Grave Heritage

by Blanche Day Manos

  The old machine rammed into Johnson. Surprise widened his eyes. With a grunt and what I suspected was a vicious oath, he fell backward. The downward arc of the heavy blade whipped past my face. Deflected by the ancient cabinet, it splintered the wood, bounced off and whacked Johnson’s thigh. He yelled, grabbed his leg and dropped like a rock.

  “Come on, Mom!” I shouted. “Run!”

  Hand in hand, we skirted the fallen man and darted out the back door. Rain and wind struck us like a wall. Mom slipped and fell.

  “I lost my house shoe!” she wailed as I pulled her out of a puddle.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Tim Johnson struggling to regain his feet. My heart in my mouth, I splashed through the rain, pulling my mother along. Jerking open the doors of my SUV, we scrambled inside. Johnson would be after us if he did not bleed to death first.

  Chapter 39

  “Faster, Darcy, faster!” Mom yelled as I rammed the car into reverse, backed out of the driveway and, tires spinning on the wet gravel, aimed for our bridge.

  In the few minutes since Tim Johnson’s arrival, the creek had risen. It now poured across the bridge. Saying a prayer that the raging water would not wash us downstream, I pressed on the accelerator and drove onto the planks. Thankful that I knew it so well, I could only guess where the bridge ended and the stream began. Catching us like a giant hand, the heavy current pushed us sideways. The tires lost traction.

  “Dear Lord,” I prayed aloud, “don’t let the engine drown.”

  Trying to drive across Lee Creek was a living nightmare in which we ran from a pursuer in slow motion. I stomped the accelerator. The struggling engine revved, but our speed stayed the same. We were being swept ever closer to the edge of the bridge and the thundering current of the creek.

  It seemed an eternity before we reached the road.

  “Oh, thank God. Thank God,” Mom breathed.

  Glancing at my rearview mirror, I expected to see Johnson’s truck behind us. However, all I saw were sheets of gray rain.

  Mom’s head swiveled from front to back. We both expected at any second to see headlights gaining on us.

  The flight through the storm toward Levi would forever be etched in my memory. Wind-lashed trees bent toward the road and reached out for the car. Windshield wipers did almost no good; the deluge pounded us. We skidded sideways and slid helplessly toward the overflowing ditches. But, somehow, the Escape righted itself and we kept going at breakneck speed through the dark woods of Ventris County toward the safety of Levi and Grant Hendley.

  At last the road became the main street of town. Dear, safe, familiar landmarks appeared through the rain. Lights inside the sheriff’s office glowed a welcome. I swung into a parking spot, braked, and leaned my head against the steering wheel.

  “Whew!” I whispered. “I don’t know if I have the strength to open the door.”

  “Well, I do,” Mom declared. “Come on, Darcy. We aren’t safe until we get inside those four walls.”

  The sight of two wet, muddy, gasping, frightened females, one of them wearing only one house shoe, brought Grant’s secretary Doris Elroy to her feet, her eyes wide and her mouth dropping open. Bursting through Grant’s door, I ran to him and his arms went around me, pulling me close, wet shirt and all.

  Mom and I gulped out the horrendous experience and our close brush with death. We told Grant about the transformation of Tim Johnson, his threat with the lawn mower blade, our flight across the bridge, and the terrifying drive into Levi.

  Grant’s face grew white then red as Mom and I told our unbelievable story.

  Doris collected two blankets from somewhere and two cups of blessedly hot coffee. Draping the blankets over our shoulders, she retreated to the door but hovered in the room like an anxious parent. Grant, his arms around both Mom and me, led us to the chairs facing his desk.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, kneeling in front of us. “Miss Flora? Did he harm you at all?”

  Mom’s laugh was shaky. “It’s a wonder our heads are still attached, but no, Grant, he didn’t hurt us. The only casualties were my old sewing machine and Mr. Johnson’s leg. We didn’t wait to see how badly either of them was hurt.”

  “Take care of them, Doris,” Grant said, turning to his secretary. He grabbed his hat from a peg on the wall, shrugged into his jacket, and headed for the door.

  “Jim!” he bellowed, stepping into the outer office.

