The Buried Bones Mystery

  “So what do we do if Mr. Greene comes?” asked Jerome.

  “Do you think he took Blackasaurus?” asked Rashawn.

  “Why would a grown man want a huge plastic dinosaur?” asked Rico.

  “Lots of questions—not many answers, mon,” said Ziggy mysteriously. “First we wait—then we watch. Answers will appear… you’ll see.”

  It was quiet in the clubhouse. Jerome walked around, checking each corner with his flashlight for bugs. Ziggy made shadow animals on the walls, and Rashawn practiced making Boy Scout knots in Rico’s rope. Rico sat on the sleeping bags, knees up to his chin, listening to the faint sound of thunder in the distance.

  “Do you think it will rain tonight?” he asked.

  “Probably not,” replied Rashawn. “That thunder sounds pretty far away.”

  “Thunderstorm by midnight, mon,” said Ziggy.

  “That’s all we need,” Jerome complained. “Thunder boomers, bad guys, bones, and bugs!”

  “Maybe we should turn off the flashlights for a while,” said Rico. “We might need the battery power later, and if Mr. Greene comes snooping around here, it’s got to be quiet and dark, like it was last night when Ziggy saw him.”

  They turned the flashlights off and the dark seemed to jump in and grab them. It was a hot night; the air felt sticky and thick. The four friends sat quietly together—listening and waiting.

  Suddenly Jerome jumped up. “What was that?” he whispered fiercely. The others had heard the sound too. Slow, soft footsteps were moving through the loose dirt outside the clubhouse. And a thin, scratchy voice sang mysteriously:

  “I KNOW IT, KNOW IT,

  INDEED I KNOW IT, BROTHER,

  I KNOW IT, YEAH—

  THEM BONES GONNA RISE AGAIN!”

  “It’s him!” whispered Rico. “What should we do?”

  Ziggy put his hand over Rico’s mouth to stop him from speaking again. “Just wait,” he said softly.

  As the old man continued to sing, the boys could hear the sound of dirt being shoveled. He dug for a few minutes in one spot, then moved a few feet down and started to dig again.

  The boys held their breath. Mr. Greene was digging at the exact spot where the box of bones was hidden. Soon they heard a clunk as his shovel hit the box.

  “I found it!” he yelled to the sky. “The past cannot be buried! I will destroy the destroyers!”

  Then Ziggy sneezed.

  Instantly Mr. Greene was silent and turned his attention to the clubhouse. “Who’s there?” he growled. He raised his shovel like a weapon and beat on the clubhouse door. “You rotten kids—come outta there! I’ll bury you! I’ll bury you!”

  At the word “bury” Rashawn screamed and jumped out of one window; Jerome jumped out of the other. Mr. Greene pushed open the clubhouse door, held his shovel in front of him like a weapon, and walked directly toward Rico, who was huddling in the corner. Mr. Greene had to crouch a little because of the low ceiling, but that only made him look scarier. In the moonlight, his face was wild and angry.

  Just as it looked like he was about to strike Rico, a loud, booming voice behind him roared, “PUT DOWN THAT SHOVEL, MON!”

  Startled, Mr. Greene spun around to face a blindingly bright light. He put his hand up to shield his eyes, and a police whistle blew directly in his ears. The siren of a police car pierced the air so close that it seemed to be right there in the clubhouse. Suddenly the rat-a-tat-tat of what sounded like bullets rattled at his feet. He ran out the door, hands up, yelling, “Don’t shoot—I didn’t do anything!” Outside, there was only darkness.

  He took one more step before falling forward into a pile of leaves, tangled in the rope that Jerome and Rashawn had strung outside.

  “We got him, mon!” cheered Ziggy, who once again shone the flashlight into Mr. Greene’s face.

  “So now what do we do?” asked Rico, holding the baseball bat.

  Just then an earsplitting crash of thunder rocked the night.

  THE FLASH OF LIGHTNING THAT FOLLOWED THE thunder brightened the whole scene for just an instant—four frightened boys surrounding an angry old man tangled in a rope on the ground. Rico held the baseball bat, Ziggy held Rico’s treasure flashlight, Rashawn held the empty pizza box like a shield, and Jerome had his finger on the trigger of the can of bug spray—ready to fire.

