Call the Devil by His Oldest Name (3 page)

Two

Little Jump Off, North Carolina

October 8

STUMP LOGAN PRESSED himself
against the weathered gray logs of the store. He hadn't made this particular climb in almost twenty years, and the effort made each breath sear through his lungs like fire. As he waited for his heart to slow and his legs to stop their shaking, he studied the place that had once been his second home.

Outside, not much had changed. The Little Tennessee River still glittered like a silver ribbon on the other side of the road; the gas pump still cranked out hi-test, though not at the twenty­ one-cents-a-gallon price of his youth. Moths still batted against the small blue neon sign in the window, ultimately tumbling dead on the old porch that still remained silent as he hauled his sixty extra pounds across it. He smiled. It was just as if Martha Crow still lived here. His heart began to swell with the memory, then he heard an angry male voice inside the store. He turned and peered in the window.

For an instant he wondered if his brain wasn't short-circuiting again. Jonathan Walkingstick, the best tracker in all the Carolinas, was standing right there, in the prime weeks of hunting season, joggling a baby over his shoulder! He'd shortened his hair from a ponytail into a regular barbershop haircut and he'd exchanged his Army camouflage outfit for a red plaid shirt and blue jeans. Jonathan Walkingstick was looking like a real family man.

“You've pissed off that whole county.” The tall Cherokee pointed his finger at a woman who was kneeling on the floor, writing with a black marker on a piece of yellow poster board. “Those men need those jobs. They have families to feed.''

“We're not asking that they not build the condos. We're just asking them to build them somewhere else,” the woman replied, not look­ing up from her work. “They've got plenty of other flat land over there.”

“Not on that riverbank. And not owned by the governor of Tennessee.” Walkingstick paced faster in front of the glowing fireplace. “You'll never stop them. They've got too much money. Too much clout.”

“We'll see.”

Logan watched, stunned. He hadn't had much luck trying to kill Mary Crow in Atlanta, so he'd come up here hoping that Little Jump Off store might give him some clue as to getting rid of her. Though he'd figured out that Walkingstick and Mary Crow were no longer a couple, he assumed the great hunting guide would mend his broken heart with a new bow or a fishing rod, not a new wife and baby.

“But you've got no business over there.” Walkingstick jiggled the baby faster. His hawkish features softened as he nuzzled the child's neck. “They're Tennessee bones.”

“Those bones belong to us, Jonathan, just like Tennessee used to.”

“Yeah, three hundred years ago.” Walkingstick transferred the fretful infant to his other shoulder. “That war's over, Ruth. Andrew Jackson beat us, unfair and unsquare.”

“Ruth,” Logan whispered, watching as the woman capped her marker and moved over to the rocking chair. With the fire bathing her face in its flickering glow, he could almost see Martha Crow sitting there. They had the same black hair and cinnamon skin.
Ruth.
He looked closer, then caught his breath as she shucked off her sweater. All at once she sat there naked from the waist up, her breasts big as melons.
Jesus,
he thought, feeling a kind of awe inside. Martha had never done that.

Walkingstick handed the baby to his wife. The woman cradled the child in her arms and pressed one dark nipple into its mouth. Logan could not tear his gaze away.

“I don't understand you, Jonathan.” Ruth continued their discussion as the baby nursed. “Clarinda's coming to help with Lily. They've given us a VIP campsite. Archaeologists from all over the country will be speaking. You'll have a wonderful time.”

“Lily doesn't need to be there. A thousand things could happen.”

“Like what?”

“She might get sick. Everybody will want to hold her. Somebody with some weird strain of flu might breathe in her face. Somebody might drop her.”

“I'm taking my medicine bag, Jonathan. Lots of sage and comfrey. Granny Broom told me what to do if she gets sick.”

“Granny Broom?” Walkingstick frowned at a row of bushy plants that hung from the mantel, drying upside down. “What the hell does that old witch know about children? How much sage should you give an infant? How are you going to get comfrey in a nursing baby?”

