Call the Devil by His Oldest Name (13 page)

Eighteen

WHILE GABE AND Clarinda
helped Ruth set up the camper, Mary walked beneath the bright yellow trees. She still could not imagine how Dwayne Pugh could have put her, Lily, and Jonathan together, but he had to have done it. There was simply no one else. No one alive and walking the earth, anyway. She needed to have Pugh questioned, and questioned hard. She could call Sanford and Maestra, the two vice detectives who'd worked the case, but that would go in the official log books. If it got back to Vir­ginia Kwan that Mary was having her client in­terrogated about a kidnapping that occurred two hundred miles away in Tennessee, Kwan would have one of her famed fire-breathing dragon fits. Mott would find out and probably declare Mary mentally unfit to prosecute anybody. Until she could tie Pugh's threats to the missing Lily, she needed to proceed quietly. Inadvertently she shivered. She knew exactly who could help her.

She pressed one of the preprogrammed num­bers on her cell phone. The phone rang twice, then a man answered.

“Justice Center gym.”

“Mike Czarnowski, please.”

“Hang on.”

She waited, listening to the muffled shouts of what sounded like a fairly rowdy basketball game. Then a male voice came on the line.

“Czarnowski.''

‘'Mike? This is Mary Crow.''

“Hey, Killer.” The gruff voice softened instantly. “You coming down this afternoon?”

“Not today, Mike.”

“So what's up?”

“Mike, I need a favor.”

“You name it.”

“Remember Dwayne Pugh?”

“That asswipe you're prosecuting?”

“Exactly. Look, Mike, I've got a situation here. I'm up in Tennessee. Someone abducted the baby of some friends of mine.”

Czarnowski gave a low whistle. “Stole a baby? Jeez, Mary.”

“Listen, I know this sounds paranoid as hell, but I'm wondering if Pugh set this up somehow.”

“From jail?” She could hear the same incredulity in Mike's voice that she'd heard earlier in Benge's.

“He could do it.”

“You want me to find out?”

Mary hesitated. Never had she thought she would ask for such a thing, yet never had she dreamed anyone would steal little Lily Walking­stick. It was time to take the gloves off and play outside the rules. “Yes, Mike. I do.”

“Give me some particulars.”

“The victim's a three-month-old Cherokee female. Black hair, brown eyes, light tan complexion.”
My godchild
, she thought.
The closest thing to family I've got left.
“Her name is Lily Walkingstick. She was abducted from the Hillbilly Heaven campsite in Tremont, Tennessee, sometime Saturday afternoon. Sheriff's got an APB out in Tennessee and Carolina.”

“Feds involved?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Mary replied. “Hopefully, they soon will be.”

“Okay, Killer. Don't worry. I'll find out something.”

Mary switched off the phone. She knew cops beat confessions out of people every day, but she'd never dreamed she'd call and order one up like a take-out pizza.
Cracked ribs and bruised kidneys, please, but for God's sake, no black eyes!

But there was nothing she could do about that now. She rejoined Gabe Benge back at his van, and minutes later they were edging into the line of traffic heading west.

“So how far away is Nancy Ward's grave?” she asked him.

“A couple of hours,” he replied. “Take a nap, if you want. I'll wake you when we get there.”

“Thanks, but I'm okay.” She didn't want to nap; a short sleep would only make the great mound of fatigue inside her heavier to bear. Still, as the bright autumn landscape flashed by, Gabe's invitation began working like a subliminal suggestion, and she found her eyelids drooping. Sitting up straighter in the seat, she turned her attention to him.

“So how come you know so much about Cherokee history?”

He shrugged. “My dad got me interested when I was a kid.”

“Really? Is your father into Indian lore, too?”

He glanced at her. “You don't know the villainous name of Benge?”

She shook her head.

“I'm a descendant of Bob Benge. He was a Cherokee outlaw who terrorized the pioneers in southwest Virginia.”

“Wow. FBI criminal, huh?”

“FBI?”

“Full-blood Indian.”

He chuckled. “He was. I'm not. Benge's descendants intermarried with the Scotch-Irish Virginians pretty fast. I'm a half-breed, at best.”

“Join the club.”

“You're not full-blood?”

“My mom grew up in Snowbird, my dad was from Atlanta.”

“Zalagish hewonishgi?
” he asked eagerly.