  “I’ll get you kids for this!” Mr. Greene screamed at them. “I’ll destroy you all—all the destroyers!” Then, just as the next booming clap of thunder exploded around them, Mr. Greene bowed his head and burst into tears. The boys lowered their weapons and looked at one another in confusion.

  “I’ve never seen a grown man cry before,” said Rico uncomfortably.

  The wind suddenly started to blow harder and the first large drops of rain splashed the scene. Mr. Greene, who no longer looked so scary, sat weeping on the ground in front of the clubhouse, not noticing the rain, not even noticing the boys.

  “Let’s take him inside, mon,” said Ziggy. “We’re gonna get a big storm real quick.”

  Not knowing what else to do, they helped Mr. Greene up and led him into the clubhouse. They set him gently on the lawn chair. Rico gave him a Kleenex and Rashawn offered him a grape soda. No one knew what to say, so for a moment they just listened to the thunder and the storm and wished they were home in their own beds.

  Then Ziggy screamed. Everyone jumped up. Jerome made a dash for the door, even though it was pouring rain.

  “What’s wrong?” shouted Rico. “Don’t scream like that!”

  “We’re leaking, mon! There’s water dripping on my back! It spooked me for a second, that’s all.”

  “Don’t do that kinda stuff, man,” said Jerome. “We got enough to deal with tonight.”

  “So what are we gonna do about the leak in the roof?” asked Rashawn.

  For the first time Mr. Greene spoke up. He had wiped his tears and was breathing normally. “Why don’t you take that raincoat over there and put it on the roof where it’s leaking? Put a rock over the coat to hold it down. That’s what we used to do in our tree house when we were kids.”

  They just stared at him for a minute, amazed that this scary old man used to be a kid. Then Ziggy grabbed the raincoat, dashed out into the rain, and covered the leak. A minute later, he ran back in, soaking wet, but smiling again.

  “Many thanks, mon,” said Ziggy. “So, you gonna tell us what’s wrong?”

  “Or should I get my dad, who’s a cop!” said Rashawn with a hint of a threat in his voice.

  “It sounded like you had the entire police department right here in your clubhouse,” said Mr. Greene, chuckling. “What I wouldn’t have given to have a wonderful toy like that when I was your age.”

  “Why did you try to hurt us?” asked Rico, who still held on to the baseball bat.

  “And what were you digging for?” asked Jerome. He figured there was no way Mr. Greene could know that they’d found the box of bones.

  “And where’s Blackasaurus—my dinosaur?” Rashawn asked angrily.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you boys. I just wanted to scare you away. I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

  The thunder continued to rumble, and the lightning flashed, while the rain beat steadily down on the roof of the clubhouse. Ziggy wrapped a blanket around himself, and the four boys huddled in the center of the cabin, away from the windows, which let in a very wet breeze. Mr. Greene sat in the middle, relaxed, as if he were glad to finally have someone to talk to.

  “Hey, mon,” said Ziggy with a smile, “you gonna tell us the real deal?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” replied Mr. Greene. “How about if I tell you a story?”

  “That’d be cool,” said Jerome. “But no scary stuff—it’s not that I’m scared—but Rico here, he can’t deal with it.”

  “Not me!” Rico protested. “Rashawn is the one who jumps out of his skin every time the lightning flashes!”

  “Aw, man, quit that,” said Rashawn. “All of us were ready t
o split a minute ago.”

  “Okay, now,” said Ziggy. “Let the mon tell his tale!”

  “MY GRANDFATHER, WHOSE NAME WAS MAC,” began Mr. Greene, “came to Ohio in 1860. He was a runaway slave. I don’t know how much you boys know about the old days, but back then, black people in the South were slaves. Boys your age would work from sunup to sundown in the cotton fields. They never got to build clubhouses or play basketball or even go to school like you do.”

  “We learned about it in school,” said Rico, “but I never really talked to anybody who knew about slavery for real.”

  “Talk to the old people,” said Mr. Greene. “They know more than you think. It’s just, no one asks them.”

  “My grandmother knows a lot of that stuff,” said Jerome. “She even gave me a kalimba that her grandmother taught her how to make.”

  “Treasure it,” continued Mr. Greene. “The memories are special. Don’t destroy the past.”

