Forests of the Night (32 page)

Farris radioed for a deputy to bring him a fresh cruiser and gave the dispatcher directions to the campground, but told her nothing further about his situation.

“Somebody smashed you up pretty good,” the Cherokee deputy said when he got a look at Farris's car.

“Stay here and watch the car, son. I'll send back a tow truck.”

Before the deputy could object, Farris climbed into the cruiser and left.

He drove straight away to Stillwell Branch Road, parked beside the familiar field, and took the bridge and path into the dusty basin where Margie Hornbuckle's double-wide trailer was planted.

It was the boy's nap time, so Farris tapped lightly on her door. Her domicile was tidy and smelled of lemon air-freshener, and she welcomed him without complaint or question.

“He's sleeping,” she said. “And I been after him with that antiseptic like you said. But he fights me on it. Burns him something fierce, he says.”

He went into Shelley's bedroom and looked down at the snoring boy. The light from the living room threw a slash across his face. His stubbled cheeks needed tending, but beyond that the boy seemed in decent shape.

Farris took a look back at the living room and saw Margie slouched in
her recliner before the television with a can of iced tea in her hand.

In silence, Farris stooped forward and brought his face to the boy's and hovered there only an inch away, tasting the heat and scent of his son's spent breath. Those molecules, which had journeyed into the boy's lungs and out again, were charged with an intoxicating fragrance.

Such intimacy with his son aroused in Farris a sense of overwhelming injustice. Although his own blood circled in the boy's veins, and Shelley would pass into a distant future that Farris would never know, the boy would never reproduce, never send the Tribue bloodline forward into the years. In his crucial life's work, Farris had utterly failed. He had passed on nothing to this angelic child but an empty life and a world of fruitless dreams.

Farris brought his mouth to the boy's scalp and pressed his lips against the rough bristles, lingering there for a moment until Shelley stirred and grunted and Farris drew away.

He remained in the bedroom a moment more, recovering from the act. He listened to the ceaseless babble of the television, the nameless tune of a bird outside. He tasted again the scent of his son, which lingered like the burn of sour mash at the back of his throat. Inside his chest he felt the immensity, a blank, cold universe, starless and moonless, which stretched to the borders of his being and throbbed beyond endurance. An unspeakable yearning.

If that sensation pulsing in Farris's breast was not what mankind defined as love, then Farris was truly damned to never know its name.

With a final look at his boy, Farris walked back into the living room and stood next to Margie's chair.

“I've spoken to John Gathers at the bank,” Farris said.

A stricken look passed across Margie's face. Fear of eviction, no doubt, an end to her life of ease.

“From this point on, you'll receive a monthly retainer directly from the bank,” Farris said. “It should be sufficient to provide for the boy and yourself. Upon your death, the bank will select a new caretaker for my son and that person will live here where you have lived. I have asked Mr. Gathers to appoint a watchdog to make regular visits to check on my son's health and well-being. As well as your own.”

“You going away somewhere?”

He looked at the television, then back at the room where his son slept.

“Buy the boy a drawing pad,” Farris said. “And a box of colored pencils. And those chigger bites, take care of them.”

Margie looked up at Farris and was about to reply when he turned from her and without a backward glance left the trailer.

 

Lucy heard his car. She heard his step. She didn't move. By now he had seen the broken glass and knew his house had been invaded.

The TV was telling other movie lies. A John Wayne anthology—this time he was a U.S. Marine, leading his men into the teeth of machine-gun fire, taking a Pacific beach. All about him his loyal men were chewed to bits by a hail of lead, but soldiering on for John Wayne's sake. Heroes, heroes, everywhere.

Lucy lost Farris's tread somewhere in the house. He was moving down corridors she didn't know. He was circling, hunting her, coming closer by slow degrees. A board creaked, hinges squealed. He was headed her way.

She didn't take cover. Tired of all that. The hiding.

She kept her seat in the comfortable leather chair across from the dead congressman and watched John Wayne rally his grubby troops, hacking through jungle vines, his valiant Americans picked off one by one by a ruthless, invisible sniper high in the treetops.

The door swung open, but Farris was not there.

She waited, her aim fixed on the empty space.

The gray halo of the television gave her sufficient light. Since the first shot she'd ever fired, Lucy Panther had been known as a sharpshooter, better than any boy in the tribe. She propped her pistol hand on her knee to keep from tiring the muscles. Aiming for the middle of the door.

“You're dead,” Farris called out.

“That makes two of us,” she replied.

That set him thinking for a moment. While he was distracted, she could hazard a guess about where he was standing, attempt a shot through the wall, but then again she didn't want to waste the shells. More than that, she wanted the satisfaction of seeing him the second he went down. So she waited.

