Forests of the Night (14 page)

“Okay,” Roth said. “So noted.”

“So we'll take our pictures, go across the street,” said Sheffield. “See what the museum people have to say.”

The sheriff gathered the photos and held them out.

“I thank you for stopping in. Your concern for keeping me advised is a welcome professional courtesy.”

Roth got up and reached for the photos, but at the last second the sheriff drew them back. Roth lowered his arm and sighed.

“I do see one thing here that might be of interest.” Tribue fanned the photos like a poker hand and plucked one out and held it up.

Sheffield clamped his jaw. He'd seen Tribue's type before. Had to milk every situation for its maximum one-up potential. The kind of dick-measuring smart guy Frank had lost all patience with in his grumpy midlife.

Roth sat back down and shut his mouth.

“It's a construction technique I've seen employed before around these parts. A traditional Cherokee method. Make a slit in the limb of a cedar, insert the ax head through the slit, and over time the limb grows around it and creates a strong seal. Then for additional support, the head is lashed in that crisscross fashion with sinew, rattlesnake skin, buckskin.”

“Lab results said deerskin, but not the others,” Roth said.

Sheffield said, “Take a long damn time to make something like that, wouldn't it? Letting a branch grow around an ax blade. Years, maybe.”

“Time, patience,” the sheriff said. “The Cherokees have a different clock than you and I do. Theirs runs a little slower.”

The sheriff came to his feet, held out the photos. Another cute move. Playing traffic cop in his own office. You're dismissed—I'm done with you.

Sheffield kept his seat. The guy wanted to play? Okay, he'd play.

“And those cross-hatchings on the handle, the grooves? Got any thoughts on those?”

“Simply to improve the grip, I would suppose. A method for turning a
slick piece of cedar into a more effective implement. All that would be required is some careful whittling.”

The sheriff continued to stand. Arms behind his back, legs spread. Parade rest. The large white poodles were standing as well, poised on either side of the desk like a couple of stone lions outside a big-city library.

Aw, fuck it—Sheffield was tired of the schoolyard bullshit.

He got up and nodded for Roth.

“You think of anything else, you know how to reach us.”

The sheriff walked them to the front door. Cordial, pointing out the museum from the front steps. Wishing them well in their endeavors.

When he'd gone back inside, Sheffield said, “What'd you guys do to piss these people off so bad?”

“Just hung around too long. Got on their nerves.”

“Works both ways,” said Sheffield. “Give me a city asshole any day over these swaggering coon dogs. I wouldn't last a week up here.”

“Let's hope you don't have to.”

They headed across the street to the museum.

“You got guys covering the bus stops, right?”

“Two guys at every stop from here back down to Asheville,” Roth said. “That little girl shows up, one second later my phone rings.”

“Well, shit. Between the girl and her parents, we're going to nail this asshole, Joe. I got that feeling.”

“Hope to hell you're right, Sheffield. I could use a break from this shit-poor food.”

“By the way,” Frank said. “
Oddball
isn't the word I would've picked.”

“Yeah?”

“I'm thinking more along the lines of
fuckhead
.”

Frances Wolfe, the curator of the Cherokee Native American museum, was out sick, but her assistant, Randy Forbus, was filling in. Randy led them to his cubicle, where he sat down behind an old army-surplus desk.

Long, dark Cherokee hair hanging loose down his back. Round-faced, pudgy kid, about twenty-five, in a checked shirt and scruffy jeans.

Roth spread the photos out on his desk, and the kid got an eager look and bent forward like he thought he was going to see a naked body.

“Ever come across one of those?”

The kid's sparkle evaporated.

“Yeah.”

“You tell us where?”

“This way,” he said, and got up and led them back into the museum area, moving through the maze of small rooms filled with glassed-in exhibits, to a dimly lit room near the back.

They had to wait till a family in matching T-shirts moved out of the way. Frank and Roth stepped up and surveyed the three-window display. Window one showed a life-size tableau of a group of six Indians being prodded along by U.S. soldiers. Civil War era, Frank figured, maybe a little earlier.

In the next case, one old Indian had his arm raised to strike at one of the
soldiers. And in the final display the same old man was standing up against a tree, hands bound, with five men aiming their rifles at him. An execution.

Forbus looked puzzled. Stepping close to the glass, he said, “It's gone.”

“What's gone?”

“That ax. It's supposed to be in Tsali's hand. It's gone missing.”

“An ax like this one?” Roth held up the stack of photos.

Forbus looked at the photo, then back at the old guy's hand, which Sheffield could see was half open like he'd been gripping something.

“Same ax,” Forbus said. “Or damn close.”

“How long could this thing be gone?”

Forbus was getting a queasy look.

“Not long,” he said. “Somebody would've noticed.”

“What, like a day or two?” Sheffield said.

“Couldn't be any longer than that. All the people coming through here, somebody would've said something.”

“How secure are these things?”

Sheffield tapped on the glass.

Forbus went over to the wall beside the case and peeled open a handle that lay flush against the black wall. He drew open a door and stepped through it and, a second later, he looked out at them from behind the exhibit.

