Music of Ghosts (28 page)

“Awww, probably thirty years ago.” He squinted and looked up at the sky, as if he might find the answer written in the clouds. “Eighty-two or eighty-three, I reckon.”

“What happened?”

“Fire marshal blamed it on the wiring. Ask me, I think some of them convicts burned it down.”

Ginger played dumb. “Convicts?”

He nodded. “They used to keep a few who weren't dangerous up there. That didn't make 'em any less crazy, though.”

“They kept crazy people up there?”

Again, he nodded. “One morning I found one of 'em in my hen house, squattin' down like he was gonna lay an egg. How he squeezed in there I'll never know, but it wasn't no egg that he left on that nest.”

“Was anybody killed when the place burned down?” asked Ginger.

“Seems like a few of 'em might've died,” he said. “I helped the firemen for a while, then I had to hose down m'barn. They were afraid a spark would set my hayloft on fire.”

“That's terrible,” said Ginger.

“It was a right bad night,” the man agreed. “I'm sorry about your kinfolk, but that old nursin' home ain't no great loss. Not to me, anyway.”

“Thanks for talking to me.”

As the farmer headed back to his hay, Ginger hurried back to her car. She was going to call Mary Crow as soon as she got back to civilization. The saga of Fiddlesticks just kept getting stranger by the minute.

forty

After Mary hung up
from calling Ginger in the early morning, she took a long, hot shower and readied herself for court. She put on the same blue suit, then she and Alex wandered over to the motel's breakfast buffet. Her earlier excitement over the Fiddlesticks case had ebbed into a worried anxiousness over Jonathan and Lily. She picked at her waffle, keeping an eye out for them, still hoping they might walk through the door. She and Alex lingered over coffee, talking about nothing, stalling as long as they dared. Finally, they could no longer put off leaving. Judge Diane Haddad would give her decision at eleven a.m.; they'd better be there to hear it. Alex sped them back to Tahlequah, parking next to the courthouse. As they crossed the street to enter the building, Mary put a hand on Alex's arm.

“Whatever happens, you've done a superb job. I can't thank you enough, Al.”

“I owed you one, Ms. Crow.” Though Alex smiled, her eyes were serious. “If it hadn't been for you, I would not be standing here, alive and breathing.”

“Then I guess we're even,” said Mary.

Arm in arm, in the way of old friends, they crossed the street and rode the elevator up to Haddad's courtroom. Apparently the Moons had told their cheering section to stay home, because only they and Laura Bagwell were sitting in the courtroom. Mary and Alex walked to the defendant's table, their footsteps echoing in the stillness. Bagwell nodded as they sat down, but the Moons maintained a stony-faced silence. The tension grew in the hushed room, then suddenly, everyone came in at once—the bailiff, the officer, the court reporter. Diane Haddad entered from the doorway behind the bench, an elegant lace collar topping her black judicial robe. Everyone rose as she took her seat.

“Glad to see everybody back,” she said. “I know how hard it is to wait on a decision. Gloria, let the record show that this is day three of Moon v. Walkingstick,” she told her court reporter, a chubby little woman whose fingers flew like sausages over her keyboard as Judge Haddad began.

“This has been an interesting case for a number of reasons and I wanted to consider all the aspects of it.” She looked at Bagwell. “First off, let me say that I find the implication that criminal attorneys make less effective parents, specious. If anything, criminal attorneys make better parents, simply because they are more aware of how easily young people can take wrong turns in life that lead to pain and heartbreak. Never have I known a child of either prosecutor or defense counsel to be negatively affected by their parent's occupation.”

“Damn!” whispered Alex. “If only Jonathan could hear that!”

The judge then turned to Alex and Mary. “Ms. Crow, you have been thrust into an unusual situation. Though it is beyond the jurisdiction of this court to determine your culpability in Mrs. Walkingstick's death, I am convinced that you have raised Lily Bird Walkingstick in a loving, responsible way. By all indications, she is a bright, happy child who is well-liked by her peers. Any step-parent would be envious of your success.”

