Forests of the Night

by James W. Hall

  He loosened his tie another notch, and reached behind him for a heavy volume. He closed his eyes for a moment as if wiping away the echo of her words. Releasing a long breath, he held the book out to her. Sacred Rites of the Cherokees.

  “I spent the day in the university library,” he said.

  Charlotte came over and took the book and paged through it.

  He’d tagged a half dozen pages with more Post-its.

  “Panther left a message that he wanted you to decode. Why?”

  “I don’t know why, Charlotte. It has something to do with what he said while you were in the other room, something about being next.”

  “Next? Next what?”

  “Goddamn it, if I knew I’d tell you the whole thing right now. I’m not playing games. I’m telling you what I know. He said we or I was next. The way he phrased it, ‘you’re next,’ it could’ve been singular or plural. I’m not sure. He was vague, whether it was intentional or not, I don’t know.”

  “Like we’re in some kind of danger?”

  “I took it that way and I asked him that very question, and he said he’d done what he could to slow things down, that we had a few days probably before anything happened.”

  “Jesus Christ, Parker. This goddamn killer comes into our house and tells you all this shit and afterward you just button up and go on your merry way to the fucking library?”

  He touched a fingertip to his forehead again. Maybe it was a gesture he’d used a thousand times, and she was just noticing it. Maybe Fedderman was right, and his facial coding bullshit was making her see things she’d missed before. Either way, the gesture suddenly grated like hell. This man communing with his private gods, pleading for divine assistance in dealing with his wife.

  “ ‘Slow things down?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Anything else you forgot to mention?”

  “He might’ve told me where he’s hiding out.”

  Charlotte groaned.

  “Again, it’s the way he put it,” Parker said. “The way it came into the conversation. He mentioned a specific spot at summer camp, a place a couple of us used to go, you know, a private hideout.”

  “More sex?”

  “Not sex. When I was a kid, I smoked dope there a few times. It was a good spot because it was the highest point around and you could look down all the trails leading to the place so no one could sneak up on you. None of the other boys knew about it, even the ones who’d been there a long time. I don’t think Dad even knew it was there.”

  “And Panther mentioned this place.”

  “It came out of left field, a non sequitur. We were talking about the other thing, being next, and then he was reminiscing about this place. Like he wanted to insert it into the conversation, something for me to remember later. But he didn’t want to be blatant about it.”

  “And where is this place? What is it?”

  Parker shook his head. He glanced suspiciously around the room.

  “You think we’re bugged?”

  “It’s entirely possible.”

  “Well, if we are, they should be here in another minute or two and put both of us under arrest for withholding.”

  “Lawyer-client,” he said. “They’re out in the cold on that one.”

  “Christ, Parker. You’re going to play legal games with our lives?”

  “Jacob’s innocent.”

  His look of certainty was so deeply rooted, it almost swayed her.

  “That’s absurd, Parker. The FBI has it all wrong? They made him one of their most sought-after fugitives by mistake?”

  “It happens every day. People falsely accused.”

  Charlotte reached out, stuck the Post-it to the edge of a side table.

  “What about this red club thing?”

  “Like I said, I spent the day in the library. I scanned a dozen books before I came across the phrase. It’s part of a Cherokee chant. But I don’t understand its connection to us. I mean, I have a general idea about the interpretation. But there are nuances I’m missing. I know people I can ask. People I can talk to if I can locate them. People versed in these things.”

  “Or you can turn this over to the people it belongs to.”

  “It belongs to me, Charlotte. You understand that. Let’s say we are in some kind of danger, that it was a plural you, and all of us are at risk, you, me, Gracey, all of us. Is that what you want? For a bunch of Frank Sheffields to insure your safety?”

  “You’ll do a better job?”

  “I’m not the expert Dad was, but I still remember a lot of the Cherokee lore from back then. I’ve got the resources, and I sure as hell have the motivation. I’d bet on me before Frank Sheffield. Damn right.”