Hearing the soft, musical speech of her childhood, Mary smiled “Some.
Gado dejado? Hadlu hinel?
”

“I can't believe I've finally found somebody to speak Kituwah with!” He grinned, then remembered to answer her question. “Gabriel Fergus Benge. University of Tennessee, most years.”

“Most years?”“

“This year I'm on sabbatical. I had planned to go dig up mummies in Peru.”

“And now?”

His smile faded. “I don't know Ruth Moon well, but I'm the one who persuaded her to get involved in this rally. I'm not leaving until her daughter's been found.”

Mary studied him, impressed with the way he shouldered that responsibility. Though she'd never seen or heard of Gabriel Benge until last night, something about him felt comfortably familiar, as if they were old friends resuming a long-interrupted conversation without a beat of hesitation. Pondering that, she leaned back and turned her gaze out the window. A herd of Black Angus cows dotted a green hillside like black ink drops spilled from a pen.
Me, Lily, and Jonathan
, she wondered.
How could Pugh have tied us to­gether?

“Mary?“

She jumped. “What?” she croaked, for an instant unable to place herself. Time and distance seemed to have passed without her notice.

“We're here.”

She looked out the window. The van had stopped in a paved parking lot at the base of a hill. A Tennessee state historical marker rose di­rectly in front of them. Slowly it all came back to her. Gabe Benge was driving her to Nancy Ward's grave, to look for Lily. Somewhere be­tween the Black Angus cattle and here, she'd fallen asleep.

“Okay,” she said, willing the muzziness out of her brain. “Let's go look around.”

They climbed out of the truck. On one side of the lot, a dirt path led to a canoe launch on the Ocoee River. On the other side, a paved, landscaped pathway curved around a small hill. They walked up the hill, looking for anything that might indicate Lily had been there. Yellow chrysanthemums bloomed tightly on either side of the trail, the grass grew to a sedate half inch, and someone had swept the walk free of dead leaves. It was the cleanest public park Mary had ever visited, but there was no sign of Lily. As they neared the hilltop, she saw a mound of stones surrounded by a tall iron fence. Gabe pulled the photograph from his jacket.

“This looks like the place. The kidnapper must have jumped that fence, set the baby down at the base of the grave, and snapped the photo. Judging by the shadows, I'd say they did it early this morning.”

Mary eyed the fence. It stood well above her head, the iron spikes sharp and pointed. “There must be at least two kidnappers, then. Nobody could jump that fence with a baby in their arms.”

Gabe nodded. “I hadn't thought of that, but you're right.”

They walked clockwise around the fence, which was studded with various items people had left to honor Nancy Ward. Bedraggled eagle feathers dangled in the breeze, mixed in with faded dream-catchers and scraps of bright red yarn. As they circled the enclosure they found a mud-encrusted Lookout Valley High School ring from the class of '99, an empty champagne bottle, an upturned horseshoe spray-painted gold. Nothing, though, remotely to do with either Lily or her. If Pugh had left some clue here to taunt her, she and Gabe were both missing it.

A hundred yards away, across the highway, stood the beginnings of a new subdivision. The main road looked like a deep orange scar in the earth, and three houses rose in various stages of completion. Tomorrow, construction workers would return and resume their work on the site.

Today, Sunday, the subdivision looked as deserted as this grave.

“Nobody would have been working over there this morning,” she told Gabe Benge. “Nobody would have seen anything going on up here.” Suddenly she felt the frustration of cops. By the time she got cases, most of the loose ends had been tied up. Out here, in the world beyond the Deckard County Courthouse, trails went cold fast.

Her phone beeped. Quickly she dug it out of her pocket. Any news, at this point, would sound good.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Killer. Mike here.”

She fought the urge to turn away from Gabe and whisper. “Did you talk to Pugh?”

“Yes, ma'am, I did.” Czarnowski sounded smug. “I talked for a good while. Old Dwayne listened pretty good, too.”

“And?”

“He's not your boy, Mary.” Czarnowksi's voice went flat.

“What?” She couldn't believe this. Pugh had to be the one.

“He didn't do it. By the end of our conversation he wished he had, but he didn't.”

“But how can you be so sure? He's a sociopath and a liar. And he's smart, and he's—”

“Mary, men lie to me only once. When they learn what that lie costs them, they always come up with the truth. Trust me on this, darling: Pugh's a slimy wad of snot, but he didn't have anything to do with your little Cherokee baby.”

