Forests of the Night (23 page)

“Panther's file is back at the motel,” she said. “But I think this was the most recent one, maybe February. A night watchman died.”

Parker stared at the building.

“You wouldn't think a jug of kerosene would do so much damage.”

“No sprinklers.”

“They're a little slow rebuilding,” he said. “Four months, still rubble.”

“Bomb team probably had the site shut down for a while.”

Charlotte stared at the blackened ruins. Part of the second floor was still intact, with interior doors opening onto twenty-foot drop-offs. Surrounding the property, a chain-link fence glistened in the bright sun.

“Seen enough?”

“Do the whole block,” she said.

He circled, getting the full 360 of the damage. They passed a small white sign and Charlotte told him to stop, back up.

It was the building-permit display board, with several documents encased in plastic, thumbtacked to a sheet of plywood.

“Just be a sec.”

She hopped out, jogged over to the board, and read the permits down to the fine print. Afterward she tracked down the two hard hats, got clarification, and trotted back to the car.

“So?” Parker said.

“So our blowgun victim, Martin Tribue, happened to own the company rebuilding the banks Jacob Panther blew up.”

“Allegedly blew up.”

She waved away his quibble.

“I can see your wheels spinning,” she said. “Let's hear it.”

Parker took another few seconds to get it straight, and said, “Okay, so, big deal, we got a little nepotism going on. Nobody's going to give that a second look. Backwoods area like this, it's only natural Uncle Mike tosses the rebuilding work to his nephew. Every month another bank blows, and the contracts start stacking up.”

“Insurance fraud?”

“An intriguing possibility. Some free remodeling, close relative makes a ton of profit, maybe kicks back a few bucks to Uncle Mike.”

“Which would make Jacob Panther their fall guy.”

“Right. A unique-looking local kid, blond-haired Cherokee, you hire a bomber to dress up in a wig and do the job. One brother controls the security cameras, the angles, the film. Another Tribue, the sheriff, IDs Jacob from the security videos, then big daddy congressman steps in and uses his clout to promote Jacob onto the Most Wanted list. You got a nifty all-in-the-family scheme, and together they frame Jacob Panther. The longer he stays on the run, the more money they make. Which all fits with the war thing. The Tribues declared war on Jacob, and he's just fighting back.”

“I don't know, Parker. That's one hell of an elaborate plot to remodel their goddamn banks.”

“Could be somebody's got financial problems. Construction company's in trouble, bank could be having accounting issues, issues with the IRS. And Jacob knows it's a frame, and he's simply fighting back.”

“And Diana? And Gracey? And all that stuff Panther said to you at our house? You're next. The red war club. And Uncle Mike claiming we're in grave danger. How does that fit into insurance fraud? Where do we come in?”

He was quiet for a moment, concentrating on the traffic. Then he looked over at her and grimaced.

“Okay, okay. It needs some tweaking.”

They drove in silence back to U.S. 19 and found Butts on the Creek barbecue. Chose a table with a view of the parking lot.

“You don't want to sit on the creek?” the waitress asked them.

Charlotte looked out the back of the restaurant. A dense wood ran along the opposite shoreline of the creek. Excellent concealment for a sniper.

“This is fine,” she said.

“Sunny day for a change, it's pretty out on the creek.”

Charlotte shook her head, and she and Parker turned their attention to the parking lot.

“Suit yourself.”

The waitress shrugged and left them with menus and ice water.

Parker said, “Why the hell would a handyman try to kill my dad? That's just jailhouse bullshit. Standingdog trying to pin it on somebody else.”

“He said it was Jeremiah plus another guy,” Charlotte said. “The guy running the show got away. Maybe Mr. Big was Uncle Mike. Two brothers working together.”

“Absurd. Uncle Mike was my father's closest friend, like a brother.”

“You were fifteen years old. Were you that good at reading adult dynamics?”

“It's jailhouse bullshit, Charlotte. It's meaningless. He confessed to the whole thing at the goddamn trial.”

“So Standingdog did it. Everyone else in the universe is innocent, but he's your one exception.”

“Standingdog hated Dad. He was poisoning the community against the camp. He was a violent man who beat his own daughter because she was dating a Monroe. He organized that boycott, sabotaged equipment around camp. He wanted to drive us out of there.”

