Indian Pipes (22 page)

Something rustled in the brush. She stopped. A black shape crossed the road in front of her and disappeared into the night on the other side, a skunk, its white stripes picked out by starlight. She laughed when she thought what her rescuers would think if they found her sprayed by a skunk. She moved on. The sound of waves was farther away. Not many cars passed on the main road, but when one did, she could see the glow of headlights much closer. She felt a surge of hope.

But she was shivering now. How could she avoid judgment- clouding hypothermia? She must get warm somehow. Move faster, was all she could think, and she did. She heard a car on the main road slow, saw headlights turn toward her, saw the two round dots of light. Was the Jeep coming back? Or was it someone who lived along this lonely road? She knew she would have to hide now, she wouldn’t be able to act quickly enough once she identified the car. The banks along the side of the road were low, here, and the huckleberry
brush was thick. She would have to find thick cover, she knew, because her pale nightgown would show up. The car’s headlights jounced, at the sky, at the road. They disappeared, and showed up again, closer.

Victoria hustled into the undergrowth, feeling her way cautiously until she came to a small stand of young pine trees, and dropped down behind them. She lay on the moldy-smelling earth and covered her nightgown with as many of last year’s leaves as she could scrape up. If the car’s headlights did not belong to her captors, if it were someone who lived along the road, she would want to alert them. But she wouldn’t be able to tell until they were almost upon her, and then it would be too late. On the other hand, if her captors’ Jeep was returning, they would find her missing from the camp almost immediately, and then what would they do? Come back along the road searching for her? Should she stay hidden in the undergrowth until they passed a second time? She decided to stay hidden, if the Jeep passed, and wait until morning. She would cover herself thickly with leaves to warm herself like a hibernating creature. The headlights came closer and closer, and she realized with dismay they were not Jeep headlights. They were too high and too widely spaced.

It took her a while to stand up again. Her feet were swollen and her toe throbbed. She brushed off her leaf covering, picked up her stick, and made her way back to the road, discouraged for the first time. Rescue had been so close. Ten steps, count of ten. She heard the car go into the valley and up the other side, and then could hear it no more. Ten steps. Then she thought again. What was that car? It was heading for the camp. Was it her captors returning in a different car? Perhaps she had been wise to hide. This spurred her on. Suppose they returned, though. Victoria remembered to drop another shell. There were not many left on the string. She had to save a few to mark the turnoff from the main road.

She heard the vehicle again, and dodged into the brush, much thinner here. She hid as best she could. The steady walking had been an effort; the hiding was exhausting. This time she would stay hidden no matter what, and she would rest. She scooped leaves over her and lay as flat as she could. Headlights lit up the trees above her. She
heard the engine, saw two dots of headlights. The vehicle slowed. Victoria held her breath. Surely she couldn’t be seen. She pressed herself flat into the soft ground. The car stopped. The door opened. Slammed shut.

“My friend!”

Victoria tried to sit up, and couldn’t.

Dojan tore through the underbrush. “Did they hurt you? Oh, my friend!” He scooped her up. She tried to pull her gown down modestly over her legs and brushed at the leaves.

He opened the front door of his van with one hand, still holding her in the other, and deposited her on the front seat.

“I will kill them!”

“No, no, no,” said Victoria weakly.

Dojan slid open the side door of his van and brought out a fishy- smelling blanket, which he wrapped around her with great tenderness.

“Thank you,” Victoria said, looking into Dojan’s dark eyes. “How did you ever, ever find me?”

“I have spent all night searching. I saw them in your house and entered.”

“I heard you.” Victoria wrapped the blanket tightly around herself. She couldn’t stop shivering.

“Someone hit me.” Dojan gripped the steering wheel tensely. “When I came to, you were gone.”

“Then what happened?”

“I was not out long. I heard the Jeep go up-Island. So I searched the roads between your house and Aquinnah.”

“There must be dozens of them.”

“Some had not been used lately. Those I did not follow. I followed roads that led nowhere. I saw summer cabins that were closed for the winter. I saw places with lights and people. Then I saw sandy tire tracks leading out from this road and I followed them, as I had followed a dozen others. The tracks led to the camp. There, I saw two shells, shells from the necklace my cousin gave you. I saw where you must have lain on the sofa, saw an empty cup and spoon next to it. I feared they had taken you away. Then I thought of the shells by the
steps. So I found your footprints and I tracked you. I saw shells you had dropped. Where the footprints stopped, I stopped. And I found you, my friend.”