“You make a tea, Jonathan. Give her little sips, if she needs it, which she won't.” Sighing, Ruth frowned at her husband. “Listen. You've got to lighten up. You can't protect Lily every minute of every day. You'll go crazy before she even starts walking.”

Logan watched, mesmerized, as Ruth lifted the baby to her shoulder and patted her on the back. Moments later, she nestled it against her other breast. An ancient anger began to stir inside Stump Logan, like the coals of a long-dead fire rekindling into flame, suddenly glowing orange where they'd long been sooty black. Lately he'd been so caught up in his efforts to rid himself of Mary Crow that he'd forgotten how much he hated Jonathan Walkingstick. The smart-ass bastard had almost torpedoed Martha Crow's murder investigation fourteen years ago, asking questions that could not be answered, proposing murder theories that only frightened people more. He thought he'd gotten rid of Walkingstick when he'd hassled him so badly, he'd joined the Army. But Walkingstick had done his hitch and returned, ever since looking at the sheriff of Pis­gah County as if he were some pale, nasty thing that had crawled out from under a rock.

“Have you got permits and toilets and para­medics lined up?” Walkingstick was asking his wife.

“Gabriel Benge took care of all that.”

“Ah, yes. How could I forget the University of Tennessee's answer to Indiana Jones.” He reached down and propped Ruth's poster up against the wall. “Cherokees! Attend the Save Our Bones Rally,” it read. “October 11–13, Tremont, Tennessee.”

Logan memorized the poster, then his eyes returned to the nursing mother. His wife's tits had been not much bigger than a boy's, and she'd always recoiled from his touch. Never had he gotten to caress breasts so beautiful. Only when it was over had he touched Martha's at all.

Walkingstick tilted his head at the poster as if looking at a work of modern art.

“What do you think?” Ruth asked as her nip­ple slipped from the satiated child's small pink mouth.

“Reminds me of Wounded Knee,” said Jonathan sourly. “What a treat for Lily.”

“Oh, give me a break, Jonathan.” Ruth drew the baby closer and kissed the top of her head, all covered with wispy dark hair. “Someday, our Lily will tell her grandchildren that she was there when Indians finally came together and spoke with one voice.”

Our Lily.
Logan shrank back in the shadows as an idea struck him like a thunderbolt. He'd been going about this all wrong! Three times he'd tried to kill Mary in Atlanta, three times he'd failed. Now he realized that the one fail-proof way to do it was right here, just inside this cabin.
Lily Walkingstick. Walkingstick's child.

He looked up into the sky and shivered, wondering if he was like one of those old people who won the lottery at ninety—someone whose entire allotment of luck got doled out at the very end of their life. He'd never had any luck when he was young, but ever since he'd taken Clootie Duncan's Jesus card seven months ago, the stars had seemed to align, just for him. He'd gotten out of the cave with Clootie Duncan's IDs. He'd found a job that allowed him time off with money to spend. And tonight he'd just been given the way to rid himself of Mary Crow for good and maybe lay some major pain on Walkingstick as well.

He lingered on the porch a bit longer, watching as the young couple's domestic discord abated. Walkingstick started dancing the baby to Van Morrison's “Brown-Eyed Girl” while his wife put her sweater back on and began another poster. Softly Stump eased his bulk off the porch and back into the dark forest. He had a few more details to work out, but all the basics were right here.

“Lily,” he whispered, testing the syllables on his tongue as he shuffled through the trees. What a pretty name. Who would have ever thought that you could set a trap for a crow with a flower?

Three

“GO, MARY! GO for
the sweet spot!” Mike Czarnowksi gripped the body bag while Mary pummeled it with a flurry of punches. They stood in one corner of the huge Justice Center gym, ignoring the six cops playing half-court basketball behind them. As Mary danced in front of the bag, Mike peeked around from behind. “You have a bad day in court?”

“Court was fine.” Mary breathed huskily as she stepped back. “It's everything else that sucks.” She took a swipe at the bag with a snappy right cross. “You ever work a case involving little kids?”