“Because he believed the land was sacred.”

“Hell, every square inch up here is sacred. Some Cherokee event happened anywhere you look. Standingdog hated my dad for owning a chunk of his homeland, a man who knew more about his past than he did himself. He hated my dad, hated my whole family. There's always men like him keeping alive some ancient hatred. The white invaders, the poor exploited Cherokees. Oh, it was Standingdog. Not some handyman and his mysterious boss.”

They stared out the window, watching the cars come and go.

Joan Crawford thought the whole setup was pretty shabby. The tiny camper with the duck-your-head ceiling, the half-assed Kmart dinnerware, the food, my God the food, who can eat Vienna sausages and Cheez Doodles? Forget the crappy nutrition and all that sodium, how can you get those horrible things past your taste buds, come on, Gracey, were you born without a gag reflex?

Joan was critical of the whole thing, even Gracey's decision to run away from home. It surprised her to find Joan throwing in with her mother. A girl shouldn't go off on her own into the world until she'd sorted out the essential issues with her parents. Fathers, too. Though mothers mattered most.

And Barbara Stanwyck had been there off and on last night, whispering in her ear, hottie things about how Gracey could go about seducing Spielberg. He's talking to you, yeah, he's interested, but to push him over the top, you got to do something extra, go that extra sexy mile.

First thing was to ditch that blue top, find a sweater a size too small, show him what God gave you, girl, there's nothing to be ashamed of. You got it, flaunt it. How else you going to get ahead? You think it's about talent? Gimme a break. It's about sweaters, deary. It's about shapely calves and uplift bras and it's about a thing you need to work on in your eyes, a
certain light, a knowing glance, a waywardness you got to stand in front of the mirror and practice.

The eyes, honey, the eyes were what the camera looked at, that light shining inside them, that sneaky, flirty, come hither, but don't hurt me too bad, you big brute thing. That's what she needed. Look at a mirror, work on it. You think this shit comes natural? Maybe for the women on Mars, but not you and me, kid. It's work. It's practice and ambition.

Gracey had been off her meds for three days, or was it four? Who could remember? It was late afternoon, she thought, getting close to time to meet her mom and dad. At least she thought it was late afternoon. There weren't any clocks in the camper, and she'd left her watch behind in Miami.

Ever since Gracey'd arrived the night before, Lucy didn't want to talk much. She just lay on her bunk looking out the window, and fiddling with her pistol.

Gracey didn't know anything about them. Mom would know the make and model, all about it. Her dad knew guns, too. One of his clients had probably used a gun just like it to kill somebody, and now the guy was back in school, or at his job like nothing happened. Which was okay. If her dad got somebody off, then he was innocent. A jury said so, so there. Forget it. But the gun Lucy had was lying right out on the table where anybody could see it.

Not like guns at her house. Gracey wouldn't know where to look if she needed one, maybe a closet, or a drawer, but they were probably locked up somewhere, knowing her mom.

Lucy had it sitting on the little fold-down table. The pistol sitting there when Lucy wasn't cleaning it or loading it or unloading it. Like she couldn't make up her mind now that Gracey was around, was it more dangerous to have it loaded or unloaded, her being a kid? Gracey said something to her about it.

“I'm not afraid of guns. I've shot them.”

And Lucy came back with, “That's a good thing. You might need to do that again. But shooting at a beer can isn't the same as between the eyes.”

Getting all testy, like Gracey had stepped over the line somehow. Not even knowing a line was there. Like at home with her mother. Lines everywhere, always pissing her mother off about some damn thing.

Gracey spent that first night before she fell asleep babbling to Lucy about her meeting with Jacob. So exhausted from her bus trip, but also so hyper she wasn't sure why she was saying what she did. Blab, blab for an hour in the dark, not sure if Lucy was awake or not. Telling her what she and Jacob talked about in Miami, the thing Jacob said about her skin looking softer than a marshmallow. Which all happened before she knew Jacob was her half brother and made him officially off-limits as boyfriend material.

But she told Lucy anyway to see if she got a jealous twinkle, so Gracey could find out what the deal was. Was Lucy his girlfriend, his sister, or what? Gracey could've come right out and asked, but it seemed stupid. Are you his girlfriend? It seemed so high school and now that she was out in the world with adults, she totally didn't want to seem high school.