  “Okay, yeah, Frank’s a cabana boy,” she said. “He’s one margarita away from dancing on the table at any given moment.”

  “So you agree?”

  Charlotte drew a deep breath and blew it out.

  “We have lifted up the red war club,” she said.

  “It’s a war chant,” Parker said. “It was repeated for four nights in a row by the warriors before they left for battle.”

  “That’s it?”

  “It’s a paragraph long, full of traditional Cherokee symbols, colors and images. Red and blue and black. ‘There under the earth the black war club and the black fog have come together for their covering.’ That kind of thing. A sacred song to prepare the warriors for battle, protect them from their foes.”

  Charlotte got up and walked to the liquor cabinet.

  “Red or white? Or something stronger?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” he said.

  “I’m going with strong.”

  Thirteen

  She poured them both two inches of Patrón tequila in old-fashioned glasses and handed him his. He took a sip, then stared into the glass for a moment and threw back the rest of it. After a gasp, he raked his hands through his hair and began.

  “Spent an hour on LexisNexis, researching the newspaper accounts of the bombings.” Parker swiveled in his chair and lifted a sheaf of printouts. “I remembered them vaguely, but I was hazy on the details. Same wire stories over and over, not much independent reporting. And a lot of contradictions. Vague stuff about security videos, but no detail. Bottom line, no one seems to know about his motivation. No notes left behind, no phone calls taking credit. All five banks were in North Carolina. Of course, the stuff we could use wouldn’t make the paper.

  “Question number one is, how’d they arrive on Jacob Panther as their prime guy? And question two is, why does someone blow up banks? If it’s not to steal the cash, which it isn’t, then it must be to make some political point. If it’s that, why hide it? Abortion clinics, gay nightclubs—there’s a clear motive, no notes required. We’d be dealing with some kind of fanatic. But banks?”

  Back on the couch, Charlotte nursed her tequila, savoring the glow that was working down her throat and spreading golden warmth through her chest.

  “Maybe there’s some private crusade going on between Jacob and the bankers,” she said.

  “That occurred to me. But there’s no evidence of that in the public record. The fact is, we could speculate forever. We need some hard facts.”

  “We?”

  He waved his hand as if clearing smoke.

  “Okay, okay. I’m not expecting you to get involved. I understand your position. This is my son. My fight. You’ve got ethical conflicts with what I’m doing. I respect that.”

  “What you need at this point, Parker, is a look at Panther’s dossier.”

  “Not much chance of that.”

  She sat back on the couch and crossed her legs.

  “I’m working on getting the boy’s file.”

  Parker straightened, and she watched his face grow bright.

  “You are? How?”

  She explained about Charlie Mears and his recruitment attempt.

  “Harold Benson? You spoke with the go
ddamn director of the FBI?”

  “That’s the deal I offered. I get the file, I give them a pound of my highly intuitive flesh.”

  Parker shook his head and smiled.

  “Jesus, I knew you were good at reading people. But that’s a little scary. I’m living with a human polygraph.”

  “That’s right. So don’t even try your bullshit with me anymore.”

  His smiled softened, and she saw his eyes dodge to the side and close briefly as if shunting away an uncomfortable thought. Perhaps a pang of worry about how many more of his dark secrets she might uncover.

  He got up slowly and came toward her across the room, and she rose from the couch. As he opened his arms, she felt a confession rising from her gut. Go ahead and tell him about the gadget in her backpack, join forces with this good, sweet man she loved, become a double agent, screw the feds.

  And maybe she would have done it exactly that way if they’d kissed, and if that kiss had ripened as it had so often before into a communion of identities, a warm blurring of the distance between them.

  But at that moment the phone rang, and Parker halted, lowered his arms, shrugged an apology, then headed back to his desk and picked it up and looked at the caller ID and said, “It’s Mother.”

  Charlotte forced down a long breath and sat back on the couch.

  Parker told Diana hello, then was silent and went strangely stiff.