  I tried to stop him. “Grant, don’t go out in this storm. The creek—you can’t get over the bridge. You’ll drown.”

  “I’ll be fine, Darcy,” he said, striding toward the door.

  Jim appeared, and the two lawmen dashed out into the rain-filled morning.

  Chapter 40

  The fireplace in our Levi house radiated a most welcome warmth. My chilled feeling may have been due partly to rain-cooled air and damp clothing, but mostly to shock. The fireplace had been damaged in last year’s earthquake but, after being repaired, it burned as cheerfully as ever. We had found several sticks of dry wood in a basket by the front door and coaxed them into a blaze to take the dampness out of the living room. With the doors securely locked, we began to relax.

  “It’s like old times, isn’t it?” Mom asked, holding out her hands to the flames. “This seemed the best place to come, since we can’t go back home and Pastor Hughes isn’t here. I don’t think he would mind.”

  Standing up, I turned my back to the burning logs, relishing the welcome heat.

  “No, of course he wouldn’t mind. It is, after all, still our house and we don’t know where Trace is.”

  Mom had found a pair of Trace’s socks, and these replaced her one ruined house shoe. Now, she got up to rummage around the kitchen.

  “I feel strange poking through his things,” she said, “sort of like an intruder, but I’d sure like to perk a pot of coffee.”

  “I hope you do,” I said. “The coffee Doris gave us was hot, but not nearly as strong as the coffee you make.”

  Soon the aroma of fresh-perked coffee joined the fragrance of wood smoke. We settled in front of the fireplace, holding our cups of hot caffeine.

  Rain continued to fall, but not nearly as hard as earlier. A strip of blue sky appeared under the clouds to the west.

  Mom yawned. “I could almost close my eyes and doze off. Now, isn’t that strange? We just escaped death by inches and were nearly swept away in a flood; there’s a madman somewhere out there who’s killed two people and wants to kill us, and here I am, getting sleepy.”

  “It’s a reaction to what we’ve been through,” I said. “Our nerves were on overload and now we are safe, at least for the moment. I wish Grant and Jim had waited about going out in the storm. I keep wondering where they are and if they’ve found Johnson. I don’t know what Grant hoped to do. He sure couldn’t cross Lee Creek. You know, I’ve been thinking about what Tim Johnson said.”

  Mom swallowed her coffee. “How could we forget any of it? I’d like to, but I don’t think I ever will. He said a lot. What were you thinking about in particular?”

  Trying to sort my thoughts as I talked, I recalled Johnson’s exact words.

  “We know part of this puzzle,” I said. “He confessed to killing Walter and more or less admitted he killed Mort. Remember what he said about Trace?”

  “Yes, yes, I think I do. He said Trace was too trusting. He must have just walked right into this house. He could have gotten any number of Trace’s guitar picks to drop around and make it look like Trace is guilty of the murders and the attack on you, Darcy. Oh, Dear Lord, he must have been the one who knocked you out.”

  Emotion choked Mom’s voice, and I gripped my cup harder. She was right. That detestable man surely was the one digging on the old cellar and the one who knocked me senseless. How close to death I must have been!

  “Yes, I’m sure he was my attacker. Either Johnson was just bragging or he knows where Trace is. Maybe if Grant finds Johnson, he’ll make him tell what he did with our preac
her.”

  At long last, my hands stopped shaking. With the paralysis of fear leaving my brain, I was able to think more clearly. Trace had not been seen since before Walter Harris’s funeral. Johnson had purposely dropped the guitar picks to make Trace appear guilty of murder and of the attack on me.

  “Mom,” I said, setting my empty coffee cup on the hearth, “I think Johnson is holding Trace prisoner and I have a pretty good idea where!”

  Mom sloshed coffee as she put her cup beside mine.

  “You do? Where?”

  “Okay, let’s try thinking like Johnson. We know he killed Walter Harris out at Old String’s shack. He used the knife that Jasper dropped. He said something about Trace not being able to bring light into darkness.”

  Pausing, I thought back to the day when Old String’s shack burned. Part of it was left standing, a couple of walls and a section of roof which collapsed down over them to form a small room. Such a space would certainly be a prison for a victim who was tied up.

