by Mary Saums
“Mrs. Thistle? I’m Lyle Graybear. I’m with tribal affairs.” His smile revealed unnaturally perfect teeth. His speech revealed an accent that was neither local nor Southern.
“How do you do?” I shook his hand and waited for him to continue.
“I hear bones of an Old One have been found on your property. I’m here to help the local tribe oversee the handling, to be sure proper respect is shown and that our people are re-buried with dignity.”
“I see. Proper respect is certainly my intention.”
“Good. Then we won’t have any problems. I was hoping you would show me the site this afternoon.” He looked at his watch. “I’d like to get an idea of what we’re dealing with.”
Something about his words disturbed me. Or perhaps the selfish side of me came forward, not wanting to share a part of my land with someone I’d only just met.
“Actually, this isn’t a convenient time. I’m afraid I have guests visiting soon, and I’m unsure of my schedule for the next few days. Is there a number where I can call you?”
He hesitated, looking all around my property, both house and woods. “Sure.” He pulled his wallet from a back pocket, found a scrap of paper, and wrote down a number. “This is my cell. You can call anytime. I’d like to have a look as soon as possible, though. If you don’t mind.”
I took the number but made no promises. Detective Waters planned to bring a few local tribe members over the following day. He hadn’t mentioned that a tribal affairs representative would be here before then. I decided to ask him about this man first before I agreed to show him the site.
Later that evening, Riley Gardner stopped by the house to have a look around the backyard shed. He and his ghost-hunting friends, Sarah and Callie, wore workmen’s tool belts slung low on their hips and photographer’s vests with many pockets. Small gadgets of unknown use filled them. They had come prepared to work.
Homer joined us and actually went ahead to wait at the shed’s door as if he understood Riley and the girls’ purpose here. Riley, tall and lanky, strode forward while readying a handheld device. His hair hung to his shoulders. His moustache looked similar, hanging in long strands past his chin. An out-of-date set of infrared binoculars sat on his head with the aid of a tight strap.
Sarah, a tall plump blonde with her hair cut in a short bob, carried a small digital video recorder, ready to shoot. “Is Mrs. Twigg here with you tonight?” she asked.
“No, dear. Not this time.”
Her face relaxed a bit and she sighed. Phoebe, ever the skeptic, had given Sarah and the others a bit of a hard time when we first met.
“I’m getting a slightly elevated reading,” Callie said as she looked down at a box with a glass meter, similar in looks to a voltmeter. Its hand bounced up and down the scale but not into the red. Callie wore farmer’s overalls and a long-sleeved red shirt. Her pigtails were tied low at her neck and rested on her shoulders.
I opened the shed’s door while the three of them scanned their instruments around the area. With barely room for two at a time inside, they took turns, holding their instruments high and low over shelving, flowerpots and gardening tools, and quite a bit of dust. Standing outside, an air of disappointment hung about them. None of their gadgets registered any measurable phenomena.
We walked around the yard for a while, still with no results, when suddenly Homer stopped short and made a quiet gruff sound in his throat. He held perfectly still, staring toward the creek.
I followed his gaze across the yard. The creek served as dividing line between the right side of my lawn and an adjoining meadow. It gurgled out of the woods and past my house, under the road and across to Cal’s forest. At the section directly across from where we stood, I thought I saw a man kneeling and dipping his hand into the water for a drink.
Homer’s body tensed but he made no further sound or movement. “Good boy,” I said as I stooped near his ear. “Stay.”
Callie noticed Homer’s reaction. She was about to remark on it, I’m sure, when we heard a frightened cry. Though it was muffled, we all heard it. The others looked in the direction of the man at the creek but didn’t appear to see him.
Riley pulled his binoculars down while Sarah and Callie moved out. The man cried again. This time, I could understand his words.
“They’re coming! I see them on the road! Take cover!” He ran toward us with an effort, with one leg stiff and a hand clutched at his side. As he approached, I could see he wore a double-breasted jacket. He had a bandage wrapped around his head and a terrified expression on his face.