  “What does that mean, Mr. Greene?” asked Rashawn. “You kept screaming about destroyers and stuff—before you started… uh… crying.”

  “I’m not ashamed of my tears, son,” said Mr. Greene. “Let me finish my story, and I’ll tell you what everything means, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Anyway, Ohio was what they called a Free State, meaning that slavery wasn’t legal here, so when my grandfather crossed the Ohio River, he was free, unless the slave catchers found him and caught him and took him back.”

  “I read about that stuff in my history book, mon.” Ziggy frowned. He looked at Mr. Greene. “That was so not fair!”

  “I hear you, son. But slaves were worth a lot of money.” Mr. Greene was silent for a moment.

  “Did your grandfather get caught?” Rico asked.

  “No, he didn’t,” Mr. Greene replied, continuing his story. “He got a job on the river, right here in Cincinnati, got married, and named his first son Victory. Victory grew up and married my mama.”

  “So what does all this have to do with you digging in the middle of the night behind our clubhouse?” asked Rashawn.

  “I’m gettin’ to that part, son. I was the last child born to Victory and my mama—in 1925—so that makes me more than eighty years old.”

  “Wow!” said Ziggy. “You’re old, mon!”

  Mr. Greene smiled. “My granddaddy was eighty years old when I was born. He used to tell me stories about slavery and the big house and running away and working on the docks of the Ohio River. He also used to sing the old songs to me. My favorite was, ‘Them Bones Gonna Rise Again.’”

  Rico gasped. Ziggy wiggled. The thunder was getting weaker, but the boys hadn’t even noticed.

  Then Rashawn said, “My dad said that there was a note with that message left near the chopped-up basketball poles.”

  “That was no message. I dropped it. I’m trying to write down all the old songs that my grandpa taught me. See, here’s the rest of the pile.” He took from his pocket dozens of slips of paper with titles and words to songs. “I’ll finish this someday.”

  “Powerful stuff, mon,” said Ziggy.

  “Anyway, my grandpa Mac,” Mr. Greene continued, “lived to be ninety years old. I was just about your age when he died. I was heartbroken, because he was my best friend. They buried him in the old cemetery behind this fence.

  “Then, just a couple of years later, a company called Burke Builders came in with legal papers and building equipment and covered over the cemetery and put up the apartment building. My parents and some of the other people in the neighborhood tried to stop it, but no one would listen. Nobody really cared about a cemetery filled with poor black folks.”

  “So is that your grandfather in the box we found, mon?” asked Ziggy, hiding his face in his hands.

  “Shut up, Ziggy!” said Jerome. “He didn’t even know we had found the box!”

  “Oops!”

  “So you found the box? I’m glad you did. You probably made it easier for me to locate it tonight. And no, that’s not my grandfather in the box—I don’t think.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Rashawn.

  “The building company covered over the burial sites, but some bones got unearthed and were tossed aside like trash. My father and I gathered them and put them into the metal box that you found and buried it next to the fence. So what you found in that box is the spirit of thousands of freed slaves and escaped slaves and hardworking black men and women who weren’t allowed to rest in peace. It’s nothing to be scared of.”

  “That’s a righteous tale, mon,” said Ziggy solemnly.

  “But we still don’t know who cut down our basketball poles,” said Jerome.

  “I do,” said Mr. Greene softly.

  “Who is it?” asked Rashawn. “I’ll get my dog to get him!”

  “I’ve seen your dog,” said Mr. Greene. “He wouldn’t bite a mashed potato.”

  Ziggy burst out laughing. “He’s got you there, mon!”

  “Who did it, Mr. Greene?” asked Jerome.

  Mr. Greene sighed. “Seems old Mr. Burke—the owner of the company that destroyed our graveyard—has a son who runs it now. The son wants the land where your basketball courts are, to build an apartment building there. He figured if the neighborhood thinks the park is dangerous and likely to be vandalized, he would be able to buy the land cheaply.”

  “No way, mon!” said Ziggy, jumping up. “We won’t let him!”

  “And how are we gonna stop him?” asked Rico. “Firecrackers?”

  “No, with these!” replied Mr. Greene with a twinkle in his eye. He pulled three wrinkled photographs out of his pocket.