“Father!” Farris called out in a full and untroubled voice. “Father!”

“You'll have to wait a while to talk to him. Till you join him in hell.”

The boards creaked again. Farris reacting. She couldn't imagine how. Surely he wasn't weeping for that old devil. Was he crouching for a dive and roll? It didn't matter to Lucy. However it unfolded from here was fine. Glad it was almost over.

Farris had slunk away, for she could hear the creaks of his departure. Off concocting a scheme, or calling reinforcements.

For the moment she relaxed. Rocked her neck from side to side, took a peek at the marines. Airplanes flying low and strafing. Explosions, fire, the jungle burning. His men cowered, but John Wayne stood sure and tall.

God, she missed her Jacob. Her brave boy. How smart he was, how strong and loving. Only hours ago she'd watched him die, but it seemed like forever. Seemed like he'd never lived, never held her in his strong arms, comforted her. None of those years together ever happened. All of it was nothing but a movie played out to its finish and dissolved into darkness.

In a while Lucy Panther heard Farris coming back. She heard him stop outside the door, and she waited in her chair.

Seconds passed, then there was the snap and flare of a match and an odor that took her a second to give it a name.

Gasoline.

Lucy stood up and aimed at the empty doorway. The pungent smell grew stronger.

Another moment passed, then the ceramic jug rolled through the door, the rag in its mouth on fire. A gallon of explosive sloshing in its belly. The same strategy they claimed her boy had used against the banks.

Or perhaps the jug was simply filled with water, a trick to drive her from the room.

Motionless, she watched the jug roll across the floor, watched the blue flame eat up the length of cloth. Would a man like Farris destroy his own ancestral home, his father's remains, and all he owned to kill a simple woman? From the madness she'd heard detailed tonight, she had no doubt that such a thing was possible within this family.

An inch of fabric was left as she made her hasty calculations. Death here and now in a burst of flame, or take her chances at the doorway or beyond?

The prospect of watching Farris die won her over.

Lucy Panther sprinted for the door and headed down the empty hallway toward the head of the stairs.

She made it a dozen feet before Farris heaved himself from a nook and threw his weight into her and slammed her body against the wall. A pistol fired. But she felt no pain, and then he bashed her chin and everything went soft and simple.

They were on the outskirts of Asheville, and by Charlotte's map reading, not more than ten minutes from the college. Gracey was in the backseat of the new Pontiac rental, staring out her window at the crystal afternoon, the faultless blue sky.

At Charlotte's insistence, it was to be a quick stop to ask a few questions of Professor Milford, then on to their four
P.M.
flight back to Miami. Parker wanted to know what possible value such a side trip would have and Charlotte said, “Just ten minutes, that's all I want.”

Before leaving the motel she'd called her old partner, Jesus Romero, and he'd agreed to take charge of Gracey for a few days while Charlotte and Parker returned to Carolina to unravel the last few knots.

“There's a list,” Gracey said quietly. “A murder list. We're all on it. Grandmother was, too.”

These were the girl's first words since she'd awoken from her nap, grouchy and uncommunicative.

Charlotte swung around and rested her left arm on the seat back.

“A murder list?”

“Lucy said so. A list. And our names are on it.”

Gracey crossed her arms over her chest, sunk into her seat, and began to mumble as if she were about to drift away again into another fit of gloom.

Charlotte looked over at Parker. He was watching Gracey in the rearview mirror.

“Later,” he said to Charlotte. “Don't press.”

She shook her head. It was a now-or-never moment. Worth the risk of pushing the girl deeper inside herself. She turned back to Gracey.

“Do you remember anything else Lucy said?”

“You don't believe me, do you? You think I'm making it up.”

“Not at all,” said Charlotte. “Your dad and I would like to hear anything else you remember from the time you were with Lucy.”

“You know, Mom, I can tell what's real from what's not real.” She hugged herself tighter and kept her eyes on the rugged landscape. “I can tell when people are faking and when they're telling the truth. Even you, Mother, even you.”

“It runs in the family,” Parker said.

“Well, if you don't want to talk about it, Gracey, that's fine. But later on, if you remember anything, sweetheart, we're here, you can always tell us.”

She was about to turn back around when Gracey said, “Jacob went to the police to tell them what was going on, but everybody laughed at him.”

Charlotte nodded.

“We heard something about that. Yes.”

“And Jacob and Lucy thought Dad had clout. That he could fix everything, and that's why he came to Miami, to warn us we were in danger, but Mom called the FBI on him before he could do it. And he had to run.”

Parker gave Charlotte a quick look, but said nothing.

“Anything else?”

“The man that shot at me and Lucy when we were in the camper, the one that wounded Lucy, I forget his name, but he's the sheriff.”

