And there it was. A penciled note on the back of the electric bill in JoAnne’s handwriting: “Head rights for minerals!!! Old farm, 6:30, morning.”
JoAnne had probably pulled out the bill, then laid it aside and put the note on it later, perhaps when someone called.
Head rights was a term Carrie knew. In Oklahoma it meant each member of a Native American tribe benefitted from the sale or lease of something of value the tribe owned in common—kind of like shares. In fact, she knew an Osage woman who had inherited head rights for minerals on property in Osage County, Oklahoma. As a result, the woman had a very comfortable income from oil lease money that had been invested. But here? Carrie had never heard of head rights being allotted for minerals in Arkansas. She’d call the university first thing tomorrow and ask someone about it.
“Old farm, 6:30.” 6:30 Saturday morning? That was early, but JoAnne had been an early riser, and she’d have needed to finish whatever this was before coming to the meeting at Carrie’s.
Should someone be told about the note?
Henry and Jason had gone to town and would probably stay there for dinner. Roger was out with the herd, and Shirley was busy with the milk truck. No one to tell now. Later tonight, maybe. And, she’d take the note with her since it was on an electric bill she must pay.
For now, she might just drive down to the old farm and look around. It had been some time since she’d actually walked around down there, and she was curious as the dickens. The sheriff’s men could have missed some important clue. Perhaps she could find out what it was JoAnne had discovered, and that would make everything clear. Whatever else it meant, wouldn’t it prove to Henry King she was a very capable woman, one who could be trusted with information about his gun... or his life?
It would be getting dark soon. She’d have to hurry.
Chapter XIV
It wasn’t until she was bumping along the lane to the old barn that Carrie remembered Roger’s warning that no one should go to the proposed quarry site alone. For just a moment she slowed her station wagon, but then decided since she hadn’t seen trucks or cars anywhere, and certainly no outsider would walk here from any distance, there could not possibly be danger. Just twenty-four hours ago men from the sheriff’s department had been all over the place. No one would come here now. Except she would, of course, because she had a reason.
She parked her wagon by the remains of a corral fence near the barn. She could check the barn later. Probably Taylor and the others pretty much tore it apart after finding JoAnne’s truck there anyway. But perhaps they hadn’t looked as carefully in other places on the old farm.
She headed toward the foundation of the house, glad she had on heavy jeans and boots. The dry brush was tall in spots, though it had obviously been trampled, and the scattering of rocks and pieces of rusted metal would have made walking difficult in anything but boots.
The day had remained cloudy, but now the setting sun slanted through a gap in the purpling clouds and illuminated the naked chimney. The old bricks were a warm rosy color. JoAnne had told her they were made from clay dug near Walden Creek. Maybe a loose brick had fallen somewhere, and she could take it home and put it in the rock garden in front of her house. The quarry people certainly wouldn’t care about a brick since they were planning to blast the place to bits anyway.
Attracted by the idea of saving one of the historic bricks, she started around the chimney, looking at the ground and wondering how many years ago the house had burned.
As she came to the old hearth, she nearly fell over a pile of rocks. Someone had been digging and, from the looks of things, very recently, since dirt on the rocks was damp. She looked around but saw no person and no tools anywhere. It was all right then. Whoever it was had gone.
She kicked at the pile, trying to figure out why someone would be digging, but all she uncovered were more rocks. Maybe she’d have time to come back with a pick and shovel tomorrow while Susan was tending to the baby and getting settled. Maybe Henry would come with her, or even, maybe, Shirley would keep the baby and Susan could come too. Carrie smiled, thinking of this prospect. At the very least, now Henry and Susan would get to know each other, even though Susan could have no idea of their real relationship.
She looked around again. The angle of a weak sunbeam highlighted a track of broken weeds and pasture grass that led toward the bluff and the trees along the creek.
Glancing at the sky, Carrie decided she had several minutes before dark. She headed off, following the rough path.
When she got to the creek bank, there were more signs that rocks had been disturbed. Could the quarry people have done it, making tests or something?