“Mike, are you positive?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Mary closed her eyes. She'd engaged in junta tactics, and for what? Nothing, except for inflicting some well-deserved pain on Dwayne Pugh. She felt sick inside.

“Thanks, Mike,” she said sadly, knowing she would never again walk into the Deckard County Courthouse in quite the same way. “I appreciate your trying.”

“I'm sorry, Mary. I wish I could have done more.”

She dropped the phone back in her purse just as a mockingbird landed on top of Nancy Ward's gravestone. The gray-feathered bird perched with its long tail at a rakish angle, its throat throbbing with song. Although it sounded beautiful, all she could hear was Lily, crying on that grave.

Gabe touched her shoulder. “I take it you did not get good news?”

She turned and faced him, straight on, feeling as if she were confessing a sin. “For the first time in my career, I just had a man questioned by an officer famous for encouraging reluctant criminals to own up to their deeds.”

“In other words, you had the shit beat out of him.”

“Right.”

“And?”

“And he couldn't get Pugh to cop to any of this.” Miserable, Mary shook her head. “My wonderful theory just crashed and burned.”

“You're absolutely convinced that it isn't Walkingstick?”

“Without a doubt,” she answered firmly. She stared at Nancy Ward's tombstone a moment, then switched her cell phone back on. “I'm calling Ruth,” she told Gabe. “Maybe she's gotten some news from Dula or Jonathan.”

“What if she hasn't?”

“Then I'm calling my assistant in Atlanta. To tell her to ask for a continuance.”

She pushed the buttons that would connect her with Danika when, just as before, a blinking e-mail icon materialized on her screen. Once again, she'd received a picture; once again, the image was of Lily Walkingstick.

Nineteen

“HOLY SHIT!” CRIED Gabe.
“Another one!”

“Come on,” Mary said, staring at the tiny picture on the phone. “Let's get to a computer where we can print off a clearer image.”

They raced back to the van. While Mary called a stunned Danika, explaining the situation and telling her to ask for a continuance, Gabe drove south, catching I-75 to Chattanooga. “There's a fair-sized college there,” he explained to Mary. “We can log on to the Internet at the library.''

They reached Chattanooga just after sundown. On the way to the college they saw a Kinko's, and pulled in. The clerk behind the counter took an imprint of Mary's credit card and gave her a swipe card that served as an electronic key. They hurried into the computer room, to the first PC they came to. When the welcome screen came on, Mary logged on to the Deckard County server. Twenty new messages appeared, but only one had a .jpg file attached. She clicked the mouse; the file opened.

It was Lily. This time she lay in front of a weather-beaten tombstone that had a long eroded lamb carved at its top. The child wore nothing but a disposable diaper clumsily fastened around her legs. Although she still stared at the camera with defiant little eyes, she no longer exhibited the squalling rage of the first picture. Her fists were not clenched, nor was she flailing her feet at the photographer. To Mary, she seemed to be drooping, like prisoners of war who still had the will but not the strength to fight back. Mary moved the cursor down to the lower margin of the picture, where a new message appeared.
Please, Mary. Come now. I need you. Jonathan.

Without thinking, she touched the computer screen. She knew Jonathan Walkingstick better than anyone else on earth. Every thread of her being told her that he was incapable of this, yet here was a picture of his baby with a message clearly addressed to her. Of course she would come if he needed her. Without question and without fail. And Jonathan knew that.

She glanced up. Gabe was watching her. His face was like stone.

“I know how this looks,” she said defensively. “But believe me, Jonathan is not responsible for this.”

“You wouldn't kid a kidder, would you?” Gabe's smile was mirthless.

“No,” she answered quietly, noticing that his eyes were not brown like she'd thought, but a blue so deep they almost looked black. “I would not.”

Once again he studied her; once again his face softened. “Okay, then. Let's make some copies of that and get back to the van.”

Ten minutes later they sat in his camper, comparing the two photos of Lily.

“Look,” said Gabe. “This is still a Hotmail account, still Lily Walkingstick's name, but the ad­dress lines at the top have changed.”

“He's moving around,” Mary said.

Gabe shrugged. “Maybe. He's at least using different computers.”

“Do you recognize this tombstone?” Mary almost laughed at her own question. What made her think Gabe Benge had intimate knowledge of every old cemetery in Tennessee?

“No, but if he's sticking with the Cherokee thing, then it could be the Shellsford Baptist Church.” He turned to pull a book down from the shelf behind him.