Riley crouched as he moved his handheld gizmo side to side. When the man came closer, the gizmo beeped just as Riley grabbed one side of his binoculars. “Sarah! I’m getting a cold spot! It’s coming toward us!”
Sarah clicked her camera on and followed Riley’s body movements as he tracked the “cold spot.” I knew what he meant. The binoculars could detect heat differences in objects. Many times, the presence of ghosts is reported to coincide with marked drops in temperature, so the theory is the special binoculars may help in detecting lack of or very low heat emissions in what might be ghosts.
The limping man breathed heavily as he came upon us. He looked about to speak but when he saw the set of binoculars strapped on Riley’s head and the electronic devices Sarah and Callie were using, he shrieked and turned toward the house. Riley, Sarah, and Callie followed their readings and thereby followed the man, but not for long. His body glistened, winked out, and reappeared beside the back porch, sobbing throughout, then vanished into the basement wall.
“Gone,” Riley said. His companions and their instruments agreed. They found no trace of him inside the house or out afterward, but promised to try again soon.
In the wee hours of morning, I heard him again. I crept downstairs to the kitchen and listened. He was still in the basement.
I had an idea. I kept a small recorder in my pocket on my daily forest walks. I used it for reminders and to note locations of special flowers or birds I happened upon. Once I retrieved it from the den, I moved down the basement steps as quietly as I could. The sobs continued. They still sounded muffled somehow, so I wasn’t sure the recording would pick anything up. Still, I turned it on and left it running in hopes of catching something for Riley and his troops to hear.
Seventeen
Jane’s Old Friend Arrives
When I saw Michael making his way through the crowded airport, it was as if no time had passed. Time and age had hardly changed him. We embraced for a long while, happy, exchanging condolences and sorrows. The long ride home gave us plenty of time to catch up on each other’s lives. Once we arrived, we hardly had time for a coffee.
“The police and forensic anthropologist will be here shortly,” I said. “Perhaps you’d like to rest while I see to them.”
“At the site?”
“Yes.”
“Do I look so decrepit as that, love?” He put his arms around me for another lovely hug.
“Of course not. Very good. Get your things upstairs, then, and we can be on our way as soon as they arrive.”
We heard the anthropologist’s car first. Detective Waters drove up behind her. From the detective’s unmarked police sedan, two other people got out and came to meet me.
“Grant McWhorter,” the tall, well-built man said as he shook my hand. “It’s nice to see you.” His hair was short and chestnut brown with threads of silver. Beneath his denim shirt collar, he wore a bead-and-bone neck ornament that covered his throat, like the gorgets worn as neck protection during battles. Many had been found at native archaeological sites.
The lady with him reached out to shake my hand as well. “I’m Carol, Grant’s wife,” she said in a soft, pleasant voice.
She was a bit taller than I, and some years younger, perhaps in her forties. She wore a blue T-shirt, jeans, and a sweater. Her teeth shone like pearls in a lovely contrast to her light brown skin and eyes.
Both she and her husband had only a
hint of native ancestry in their faces. If not for their clothing and accessories and that I knew their purpose here, I might not have noticed any hint at all. In fact, Carol’s rounded features reminded me very much of a cousin in my father’s family, all staunch denizens of Perthshire.
After Detective Waters introduced us to Dr. Norwood, the anthropologist, we hopped into the backseat of her car, which led the entourage slowly over the bumpy road, higher and higher into the woods, as far as the road allowed.
Michael, I had noticed, had become more and more fidgety on the drive. I smiled at his remarks on the beautiful fall foliage. It pleased me to see his reactions as we passed through the woods. He loved it as much as I do, I could tell. His appreciation of plants and trees pleased me so, but indeed it was no surprise. He had a great joy for natural wonders.
