do with his demeanor than his position as an officer of the law. “When was this, Mr. McCulloch?” He squinted up at the planks in the porch’s ceiling, like he might be trying to count the years backward, so I helped him out. “Who was president?”
“The father of the governor.” I translated that to mean when Bush Senior was in the White House. An odd way of putting it, but for some Texans, politics outside the borders were just a nuisance.
So, this ATV business was a while ago. Phin did say this seemed to be a recurrent ghost, just going by the stories. I knew that some specters only turned up under certain conditions, or on a certain timetable. Or even just arbitrarily—
Eleven-year-old Amy needed to sit down and shut up. I firmly closed the door on her mental cupboard and turned to Mr. McCulloch. “I’m a little surprised you’re here. I got the feeling your family didn’t believe in ghosts. And, um, in fact, aren’t too fond of the Goodnights right now.”
“Well, that’s just claptrap. I’m here, aren’t I?” He drained his iced tea and set the glass down with a punctuating thump. “And not just for the iced tea. Don’t tell Emily, but hers doesn’t hold a candle to this.”
“Who’s Emily?” I asked, hopping out of my rocker as he pushed himself up from his. Just in case. He looked strong, but there was something … I don’t know. Maybe it was another hunch, or maybe I was just worried because of his weak ticker.
“My wife,” answered Mr. McCulloch. Once up, he moved more easily to the steps, barely leaning on the handrail. “Who will tan my hide if I’m not home for supper.”
“Well …” I told myself I had enough to fret about without adding Mac McCulloch to the list. On the other hand, Ben might blame me for that, too, if anything happened to him. “Be careful on the ride home. Do you need me to, um …” I was going to say “help you up,” but I sensed how that would go over. “… hold your stirrup or something?”
“No, dammit,” he barked. “I’m not a debutante riding in a fool parade.” He said it “deb-u-tant,” as in, rhymes with “ant,” and I bit back a smile. “You just tend to your business, missy. When you’ve got this Mad Monk malarkey sorted, then you tell me how to ride a horse. I’ve got saddles older than you are.”
Which was sort of my point, but I knew better than to say it. I did weed out the pertinent part of that speech, though, as he headed down the stairs.
“Mr. McCulloch,” I called, and he turned at the bottom. “I didn’t say I was going to find the Mad Monk.”
“But you will,” he said, placing his worn and stained Stetson on his head. “You’ve got that look about you.”
“What look is that?” I asked, tired of his family maligning mine. “A Goodnight look?”
“A responsible one.” He adjusted his hat, in a motion I’d seen Ben make a dozen times that day, right before he drove home his point. “Like you’re the girl who takes care of things. So take care of it, dammit.”
I watched him head over to the donkey pen, and a few minutes later, Mac McCulloch went trotting by on a horse the color of strong coffee. He didn’t look so old while he was riding, which made me worry a little less.
Take care of this Mad Monk malarkey. Did that mean I had permission to ghost hunt on McCulloch land? Somehow I doubted Ben or Deputy Kelly would see it that way.
Not that I was even considering it.
I’d walked to the fence to see Mr. McCulloch off, and my foot crunched on something as I turned back to the house.
Fresh wood shavings littered a trail back to the gatepost. I approached it warily, my heart thudding as I saw the newly carved design in the wood. Then I compared it to the older glyph above it—familiar and weathered and barely visible. I traced the smooth one with my finger, and a pleasant, warm tingle spread up my arm. The new one would give me splinters, but I knew what it was.
“Darn it, Phin,” I whispered fondly.
At some point that morning, my sister had reinforced the security system around the house and yard. I knew just enough to realize that this took some time and effort, especially by herself. She must have stayed up all night,