She turned back to the Moons. “However, Mr. and Mrs. Moon have an equally compelling argument. Through no fault of their own, they've tragically lost their only daughter in circumstances that are at best murky. This court can clearly see that having Ms. Crow raising their only grandchild would be akin to rubbing salt in an open wound.”

Mary shot Alex a nervous glance, sensing this might not go the way they'd hoped.

“Seldom are custody cases easy—this one is particularly difficult. As commendable a job that Mr. Walkingstick and Ms. Crow have done, Mr. and Mrs. Moon have rights as well—not only do Oklahoma statutes address grandparental rights, but among the Cherokee people, orphaned children are traditionally raised by the mother's family. Though this is not tribal court, I would like to respect Cherokee precedent as much as I can.

“So, given that Mr. Walkingstick and Ms. Crow have made no effort to formalize their relationship by marriage, that Mr. Walkingstick already owns a home near the Moons' residence and has no regular, full-time employment that specifically requires his residence in North Carolina, I'm awarding custody of Lily Bird Walkingstick jointly to both her biological father, Jonathan Walkingstick and her maternal grandparents, Fred and Dulcy Moon. Commencing August first of this year, Lily Bird Walkingstick will spend weekdays with Mr. Walkingstick here in Oklahoma and weekends with Mr. and Mrs. Moon.” Haddad looked at Alex and Bagwell. “Counselors, I'm charging you two with working out an equitable arrangement regarding holidays, subject to this court approval.”

Haddad gave Mary a sad smile. “I know this is not what you wanted, Ms. Crow, and probably far less than you deserve. But Oklahoma needs good criminal attorneys. Perhaps you will see your way clear to join us on this side of the Mississippi.”

The judge tapped her gavel once, lightly, and rose from her chair. Mary stood, stunned, as the judge disappeared through the doorway behind the bench. Her practicing criminal law hadn't hurt them a bit—their case had been sunk by their lack of a marriage license and Jonathan's purchase of that duplex. For an instant she thought she might vomit. Jonathan and Lily would not be returning to North Carolina; she would be going home alone, a brand-new family of one.

“Mrs. Carter?” Laura Bagwell plunked her briefcase down on their table. “When shall we work this out? I imagine Mr. Walkingstick will need to be involved.”

“Mr. Walkingstick will be involved,” Alex assured her. “He's just out with his daughter today.”

Bagwell's eyes narrowed with suspicion. “He does know that he'll be in contempt if he doesn't surrender the child on August first?”

“It won't be a problem,” said Alex.

“Shall we begin this afternoon?” asked Bagwell. “My clients are anxious to get started.”

“I need to get back to Texas, Ms. Bagwell. My associate, Sam Hodges, will take over from here.” Alex pulled one of Sam's card from her briefcase. “I'll inform him about this as soon as I leave court. You two can set up a time to meet.”

Bagwell took the card. “We'd like to get started on this ASAP.”

“As does Mr. Walkingstick.”

Mary could tell Bagwell wasn't particularly happy, but there was nothing she could do. She followed Alex out of the courtroom with just a single glance at Fred and Dulcy Moon, who held each other close, their faces wet with happy tears.

Foolishly, Mary looked again for Jonathan when they got outside, thinking maybe he'd taken all their phone calls to heart and had come back to hear the verdict. But no tall, dark-haired man with a child waited for them, nor did she see his truck parked anywhere nearby.

“Wow,” said Alex, blinking in the bright sun. “What now?”

Mary shrugged. “You go back to Texas, I go back to North Carolina.”

“What about Jonathan?”

“Let's both call and give him Haddad's decision, though I doubt he'll come back.”

Alex shook her head. “He'll be in a shit load of trouble.”

“I know. But he won't care. He will never let Fred Moon have Lily.”