“We're not talking Hope diamond here,” Frank said.

“He can't just use a gun like any other killer. He's got to steal an ax from a museum.”

“This guy's got an agenda,” Sheffield said. “Something weird's going on in his head.”

Forbus came back out and Frank said, “It's always like that, unlocked? Anybody can get in?”

Forbus nodded.

“It's not like anything here is worth stealing.”

“Somebody thought so,” Sheffield said.

Forbus said, “I got to call my boss.”

He started to go, but Frank put a hand on his shoulder and halted him.

“We're cordoning this area off. No one gets in or out till our fingerprint guys are done.”

“I'll call them,” Roth said, and stepped aside to flip open his phone.

“Should be done in a few hours,” Sheffield said to the kid, and the boy nodded meekly.

“Whatever you say.”

“So what's the deal here?” Frank said. “What'd that old Indian guy do?”

“That's Tsali,” the kid said. “You don't know the story?”

“I got a minute if it's not too long.”

Roth shut his phone and moved beside Sheffield.

The kid's voice took on the bored tone of a tour guide.

“The Cherokee people were being forcibly removed from their homeland, and Tsali resisted. He killed a couple of soldiers, then fled into the mountains and hid. Army couldn't track him down, and they were afraid other Cherokee people would try the same thing, so they made an offer. If Tsali would come out and give himself up to execution, the government would give a few hundred Cherokee amnesty, let them stay up here in the mountains instead of driving them like cattle to Oklahoma.”

Roth said, “The guy's a big deal around here. Local hero.”

“Yeah,” Forbus said. “So will that be all?”

The kid started to go, but Sheffield had a couple more questions.

“So this Tsali character. He was a murderer, and after he got caught and executed, he was promoted into what, like a saint or something? That's what we're talking about?”

The kid looked at Frank for a few seconds and said, “Maybe he was a saint a long time ago. Now he's more like a tourist attraction.”

“Tell me this,” Frank said. “If I wanted to find out more about this guy, can you suggest a book, somebody to talk to, an expert?”

“Dr. Julie Milford,” the kid said. “She's at Asheville Women's College. We have some of her books out front. Anything about Tsali, she's knows it.”

Sheriff Farris tribue stood in the doorway of Julius Weatherby's office and waited silently to be noticed.

Maybe fifty years old, bald, a hundred pounds overweight, and red-faced, Julius Weatherby was a buffoon who blathered so incessantly he hardly had time for a breath.

Finally the man looked up, saw the sheriff standing there, popped up, and hustled around his desk, giving the poodles a quick, uncomfortable look.

“Sheriff Tribue, oh my. I was so terribly sorry to hear about Martin.” Weatherby pressed his palms flat as if he meant to recite a prayer.

Ordinarily Farris would have kept his distance from such a fool, except that Weatherby Travel Agency provided the Tribue family bargain rates on their travel needs. The glamour of arranging a congressman's occasional junkets to Aruba and the Caymans and the frequent airline travel back and forth between his home district and the nation's capital more than offset any lost profits.

Farris glanced across the open office area. Three women were sitting at their computers busily typing. No one looking his way.

Farris stepped into the office, signaled the poodles to follow, then shut the door.

“Is something wrong? I mean besides Martin, of course.”

Farris drew up the customer's chair closer to Julius Weatherby's desk. Sweat had begun to erupt on Weatherby's pink forehead. The poodles lay down on the bare floor beside Farris, both of them assuming the same position, resting their snouts on their extended forelegs.

“Is the congressman all right? I'm sure it was a terrible shock to lose Martin in such a heinous way. I mean, is he all right, your father? His health?”

Farris drew a breath and brushed a strand of lint from his blue trousers.

“Would you like some water? I'm having some.”

Weatherby got up from his desk and shuffled to a small refrigerator near the front window and drew out a plastic bottle of water. He held it out to Farris, but Farris made no move. The man said, “Yes, of course. How about the dogs—would they like some water?”

Farris remained silent and Weatherby apologized again and went back to his desk and sat down and screwed open the bottle and drank half of it in one swallow.

“Who handled Martin's accounts?”

“I'm sorry?” Weatherby put the bottle on his desk and leaned forward.

“Which of your girls made Martin's arrangements? His airline tickets, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, the girls. Which of my girls handled Martin's account? That's what you want to know? Is this a police matter? Is that what it is? Something about the murder investigation?”

Farris gave Weatherby a thin smile.

“I can't discuss police business, Julius. I'm sure you understand.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

“Which girl?”

“Well, Nancy Feather handled Martin's accounts. His travel. Actually, Martin was kind of sweet on her. Asked her out once or twice, but Nancy always said no. I told her, go, Nancy, go on, he's a nice young man. So successful in his business affairs. You should be honored he singled you out.”

Farris stood up. The two poodles rose and stood behind him, waiting, watching his movements.

“Do you have to go so soon? Did Nancy do something wrong? I'll fire her if you want. I mean if she did something wrong in any way. I'm very
strict with the girls. Those Indians are so scatterbrained. If there's something she did, just say the word and she's gone.”