Mike shook his head. “Nothing beyond finding a couple of lost ones.”

“You're lucky. Cases with kids are the worst.” She lowered her shoulders and attacked the bag's midsection, flailing away both Hobson T. Mott and Dwayne Pugh. Four months ago, Dr. Eileen Bittner had prescribed boxing lessons as part of Mary's therapy. They'd been taught by Mike Czarnowski, a cop Mary knew by reputation only. He was known as “The Closer” around the Deckard County Courthouse—rumor had it that detectives would call Czarnowski in when they had a suspect who was withholding some vital piece of information. They'd take the luck­less individual up to the seventh floor and lock him in a small, soundproof room, then bring in Czarnowski. Fifteen minutes later, the door would open. Later, the suspect wouldn't have a mark on him, but he would be wild-eyed and more than willing to tell everything he knew. Although dismayed by Czarnowski's reputation, Mary had never asked him about it. To her, Mike was a supportive boxing coach who told her that to punch someone's lights out, all you had to do was find their sweet spot and hit it. Back then she didn't care about dropping anyone to the canvas; all she wanted to do was punch away the pain of losing Irene Hannah.

“You want to go a couple of rounds with me?” he asked now with an eager grin. “I'll go glove up if you do.”

“Sorry, Mike. I've got to get home. Danika Lyles is coming over after supper.”

“She that good-looking black chick who played ball in California?”

“That would be Danika.” Grinning, Mary held out her gloves, implicitly asking his help in unlacing. “You interested?”

“Nah—I'd have to stand on a chair to kiss her. She's got some awesome moves, though. Beats Mott every time they play.”

“Danika beats Hobson?”

“Aw, yeah. She's all over the boards. Mott just stands there like his shoes are nailed to the floor.” Mary laughed as Czarnowski pulled off her right glove. “Thanks, Mike. You just made my day.”

She showered in the locker room, relishing the sweet, tingling exhaustion of a hard workout. With her hair still damp, she hurried out of the gym, stashing her good clothes in the minuscule trunk of her black Miata. As she started to pull out of the parking lot, she noticed a familiar gray Mercedes, one that sported the bumper sticker “Practice Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Beauty.”

Mary smiled. Eileen was here, no doubt leading one of her special relaxation-for-cops classes. Although Mary had never taken her class, she imagined Eileen's voice would be just as soft and soothing as it had been the first time Mary walked into her office.

“What brings you here, Mary?” she'd asked, smiling, her golden-brown eyes sympathetic.

“I see dead people,” Mary replied, sounding exactly like the kid in the movies. “Or at least I see one particular dead person.”

“And who would that be?”

Mary had taken a deep breath, and with the same conviction that other patients must confess that they were Jesus or Napoleon or from the planet Remulac, began to relate the whole story of Stump Logan, former sheriff of Pisgah County, North Carolina. About how Irene Han­nah had implicated Logan in Mary's father's death; about how Logan had escaped into the woods after Russell Cave exploded. About how after six months of searching, the FBI had rele­gated Stump Logan to that lengthy list of sus­pects they presumed dead simply because they could not find them. Which suited Mary fine…except that she kept seeing Logan all over Atlanta. Once at the bookstore in Lenox Mall, once at the deli counter of her grocery, the last time standing in her backyard, staring through the window at her. Although he looked gaunt and filthy, as if he'd just crawled out of his own grave, she'd instantly recognized his face and his hard look of hate.

“Have you called the FBI?” Eileen had asked after Mary came to the end of her story. “Told them your suspicions?”

“Every time,” Mary answered. “They took me seriously at first. Now they think I'm nuts. Hell, most of Deckard County thinks I'm nuts.”

“Do you think you're nuts?” Eileen tried her best to keep the oh-boy-have-I-got-a-sick-puppy-here tone out of her question.

“No.” Mary's voice wobbled as she wondered, for an instant, if she were insane and living in some lost episode of the
Twilight Zone
. “But if Logan's not real, then I sure would like to quit seeing him.”