It was already quite dark in the shelter of the bluffs, and barred owls in the woods above her were beginning to call. Ordinarily Carrie would have called back, but she didn’t have time now for a conversation with owls. When she was outside at dusk, she sometimes mimicked the owls, and they came to the trees over her head. Of course, she hadn’t the slightest idea what the conversation was about and often wondered if the owls did.
She looked up toward the overhang that marked a cave entrance on the face of the bluff. Shadows accented a path slanting upward until it reached the overhang and the dark hole behind it. For how many centuries had people walked up and down that path? Anyone sitting on the overhang could see the whole valley, a good vantage point.
Sadly, if the quarry came, all this would be destroyed, blasted into oblivion to make nothing but gravel.
She began pushing piles of stone around with the toe of her boot, but, here in the shadows, it was almost too dark to see. Too bad she hadn’t thought to bring a trowel and flashlight. She’d have to leave soon. In the country, dark meant no light at all unless there was a moon, and tonight clouds covered stars and a waning moon. She couldn’t even see the Booths’ farm lights from here.
A sudden rustle in the dry underbrush caused her to start, and her boot dug sharply into the pile of rocks she had been kicking at. Some nocturnal animal had come out to hunt for food.
She looked down and saw a curving shape near the toe of her boot. Surely not a shell, not here. She picked the curved thing up, brushed it off with her gloved hand, then took off a glove to feel. Smooth, with slight circling swirls. In the faint light it looked like a shallow bowl.
Her heart thumped. Pottery! That must mean some kind of Indian camp. She
had
found something important. She wrapped the bowl in a facial tissue and tucked it away in her pocket, counting on the heavy jacket to help protect it from harm.
She could no longer see her station wagon in the distance, but, more by instinct than sight, she headed back toward the old barn, first feeling carefully to be sure her key was still in the pocket of her jeans. As she walked back toward the barn, she thought she heard a metallic clink. She stopped to listen and decided it had been the sound of her wagon’s engine cooling.
Everything was very quiet as she approached the old corral. The wagon was barely visible. Only a dark blob against the weathered boards of the barn revealed its location. She leaned against the driver’s door, reaching in her pocket for the key.
She was just touching the key when a rush of movement came around behind her, and before she could turn, a dark fuzzy something had been pulled over her head, knocking her cap off and covering her eyes and mouth.
She was able to cry out, and the person behind her made no effort to stop her, realizing as Carrie did at once, that there would be no one to hear. Now her mouth was full of woolly fibers. She gagged, then choked, and took an involuntary, gasping breath. Whatever it was covering her head smelled awful.
The attacker grabbed her shoulders and pushed her, front forward, against the curving side of the wagon. He leaned against her, using the force of his body weight to keep her immobile while he yanked her hands back and up. She cried out in pain as her shoulders twisted.
Now her hands were being tied with what felt like nylon fishing line. It was wound around each wrist, then between her hands and looped over and over before it was knotted. Carrie counted five knots and winced. The line was thin and had already cut into her bare flesh.
Repeatedly, she tried to kick backward at her enemy, but found that her weight was so off balance she could barely move her feet. When she finally managed one feeble blow, the man, because by now the pressure of his body against hers had made her certain it was a man, kicked her sharply in the ankle.
Her mind was racing, a survival instinct taking over even as she was being tied. Terror was her biggest enemy now. Oh, dear God! Why was the man doing this? She had been leaving, why had he stopped her? She shouldn’t have come here alone! Why hadn’t she listened... been more sensible... not so eager to rush into things? Oh,
why
!
She began to pray silently and tried to decide if she was afraid of dying. Then the man suddenly backed away from her, and she fell sideways. Her shoulder struck the hood of the wagon, but she could barely feel it. Her heavy jacket and whatever had been tied over her head did at least end up being a lot of padding, she realized, not without gratitude, as she slid to the rocky ground.
She lay still, trying to control her trembling body as a flashlight raked over her, and she listened to the man’s heavy breathing. Maybe he would think she was unconscious.