It was the longest speech Victoria had ever heard from Dojan.

The night sky was lightening. Victoria could make out the horizon below a pale line of gray dawn. Dojan drove slowly so the van rocked Victoria like a cradle.

“They may come back, Dojan.”

He grunted. He’d said enough.

He turned onto the paved road. Ahead of her, Victoria could see clouds emerge from the darkness, lit up with gold and silver. The van headed directly into the dawn, and Victoria’s heart lifted at the beauty of it all.

C
HAPTER
25

“If you don’t mind, Patience, I’m on the phone.” Peter covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

“I’ll wait.” Patience sat down on the couch Peter had insisted upon having in his office.

“This is a private call,” Peter hissed.

“There are no private calls here. Business calls are not private. You may make personal calls from the phone booth in the corridor.” Patience looked around his office. A large colored map of Aquinnah covered one wall. It was a combination topographic map that showed every hill and valley, and a soils map that showed where sand and clay predominated. It was overlaid with an enlarged assessor’s map that gave every map and lot number, and showed every building. Patience couldn’t help staring at the map and the detail it showed. She’d seen that map every time she’d come into his office, but had never looked at it so closely. She could see the three lots that were hers now, her property. Almost thirty acres. She thought of her grandmother’s drumbeat: “Money is power.” Land is power, Patience added.

Peter took his hand away from the mouthpiece and spoke into it. “Sorry. I’ll have to get back to you later.”

Patience waited while the person at the other end of the line said a great deal more to Peter.

“I realize that. I’ll explain later. I’ll call you back in a half hour.” Peter stretched out his left arm so his watch emerged from under the cuff of his black silk shirt.

Patience folded her arms over her bosom and stared at the wall map. Peter had added colored map tacks in certain places, for some reason. One of the tacks was on her land. She couldn’t tell what the tacks signified. Archaeological sites? She turned away from the map.

Peter was beginning to perspire. Patience handed him a tissue from her pocket. He took the tissue from her and wiped his forehead. The voice on the phone was a man’s, but Patience could make out only a few emphatic words. “Don’t you hang up on me,” she heard, and “You agreed.”

Peter said over the still-talking voice, “I’ve got to go. I’ll explain later.” He replaced the receiver, and the phone rang immediately. Patience reached across his desk, ignoring the look on Peter’s face, and picked up the phone. She said nothing. The voice at the other end said, “Little, you fucker, don’t you ever hang up on me again.” Patience knew that voice. It belonged to a man she had thrown out of her office three months before, George Philipopoulos, a man full of his own charm.

“Thank you, Mr. Philipopoulos. He won’t hang up on you again.” She replaced the phone on Peter’s desk.

“Would you care to discuss this with me, Peter?” She made herself comfortable on his couch, patted the soft cushions. “Nice. Leather and eiderdown. Very executive. Expensive.” She paused. He squirmed. “Perhaps you have a logical reason for doing business with Mr. Philipopoulos? Or perhaps you were not doing business with him at all. Perhaps he was harassing you? In which case, I will put a stop to it for you, if you would like. Perhaps he believed he could get what he wanted by going after the weakest link?”

Peter stared at his tidy desk. He moved a letter opener to one side so it lined up with a matching silver pen. He put his hands on his desk and looked at his manicured nails.

“Do you wish to say something, Peter? Or do you choose to remain silent and let me think what I will? That you are trying to enrich yourself at the expense of the tribe?”

At that, Peter stood up. “Who’s enriching whose self?” He smiled. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

“No, you don’t. Perhaps you would like to clear out your desk. Remove your furniture to a more appreciative employer.”

“You can’t fire me. The tribe voted me in.”

“Would you care to challenge that?” Patience smiled brightly from the soft couch, stretched her plump arm across the smooth leather back.

A hawk cried high above them. The wind riffled the bayberry leaves on the other side of the parking lot. Peter stood in front of the window, hands behind his back, staring out at the parking lot and the rolling hills beyond it. Peter’s MG was parked next to Chief Hawkbill’s Cadillac, Patience’s battered red Ford pickup was next to his MG.