Six months of daily therapy and a refillable prescription for Xanax later, Eileen convinced her that she might be projecting Logan's image as a way of coping with the fate of her friend Irene, and her sightings of him dropped to none. At their last session, Eileen had handed her a business card and said, “All in all, I'd say you're ninety-eight percent healthy.”

“And two percent obsessed?” Mary had laughed.

“About that.”

“Well, that's not too bad, considering.”

Eileen gave her a hug. “You've got my number, honey. Call me if you need me.”

“I will, Eileen,” Mary promised aloud now as she pulled out of gym parking lot. “I will.”

She sped through the early-evening darkness to her grandmother's house. Even though it was only mid-October, tissue-paper ghosts and balloons festooned several stately mailboxes, and some ghoulish wag had stuck a Halloween pumpkin on the spiked iron fence that guarded the lawn of one of Atlanta's poshest estates.

“Looks just like Hobson,” Mary murmured, relishing the image of her pompous boss getting stomped on the basketball court.

She pulled her car into the basement garage and made a mental note to pick up some Hal­loween candy, though she doubted any kids would knock on her door. Unlike her grandmother, who loved wild, sparkling parties visible from the street, Mary spent most of her time in the back of the house, giving the handsome old Tudor a dark, forbidding look. She didn't care. For her, the house was full of ghosts. It wore dark and forbidding well.

She hurried up the kitchen stairs, unlocked the back door, and disabled the alarm system that would, in fifteen seconds, go from annoying screech to full howl and bring a squad car of At­lanta's finest straight to her door. The warning beep stopped, leaving the house bathed in a profound, empty silence. Unconsciously, she paused to listen. Even though her grandmother had been dead over a year, she still waited to hear her light footsteps in the back hall, her reedy voice calling her name in an Atlanta accent so old and soft that you could hear it now only in nursing homes and hospital rooms. She sighed. She would give most anything to hear her grandmother again. But then, she wished that about a number of people.

She dropped her briefcase on the floor and switched on the light. She had less than an hour before Danika was scheduled to arrive. Just enough time to eat and spread Dwayne Pugh's sick files out on the dining room table.

She grabbed a chicken linguine dinner from the freezer, shoved it in the microwave, and poured herself a glass of water. She was tempted by a half-bottle of cold Chardonnay, but tonight was a work night. She'd stick with water. Closing the refrigerator, she stopped to look at her favorite photograph on the door. Herself, holding Lily Walkingstick in the Little Tennessee River, flanked by Ruth and Jonathan. Jonathan's favorite aunt, Little Tom Murray, was an ardent Methodist who was determined to have Lily christened and someone to serve as godmother. Though Jonathan personally thought it was a bunch of malarkey, he loved his aunt, so he'd called Mary and asked her to serve. At first she'd declined, not wanting to board the roller coaster of emotions she felt toward Jonathan and his new wife. But Jonathan had insisted, and Mary had given in. She drove up to North Carolina early one Sunday morning. Jonathan greeted her with a kiss on the cheek while Ruth Moon welcomed her with a perfunctory hug and a small muslin bag of sassafras tea, fruit of her newfound passion for herbs and native medicines. At eleven o'clock Mary held Lily in her arms in front of a Methodist minister and vowed to fulfill a number of religious duties. Though she'd spoken sincerely, she knew the only promise she'd make good on was that she would love Lily as no other. Ab­solutely enchanted by her round little eyes and lopsided grin, Mary somehow knew that Lily was as close to a child of her own as she would ever get. It would not be given to her to have children, not in this lifetime. “Guess you'll have to put up with three parents, Lily. Thank God you live where you do,” she whispered softly, ignor­ing a throb of wistfulness as she wiped a speck of dust from the baby's photo. “Your mom, your dad, and crazy old Aunt Mary.”

