Forests of the Night

by James W. Hall

  “You and him, you shared a house?”

  The sheriff stiffened for a moment, as if Frank was implying something deviant.

  “Martin and I lived in the home where we were born. Where my father was born and his father before him. Is that relevant?”

  “At this point, I don’t know what’s relevant. I’m just collecting data. You know how it is.”

  The sheriff nodded, but there was a new rigidity in his manner. Sheffield had crossed some line. Getting personal. Something.

  The dogs seemed to sense it, too. They lifted their heads, giving Frank the dead man’s stare.

  “So Martin was down in Miami setting up a fund-raiser, that right?”

  “He was scouting locations for a future event. Motels, conference rooms, banquet halls. Looking for the right venue where some of my father’s loyal supporters could gather.”

  “Strange thing,” Sheffield said. “Going through his papers, we found he was booked on a flight coming back the next day. Hits Miami Monday midday, schedules his return for Tuesday. I’m wondering, can he accomplish all that in less than twenty-four hours? Banquet halls, motels, conference rooms. I mean, Miami’s a big place.”

  “I’m not sure I’m registering your point, sir. Is there some other agenda here I’m not aware of? I find your tone somewhat inappropriate.”

  “I’m just trying to understand. Fact-checking, that’s all.”

  The sheriff picked up a ballpoint and drummed it on his ink blotter.

  “I’m not certain of Martin’s schedule. You’d have to query one of my father’s aides about that. But Martin was a very competent businessman. I’m sure his travel plans were suitable to his task.”

  Sheffield said, “He always travel with a handgun? Your brother?”

  The sheriff cocked his head and looked at Frank with a cold smile.

  “I believe he was concerned about Miami’s reputation for crime and disorder. So it wouldn’t surprise me if he would choose to carry a legally registered handgun for protection.”

  “Like for the motel room?” Sheffield said. “Somebody tries to break in? That sort of thing. Or a mugging on the street.”

  “You’re free to conjecture, of course. But we’ll never know for sure exactly what scenario Martin feared.”

  “Had to ask,” Sheffield said. “You got a victim of a violent crime; he’s got a Glock nine in his checked luggage. That’s a red flag. Like there might’ve been something else going on. More than looking for banquet rooms.”

  “A reasonable line of inquiry, of course,” the sheriff said. “Pardon me for being defensive. But he was my twin—a good, honest man. Naturally I bristle at the suggestion that he was engaged in suspicious activity of any kind.”

  “Naturally,” Roth said.

  “So you’d know what your brother was into? If it was something hinky.”

  “Hinky?”

  “Illegal, weird, kinky—anything along those lines.”

  “He was a good man. A solid citizen. Nothing hinky about him.”

  “Way I hear it,” Sheffield said, “Martin could get a little emotional. Like a serious go-getter. You were the quiet brother, he could get worked up. Short fuse, too much hot sauce.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Agent Roth and his people have been up here for a year. All that time, you pick up a few things. Is it true?”

  Farris looked down at one of the poodles.

  “I’ve heard that characterization before. It’s not uncommon in identical twins. A brash one and a quieter one.”

  “So then maybe it is possible, you two being so different, Martin might’ve been into something you didn’t know about. Something that got him worked up and he didn’t tell you, ’cause you’re the quiet one, the one in law enforcement, you might not approve. Is that possible?”

  He looked up from the poodle and gave Frank a hard stare.

  “Absolutely not—we were very open with each other. He had legitimate business in Miami. Carrying along a sidearm was not uncommon for him.”

  Sheffield was quiet for a moment. Scrounging around in his head for anything else. The older he got, the harder it was to keep more than a handful of questions floating in his mind. It might be time to consider a notebook, jot a few things down, see how it felt.

  “You done, Frank?”

  “For now, yeah. Take it away.”

  Roth drew the photos from his shirt pocket and lay them before the sheriff. Two black and whites, three colors. The ax that killed Diana Monroe propped up against a white background. Different angles, a couple of close-ups.