  The boys passed the pictures around with silent wonder, smiling as they realized what they showed.

  “How did you manage to take pictures of men with ‘Burke Builders’ on the backs of their shirts and chain saws in their hands?” asked Rico. “And using those chain saws to cut up our basketball poles?”

  “It was easy,” replied Mr. Greene. “I wander around the neighborhood a lot. Nobody pays any attention to me because everybody thinks I’m just a crazy old man.”

  “Well, we sure are glad that we found out different, mon,” declared Ziggy. “What are you going to do with the pictures?”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to do anything, because I didn’t think it would help,” Mr. Greene told them, “but since I’ve met you boys, I decided that I’m going to turn them over to the police and work to make things right.”

  “And we’ll help you,” said Rashawn. “Tomorrow I’ll tell my dad all about this, and I know he’ll take care of it. He’s a cop, you know.”

  “I got it! I got it, mon!” screamed Ziggy, knocking over a chair in his enthusiasm.

  “Got what? The password? Kinda late, isn’t it?” Rico said with a chuckle.

  “No, mon—I got an idea!”

  “So tell us before you pop!” Jerome said.

  “Rashawn’s dad is a member of the Black Heritage Club, right, mon?”

  “Right. So?”

  “I’m sure if they hear about Mr. Greene’s grandfather, they’ll help to find a special place of honor for that box to be buried, mon.”

  “Since we found the box, we can get our pictures in the paper and everything!” added Rico.

  “We’ll be famous!” cried Rashawn.

  “And we’ll be helping some folks who helped us a long time ago,” Jerome reminded them.

  Mr. Greene smiled at them all. “That’s all I ever wanted, son—I guess I just went about it the wrong way. You know, I bet your dad’s Black Heritage Club could also help with rebuilding your basketball court. Have you ever asked?”

  “No—we just figured they wouldn’t care,” said Jerome.

  “That was exactly my mistake,” replied Mr. Greene. “Don’t give up like I did. Go and ask for the help you need.”

  “You’re pretty cool for an old dude, mon,” said Ziggy. “We’ll try it!”

  “Well,” said Mr. Greene, “it seems that the storm is ove
r, so I’d better get back home. You boys have a campout to finish. Good night.”

  He left, whistling “Them Bones Gonna Rise Again.” It was quiet for a moment. Suddenly the boys heard a terrible crashing through the underbrush.

  “It couldn’t be a ghost,” said Ziggy, who had put his head under the blanket, “could it?”

  “No,” said Rashawn, laughing. “It’s just Afrika, coming to join us. And look what he has in his mouth!”

  Slightly chewed, but still in one piece, was Blackasaurus. Afrika dropped the dinosaur at their feet, wagging his tail to be petted and praised. The boys laughed with relief, and moved their sleeping bags so that the dog had a nice warm spot in the middle of the clubhouse.

  The thunder had stopped, the lightning no longer flashed, fear had disappeared like the raindrops, and the Black Dinosaurs curled into their sleeping bags for a good night’s sleep.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PREVIEW OF THE NEXT ADVENTURE,

  LOST IN THE TUNNEL OF TIME

  LIKE COOL, SWEET MILK ON A BOWL OF CRUNCHY cereal, the Thursday morning breeze splashed the crisp, dry leaves under Rico’s feet. He liked this time of year. It would soon be time for warm fires in the fireplace and frosty snow on the sidewalk. His mom had made him wear a jacket to school today, and it felt good. As he crossed the street to the school building, he spotted his friend Ziggy and waved.

  Ziggy sat on the front steps of the school, digging wildly in his book bag. He pulled out two broken pencils, a half-eaten apple, a red spiral notebook, a sandwich wrapped in plastic, a doorknob, and a green tennis shoe. “Hey, Rico-mon! Did you do your history homework?”

  Rico chuckled. “Sure, Ziggy. It was easy. Didn’t you do yours?”

  “Of course I did it, mon—Ziggy is no fool. But I can’t find it!”

  Ziggy continued to empty the contents of his book bag on the school steps—his math book, seven small smooth rocks, five nickels, and a purple three-ring binder. “It’s gotta be in here somewhere,” he mumbled to himself. His long braided hair, covered with a small, green and yellow knitted cap, hung over his shoulders.