Leave No Trace

by Sara Driscoll

  “Looks like it. The most recent one is two years ago, but it’s a straight run until then. Looks like Will either aged out of the competitions or stopped.”

  “Or wasn’t winning anymore. A few of the ones down here are for Mason. He’s won some recent competitions as well. Interesting that his more recent competitions rate a less visible spot in the display.”

  “Who do you think set this up?”

  “My money is on the mother. Clearly, she’s very proud of her son, and possibly less proud of her husband.”

  “Marital issues, do you think?”

  “Possibly. We’d better go sit down so we don’t look like we’re snooping.”

  Savannah Cavett returned less than a minute later bearing a tray of glasses filled with sweet tea and a plate of homemade ginger snaps sparkling with a topcoat of sugar. “I know you said no to the tea, but they’ll be a few minutes coming in, so I brought some refreshments for you, anyway.” She offered the tray to Meg first, who took a glass of tea and a cookie, and then to Torres. Meg could practically hear him grinding his teeth, but he accepted a glass and a cookie while they waited.

  Savannah proceeded to give a master class on grace under pressure and Southern hospitality as she made small talk with her unexpected guests. But finally, the sound of footsteps was audible in the hallway and then two men filled the doorway. Meg instantly recognized the younger of the two as the farmhand she’d spotted coming out of the barn. Both men wore flannel shirts and blue jeans while they worked with the horses, but they’d removed their boots before entering the house and stood in their socks. There was no mistaking the parentage; Will Cavett looked almost exactly like his father, but with darker hair and smoother skin yet to be weathered by decades of working outdoors.

  “I’m Mason Cavett.” The elder of the two men spoke as they entered the room. His gaze shifted from Torres to Meg and then to Torres again as the FBI agent extended his flip case. He strode forward, pulled the case from Torres’s fingers, and studied it intently before handing it back. “What does the FBI want with us?” His tone was already defensive.

  “I wanted to ask you and your son a few questions, Mr. Cavett. Would you and Will take a seat?”

  Mason looked for a moment like he might refuse; then he moved past his wife to sit on the sofa beside her. He reached for one of the remaining glasses of tea and half drained it in a series of swallows. Then he stared directly at Torres and waited.

  Torres, however, immediately turned to the younger Cavett. “Will, I understand you’re well-known in the area as a skilled archer.”

  Meg read startled surprise in the young man’s eyes. “I guess.”

  “Do you still shoot?”

  Mason held up a hand toward his son before he could respond. “Is this relevant?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Will, do you still shoot?”

  Will flicked a look at his father as if asking for permission, waiting until the older Cavett nodded sharply. “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you went out bowhunting?”

  Will’s eyes went unfocused as he searched his memory. “It’s been a while. I bagged some rabbits last February? I think? That’s probably the last time I was out. Turkey season opened a few weeks ago, but I haven’t had time to go hunting. We’re coming up on foaling season.”

  “What bow do you shoot?”

  “Depends on what I’m hunting. The recurve is a challenge, so I sometimes use it for smaller prey like rabbits or opossums. Big game, it’s always my compound bow to make sure there’s enough force for an effective kill shot.”

  Without missing a beat, Torres turned to Mason. “I understand you’re also a hunter, Mr. Cavett.”

  “What does this have to do with anything?” Mason demanded.

  “I can give you more background, but I’d like you to answer a few questions first. Do you actively hunt, Mr. Cavett?”

  “In season, yes.”

  Meg studied Mason, waiting for any small reaction that might contradict his words. Careful answer. He’s not sure why we’re here so he’s covering all his bases. Or he’s trying to make it look like he is.

  “And you shoot with?”

  “Always a compound bow.”

  “You’ve won some competitions with that bow.”

  “I keep my hand in, yeah. A man likes to provide for his family. What we kill, we eat.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I’d hate to think the animal was dying simply for sport.” Torres turned to Will. “Will, can you tell me where you were on Wednesday morning?”

  Will jerked in surprise at Torres’s abrupt change in direction. “Wednesday?”

  “Yes, in the morning.”

  “I . . . I—”

  “He was with me,” Mason interrupted. “Here at the farm.”

  Not letting him speak for himself.

  Torres turned to Savannah. “Can you confirm that, Mrs. Cavett?”

  Savannah looked startled as the conversation swung around to her. “Wednesday morning? I met Marnie for breakfast. But they were here when I left around eight and were here when I returned around . . . eleven? But if Mason says they were working with the horses, then that’s what they were doing.”

  “What about Monday morning. And the afternoon of March 29?”

  “Let me check my social calendar and get back to you,” Mason bit out. “That’s enough. Unless you’re going to charge either of us with something, we’re done here.” He stood. “Savannah, please show these two agents out. Will, we need to get back to the horses.” He strode out of the living room, his son at his heels.

  Will paused only momentarily at the door, glancing into the living room, his face a blank mask. Then he turned and disappeared.

  Savannah busied herself loading glasses onto the tray and then stood. “Thank you very much for coming, Special Agents. I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more assistance to you.”