  With a fingertip, the sheriff fanned the photos across his ink blotter and put on a pair of reading glasses.

  “All right,” the sheriff then said, taking off the glasses. “So what is this? Am I supposed to hazard a conjecture?”

  “A conjecture would be fine. It’s kind of an unusual weapon.”

  “Well, it looks Cherokee to me, if that’s what you’re asking. But I’m no expert. There are people across the street, over at the museum—they could tell you. That’s what I’d suggest.”

  “We’ll do that next.”

  “Some kind of glorified tomahawk,” said Farris. “That’s what it appears to be.”

  “Got no prints or other forensics tying the weapon to Panther,” Roth said, “but there’s other linkage.”

  “You’re suggesting Panther killed Martin, then struck down someone else as well, employing this weapon?”

  “Could be,” Frank said. “We’re looking into it.”

  “Well, naturally, this is your case, gentlemen,” said Tribue. “Forgive me if I’m going beyond my bounds, but I believe you’re headed in the wrong direction.” He tapped the ballpoint against one of the photos. “This weapon doesn’t match Panther’s profile.”

  “How you figure?”

  “The blowgun, yes. Yesterday, when I received word of my brother’s murder and your suspicions that Panther was involved, I immediately spoke to some of Panther’s former cohorts. And yes, apparently he was known to have used blowguns on several occasions while hunting for small game. According to those same friends, he also owns a deer rifle. But an ax? No, I’d have trouble putting that together with what we know of Panther. Such proximity between Panther and his target is not within the man’s personality pattern. He hits from a distance, and runs. A coward.”

  “Okay,” Roth said. “So noted.”

  “So we’ll take our pictures, go across the street,” said Sheffield. “See what the museum people have to say.”

  The sheriff gathered the photos and held them out.

  “I thank you for stopping in. Your concern for keeping me advised is a welcome professional courtesy.”

  Roth got up and reached for the photos, but at the last second the sheriff drew them back. Roth lowered his arm and sighed.

  “I do see one thing here that might be of interest.” Tribue fanned the photos like a poker hand and plucked one out and held it up.

  Sheffield clamped his jaw. He’d seen Tribue’s type before. Had to milk every situation for its maximum one-up potential. The kind of dick-measuring smart guy Frank had lost all patience with in his grumpy midlife.

  Roth sat back down and shut his mouth.

  “It’s a construction technique I’ve seen employed before around these parts. A traditional Cherokee method. Make a slit in the limb of a cedar, insert the ax head through the slit, and over time the limb grows around it and creates a strong seal. Then for additional support, the head is lashed in that crisscross fashion with sinew, rattlesnake skin, buckskin.”

  “Lab results said deerskin, but not the others,” Roth said.

  Sheffield said, “Take a long damn time to make something like that, wouldn’t it? Letting a branch grow around an ax blade. Years, maybe.”

  “Time, patience,” the sheriff said. “The Cherokees have a different clock than you and I do. Theirs runs a little slower.”

  The sheriff came to his fee
t, held out the photos. Another cute move. Playing traffic cop in his own office. You’re dismissed—I’m done with you.

  Sheffield kept his seat. The guy wanted to play? Okay, he’d play.

  “And those cross-hatchings on the handle, the grooves? Got any thoughts on those?”

  “Simply to improve the grip, I would suppose. A method for turning a slick piece of cedar into a more effective implement. All that would be required is some careful whittling.”

  The sheriff continued to stand. Arms behind his back, legs spread. Parade rest. The large white poodles were standing as well, poised on either side of the desk like a couple of stone lions outside a big-city library.

  Aw, fuck it—Sheffield was tired of the schoolyard bullshit.

  He got up and nodded for Roth.

  “You think of anything else, you know how to reach us.”

  The sheriff walked them to the front door. Cordial, pointing out the museum from the front steps. Wishing them well in their endeavors.