  Grabbing Mom’s arm, I said, “Old String’s shack. Part of it wasn’t burned. You know how criminals are said to return to the scene of the crime? What if Johnson slipped in here, into this very house, held a gun on Trace or knocked him out or something and took him to that lean-to, the place where he killed Walter. Maybe Trace is there right now!”

  Mom stared at me, shaking her head. “I don’t know, Darcy. Why would Johnson do that? What did he have against Trace? Mort and Walter were threats, but Pastor Hughes?”

  “Because he needed a scapegoat. He was trying to set him up to look guilty of Walter Harris’s murder. Maybe he killed Trace already or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he thought Trace would be useful some way. We’ve got to try and find him.”

  Mom folded her arms and shook her head.

  “No. That’s silly. We are going to wait for Grant. What if Tim Johnson went back out to that lean-to? You know he’d relish a second chance to kill us.”

  Pulling on my wet shoes, I grabbed my purse.

  “You’re right, Mom. You stay here and tell Grant where I’m going.”

  She stared at me for a moment, shook her head and started upstairs.

  “Where are you going?” I called.

  “I’m going to borrow a pair of Trace’s boots. In for a penny, in for a pound. I’m wearing his socks and drinking his coffee so I might as well wear his boots. They’ll be too big, but I don’t fancy walking around outside in these socks. Don’t you dare leave without me!”

  Chapter 41

  Roadside ditches, looking like small creeks, ran brimful of water, but at least we didn’t have to cross Lee Creek or the Ventris River to reach the shack. The rain had stopped, and a weak sun peeked apologetically through the clouds.

  Turning the Escape onto the faint track that was once Old String’s driveway, I drove slowly up to the burned-out remains of his house.

  “Darcy, look!” Mom gripped my arm and pointed.

  Nothing upright remained of the building. The partial walls and roof lay collapsed on the ground.

  My heart turned over, and tears burned my eyes. If Trace had been under the heavy lumber, it would undoubtedly have killed him when it fell.

  “Don’t say it. There’s a chance he’s alive,” Mom said. I shut off the engine and we jumped out of the car, sloshing through streams of water and stumbling over charred boards.

  “Trace! Trace!” I called, clawing at the debris.

  My only answer was the dripping trees and our own breathing.

  “Help me with this rafter,” Mom said.

  Together, we grabbed the heavy board and hefted it to the side.

  At last, the corner of the house that had belonged to Ventris County’s recluse lay bare and dismantled on the ground. And empty. Trace was not there.

  Breathing hard, I swiped my damp hair out of my eyes and sank down on the wet grass.

  “Thank God he is not here. But where is he, Mom? He’s got to be somewhere. Maybe Johnson killed him and buried him. He said that Trace is in a dark place, and nothing gets much darker than a grave.”

  We slogged back to my car and climbed inside.

  “Yes, he must be somewhere, even if he is dead. But you know, Darcy, my spirit is willing but all of a sudden I feel as weak as a kitten. I’ve had about enough for one day. Let’s go back to the house in town and rest.”

  Glancing at her pale, strained face, my conscience pricked me.

  “You’re right, Mom. I’m so sorry. Of course you’re tired. So am I. I’m pretty sure Lee Creek is still rolling over the bridge and we couldn’t go home even if we knew Johnson wasn’t there. Let’s go back to the town house, see if Trace left bread and peanut butter, and then go to bed.”

  “We’ll feel more like tackling this puzzle tomorrow,” Mom agreed.

  My mind, however, would not let go of the question of Trace Hughes. Where was he? What, exactly, had Tim Johnson said? Something about Trace having a hard job bringing light into darkness. Why? Could he be in the attic of our house? No, surely he would have made some sort of noise when he heard us downstairs. Besides, that attic had a window; it wasn’t all that dark.

  “You know, Darcy, I was thinking about all the strange happenings of this week. We may not have found Trace, but I’m sure glad we found his sister! Just think about that child being down in the twins’ dark basement. Even with a lantern, I imagine she felt like she was living in a cave,” Mom said.

  “That’s it!” I shouted, whacking the steering wheel with my hand. “You’re a genius, Mom.”