“Farris Tribue?”

Parker slowed the car and turned off the interstate down a ramp.

“That's right,” Gracey said. “A tall man with the Elvis hair. All geeky and gross. That's the one who shot at us.”

“You're sure of that, Gracey?”

“See what I mean? You never believe me.”

Parker assured her they did believe her. And what's more they loved her very, very much.

Charlotte reached back and patted Gracey's knee, but the girl recoiled from her touch.

“You don't believe anybody. Everybody's a liar. Making things up, imagining things.”

“I believe you, Gracey. One hundred percent. I swear.”

She tried to hold Gracey's eye, but the girl looked away. So after a moment more, Charlotte turned back around.

“Call Frank?” Parker said.

“Not yet. We need to fill in a few more blanks.”

“You're not going to tell me why we're here.”

“If what I think is true, we should know in a few minutes. If it isn't, I don't want you getting in an uproar over nothing. Okay?”

Parker looked over at her, his stern face melting into a smile.

“Whatever you say, Officer Monroe.”

Five minutes later, as they pulled off the two-lane country road onto the college grounds, Gracey was quiet, looking out her window, occupied by the scenery.

Asheville Women's College was a brick and ivy affair that seemed mired in an antebellum fantasy with Southern belles in hoopskirts and tight corsets moping for hours with their girlfriends about the total lack of suitable beaux.

From what Charlotte could see on the shady entrance drive that led to a plantation mansion and a cluster of charming dormitory buildings, the college occupied the only land for miles around that wasn't mountainous.

The rolling green pastures were fenced for the dozen or so horses that nibbled at sprigs of new grass or basked in the clear spring sunlight. Snaking through a grove of poplars and maples were pathways overhung with trellises that would probably soon be tangled in wisteria and honeysuckle.

As they approached the main buildings, they saw college girls strolling here and there, hugging books to their chests and chatting with their friends.

“Jeez,” Gracey said as Parker eased into a visitor's parking slot, “they're all wearing dresses.”

“This is the factory,” said Parker, “where they make the Stepford wives.”

“Funny, Dad.”

“Don't look now—we've been spotted.”

A uniformed security guard came marching across the lot and stopped just outside Parker's door.

“Help you?” he said through the open window.

“We're looking for a Professor Milford.”

The guard made no reply but walked to the rear of the car and jotted down their plate number.

He stayed back there and used his walkie-talkie.

“Are we under arrest?” Gracey said.

“It feels that way,” said Parker. “We may be needing a good attorney.”

“Too bad we don't know any,” Charlotte said.

Parker smiled at her. What grieving he was doing for his lost son, he was concealing down in some secret canyon of his heart. The manly way. Only the faintest echoes of pain lurked in his eyes.

The security guy had red hair and a twitchy mouth.

“Dr. Milford's in class,” he said, this time without stooping down.

“Is there somewhere we can wait?”

“You got an appointment?”

“Do we need one?”

“For tribal assessment you do.”

“What's that?” Parker asked.

The guard made no reply, so Charlotte leaned across Parker and smiled up at the young man.

“We're deciding on colleges for our daughter. Dr. Milford suggested we have a look at where she worked.”

The guard bent down and gave Charlotte a careful appraisal, trying for a moment to peer past the surface of her smile. But she kept it rigidly in place.

“Her office is over there. One-oh-four Tribue Hall. Somebody'll help you.”

“Tribal assessment?” Parker said as they walked down the shady path.

“I wouldn't go to this college for a million bucks,” Gracey said. “You can't force me.”

“I just made that up, Gracey, so the guard would leave us alone.”

“Not for ten million dollars,” she said. “Look at all these goofballs.”

Gracey matched Charlotte's stride, and the two of them followed Parker to Tribue Hall, a two-story version of the main house, an outbuilding that once might have housed the favored slaves.

In the foyer, a family of Native Americans sat on a bench in jeans and matching flannel shirts. The father stood up when they entered.

“I'm Rufus Youngdeer and this here's my family. Sally, the wife. Flora Mae and Bailey. I come back with the right figure this time.”

With a shy smile, he extended a white envelope fat with greenbacks.

“She's the wrong one,” the man's wife said. “That's not her.”

“You Milford? The professor lady?”

“No, I'm not,” Charlotte said. “Sorry.”

The man drew back the cash and hunched forward into a bow.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, missus.”

She and Parker and Gracey trooped down the polished wood hallway and found 104 at the very end. Charlotte knocked, then tried the door, but it was locked.

“Kick it in?” Parker said.

“I'm tempted.”

Gracey stared out a hall window at the college girls in their spring frocks. Passing to and fro like bright reef fish cruising an aquarium.