They walked back to Alex's car, each lost in their own thoughts. “You know what I hate about this the most?” Alex finally blurted as they crossed the street.

“What?”

“That Jonathan didn't hear what Haddad said about you. She totally vindicated you, Mary. You never needed to make that silly promise about criminal law.”

“I did then.” Mary looked at her old friend. “But I don't anymore.”

They drove back to the motel. Mary got on her cell phone and amazingly, found a seat on an afternoon flight. She was changing from her blue suit to a comfortable pair of jeans, when she found the pillow she'd taken from Jonathan's bed. She picked it up, pressed it to her face. Already, his smell was fainter. Tomorrow it would be fainter still, the next day gone. She considered packing it in her suitcase, enclosing what remained of him, like a treasure in a box. But after a moment she let the pillow fall back on the bed. Jonathan was gone. Lily was gone. From here on, she would have to recall them in memory only. She had a plane to catch, a client to defend, a new life that needed her active participation.

forty-one

She'd just gotten in
line to board the plane when her cell phone rang. She answered it immediately, hoping, for the thousandth time, that it was Jonathan. Her heart fell when a woman's voice came over the phone.

“Mary? This is Ginger.”

“Hey.” Mary felt odd, as if her friend were calling from another world, another life.

Ginger went on, breathless. “Are you sitting down?”

“No,” said Mary. “I'm in line to board a plane.”

“Well, listen carefully and I'll talk fast. I found Fiddlesticks!”

“You what?” Mary sounded so surprised that the man in front of her turned around to stare.

“I found Fiddlesticks! I had to do some tap dancing at Naughton, but I found out that Smith was there until 1977, when they released him as a low-risk lifer to a nursing home in Iredell County.”

“Are you serious?” Mary held the phone close to her ear as a garbled airport voice paged a passenger.

“Yes! And it gets even crazier! I drove to the nursing home, and guess what—it's nothing but a shell! An old farmer said it burned down back in the early eighties.”

“So what happened to the patients?” Mary retreated to the rear of the boarding line.

“That's what I'm working on now,” Ginger replied. “But it's like grabbing at air. You figure out one question and find fifty more to answer.”

“That's the most incredible story I've ever heard,” said Mary.

“I know.” Ginger cackled, full of glee. “And it's all mine! No Jessica Rusk on this one!”

Mary smiled. “You go, girl.”

“Hey, what put you on to this?” Ginger asked. “How did you put Fiddlesticks in Naughton?”

“I'll tell you later,” said Mary. “I've got to get on the plane. But our trip to the Sacred Harp singing had a lot to do with it.”

“When will you be home?” asked Ginger.

“Early evening, if we land on time.”

“Well, promise you'll call me, okay? Whatever time you get here. I've got lots more to tell you.”

“Will do. Talk to you in a few hours.”

Shaking her head at the craziness of the Fiddlesticks case, Mary was the last person to board the plane. A few minutes later, it lifted her into the sky. She gazed out the window as Tulsa spread out below her, oddly looking for Jonathan's red truck on the interstate below. Then the plane banked right, and all she saw was clouds and sky.
I still can't believe it
, she thought bitterly.
All those years, all that love, ending with two sentences on Holiday Inn stationery. Don't think about it
, she told herself, pulling the shade down over the window.
Think about what Ginger found out at Naughton. If only half of it's true, then you've just gotten Stratton off the hook for murder.

Two hours later she landed in Atlanta. She bailed her car out of long-term parking and headed north, into the mountains. Though she knew she'd promised to call Ginger, she decided that a visit to Nick Stratton might be first in order. She hadn't seen her client in nearly a week and giving him some good news might cheer them both up.