  “When did this happen?”

  Charlotte stood up. With both hands she made a questioning gesture, and Parker waved at the hallway phone.

  She was there in seconds. Diana paused midsentence.

  “Is that you, Charlotte?”

  “What happened?”

  Parker said, “Gracey ran away.”

  “When?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. Fifteen, twenty minutes ago maybe.” For once Diana’s voice had lost its imperious edge. “She took the Jaguar.”

  “Did you see her leave?”

  Diana said that no, no she hadn’t. She’d been cooking dinner, lost track of time, and went out on the patio to see how Gracey was doing. That’s when she found the note.

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “What’d it say, Mother?”

  “I’ll read it to you if you want.”

  “Just tell us,” Charlotte said. “We need to get moving.”

  “It was a couple of sentences, that’s all. Very garbled. It didn’t make any sense. She was still quite upset, sobbing and cursing. I’ve never heard her talk like that before. The foul language.”

  “Diana, please.”

  “She said something about bruises.”

  Charlotte came down the hallway with the portable phone and sat on the couch again. The blood was draining from her limbs.

  “Bruises?” Parker looked at Charlotte for help.

  “I’ll explain later,” she said through the phone. “And what else, Diana?”

  “Something about her brother. She was going to live with her brother. In a cave like a bear.”

  “Oh, Christ Almighty.”

  “What’s she talking about, Parker? What brother?”

  Charlotte dropped the phone and trotted to the kitchen and dug out her cell and called Gables emergency. Mary Troutman two nights in a row.

  She gave her the story, describing Diana’s car.

  “It’s Gracey?”

  “Right—sixteen years old, shoulder-length blond hair, five-five, a hundred and ten pounds. Blue jeans and a yellow top. Probably headed north on I-95. I’ll call you back in a minute with the tag number. Pass it to the Highway Patrol. Tell them it’s about the Jacob Panther case. That should get them humping.”

  A few seconds later she was back on the phone with Diana and Parker. But the line was silent.

  “What’s going on?” Charlotte said into the mouthpiece.

  Across the room, with the phone pressed to his ear, Parker said, “She heard something outside, glass breaking or something. She’s spooked. Don’t be hard on her, Charlotte. Gracey’ll be fine. She’s only been gone a few minutes. She’s probably already turned around and heading home.”

  On Diana’s end of the line there was a heavy thump, then a squeal.

  “Mother?” Parker took a clumsy step toward Charlotte.

  The line was still open, but there was no sound.

  “Diana?”

  Diana’s phone tumbled from its perch and clattered against the tile.

  “Mother, are you all right?”

  A moment later a rustling wind blew across the mouthpiece, then Diana spoke.

  “A hatchet.” Her voice was light and drifty, almost bemused, as if she were giddy with champagne. “My neck.”

  “Are you injured? Diana, are you cut?”

  “Oh, Lordy. Oh, Lordy, Lordy.”

  “Lie down,” Charlotte said. “Lie down, don’t move. Stay perfectly still, take deep breaths. Cover yourself if you can.”

  Parker dropped his phone on the carpet and sprinted toward the front door. Diana’s house was eight blocks away. Not more than five minutes.

  Charlotte spoke Diana’s name, and the woman responded with a wet, rattling cough.

  “Stay calm, Diana,” Charlotte said. “You’re going to be all right. Just be still, try to relax. Parker’s on the way.”

  She could hear Diana straining for breath, a low, gasping wheeze. Then two words spoken in the hoarse voice of someone strangling on smoke.

  “Beloved woman.”

  “What?”

  Diana sputtered and heaved and was silent.

  “Diana? Mother, hang on. Parker’s on the way. Hang on, Mother.”

  Charlotte listened as the tread of heavy footsteps echoed across the floor of Diana’s house. Growing louder as they approached. She heard the rough scrabble of someone lifting the phone from the floor.