  She led them down the hallway to the front door. Meg looked behind them, but Mason and Will were nowhere in sight.

  Time to try a different tack, woman-to-woman.

  “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Cavett,” Meg said.

  “Thank you.”

  “It seems old. Has it been in the family for long?”

  “For generations. The Cavetts have been raising horses here for over a century, though we’ve been specializing in Friesians for only the past fifty years.”

  “I heard talk in town about a possible new dam project. That won’t affect you here, will it? It sounded like the whole valley would be lost, but surely the government wouldn’t drive you off historic family land like this?”

  Anger flashed behind Savannah’s blue eyes. “They certainly would. But we’re fighting it. We have a lawyer and we’re taking them to court to stop it. This is my family’s land. And it will be Will’s.”

  “Your husband’s family land, you mean.”

  “Our family’s land. Mason and I are cousins. I was a Cavett before and after marriage.”

  Meg fought to keep the surprise off her face and compensated by giving a little laugh. “On the bright side, you didn’t have to perfect a new signature after the wedding. I’m sorry about your land troubles. That sounds very stressful to have such a significant part of your heritage threatened.”

  “It surely is. But we’re not the only ones affected. There is strength in numbers, and others are joining us in the suit. For us, it’s business as usual on the farm because, together, we’re going to win. They’ll have to find somewhere else to build their dam.” She opened the door for them. “Thank you so much for coming. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Meg and Torres stepped out onto the porch and the door closed almost soundlessly behind them. They didn’t say a word until they were in the car and rolling down the driveway toward the road.

  “Nicely done at the end there,” Torres said.

  “Thanks. You’d already perfected the bad cop routine, so I thought I’d go for the feminine touch.” Meg grimaced. “Though I ha
ve to admit I didn’t see the first cousins thing coming. That’s legal here?”

  “It is. You don’t see it often, but it does sometimes happen, especially in families where the historic or social connection is particularly strong. It doesn’t look like the combined family gene pool has affected their son at all.”

  “Well, she didn’t actually say first cousins, I just assumed it. They may be second cousins or further out.”

  “If it’s relevant, I can find out. You were quiet in there for the questioning. What did you think about the Cavetts?”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt your rhythm. And, honestly, I don’t think he had a problem with you specifically, more likely the badge, but from the Southern belle routine his wife was doing, he might have had a problem with a woman in a position of authority. I thought it was better to let you carry the questioning with Mason. If it had just been Will, I would have jumped in. But I don’t like Mason’s attitude. He seems to me like a man who would find a way to get what he wants, no matter who is standing in his way.”

  “I agree. And while Will seemed more circumspect, being raised in that environment with that example, his gut reaction may be similar. Those two are at the top of my list.”

  “They’re each other’s alibi without Savannah there to corroborate. So one could be covering for the other.”

  “Or they could be working together. As I said, at the top of my list.”

  The gate was open as they approached, so they drove right through it and onto the road. Torres’s phone beeped twice as they slowed to a stop. He pulled it out of his pocket, checked his messages, and made a hmmmmm sound.

  “What?” Meg asked.

  “How do you feel about a trip to North Carolina?”

  “I hear it’s lovely this time of year. But seriously, what’s in North Carolina?”

  “Qualla Boundary. That was Principal Chief Cobbrey. Their government offices aren’t normally open on Saturday, but because I told him I needed to meet with him right away, he’s opened the office and will make time for us there today. But we’d have to really move it. It’s about two hours’ drive time from here and one o’clock is his only availability.” He looked up from his phone. “Are you okay to leave your dog for that long?”

  “Hawk is fine with Brian. I’ll let him know and he’ll hold down the fort in our absence.”

  “Good. Let’s head north then, and get the Cherokee perspective on the Copperhill Dam.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Qualla Boundary: A nation-within-a-nation where approximately 8,000 members of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians live on a remnant of their once-vast homeland. Not a reservation because the land is held in a federal trust; it can only be sold to other tribal members.

  Saturday, April 13, 12:56 PM

  US Route 441 South

  Qualla Boundary, North Carolina

  The Oconaluftee River shot by through Meg’s window as they sped down US-441 South.

  “We’re just about there,” Meg said, her gaze flicking from the passing intersections to the map on her phone. “Slow down. It should be the next left. Just past Veteran’s Park. There’s a parking lot right in front of the Tribal Council House.”

  They drove past an antiaircraft gun followed by a bronze, life-size statue of a young man in an army uniform. Then Torres turned down a side street and drove straight into the long parking lot directly ahead, pulled into a spot, and killed the engine as he checked the dash clock. “We made good time.”

  “I thought we’d be late, but you knew how far to push it.”

  Torres’s smile was sheepish. “And luckily we didn’t get pulled over.”

  “Sometimes getting pulled over can be helpful. I’ve been pulled over for speeding and gotten a lights-and-siren escort to a search scene. Luckily, we didn’t need it here.”