  When he’d gone back inside, Sheffield said, “What’d you guys do to piss these people off so bad?”

  “Just hung around too long. Got on their nerves.”

  “Works both ways,” said Sheffield. “Give me a city asshole any day over these swaggering coon dogs. I wouldn’t last a week up here.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to.”

  They headed across the street to the museum.

  “You got guys covering the bus stops, right?”

  “Two guys at every stop from here back down to Asheville,” Roth said. “That little girl shows up, one second later my phone rings.”

  “Well, shit. Between the girl and her parents, we’re going to nail this asshole, Joe. I got that feeling.”

  “Hope to hell you’re right, Sheffield. I could use a break from this shit-poor food.”

  “By the way,” Frank said. “Oddball isn’t the word I would’ve picked.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m thinking more along the lines offuckhead.”

  Sixteen

  Frances Wolfe, the curator of the Cherokee Native American museum, was out sick, but her assistant, Randy Forbus, was filling in. Randy led them to his cubicle, where he sat down behind an old army-surplus desk.

  Long, dark Cherokee hair hanging loose down his back. Round-faced, pudgy kid, about twenty-five, in a checked shirt and scruffy jeans.

  Roth spread the photos out on his desk, and the kid got an eager look and bent forward like he thought he was going to see a naked body.

  “Ever come across one of those?”

  The kid’s sparkle evaporated.

  “Yeah.”

  “You tell us where?”

  “This way,” he said, and got up and led them back into the museum area, moving through the maze of small rooms filled with glassed-in exhibits, to a dimly lit room near the back.

  They had to wait till a family in matching T-shirts moved out of the way. Frank and Roth stepped up and surveyed the three-window display. Window one showed a life-size tableau of a group of six Indians being prodded along by U.S. soldiers. Civil War era, Frank figured, maybe a little earlier.

  In the next case, one old Indian had his arm raised to strike at one of the soldiers. And in the final display the same old man was standing up against a tree, hands bound, with five men aiming their rifles at him. An execution.

  Forbus looked puzzled. Stepping close to the glass, he said, “It’s gone.”

  “What’s gone?”

  “That ax. It’s supposed to be in Tsali’s hand. It’s gone missing.”

  “An ax like this one?” Roth held up the stack of photos.

  Forbus looked at the photo, then back at the old guy’s hand, which Sheffield could see was half open like he’d been gripping something.

  “Same ax,” Forbus said. “Or damn close.”

  “How long could this thing be gone?”

  Forbus was getting a queasy look.

  “Not long,” he said. “Somebody would’ve noticed.”

  “What, like a day or two?” Sheffield said.

  “Couldn’t be any longer than that. All the people coming through here, somebody would’ve said something.”

  “How secure are these things?”

  Sheffield tapped on the glass.

  Forbus went over to the wall beside the case and peeled open a handle that lay flush against the black wall. He drew open a door and stepped through it and, a second later, he looked out at them from behind the exhibit.

  “We’re not talking Hope diamond here,” Frank said.

  “He can’t just use a gun like any other killer. He’s got to steal an ax from a museum.”

  “This guy’s got an agenda,” Sheffield said. “Something weird’s going on in his head.”

  Forbus came back out and Frank said, “It’s always like that, unlocked? Anybody can get in?”

  Forbus nodded.

  “It’s not like anything here is worth stealing.”

  “Somebody thought so,” Sheffield said.

  Forbus said, “I got to call my boss.”

  He started to go, but Frank put a hand on his shoulder and halted him.

  “We’re cordoning this area off. No one gets in or out till our fingerprint guys are done.”

  “I’ll call them,” Roth said, and stepped aside to flip open his phone.

  “Should be done in a few hours,” Sheffield said to the kid, and the boy nodded meekly.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “So what’s the deal here?” Frank said. “What’d that old Indian guy do?”

  “That’s Tsali,” the kid said. “You don’t know the story?”

  “I got a minute if it’s not too long.”