“I need to know,” Farris said, “if Nancy Feather has any association with Lucy Panther.”

“Oh, my, so that's what this is about. Of course, of course. The Panther investigation. Yes, a terrible thing, all the banks. Just terrible. But of course, I have to say, with all these federal agents coming and going, it's provided a healthy uptick in business around here this last year.”

“Julius.”

“Oh, yes. I'm sorry. Nancy Feather and Lucy Panther. Yes, yes, I've heard talk that they were friends. Went to school together way back when.”

“And do they have contact currently?”

Julius drew a wadded hankie from his rear pocket and dabbed his throat.

“I wouldn't know about that, Farris. I mean, I realize Lucy Panther is under suspicion for aiding and abetting her son. In cahoots, as they say. But Nancy never speaks about her. Very tight-lipped.”

“You understand, Julius, not to speak of police matters. No gossip.”

“Of course, of course.”

He hurried around the desk, prattling as he came.

“I told Nancy, I said, Nancy, men like Martin Tribue don't come along every day. And you're no homecoming queen, Nancy. I said that. I said that to Nancy.”

Farris turned to the door, opened it, and stepped outside.

“Once again, Sheriff, my deepest condolences. And tell your father I send my very warmest wishes for continued prosperity.”

 

Farris parked his cruiser along the shoulder of Stillwell Branch Road, let the dogs out of the backseat, and locked the doors, then cut through an open field and, with the poodles tagging along at a respectful distance, crossed Little Bear Creek at the footbridge he'd built with his own hands nearly thirty years earlier.

For a hundred yards the trail ran level, then dipped into a small basin where the white double-wide trailer sat among the freshly leaved maples.
His son, Shelley, was sitting in the tall weeds just outside the door, scratching with a twig at the ground between his outstretched legs. He wore a yellow T-shirt and baggy diapers, and even from thirty yards away, Farris could see the bug bites pimpling his bare flesh.

The two large white poodles trotted over to the boy and stopped ten feet away, lifting their noses to catch his scent. Farris had trained them not to approach his son. He trusted the dogs, for he and Martin had trained them rigorously. But he also knew what violence they were capable of, so it was only prudent to keep a buffer between the boy and the animals.

Hunched forward on an aluminum lawn chair a few feet away from the boy, Margie Hornbuckle spooned lemon yogurt into her mouth. She looked up as Farris broke through the bushes and stepped into view but said not a word to this intruder in her small encampment.

Farris went over to the boy, thirty years old, with the milky, translucent skin and dreamy green eyes of his mother. His head was shaved, and the silky black hair on his arms and legs waved in the cool breeze like the tentacles of some undersea creature.

Farris squatted down beside the young man. In the red dust between his legs were a dozen oval shapes.

“And what are you drawing today, boy?”

The lad looked at Farris and smiled the crooked way he could manage. He stammered something, but as usual Farris had to await Margie's translation.

“Flowers,” she called over. “He's been a-drawing flowers all week long. One flower after the other. 'Cause of it being springtime, I reckon.”

Farris peered at the boy's handiwork and spoke his approval.

“It's a beautiful bouquet,” he said. “You're becoming quite an artist, Shelley. Quite gifted.”

Margie got up from her chair and came over. In her toothless old age, yogurt and soft-boiled eggs made up the bulk of her diet. He'd hired the woman shortly after Shelley's condition became apparent and Farris's young wife decided she wanted none of it, deserting both husband and child. For nearly thirty years Margie had been the boy's caregiver, Farris making visits whenever he felt a need to peer again into the boy's depthless eyes.

“Got another of them postcards from your missus,” Margie said.

“Have I not made it clear? I want to hear nothing about the postcards.”

She ran her spoon around the inside of the yogurt container and licked it clean.

“Care for any yogurt? I got all the flavors.”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“You happen to bring along anything with you today?”

The boy continued to draw in the dirt, the petals of roses and lilacs and daisies. Circles within circles within circles, a field of endless blossoms. Once more Shelley lifted his eyes to squint at Farris, this tall man who had appeared from thin air.

“Good work, lad. Good work.”

The boy grinned, and when he had his fill of Farris, he took a new grip on his stick and applied himself with fresh enthusiasm to his sketching.

Farris stood up and reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet and peeled out three hundred-dollar bills. Margie took the cash and stuffed it into the pouch of her apron.

“Don't imagine you notice, living up in the big house, but prices is going up and up. Them groceries is about to break us little people. 'Lectricity, too, damn, you wouldn't believe the cost of current. And diapers, yes sir, I go through near five a day. They ain't cheap either. Those ones you got me using.”

“Buy some antiseptic for his bites. Then remember to apply it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'll do that. The boy's got such sensitive skin, you know. Flares up over just a chigger. Then he scratches at 'em till they're bloody. I try to stay after them, but he gets such a kick out of rolling around in the grass, you know.”

“Antiseptic,” Farris said.

He drew out two more hundred-dollar bills and held them out while he watched his son draw garlands in the red Carolina dust.