirt, and another of her many fishing vests. Since her machete was missing, she instead wore a broad-bladed farm knife that was as close to her favorite weapon as she could find. It was a bit too heavy, and the handle was a little large for her hand, but it would do until she found a replacement. Gutsy had one of her mother’s favorite scarves threaded through some holes she’d punched and grommeted in the vest. The scarf was pink and orange with some swirls of sea green and blue.
“You have a look of terrible purpose writ large upon your countenance,” said Mr. Ford in a mock theatrical voice.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said, stepping onto the porch.
“You know you can ask nearly anything,” said Mr. Ford. It was how both he and his friend always answered that kind of question. Nearly anything. So far Gutsy had never asked anything they refused to answer, but it often made her wonder where that line was. And why it was there.
“Do you remember when you told me about how some people got sick and turned into los muertos over time instead of dying and coming back?”
“Sure.”
“You saw my mom before she died, right? Is there any way she might have had that same kind of sickness?”
Ford stopped polishing the chess piece and set it down. There was a look of curiosity and concern on his weathered face. “Why do you ask?”
“Can you just answer the question first?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said.
“No, you can’t answer or—”
“No, that’s not what she had.” Ford picked up a different chess piece. Friar Tuck, a fat monk.
Gutsy took a half step closer. “How do you know?”
He cocked his head and studied her. “What makes you ask?”
It felt like a bit of a standoff. Gutsy didn’t want to tell him about what had happened at the cemetery or at her house, because he was an adult and he might tell the town council on her. That would probably get her in trouble, and maybe even sent to the Cuddlys’ Home for Foundlings.
“Can’t you just tell me?” she asked. A few slow seconds shambled past while the Chess Player thought about it. When he didn’t answer, Gutsy folded her arms and gave him a flat, hard stare. “What are you hiding?”
A voice drifted up from under the hat on Urrea’s face. “Busted.”
“Go back to sleep,” Ford told him, but Urrea plucked the hat off his face, yawned, and sat up. He did not look at all like he’d been asleep. His face wasn’t flushed and his eyes were crystal clear.
The two old men looked at each other for a five-count, and then Urrea nodded and Ford sighed. But then Ford looked up and down the street, to where people were going to and fro, doing their daily business. “Not here,” said Ford, “and not now.”
“Why not?”
Ford stood. “Do you want an honest answer to your question? About the sickness, I mean? Yes? The school. My classroom. One hour.”
Then he stretched, scratched his stomach, clapped Urrea on the shoulder, and wandered into the general store. Urrea got up too, gave her a sly wink, and followed him, leaving Gutsy standing on the porch feeling very confused. But also excited.
What do they know?
She ached to find out, and an hour was forever away.
