I missed it.
Working with practiced ease, she fitted the cutter around the shank of the lock and squeezed it, snapping the steel. Then, with a satisfied grunt, she unceremoniously dropped the tool, unwound the chain, and pulled the gates open.
We followed her into the courtyard.
For several seconds, the three of us stared up at the covered statue.
“It’s big,” Sharyn said, her voice catching.
“So was he,” Helene remarked. The comment made me smile.
“Wanna take a peek?” I asked.
But Sharyn, a little to my surprise, shook her head. “Promised I’d wait ‘til he gets here,” she replied.
Then she turned and called at the top of her voice, “Hurry up, slowpoke!”
“I’m coming!” someone said.
And Tom Jefferson appeared at the open gate.
He was walking with the help of a fancy ebony cane with a silver knob. Jillian had bought it for him, telling him that the stupid aluminum stick with the tennis ball at the end had to go.
Seeing it for the first time, I silently decided that it worked for him.
The chief looked cool.
“How’s the new foot?” I asked as he limped toward us.
In way of an answer, he paused and, with his free hand, lifted one pant leg. There, inside a tailor-made sneaker, I could see the prosthetic gadget he now walked on.
As Sharyn liked to say, he’d missed making it through that Rift by a “foot.”
Hey, there are no “good” puns!
“Gettin’ used to it,” he said with a smile. “Won’t be skateboardin’ or runnin’ marathons anytime soon. But I can live with that.”
“Bro’s gettin’ his GED,” Sharyn announced.
GED stands for “General Educational Development,” and it’s a test that high school dropouts can take to prove they’ve got the skills to deserve a high school equivalency diploma.
“We both are,” Tom corrected.
“And you’ll both ace ‘em!” Helene said brightly. “Hands down.”
“Totally!” I added.
“Thanks, dudes,” Tom said.
“And after that!” his sister crowed, “he’s goin’ to the University of Pennsylvania.”
“Yeah?” I asked.
Tom actually looked bashful. I hadn’t thought he could pull off bashful, but he did. “Political Science. Uncle Sam’s covering the bill.”
“He’s got his eye on Congress in a few years!” Sharyn announced.
“You’ll do great,” I said.
He waved off the compliment. “Yeah. Thanks. How’s school going?”
Helene and I shared a shrug. Really, when you’re talking about middle school, is there anything to say that can’t be said with a shrug?
The chief grinned. “Sharyn’s thinking of becoming a teacher.”
“Yeah?” I replied.
The girl nodded. “Think I’d make a good one. Phys Ed maybe.”
“I’d take that class,” Helene said.
“Not me,” I added snarkily. “The teacher would be too scary.”
Sharyn laughed her musical laugh.
“Okay,” Tom said. “Enough with the catch-up. We ain’t supposed to be here, remember? How’s the statue look?”
Sharyn whirled around and exclaimed, “Let’s find out!” Then she stepped up, grabbed one edge of the tarp, and gave it a hard pull.
It slid away, landing in a heavy pile at our feet.
“Wow,” Helene whispered.
There, atop a marble pedestal, stood a life-size image of a kid with a mop of hair atop his head. Rendered in shining bronze, his face was broad and he wore a determined expression. Both his hands were over one shoulder, clutching the handle of a long shovel, the blade of which rose more than a yard past his head. He looked a little like a batter at the plate—except that what he would be swinging at wasn’t any baseball.
And at his feet, propped up against one of his thick legs, leaned a pickaxe, or the head of one anyway, set into a bronze rendition of a leather handle. He’d hated that thing, I knew. So it had seemed proper to depict him as not wearing it, not needing it.
“Hot Dog,” Sharyn whispered, and the emotion behind those words made a lump form in my throat.
At the same time, Helene knelt down and read what was inscribed in the marble pedestal.
“Dave ‘The Burgermeister’ Burger,” she said, her voice catching. “Undertaker.” Then she read the words engraved below. “He saved us all.”
Straightening up, she gazed into that familiar face. “I really miss him,” she said.
She turned and fell against me. I put my arms around her. Then, looking up at my friend, gone but never forgotten, I heard myself add in a voice that felt firmer and stronger than I thought it would be, “It was an honor serving with you, too.”
For more than a minute, the four us stood there in respectful silence. It was a good moment. Sad but real, if you know what I mean.
But then a new voice shouted out, ruining it. “Hey, you kids!”
We all turned to see a man in some kind of uniform. Not a cop. Maybe a City Hall janitor or maintenance guy. He’d emerged from one of the doors that opened onto the empty courtyard.
And he looked pissed.
“That wasn’t supposed to be unveiled until three!” he exclaimed, pointing at the statue. “How’d you all even get in here?” Then, as his eyes moved toward the gate, with its broken padlock, and the instrument of the crime—Sharyn’s bolt-cutter—lying on the ground, his face turned beet red. Whirling back on us, he demanded, “Who do you think you are?”
The four of us burst out laughing.
Tom, leaning on his cane, grinned and nodded at me as if to say, “Why don’t you take this one?”
So, giving Helene’s hand a squeeze, I marched up to the dude.
As I did, something in my face must have taken him by surprise, because he actually retreated a step. Suddenly, his anger was gone, replaced by that awesomely satisfying look of bewilderment that grown-ups always seem to wear when they find out a kid is more than they figured he’d be.
Trust me: There’s nothing better.
“Who are we?” I asked him.
He nodded, a little apprehensively.
So I told him.
I told him who we were.
Who we are.
And who we always will be.
SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
A lot of my job involves going around to middle schools and talking to boys and girls about my books and about writing in general. And, almost since the Undertakers were first introduced, my bookselling partner on this adventure has been Karenne Snow.
I’ve honestly lost count of the number of schools Karenne and I have visited, with her sitting beside me and selling signed books to literally thousands of kids. Through it all, her good humor and enthusiasm have been of tremendous benefit. Whether the sales at a particular event were strong or poor, Karenne was always faithfully there at my side.
She retired in November of 2014 and, while I’m so happy to see her starting on this new chapter in her life, I will sorely miss my favorite bookseller.
TY DRAGO
Ty Drago does his writing just across the river from Philadelphia, where the Undertakers novels take place. In addition to The Undertakers: Rise of the Corpses, The Undertakers: Queen of the Dead, and The Undertakers: Secret of the Corpse Eater, he is the author of The Franklin Affair and Phobos, as well as short stories and articles that have appeared in numerous publications, including Writer’s Digest. He currently lives in southern New Jersey with his wife and best friend, the real Helene Drago née Boettcher.
OTHER MONTH9BOOKS TITLES YOU MIGHT LIKE
THE UNDERTAKERS: SECRET OF THE CORPSE EATER
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Special Acknowledgement
About the Author
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