Last night in the dark, when Gracey finished talking, Lucy said nothing. Maybe asleep. So she just shut up and went to sleep herself and in the morning there was bacon frying and eggs and coffee. So they sat and ate breakfast with the gun between them on the table, loaded, unloaded, Gracey couldn't tell.

“He's my son.”

Gracey was looking out the window swallowing some toast and wasn't sure who said it. Joan Crawford? Barbara? More like something Barbara would say, that juicy, saucy way she had.

“Jacob's my son, in case you were wondering.”

Gracey turned from the window and looked at this dark woman in the green sweatshirt and wheat jeans. Her hair pulled back in a teensy ponytail.

“Your son, really?”

“In case you were curious.”

“So that means you and my dad? You were like boyfriend-girlfriend?”

“Like that, yes.”

“Wow. So you could've been my mother.”

“But I'm not.” Lucy got up and started cleaning off the plates even though Gracey wasn't finished.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean…”

She wasn't sure what she was sorry about or what she'd meant in the first place. And she didn't know why Lucy started scrubbing the dishes,
then swung around and picked up the pistol and set it on the counter beside her.

And that was the last thing Lucy said the rest of the day.

Gracey spent all morning being bored. She had her cell phone, but had no one she wanted to call. Another cell phone sat on the unmade bed where Lucy slept.

But nothing else to amuse herself with. Browsing through Lucy's teensy bookshelf but finding only books on Cherokee Indians. All of them about the same thing. Family-tree stuff, with lines connecting one name to another, branches running down the page. Booooring. Indians reading about Indians, how weird was that? And it was weird to Joan Crawford, too.

I was up for an Indian part once, she told Gracey. They wanted me to wear this getup, Howard Hughes, he had this deep-cut blouse made by his wardrobe people, and I said to him, honey, for you in private maybe I'd wear that rag, but when I'm in front of the camera I'm an actress, not a slut. There isn't an Indian alive would be caught dead in this outfit.

So she didn't get the job, Howard Hughes chose somebody else, some unknown with big knockers, a fresh girl he wanted to screw. That's what Joan said, out there in Hollywood it was all sour grapes and blowing smoke and sex, everyone hiring somebody they wanted to screw, then, when they'd screwed them, they fired them and hired somebody new, a different kind of screwing. But the whole deal with Howard gave her a bad taste about Indians in general.

That's how Joan was, everything had to be about her. Ranting about tidbits, gossip, things behind the scenes. Nothing classy like you'd imagine from looking at her.

Like right out of the book Mr. Underwood had them read for class this semester,
Hollywood Behind Closed Doors
. All the dirt. To get them ready for the business side of things, show them it wasn't all glamour and art. It was casting couches, too. Same things Joan was saying.

And then Steven was back, faint at first, voice far away, but clearly him.

Gracey lay still on the bunk and closed her eyes and listened. Indians weren't going to work in the movie he had in mind. He wanted to do a modern noir, an urban, down-and-dirty street film. That's what was happening now. Back-alley tough guys with Kevlar skin and rottweiler girlfriends.
Hard-edged action. A moody and passionate protagonist, like Bogart in
Maltese Falcon
, an antihero. Only speed up the pace. Bing, bing, bing, something happening every second, like MTV, flash, next image, flash, next and next. Zipping here and there like city traffic. Not this syrup-slow pace of the mountains. Man, that was like watching a glacier move. Who was going to go out on Saturday night and pay to watch Indians sitting around in pint-size campers eating Vienna sausages?

We need more movement, more gritty reality. Look where your mass audience lives, in L.A., Manhattan, Boston, D.C., in four-room apartments with a couple of yellowing plants in the corner, horns honking down on the street, sirens wailing all hours of the night, car alarms going off. Nobody wants all this green mountains and birds and sky and streams rushing. Big deal. It was like so hokey. So long ago and far away.

Gracey saw his point. She'd been bored all day waiting for Jacob Panther to show up. He was supposed to be there by now. Lucy was fretting, with a strained look on her face, angry, impatient, ready to go.