“Hello?”

It was a woman in her late forties with pink cherub cheeks and flat blue eyes. Her curly hair was permed into a tight mass of jet-black curls. She was barely five feet tall but probably outweighed Parker by twenty pounds. Her black suit looked expensive but was a size too tight, buttons straining. She was studiously avoiding eye contact.

“We're here to see Dr. Milford.”

“For assessment?”

The woman's eyes were circling the room as though following the flight of an invisible bee. For a moment Charlotte wondered if she was blind.

“What's an assessment?” Charlotte said.

The woman paused for a moment and her face hardened, then just as quickly it relaxed as if a jolt of voltage had passed through her system. She looked at the air just above Charlotte's head and smiled.

“Tribal registry,” the woman said. “Validating roots.”

“That's what Milford does? Decides who's Cherokee, who's not?”

“Oh, yeah. It's big around here.”

“What does that cost?” Parker said. “Validating your roots?”

“Varies,” the woman said.

“A hundred dollars, five hundred?”

“Oh, more than that. I don't know exactly. But they make it all back with the casino payouts in a couple of years.”

The woman giggled, then it turned to a real laugh. Then ceased abruptly.

“What's so funny?” Gracey said.

Charlotte held up a hand and sent her a look. Don't ask.

“I'm Charlotte and this is Parker, and this is Gracey, our daughter.”

“Oh, I know Parker already,” the woman said. “Remember me? I'm Sissy Tribue.”

The woman put out her hand, then immediately withdrew it, her eyes still following the spiraling path of the insect.

“Hello, Sissy. It's been a long time.”

“A long time,” Sissy said. “A long time, yes, a long time.”

“You work with Dr. Milford?”

“I'm her gofer.” A smile came to her lips, then slipped away.

“Could we talk to you while we wait?”

“Don't see why not.”

They followed her into a sunny office space. Books neatly shelved, a single framed picture on the wall. Sissy and her father, Uncle Mike, standing side by side in their Sunday best.

“We were very sorry about your father's death.”

Sissy beamed at the wall.

“Oh, that's okay. He was old, and he knew he was going to be killed. He expected it.”

“He did?” Charlotte said. “Why?”

“For telling Jacob Panther the truth about his lineage. But Daddy had to do it because it was the right thing to do. He always did the right thing. Daddy was a good man. He was good.”

Gracey stood at the window and looked out at the stream of campus beauties passing by.

“What was Jacob's lineage? What is it your father told him?”

Sissy settled into the swivel chair behind her oak desk. Her eyes were roaming the upper quadrant of the room. She swiveled to the right, then swiveled back to the other side like a kid trying out new furniture.

“Genealogies, that's hard work. Tracking down ancestors.”

Sissy chortled again. Then her face went neutral.

“It's very, very hard work,” Sissy said. “Marriage records, birth certificates, Civil War pension archives, different reservation rolls the government did over the years. Land transfers, police records. These days, she's super busy. So many people pretending they have Indian blood, wanting a cut of casino cash. But Dr. Milford can always tell who's who. Weed out the bad ones.”

“Yeah,” Charlotte said. “The ones without envelopes.”

Charlotte was having little success reading the young woman's face. Her empty smile, and those senseless laughs, and eyes that glistened without depth or guile.

“Tell us about Tsali's relatives,” she said.

The question hit an inflamed nerve. Sissy stiffened and went still. Her dazed look hardened into rock.

“Is she okay?” Gracey said.

Charlotte dug through her backpack and found her wallet, flipped it open, and laid it on Sissy's desk with the badge exposed.

“Sissy, I'm a police officer. You can talk to me. It's okay, it's safe.”

Sissy rocked sideways to glimpse the badge, eyes hidden, chin down.

“I'm not allowed.”

Charlotte drew her Beretta and laid it on the desk beside the badge. The least threatening threat she could think of. But Parker still looked aghast.

“When a police officer asks you questions, Sissy, you know you have to tell the truth. Or you could go to jail.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

“So, tell us about Tsali's ancestors?”

Sissy considered it a moment more, and shot another glance at the pistol, then she reached into the collar of her blouse and drew out a key on a gold chain. Grunting, she wrestled the chain over her head. Her face was flushed, and sweat glistened on her upper lip, her jaw locked.

Parker leaned close and whispered angrily.

“You're terrifying the girl.”

Sissy rose from her chair and walked on tiptoes around her desk, her hands raised to her shoulders as if she were being held at gunpoint.

Charlotte scooped up her wallet and pistol and tucked them into her backpack, and she and Parker followed Sissy out into the hall where Sissy used the key to open Dr. Milford's office door.

She stepped through the door with her palms held at shoulder height.