  “Oh, my! What did I say?”

  “A cave! A cave is dark, about the darkest thing I know. Do you know of any caves around here?”

  Mom rubbed her forehead. “Well, let me see…the only one I know of is that cave on the land Grant just bought from Gil Monroe.”

  “Right! What if that’s what Johnson meant by a ‘dark place’?”

  Mom’s voice trembled. “But, Darcy, that cave is close to the river. We’ve never had this much rain at one time before. Ever. I’ll bet the cave is under water.”

  Fear gripped me with an icy hand.

  “You’re right,” I whispered. “When Grant and I went out to look at it, the river was way past its banks, and we’ve had a lot more rain since. When we were there, Grant glimpsed a truck leaving the area. He couldn’t tell who it was, and we thought it might have been a sightseer looking at the river. Maybe it was Johnson. Oh, dear Lord! We’ve got to hurry.”

  Mom wiped tears from her eyes. “He might have drowned already. Please, Lord, keep Trace Hughes safe.”

  I stepped on the gas and my little SUV fishtailed on the wet, narrow pavement. Torn between hoping our pastor was in the cave and hoping he wasn’t, I headed for the Ventris River, driving like a person possessed.

  Chapter 42

  “Try calling Grant again,” I said to Mom as we barreled along the country lanes, splashing puddles windshield-high.

  “All right,” agreed Mom. “I’ve tried several times and, for some reason, the call doesn’t go through. I’ll try again, but Darcy, can you slow down a little? We can’t help anybody if we wind up in the ditch or meet a deer around one of these curves.”

  We heard the Ventris River before we saw it. A deep, throaty rumble filled the car, an ominous, relentless thunder. The trees thinned as I drove out of the woods and across a cattle guard into Grant’s pasture. Before us, spread out over places that had never known a flood, frothed the angry river. Its surging current carried uprooted trees, a tangle of branches and the roof of someone’s shed. Most of Grant’s newly-acquired ten acres lay under water. The river writhed and tossed like a primeval animal, gnashing at the little knoll where Grant and I had parked and eaten lunch a short time ago. The water ended only a few yards from my car. I had nearly driven into it.

  “I don’t believe it,” Mom breathed, her eyes wide and wondering. “I never thought the Ventris would ever get this big.”

  “It’s over the road,” I said. “I can’t
take the car any closer. We’re going to have to go around it as much as we can and walk to the cave.”

  Grabbing a flashlight from the glove compartment, I slid to the ground and trotted to the front of my SUV. Taking a deep breath, I glanced at my mother, standing beside me.

  “You know,” I said, “if we have to swim for it, I hope you kick off those boots. If they filled with water, they’d take you straight to the bottom.”

  She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. Grabbing her hand, I led the way through the soggy grass, the rumble of the river shutting out all other sound.

  The closer we got to the cave, the louder grew the flood’s clamor. Conversation was useless. I tried not to look at the dirty, yellow-gray water creeping ever nearer.

  At last, the mouth of the cave came in sight. Stepping into its darkness, I flicked on the flashlight and beamed it on rock walls and floor.

  This underground room muted the noise of the flood. I shivered at the drop in temperature.

  “Trace?” I called, my voice echoing eerily. “Are you in here?”

  Mom gripped my arm.

  “Listen!” she whispered. “I heard something.”

  Hardly daring to breathe, I stood still, straining my ears. A soft, muffled sound came from the cave’s depth.

  “Someone is here,” I hissed.

  “Or something,” Mom said. “Go carefully, Darcy. No telling what’s back in there.”

  Bats! I remembered longago times with Grant in this cave and a quick retreat from those small winged mammals. Shining my light at the ceiling, I shuddered. Bats stuck as thick as burrs on a thistle. They stirred uneasily at the brightness of my flashlight. I fought the urge to run out of this place. If I ever had a phobia, it was bats! They made my skin crawl.

  “Maybe they are what we heard,” I whispered, hastily beaming the light onto the cave’s floor. “We don’t want the whole bunch of them to swarm us.”

  “No, I think it was something else,” Mom said. “Come on, Darcy. They won’t bother us if we are quiet.”