  They got out of the car and crossed the narrow grassy boulevard to the front walk. The Tribal Council House was a long, wood-plank bungalow, fronted by flowerbeds of cheerful spring flowers and a raised porch with welcoming benches. As they climbed the steps, Meg’s gaze was drawn to the bright seal at the top of the stairs to the right of the front door. The large circular medallion had a seven-point star in the center surrounded by a wreath of leaves, under which read March 11, 1889. The red band that surrounded the seal declared it the “Seal of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians.” At the very bottom of the seal were symbols in a script Meg didn’t recognize: .

  Torres held the door open for Meg and she stepped inside. An older woman sat behind a reception desk inside the door. She looked up at the sound of the door and beamed a smile at the newcomers. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon. We have an appointment with Principal Chief Cobbrey. Special Agent Sam Torres and Meg Jennings.”

  The woman looked down at her appointment book, running her index finger down the day’s calendar. “I have you here. Just a moment, please.” She picked up the phone, pressed a button, and waited a moment before speaking. “Chief, I have Special Agent Torres and Ms. Jennings here to see you. I will. Thank you.” She hung up. “He’s ready to meet with you now. Follow this hallway past the council chamber and down toward the end. You’ll find his office on the right. His name is on the door.”

  “Thank you.”

  Meg followed Torres down the hallway. As promised, the principal chief’s office was easily identified. Torres raised his hand and rapped on the door, three quick knocks.

  “Come in.” The deep voice was muffled by the door.

  Torres opened the door and stepped inside.

  The principal chief’s office, painted in muted tones of gray, was comfortable, but not overdone. An oval conference table and chairs for small meetings stood opposite the door, with a small seating area with a leather sofa and two wing-back chairs to their right. To their left was Cobbrey’s desk, with a neatly organized series of documents stacked around his laptop. Nearby, a large curio case filled with a variety of Cherokee art and family and community pictures took up an entire wall.

  Principal Chief Cobbrey sat behind his desk. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, as was the top button of his shirt, and a hammered silver medallion hung on a beaded chain around his neck. A man of medium height with a broad frame, Meg placed him in his early sixties from his salt and pepper hair and the deep creases around his dark eyes.

  Cobbrey stood and offered his hand across the desk. “Charles Cobbrey.”

  “Sam Torres.” Torres quickly flashed his ID, then shook Cobbrey’s hand. “This is Meg Jennings.”

  They shook and then Cobbrey indicated the two ivory leather chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit.” He settled again in his own chair. “What can I do for the FBI?”

  Meg noted the caution in his tone. The Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians was a sovereign nation with its own tribal law enforcement and government, but the FBI still had jurisdiction on their land, just as it would anywhere else in America. But she couldn’t blame him. Any people who had been mistreated by the federal government the way Native people had would be naturally wary of further conflict with a government agency.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the EBCI interest in the Toccoa valley land in Georgia south of McCaysville. I understand the EBCI has made a claim on that land.”

  “We have.” There was no hesitation now.

  “Even though the Tennessee Valley Authority is looking to seize it?”

  “They won’t be able to do anything until the case has been heard in a court of law.”

  “But not through your court system,” Meg said.

  Cobbrey cocked his head to fix her with a sideways stare. “No. If it was, we’d have a fair chance. Instead, it will be through the state system. And when that fails us, and it will, we’ll take it to the Supreme Court.”

  “You think you’re going to lose?” Torres asked.

  “Chances are slim we’ll be successful in Georgia’s courts.”

  “Even though you feel you have a justifiable claim on the lan
d?”

  Meg flicked a glance at Torres. Was he pushing just to hear the answers he wanted from Cobbrey’s mouth directly, or was he not as solid on his Georgia history as she had assumed?

  “It was once ours and was taken away from us by force so white Europeans could claim our resources. We didn’t have the strength, the numbers, or the resources to fight back then, but we do now. Our claim to purchase the land is legitimate, as is the current owners’ right to sell it. Though many of us see it as buying back our own land. Just like we did the land of Qualla Boundary.” His eyes were as hard as his tone.

  “But the sale has been suspended by the state at the direction of the TVA.”

  “For now. We were successful in Tennessee. We can be successful here.”

  Meg leaned forward in her chair. “Why that land in particular?”

  “You mean beside our desire to diversify and to invest in the land, which in itself is a legitimate interest?”

  “There must be more to it than that. Why not another parcel of land? What is it about this specific land that would take you all the way to the Supreme Court?”

  Cobbrey leaned back in his chair, the fire in his eyes banking slightly at her question. “Because that area has cultural significance to us. There is a memorial for one of our great warriors there. It includes the birthplace of another.” His hand rose to toy with the necklace at his throat.

  Meg nodded in understanding; now things were starting to make sense. “Thank you for explaining. That gives your desire for that specific land a new perspective.”

  “Tell me, sir, are any of your members skilled bowhunters?” Torres interjected.

  Cobbrey’s eyes narrowed on Torres and he was still for a moment, save for his fingers rubbing the hammered silver of the disk as if it were a touchstone. “I feel like we’re now actually getting to the reason for your visit. Tell me what that reason is or this discussion is over. I won’t have the members of my tribe discussed by federal law enforcement without knowing why. And possibly having one of our tribal lawyers present.”