One thing was sure—her attacker was strong, though he was much shorter and less bulky than Henry.
The man stood over her for a long time, and Carrie could hear his breathing slowing down. What was he thinking? Trying to decide whether or not to kill her? But why would he kill her? She couldn’t think of a single reason. Certainly not because of a piece of pottery!
The man couldn’t know she had it.
Just as she was thinking that, she heard him kneel beside her. He pushed her over on her back, sat on her legs, and began to search her pockets. He found the tissue-wrapped bowl first, and she could sense that he was inspecting it in the beam of his flashlight.
She heard him put it in his own pocket, then he began going through the rest of her jacket pockets, where he found only her glove and facial tissues, and finally her jeans pockets. It was hard not to shudder as she felt his fingers through the thin cloth of the jeans pocket lining.
The contact must have affected him too because he hesitated, not long, but long enough for her to be sure he was aware his moving fingers were touching her intimately through the light-weight fabric. What was he thinking? Rape? Did that happen to women her age? Oh, yes, yes, it did. She had read recently that rape was more often about power than it was sex, and then it didn’t matter much what age the victim was... or what she looked like.
Now it was nearly impossible to control her body enough to keep it from trembling.
After a very long moment the man removed his fingers and checked her second jeans pocket. When he found the key to her station wagon, Carrie almost recoiled in terror as she thought of her purse on the seat, and her house key inside the purse.
Suddenly the man paused as both he and Carrie heard the roar of a truck engine in the distance and a horn tooting twice in quick succession. Her key clinked to the ground, and the man’s feet pounded away as he ran toward—she concentrated, thinking of directions—as he ran toward the old barn. A metal door slammed, then a car—no, probably a truck—started, reversed, and raced past her, the tires coming so close that she could hear the spray of gravel they threw against her jacket as they picked up speed.
Then everything was quiet. Very quiet. The truck that had sent the man running was gone too. Carrie was alone.
She was lying on her tied hands, which was terribly painful, so the first thing she did was sit up, digging into the ground with her heels and lifting her upper body. A few movements of her arms and wrists told her that the more she tried to free her hands, the more the line cut, so she stopped struggling.
She tried to think which direction the station wagon would be. After deciding it must be behind her, she began bumping her rear end painfully across the rocky ground, scooting in what she hoped was the right way. She could stand and walk, but then she’d lose contact with the only reference point she could figure out with certainty—the ground that was beneath her.
After about five bumps and bounces she knew she must be going the wrong direction and stopped to think again. She was facing the wagon when she fell over, then he rolled her on her back, and... yes, she was going the wrong way... that is, she was if she hadn’t bounced at an angle. Several more bounces brought her up against the front bumper, and, enjoying the small amount of heat still radiating from the engine, she sat still, leaning against the hard surface, thinking about what to do next.
If only she hadn’t locked the car. But locking it was automatic when she left her purse inside.
Oh, no, thought Carrie. The car key! She’d heard it drop, and it would have been easy to locate if only she’d felt around before she moved. If she had it in her fingers, she could back up to the lock and open the door. Then there’d be somewhere to sit, somewhere to stay out of the cold. And, she could probably manage to honk the horn.
Carrie shifted as the point of a rock dug into her behind, and she tried to think where the key might be. She started to open her mouth for a real, no-matter-what wail, and, just in time, remembered the disgusting taste of her woolly mask. Well, at least she could breathe, there was that to be grateful for, even if her head covering did have an awful smell. The line holding it around her neck was tight, but the mask itself kept the ties from cutting her.
She sat in silence for a few minutes. Her hands were beginning to feel numb. She wiggled her fingers, trying to wrap her bare right hand in the gloved left one. She’d just have to find that key and get into the wagon! But she dreaded bumping back across the ground and wasn’t sure of the distance to where the key had dropped. Oh, why hadn’t the man tied her hands in front? Then she’d be able to crawl and feel. Did she dare leave the small but familiar comfort of her own station wagon and its waning engine warmth?