She drove up Highway 441, cutting through the hills of north Georgia and then snaking into Carolina. The mountain breeze blew cool and damp, so different from the dry winds of Oklahoma. As the aromas of cedar and pine filled her car, a strange feeling overcame her—that Jonathan was not hiding, nor had he fled to Mexico. Jonathan was here. He'd come back to the place he knew best. He and Lily were waiting for her at home, right now. Her sense of him was so strong that she slowed down, started to turn left on Goose Pen Road. But then a more sober notion pulled her back, reminding her that she'd spent the last two days frantically trying to reach the man and receiving nothing in return.

“Just go on and see Stratton,” she whispered, moving out of the turn lane. “If Jonathan's at home now, he'll still be there an hour from now.”

A little while later, she again sat in interview room three. A female officer she did not know escorted Stratton into the room, closing the door behind him. He walked over to the table in strangely small steps, now more accustomed to the parameters of his cell. His clean-shaven, handsome courtroom appearance was gone—replaced by a scruffy dark beard and bloodshot eyes. “Hey,” he said, sitting down across from her. “Long time, no see.”

“I had to leave town unexpectedly,” she explained.

“No problem.” He gave a bitter laugh. “It's not like I'm going anywhere.”

“Well, I think I've got some real good news.”

“What?”

“I've just found lots of irregularities in the old Fiddlesticks case.”

He frowned, apparently unable to connect the dots. “I'm sorry—what does the old Fiddlesticks case have to do with me?”

She told him, briefly, the whole saga of Robert Thomas Smith—the original Fiddlesticks who'd avoided the gas chamber, gotten re-assigned to a mental hospital, and then possibly walked away from a nursing home fire.

“Are you serious?” Stratton looked at her, incredulous.

“That's what the records indicate. I don't know how much of it's true, but it will certainly muddy the waters in your case.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I'm still not sure I understand.”

“We don't have any proof that the original Fiddlesticks is dead. Remember how someone carved those strange figures into Lisa Wilson's body?”

He nodded.

“Those figures are musical shape notes, well known to people who do Sacred Harp singing.”

“So a Sacred Harp singer killed Lisa?”

“Possibly. It widens the suspect pool enormously. But here's what's really interesting. Those notes on Lisa's body make up an arcane little tune that some fiddler played at Central Prison, the same time Smith was on death row. Whoever carved that tune was in prison the same time as Smith.”

“So you're saying that Smith killed Lisa?”

“It's not impossible.”

“But wouldn't he be too old?”

“He'd be in his seventies. Not prime of life, but if he kept himself fit, he could be our guy.”

“Saved by a ghost,” he whispered. He shook his head, then for the first time in weeks, his mouth curled in a smile. “Hey, I've got a bit of news for you, too.”

“What?”

“Rachel Sykes and Tony Blackman drove over from Charlotte this afternoon. They'd been up to the center and said the barn owl you brought in was ready to be released.”

Mary had forgotten about the little creature she and Lily had worked so hard to save—it seemed like a lifetime ago.

“They're going to help Artie release it tonight.”

“Tonight? Where?”

“Up on a bald, on the back of our land. It's clear there; she can find a tree to roost in.”

Mary remembered the strange sense she had of Jonathan and Lily being home, waiting for her. If they were there, bringing the owl back home might be a promise of mended fences, healing. “Do you think they might release it at my house?” she asked. “At my barn?”

“Sure,” said Stratton. “But you need to get in touch with them fast. They'll start for that bald pretty soon.”

She whipped out her cell phone and called Artie, but all she got was Dr. Lovebird's answering machine.

“They're probably at the bird barn,” said Stratton.

Mary frowned. “Where's that?”

“Take the path to the right at the totem pole. If you drive like hell, you might get there in time,” said Stratton.

“Thanks!” Mary leapt from her chair. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

She hurried to her car, still trying to raise Artie on the phone. In the parking lot she saw Cochran, revving up the black Camaro he loved to drive.

“Hey,” he called, lifting a hand in greeting. “When did you get back from Oklahoma?”

“Just now,” she said, backing her car out of its space. “Gotta go out to the bird center. See you!”