  Roth shut his phone and moved beside Sheffield.

  The kid’s voice took on the bored tone of a tour guide.

  “The Cherokee people were being forcibly removed from their homeland, and Tsali resisted. He killed a couple of soldiers, then fled into the mountains and hid. Army couldn’t track him down, and they were afraid other Cherokee people would try the same thing, so they made an offer. If Tsali would come out and give himself up to execution, the government would give a few hundred Cherokee amnesty, let them stay up here in the mountains instead of driving them like cattle to Oklahoma.”

  Roth said, “The guy’s a big deal around here. Local hero.”

  “Yeah,” Forbus said. “So will that be all?”

  The kid started to go, but Sheffield had a couple more questions.

  “So this Tsali character. He was a murderer, and after he got caught and executed, he was promoted into what, like a saint or something? That’s what we’re talking about?”

  The kid looked at Frank for a few seconds and said, “Maybe he was a saint a long time ago. Now he’s more like a tourist attraction.”

  “Tell me this,” Frank said. “If I wanted to find out more about this guy, can you suggest a book, somebody to talk to, an expert?”

  “Dr. Julie Milford,” the kid said. “She’s at Asheville Women’s College. We have some of her books out front. Anything about Tsali, she’s knows it.”

  Seventeen

  Sheriff Farris tribue stood in the doorway of Julius Weatherby’s office and waited silently to be noticed.

  Maybe fifty years old, bald, a hundred pounds overweight, and red-faced, Julius Weatherby was a buffoon who blathered so incessantly he hardly had time for a breath.

  Finally the man looked up, saw the sheriff standing there, popped up, and hustled around his desk, giving the poodles a quick, uncomfortable look.

  “Sheriff Tribue, oh my. I was so terribly sorry to hear about Martin.” Weatherby pressed his palms flat as if he meant to recite a prayer.

  Ordinarily Farris would have kept his distance from such a fool, except that Weatherby Travel Agency provided the Tribue family bargain rates on their travel needs. The glamour of arranging a congressman’s occasional junkets to Aruba and the Caymans and the frequent airline travel
back and forth between his home district and the nation’s capital more than offset any lost profits.

  Farris glanced across the open office area. Three women were sitting at their computers busily typing. No one looking his way.

  Farris stepped into the office, signaled the poodles to follow, then shut the door.

  “Is something wrong? I mean besides Martin, of course.”

  Farris drew up the customer’s chair closer to Julius Weatherby’s desk. Sweat had begun to erupt on Weatherby’s pink forehead. The poodles lay down on the bare floor beside Farris, both of them assuming the same position, resting their snouts on their extended forelegs.

  “Is the congressman all right? I’m sure it was a terrible shock to lose Martin in such a heinous way. I mean, is he all right, your father? His health?”

  Farris drew a breath and brushed a strand of lint from his blue trousers.

  “Would you like some water? I’m having some.”

  Weatherby got up from his desk and shuffled to a small refrigerator near the front window and drew out a plastic bottle of water. He held it out to Farris, but Farris made no move. The man said, “Yes, of course. How about the dogs—would they like some water?”

  Farris remained silent and Weatherby apologized again and went back to his desk and sat down and screwed open the bottle and drank half of it in one swallow.

  “Who handled Martin’s accounts?”

  “I’m sorry?” Weatherby put the bottle on his desk and leaned forward.

  “Which of your girls made Martin’s arrangements? His airline tickets, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, the girls. Which of my girls handled Martin’s account? That’s what you want to know? Is this a police matter? Is that what it is? Something about the murder investigation?”

  Farris gave Weatherby a thin smile.

  “I can’t discuss police business, Julius. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

  “Which girl?”

  “Well, Nancy Feather handled Martin’s accounts. His travel. Actually, Martin was kind of sweet on her. Asked her out once or twice, but Nancy always said no. I told her, go, Nancy, go on, he’s a nice young man. So successful in his business affairs. You should be honored he singled you out.”