  Then a man was breathing faintly in her ear. Charlotte concentrated on the rhythm and texture of his breath, struggling to form a picture of his face, but nothing came. After a moment’s pause the man inhaled deeply, then blew out the long sigh of someone with a great deal of work left to do.

  While the Metro crime-scene techs worked the scene, Charlotte stood on the flagstone patio staring into the lit swimming pool. Diana’s body lay in the kitchen and would remain covered until the ME arrived. The killer had left behind his weapon. A primitive ax whose head was a dark, triangular stone with a blade sharpened to a brittle edge. The ax head was lashed to the wooden handle by a complicated weave of strands that looked like animal hide.

  One blow was all it had taken. A deep gash at the base of her neck near her collarbone.

  A single pane of glass was broken in the French door leading from the kitchen to the pool area.

  Charlotte’s instant theory: The intruder saw Diana on the phone and was impatient to do his job, so he broke the glass to draw her outside. When she stepped onto the patio, he chopped her from behind.

  Why that side of her body, that angle, that shape of wound? The crime-scene gurus would work up a theory. Use their software to make a cartoon out of it, position the victim and the culprit, analyze the geometry, determine height and strength of her killer. Right or left hand. Read some secret message in the Rorschach of the blood spatter.

  After Diana was dealt the fatal blow, she’d managed to stumble the five steps back to the kitchen, grab the phone, and speak her final words.

  Her killer followed her inside, watched her fall, then picked up the phone, listened for a second, and put it back. Arrogant son of a bitch. Cool and smug. No hurry, no worry. Didn’t try to prevent Diana from talking to whoever was on the line. Which meant he was either a stranger or masked.

  Maybe he even wanted Diana to pass on some detail about the killing. A teaser for the cops. Which made him more than arrogant, made him a truly pathological fuck. Bragging, chest-thumping while a woman died at his feet.

  There wouldn’t be fingerprints. Wouldn’t be any fibers or DNA, footprints, no fairy dust of any kind. This guy was clean.
If he wasn’t a seasoned professional, at least he’d seen enough cop shows to wear his booties and latex gloves. Fucking cop shows.

  Sheffield took her statement, what she’d heard over the phone, Diana’s words, the sound of the killer’s footsteps. Nothing helpful, she knew that, nothing to nail the son of a bitch. She started to describe the sound of the guy’s breath, but even in her jangled state she knew that was ridiculous, so she gave Frank her theory about the killer—his egotism, arrogance—and Frank scribbled something on his pad. She could see he wasn’t totally buying it, but was treating her like every other grief-stricken relative of a homicide victim—numb, out of it, unreliable.

  Charlotte brought up Gracey, and Sheffield assured her they were doing what they could: be on the lookout for the bulletins, state troopers making it a top priority. Which she also knew full well was the reassuring bullshit next of kin always got, but she was too goddamn weary and desolate to call him on it. And anyway, Sheffield assured her that the biggest percentage of runaways turned around and headed back home within twenty-four hours.

  When Charlotte ran out of words and began to stare off at the sky, Frank gave her a buck-up pat on the back and went to speak with Parker. Diana’s spacious, well-appointed house was full of people, one last party. Gables cops, Metro, South Miami, an FBI squad. More than a dozen cars outside—red lights, blue lights pulsing in the high limbs of the oaks. The entire gang working with a hushed professionalism. No crime-scene humor tonight, showing some respect for a fellow officer. Or, if they were joking, at least they were concealing it pretty well.

  Charlotte stared into the pool and watched the automatic cleaner move aimlessly around the bottom, sucking up leaves and debris. With her mind perfectly blank, she stood watching the mindless robot do its work while the cops combed Diana Monroe’s home for fairy dust they wouldn’t find.

  Fourteen

  It was noon the following day, Wednesday—roughly sixteen hours since Gracey had fled and Diana was murdered, and when Charlotte and Parker were leaving the house for Diana’s hastily arranged memorial service—that Charlotte found the manila folder cocked against the front door.