She waved, squealing her tires as she sped out of the parking lot. For a moment she feared he might give her a ticket, but he turned right as she turned left, out of town and into the mountains.

She drove fast, her little Miata hugging the curves. Once again she came to the turnoff to her farm; once again she ignored it and drove deeper into the mountains. She turned on to the road that led to the raptor center, her car skidding on the gravel pavement. She smiled at the memory of the night she and Lily had driven up here holding the owl in a cardboard box. “Please let me get there in time,” she whispered. “Maybe if we had something like this, we could all start out fresh.”

She twisted up countless switchbacks, then finally, her headlights flashed across Nick's totem pole. Pulling to the side of the structure, she got out of her car and followed Nick's directions up the right prong of the path. The gravel was several inches thick and in her light sandals she felt as if she were trudging through damp sand. As she hurried up the steep hill a clammy sweat began to dampen the back of her neck. She was wishing she'd changed out of her jeans and into shorts, when she heard the screech of a bird just ahead. She started to run, thinking it must be the interns with the barn owl. As the gravel path curved into a clearing, she saw the high roof and narrow windows of the bird barn.

Quickly, she headed toward the open door. She'd just stepped on to the porch when suddenly, she heard the sound of a bow scraping across the strings of a fiddle. The noise took her by surprise; then she remembered that all Stratton's interns seemed to strum or pluck some kind of instrument.

She hurried to announce herself, to tell them that they needed to release the owl at her place. She was almost inside the door when the fiddle scraping became real notes, a real tune. Mary listened for a moment, then a gravelly voice began to sing.

In my cabin in the woods, my dear sweet love lies bleeding.

In my cabin in the woods, my bloody knife lies reeking.

Though the one I love is gone today, her memory never leaves me

Her cold lips and sightless eyes will forever grieve me.

She listened, horrified. Someone was singing the tune Lige McCauley had learned in Central Prison—the same tune carved on Lisa Wilson's body!

For an instant she stood there, unable to move, then some deeper instinct took over. She turned and started to run, except her right foot caught on one of the pillars that supported the porch. Down she went, her ankle twisting as her body thudded on the wide plank floor. She lay there for an instant, stunned, then she realized the music had stopped.

Oh, God,
she thought.
They heard me
.

She rolled off the porch, trying to scramble to her feet. Her ankle wobbled more than supported her, making a funny crunch with each step. Still, she forced herself to go on, limping across the clearing, her footsteps scuttling through the gravel. She lumbered along as fast as she could, seeking the forgiving darkness of the trees. Down the mountain she went, racing toward her car. She listened, desperate for the sound of that fiddle to start again but all she could hear was the ragged sound of her own breath. Then, all at once she heard a new sound—not fiddle music, but footsteps running in the gravel behind her.

Ignoring the pain in her ankle, she willed her legs to pump faster, not daring to glance back. She considered veering off into the woods, but a twisted ankle would only slow her down more in the thick underbrush that grew along the path.

She ran, gulping deep breaths of air. Finally, blessedly, she saw the totem pole, her car just beyond that.
A hundred more feet,
she told herself, digging in her pocket for her key fob as the footsteps behind her grew louder.
A hundred more feet, then you're inside the car, locking the door, getting the hell off this mountain
. She raced on, growing aware of a ragged kind of grunting joining the footsteps behind her. She slipped once in the gravel but regained her footing. Now she was coming up to the totem pole—the raven, owl, and hawks all staring into the darkness with cold, raptor eyes.
You're almost there,
she told herself.
Just fifty more feet
… .

Suddenly, a massive weight struck her on her shoulders. Arms twisted around her torso, another pair of legs entwined around hers. Though she tried to keep running, she couldn't. Her car keys slipped from her fingers and she hit the ground hard, gravel digging into one side of her face. As hands grasped at her clothes, hot, sour breath enveloped her face. It was then she realized that Lige's tune was, indeed, cursed. It presaged death just as surely as a rope around your neck or a knifeblade to your heart.