She waited for her dinner to nuke, setting a single place in the little breakfast nook that over­looked the peony bushes where she'd last seen Logan. She'd been baking brownies that after­noon. Turned around and there he was, staring straight in at her. They stayed like that for several frozen seconds, then she whirled to punch the panic button on her alarm. When she looked back, he was gone. The cops pulled up three minutes later, but found no sign of anyone in or around her backyard. She caught the indulgent smirk that had passed between them as they climbed back in their cruiser. The next day she called Eileen Bittner.

“He sure looked real,” she murmured now as she drew the blinds, blocking any sight of the spot where he'd stood, or at least where she thought he'd stood. The microwave beeped. She unwrapped the steaming dinner and carried it over to the table. Danika would be here soon, ready to go over those files. No point in rehash­ing all that Stump Logan nonsense now.

Just as she took her first bite, the phone rang. She was tempted not to answer it, then she de­cided that it might be Danika, delayed for some reason.

“Is this Mary Crow?”

“Mm-hmm,” Mary answered with her mouth full, knowing the next line would be an offer for aluminum siding or switching her long distance earner.

“Hi, Mary. This is Ruth. Ruth Moon.”

“Ruth.” Mary swallowed, surprised. “I'm sorry, I didn't recognize your voice.”

“Did I interrupt something?”

“Not at all. Just grabbing a quick dinner. How's Lily?”

“She's fine. In fact, she's terrific. Jonathan's right here, singing her theme song.”

“Her theme song?“

“‘Brown-Eyed Girl.' That old Van Morrison tune.”

“Oh.” For a moment Mary felt strange, picturing Jonathan at Little Jump Off, crooning to his little girl.

“I guess you're wondering why I called…”

“Well,” Mary evaded awkwardly.

“I've got an invitation for you.”

“Is Lily having an occasion?” Mary asked, thinking of first steps and first teeth and the thousand other firsts that babies amaze their parents with.

Ruth laughed. “No, nothing like that. This weekend, in Tremont, Tennessee, I'm cochairing the first North American All-Tribe Rally. Representatives are coming from every tribe in the country.”

I should have known
, thought Mary. No silly baby celebrations for Ruth. For her, Native America would always come first.

“Mary, we're going to protest the Summerfield Development Company's desecration of an ancient Cherokee burial ground. The governor of Tennessee has interests in this development, so everything's gotten pretty nasty. We're planning a peaceful demonstration of over five thousand people. Two of the national news networks will be there.”

“That certainly sounds interesting, Ruth…”

“We'd love it if you would come and be one of our speakers. You could talk about what it means to be an Indian woman working in a white man's system.”

Mary closed her eyes.
What a weekend, yammer all day about being Cherokee, and piss off the governor of Tennessee while you're at it.

“It'll be fun, Mary,” Ruth coaxed. “As a featured speaker, you could meet Indian activists from around the country.”

This just gets better and better,
thought Mary as Ruth talked on, telling her about someone named Benjamin Goodeagle, and how CNN wanted to do an interview with her, and John Black Fox's environmental group was going to have twenty petitions going around—

“Ruth,” Mary stopped her in mid-sentence as she heard a
bing-bong
from the front door. “Thanks so much for thinking of me, but I'm afraid this time I'm going to have to say no. I'm in the middle of a big trial. In fact, the attorney who's helping me is at the door right now.”

“A trial?” Ruth sounded as if she'd never put lawyers and courtrooms together.

“Yes. A kiddie-porn case.” Mary pushed back from the table, anxious to let Danika in before the doorbell rang a second time. “I'm sorry, Ruth, but I've really got to run—”

“Oh.” Ruth's voice faded to nothing.

“But thanks for asking me. I really appreciate it.” Mary paused, hoping that Jonathan might ask to speak to her, but Ruth gave no indication of that.

“Well, if you change your mind and want to take a break, Tremont's only about three hours away from Atlanta.”

“Thanks, Ruth. I'll keep it in mind. Give Lily a hug and kiss for me and I'll look for you on TV.” Ruth said goodbye. Mary hung up the phone and hurried to the door, casting a wistful glance at the photo of Jonathan, the man who should have been hers, holding the baby who should have been theirs.