Steven told Gracey she should get up and stir things up. Get the blood flying. She was acting like a prisoner who'd surrendered to her captors. Plot an escape, for godsakes. Hatch a plan, a clever scheme. Let him see her act a little.

Enough of this passive, thumb-sucking stuff. Make something happen. Cause and effect. Get the hell moving, head back to Miami, where things were hip and edgy. This whole Indian-in-the-woods thing was never going to fly.

Lucy's cell phone rang then and she rolled over and picked it up and looked at the caller ID but didn't answer. It rang a few more times, then Lucy pressed the Answer button, then clicked it off without saying a word.

“Was that Jacob?”

“No,” Lucy said.

“Who was it?”

Lucy frowned, like who-did-she-think-she-was-asking-personal-stuff-like-that?

“Come on. Who am I going to tell?”

“A friend of mine,” Lucy said. “Woman named Nancy Feather.”

“How come you cut her off?”

“It's our all-clear sign. Now you can stop with the questions.”

Lucy lay back on her bunk and stared up at the ceiling.

“Isn't it time to see my dad at the barbecue place?”

“We're waiting for Jacob.”

“Well, where is he?”

“I told you, he's stealing a car. He's down in Asheville picking out something good. Dark windows, big engine.”

“What? You planning on making your getaway?”

“Maybe,” Lucy said.

“How long does it take to steal a car? Could be he's in trouble. Maybe you should call him, see if he needs help.”

Lucy sighed.

“Why'd you want my dad to come up here anyway? What could he do?”

“We thought he was a big-deal lawyer. He had clout.”

“He
is
a big deal. He's on TV all the time, because he gets people out of trouble. He's got plenty of clout. And he's smart.”

“Hasn't been so far,” Lucy said. “Seems a little slow.”

“That's not true. Dad's amazing. He never loses a case.”

“He's losing this one.”

“Are you a criminal, too? Like Jacob?”

Lucy drew a couple of breaths, then said, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“There a reward for your capture?”

Lucy stared at her but didn't say anything.

“I bet there is. I bet it's a lot, too. Maybe I should turn you in, buy a nice car with the reward money. A BMW or something.”

After that Lucy shut up and wouldn't respond to any more of Gracey's questions. So she shut up, too. Angry at herself that she'd misunderstood Jacob's words to her. Angry she'd come all this way, suffered through that bus ride from hell, and for what? Because she thought Jacob wanted her, that they had a spark between them. But all he'd wanted was to use Gracey's dad for his attorney, get some cheap legal advice. Jesus, she felt like bawling. But she didn't, she held on, clamping her teeth, concentrated on fighting back the tears.

A while later a car drove up to the campsite.

Lucy jumped down from the bunk, grabbed her pistol, peered out the window, then set the pistol down.

A chunky Indian woman got out of a little beat-up Hyundai with plastic bags of groceries in each hand. Tight black jeans and a green shirt that showed off her plump body. Short black hair and a pug nose. She brought the groceries inside, and Lucy introduced her. Nancy Feather. Nancy said hello, then said to Lucy in a rush, “Farris has been asking about me.”

“Asking what?”

“At work,” Nancy said. “He came to the office and talked to Julius and Jacqueline heard through the wall and told me. He asked Julius if I did Martin's travel plans. He knows, Lucy.”

“You weren't followed, right?”

Nancy looked over her shoulder out into the muddy campground.

“No, no. I was careful. Like usual.”

Lucy thanked her for the groceries and told her she should go. It was probably better they didn't meet for a while. Gracey could see Nancy was sad about it, but understood.

“Farris is a bloodhound,” Nancy said.

“If he comes to talk to you, just act normal. You and I used to be friends, but you don't have any idea where I am. You can lie, Nancy, can't you?”

“Sure, I can lie. I been married, haven't I?”

The two women shared a smile and hugged and Lucy walked with her back to the car. Gracey thought she could see tears in Nancy Feather's eyes.

Then Steven was in her head again, telling her to get busy. Take charge, make something happen. Remember, bing, bing, bing. Get the hell out of the mountains and back to the city. That's where the action was. The grit, the grime, the tawdry underbelly. The angst and existential misery of urban culture.

Okay, okay.

So while Lucy and Nancy Feather said their good-byes, Gracey picked up her cell and dialed.