A breath caught in his throat. He reached for my arm without turning to look at me. “Look,” he said. He pointed out the window. There, as if framed for a picture through a gap in the trees, in a sunlit clearing of white light, stood a doe and two young bucks. Four other small deer, just beyond them and more hidden by leaves, turned to watch the car lumber past, with curiosity rather than fear. No doubt they were confident of their own abilities to outrun such a slow and noisy beast.
Michael hardly knew I was there for the duration of the ride. He fixed his attention on the scenery, and it was only when the car came to a stop that he turned a glowing face toward mine. With a laugh, he embraced me, his gray curls brushing across my ear, his face scratching a bit across my cheek.
“Jane, my dear, you’ve found a paradise.”
How well I knew. “I have indeed. I’m glad you like it.”
He straightened his arms to hold me away from him. We sat there, looking at each other that way for some time, deeply, through years past and many memories.
A quick walk uphill brought us to the edge of the wide flat overlook where the fallen tree and its bones rested. Detective Waters led the way. “Not quite so muddy today,” he said. “Yesterday I thought we were going to sink a time or two.”
Michael walked past the site to stand at the crest of the mountain. He surveyed the lower peaks and the valley far below, where the river glinted in the sun. When he turned, he took in all that lay before us with a wide grin across his face.
“Ah,” he said, as he rubbed his palms together then clapped them on his chest and took a deep breath. And then he did something that made my heart fill with joy. I had forgotten his habit of old. He began to hum. He always did this at the beginning of a project, when hopes were high. He stepped, or more accurately, bounced, closer to the blue tarp, taking note of what lay directly around him as he neared it.
So much like a little boy he was. I had to laugh. “Still fond of Gilbert and Sullivan, I see.”
He smiled, turned, and with a theatrical stride, came toward me as he sang, “I am the monarch of the sea…” in a rich baritone.
I laughed at him. “No sea here, love, not for many miles.”
He took another deep breath through his nostrils. “And yet I can smell the fresh tang of salt in the air. The scent of adventure. We embark on our voyage to unknown lands, eh?”
He bowed low and waved his arm out for me to precede him before he resumed his jaunty humming. Quite so. His exhilaration at digs had always infected the crews and was the reason he never had too few colleagues with which to work. He had his choice of the best in their fields. His knowledge and his way of making work fun for everyone gained him as much respect as his strict adherence to detail on sites. Top drawer all the way, he was. I had missed my old friend.
When the tarp was removed, Michael’s humming stopped and was replaced by soft moaning breaths with each feature he noted as he gazed at the large oval indention in the ground, left by the tree’s giant upturned roots. In daylight, the blue aura I’d seen previously was barely discernible but still there, more as a vague blue film over the bones and perhaps a fifteen-foot square area around them.
Michael, Dr. Norwood, and Grant McWhorter settled on their haunches to study the partially exposed skeleton. Carol and I stood behind them, with Detective Waters opposite us, as a hush came over the group. Detective Waters looked at Grant and Carol. Grant nodded. He stood as he and his wife began a song, a low and sorrowful tune that caught in the cool fall breeze and twirled around us and down and around the inside of the burial indentation to caress the bones with its ancient Indian words. At the end of the song, Grant and Carol chanted a short prayer, after which we paused in our own private meditations, mine on the unspeakable beauty of the world and of life.
We turned our attention once again to the exposed area. The skull was turned to the side, as if it tried to look out from the dirt that covered half its face in order to peer back at us.
“Photos first then?” Michael said. He, Dr. Norwood, and I all snapped pictures of every feature of the site. Once done, Michael took out a handheld recorder and spoke into it, noting observations and general thoughts.
I took out my notebook to jot down a few things, then as Michael and the forensic anthropologist began to speak, I moved closer. Their words might have sounded like code to anyone inexperienced in such finds. Fortunately, I had not been so long away from the world of digs that I couldn’t decipher their meanings.