“I’ve got my supporters,” he said finally.

“I’m sure you do.” Patience melted further into the soft leather. “Shall we see who has more? And do you think yours will still support you when they learn the source of your wealth? That your connections have nothing to do with tribal advancement, but everything to do with the advancement of Peter Little?”

Peter swiveled around. “Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Let me number the votes. On your side are Littles and Minnow- fish. Can you count on support from them? Dojan is a Minnowfish. He is, what, third or fourth cousin?”

Peter shifted in his chair.

“On my side are VanDykes and Hawkbills. Also on my side are the off-Island Wampanoags who know nothing about Peter Little. Shall I demand a recall vote?”

Peter’s voice was tightly controlled. “I’m sure your supporters will be interested in hearing about the land you’ve somehow managed to acquire. Secretly. Looks great for someone who’s always crying poor-mouth. You planning to build trophy houses? Or will your land be suitable for the casino you want so badly? That would explain a lot of things, wouldn’t it?”

Patience looked up, surprised.

“Bought by the Quahog Trust, not by poor Patience VanDyke, who drives a fifteen-year-old pickup.” Peter laughed. “You thought you could keep a secret like that on this Island?”

Patience sat up straight. “I like a challenge, Peter. You against me isn’t much of a challenge. Gather your supporters. See how far your tactics will get you. The Wampanoags have been led by strong women for generations. Do you think they will trust a silk-shirted boy with a fancy sports car? And silver desk ornaments? They understand land, Peter, and I understand them.”

Peter stared at her for long moments. He turned toward the parking lot, his MG and her pickup. He turned back, folded his hands on his desktop, and smiled. “All right,” he said. “What do you want of me?”

“I do not need you working against me, Peter. Why don’t you tell me what you and Mr. Philipopoulos were concocting between you.”

Peter bowed his head and examined his fingernails.

“As I recall, he represents a shipping firm, right?”

Peter said nothing. His back was to the window, his face in shadow. The light reflecting from the hood of Chief Hawkbill’s Cadillac flickered in Patience’s eyes. She moved to the other side of the couch and settled herself again.

Patience lifted herself slightly to straighten her skirt under her. Her heavy breasts swayed under her gauzy cotton blouse. She smoothed her skirt over her knees, bent and tugged the fabric around her ankles. She wore clogs with thick soles and thick heels on bare feet. She couldn’t see Peter’s expression but suspected it was one of distaste.

She sat up and spoke sharply. “Well, Peter, how much are they paying you?”

Peter swiveled his chair so he faced the parking lot again, and said nothing.

“How much are they paying you? Or do we ask the federal government to look into your income and the taxes you pay? I assume you pay federal income taxes. How do you afford leather office furniture and silver desk appointments on the salary I pay you? Inherited from the Little side of the family? No. Certainly not the Minnowfish side.”

Peter still said nothing.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that you cooperate with me in getting a government grant?”

Peter stood and faced Patience. “Federal funding is not the way to go,” he said.

“Because you won’t get your rake-off?” Patience laughed. “It is easy to see through you, Peter. Mr. Philipopoulos’s bosses want a floating casino, and are paying you well to lobby for it, aren’t they?”

“A floating casino makes sense. It will wipe out Islanders’ greatest argument against a gambling casino. It would not be built on the land. No worries about traffic, ferry tie-ups, liquor, noise, children going astray.” He laughed. “Tribal members will captain vessels, not spin red and black wheels.”

“Your points are well taken, Peter. Why have you not discussed this freely with me and with the tribal council?” When he started to answer, she held up a plump hand with rings on each of her fingers. “We know why, don’t we? You like the good things, don’t you, Peter? Mr. Philipopoulos is able, through his employer, to provide you with the stipend, or, shall I say, bribe, that allows you to indulge yourself. You do not want to see that source of money dry up, do you, Peter? Which it would if you cooperated with me.” She sat forward on the couch. “You were working with Mr. Burkhardt, too, weren’t you? To slow the granting of permits. Was Mr. Burkhardt also getting money from Mr. Philipopoulos?”