“Is that some archaeological site?”

“No. It's one of the few places east of the Mississippi where nineteenth-century Cherokees were buried like whites. Here.” He pointed to a black-and-white photo. “That's the Shellsford cemetery.”

To Mary it looked like a thousand other old graveyards, tombstones broken and listing at odd angles, as if the dead rose up to dance when no one was looking and then hastily scooted back into their graves. “I don't know. I don't see that particular grave there.”

“Wait!” Gabe exclaimed. “I just thought of something. If this picture was taken at Shellsford, then the kidnapper could be following the Trail of Tears.”

Mary blinked. She well knew about Andrew Jackson's brutal, forced removal of the Cherokees to Oklahoma in 1838. In fact, right after Lily's baptism, Jonathan's Aunt Little Tom had put a personal spin on that tragic history.

“When my grandmother's mother was a girl, sol­diers from Georgia marched down this very road we're standing on,”
the old woman had told them.
“Came to this cabin where my great-grandmother's family was eating bean bread and squirrel stew. The soldiers stuck rifles in their faces. Made them get up and leave right then. They left kettles on the fire, sup­per on the table. They were terrified that the soldiers were going to kill them. The soldiers marched them hard, into country they did not know. Finally one night, my great-grandmother's father sneaked his fam­ily away from the soldiers. They hid deep in the woods, and finally made their way back here!”
Aunt Little Tom had spoken with such passion that Mary almost looked over her shoulder to make sure the Army wasn't coming down the road to again force-march them off to places unknown.

Now she refocused on the matters at hand.

Gabe had retrieved a pen and a tattered map of Tennessee from his glove box. He spread it out on the dinette.

“Look. The first photo was taken here at Nancy Ward's grave.” He made an
X
on the map. “If the second one was taken there,” he made a second
X
at Shellsford, “then whoever's got Lily is following the northern route of the Trail of Tears.”

Mary frowned. “Where does it go from Shellsford?”

Gabe traced the route with his finger. “North­west to Nashville, then up to Hopkinsville, Kentucky.”

“Then on to Missouri and Arkansas and Oklahoma.” Mary's heart sank. Somehow she knew that Lily would never see that part of the trail. The baby looked so much worse than she had in the first photo, taken only hours earlier. At this rate, she wouldn't make it out of Tennessee alive. And for what reason? The whole thing made less sense by the minute.

“But why?” she asked Gabe. “Why Lily? Why Cherokee graves along the Trail of Tears? And why are these photos being sent to me?”

“If we assume Walkingstick's not the kidnapper,” he replied logically, “I'd say somebody's after you or Ruth Moon.”

“A fair number of people want me dead,” Mary told him, “but Mike Czarnowski eliminated the most likely suspect.” She frowned at Gabe. “That leaves Ruth. How does John Black Fox feel about her? And that construction company?”

“John's as radical as any of the old Black Panthers, but he has a lot of respect for Ruth. And as bad as Summerfield stinks as a corporation, I can't see them having a child kidnapped.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes on the map. “And neither Fox nor Summerfield knows you. Who could put the Walkingsticks, you, and the SOB rally all together?”

Again she thought of Stump Logan, but the mental image of him hoisting babies over six­ foot fences was almost ludicrous. Logan was old and lame, plus he'd always acted alone.
And don't forget he's dead
, she almost blurted aloud.

“I'm going to call Ruth and tell her what's going on,” she said. “If she's gotten the FBI involved, they should have these new address headers.”

“And if she hasn't?”

“Then I'm going to call the Feds myself while you drive us to this Shellsford Baptist Cemetery. We've got another grave to visit.”

At that same moment, someone else was tracking a different trail. Sitting at Clootie Duncan's desk, Edwina Templeton scowled as she heard the Philadelphia clock downstairs strike eight. Duncan had left at noon on Friday, vowing to return with his baby the next day. Now Sunday was fast turning into Monday, and Duncan had yet to reappear.

“Where the hell has he gone?” Edwina muttered peevishly as she rifled through Duncan's papers. Among an extraordinary number of crumpled candy wrappers she found a half dozen books on the history of the Cherokee Indians, three detailed maps of Tennessee, a pamphlet from her own office entitled “Basic Baby Care,” and a receipt for four boxes of .300 Magnum rifle shells.