Dr. Norwood set her black kit bag down and opened it. She withdrew a small clear plastic container and unscrewed its top. Michael responded by taking out a short knife from the backpack of tools he’d brought. He reached in where the soil was more loosely packed, at the side of the gaping hole. Not a word passed between the two, yet they worked in concert like surgeons well acquainted with one another’s methods.
With the soil samples procured, they moved on to other spots of interest, sometimes snapping more photos, taking measurements of everything imaginable. I pitched in a bit myself as they directed me. Detective Waters stood aside, though the McWhorters watched and asked occasional questions. They had joined the detective, who had made himself comfortable by sitting on a waist-high rock part of the old wall.
We all became aware of twigs snapping and leaves crunching, not far away and coming toward us.
“You expecting someone?” Detective Waters said.
“No. No one knows this place.”
He jumped off the rock, immediately running to his vehicle. We heard him opening his trunk. When he returned, he held a shotgun. From the edge of the ridge, he looked in the direction of the sound.
Along with the others, I stood still and listened. After a moment, I saw the detective’s shoulders and arms relax. He transferred the shotgun under one arm and looked toward the sounds that could now be more clearly recognized as human footsteps. Since the first frightening thoughts I’d had were of black bears and bob-cats, one would think I’d have been a bit more relieved.
I wasn’t. I was furious. Only two other people knew of this place. The coroner would have driven here as we had. Phoebe would never have voluntarily walked through the woods and certainly not this far in over rough terrain. I expected to see the illegal hunter who had trespassed before.
As soon as he stepped into view, Detective Waters walked quickly to him. “You lost?” he said.
He attempted a smirk, but when he saw Detective Waters, he tried to run away. Obviously, the two had met before and were not the happier for seeing each other again. The detective was too fast and too close. He put his arm around the man’s shoulders and held him there.
“Mr. Graybear!”
Graybear cast a glance at Grant McWhorter. “I have a right to be here.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Grant said. “You’re welcome at our camp as our brother. This place is only ours to visit by invitation.”
“Mrs. Thistle, I take it you did not invite this man?”
I shook my head. Detective Waters leaned his shotgun against a tree. I looked over my shoulder. Michael was just getting up. Dr. Norwood, already up, watched, shifting her weight to one leg.
/> Carol had something else on her mind. She moved across the burial opening as if she were protecting something. At first, I thought she meant to block the view of the skeleton. However the angle looked wrong.
Detective Waters released Graybear. He relaxed his hands and rested them on top of his belt. “I’ll say this, boy, you are one mighty fine Indian.” Waters smiled and spoke in his fake country way. “You got that tracking through the woods down good, don’t you, son? What did you do, hop on my bumper and ride in with us?” Detective Waters laughed. He gave our intruder a manly slap on the back and squeezed his shoulder. “You might want to work on that stealthy part though, huh? But you don’t have to worry about crashing through the woods or jumping on my bumper on the way out.”
He gave him another clap on the shoulder when suddenly he moved his free hand to the back of his belt. At the same time, he brought the hand on Graybear’s shoulder down and clamped his wrist in a firm grip. He snapped on a pair of handcuffs, quick as a flash. The cuffs had clicked shut and Graybear’s other arm brought to his back for the other side of the cuffs before the rest of us had hardly registered what happened.
“No, sir, you’re going to ride out in comfort in the backseat of my car. You are under arrest for trespassing.” He looked down at his captive’s hands and spoke in a deceptively gentle voice. “You didn’t fall and hurt yourself on the way here, did you?”
Graybear said nothing.
“Because your fingers sure are dirty. Oh, yeah, I was supposed to ask you if you had any dangerous objects in your pockets that might hurt me when I search them.”
Graybear grimaced and closed his eyes.
“What is this we’ve got here?” Waters retrieved two small objects from one pocket. He held them up, each about three inches high, between his thumb and index finger. Arrowheads. “Where did you get these?” Graybear said nothing. “Because they’ve got the same kind of dirt that’s on your hands. This does not look good for you, son.”