Edwina gave a low whistle. “Looks like daddy's gone a-hunting. But what on earth for?” She hurried over to the cabinet where she kept her weapons. Opening the door, she stepped back, stunned. Two of her Tasers were gone. So were the old Winchester .70 she used to shoot four-legged skunks and the Smith & Wesson automatic she kept for the two-legged variety.

“Good Lord,” she cried. “All this to get one baby?”

She wondered if Duncan might be one of those jealous types who would take both his baby and his girlfriend and shoot them both, in some weird kind of hillbilly revenge. Probably not, she decided as she returned to the desk. He'd shown little real emotion when he'd talked about the child. But she knew he was up to something. Any man who would woo her as if she were a teenager had to be a little suspect. She had eyes and mirrors enough to know that her breasts sagged and her butt looked like a bag of loosely packed oranges. Men did not feign love for women her age without some deeper motive.

“But what could it be?” Up until a minute ago she'd figured Duncan's impetus had been fairly straightforward. Relieve an old girlfriend of a love child she didn't want, and maybe make a buck or two on the side. Now, she wondered. With that Winchester and four hundred rounds of long-range ammunition, Duncan could do some serious damage. Could he have gone off his nut and be planning some kind of sniper attack? If so, what would happen to Paz and Ruperta? And her van?

“Damn,” she snarled, finding nothing more incriminating than chocolate candy stashed in his desk drawers. She should have known better than to trust Duncan with anything. Better to have left Paz and Ruperta in charge here and gone with him herself. But, oh, how she loved it here alone, when the big old house stood empty of staff and clients! Then its gleaming floors and moir
é
-papered walls became truly hers, and it took on the sheen of a real home—her real home.

“Just think a minute,” she said, closing the drawer as she tried to rein in the skittery fear that was rising inside her. “Duncan might be crazy, but he isn't a fool.”

She could, she supposed, call the police and report him for stealing her van and kidnapping her two servants. But she knew from experience that police tended to linger, asking hard, tricky questions. The last thing she wanted was for any of the Christmas-tour women to drive past and see a squad car parked in front of her house. She had no close friends she could call, nor did she keep company with her neighbors. No, there was nothing she could do except wait and hope that Duncan returned. If he didn't, the worst thing she would be out of would be that antique bed. The van and the two Mexicans would be easy enough to replace.

“Just go on as you'd planned,” she told herself. “Then if he does show up, you'll be ready.”

Hurrying into her bedroom, she climbed up on her bed with the auction-house catalog and her address book. Although it was an odd time to conduct business, she needed to call one of her colleagues in Florida. Her boobs and her butt may have sunk to ruin, but she still had a memory like a ticker tape when it came to the adoption market.

She looked up the number and punched it in her phone. It rang once, twice, then, on the third, a high nasal voice answered gruffly, as if awakened from sleep.

“Hello?”

“Myrtle? This is Edwina Templeton.”

“Who?”

Edwina heard a commercial for Burger King blaring in the background. She raised her voice. “Edwina Templeton. Calling from Tender Shepherd Home, in Tennessee.”

“Oh, Edwina, of course! I'm sorry. I just walked in the door.” The commercial ceased abruptly.

“Listen, Myrtle. The last time we talked, didn't you say you had a couple who was looking for a half-Arab child?”

“'Yes.” Myrtle's voice sharpened.

“Are they still looking for a child?”

“I haven't talked to them in a month or so, but I assume they are. Why? Have you got one?”

“I might be getting one,” Edwina replied cautiously. “Do you think your couple might be interested?”

“I'd have to call them. The man was pretty particular. He's from some old Middle Eastern family. Very proud, those people.” Myrtle coughed. “What kind of baby have you got?”

“All I know for sure is that it's a girl.” Edwina looked at a picture of the bed in the auction catalog. If she played her cards right, she might be able to get the bed and something else, as well. Some little antique Christmas doodad to show off on the tour.

“Is it half-Iranian?” Myrtle wanted to know. “That's the key with these people.”

“Oh, yes,” Edwina lied. “That's why I thought of you right off the bat. Why don't you find out if your couple's still interested and then give me a call? Maybe we can work something out for everybody concerned.”

Myrtle chuckled. “And that something would entail a number with zeros behind it that we can put in the bank?”

“That would be correct, Myrtle,” replied Edwina. “A number with lots of zeros after it. I just hope your clients are as full of money as they are of ethnic pride.”

“Not a problem,” said Myrtle. “For the right baby, they'll dig down deep.”