“Vaguely,” Parker said. “Some prissy kid from Knoxville.”
“DAs love eyewitnesses. Never mind that Jeremy was a fifteen-year-old boy, awakened from a dead sleep, in a dark cabin. He wore glasses but confessed he wasn’t wearing them. And the abductor was in and out of the cabin in a second or two. Even with all that, the government still liked Philpot better than what they had with your dad and Tribue. A kid pointing his finger at Standingdog. It makes for such good theater. And hey, what’s the worst that can happen? They lose the Philpot case, they could still indict Standingdog for your dad and Tribue. But as it turned out, they didn’t need to.”
“Where does the gun come in?”
“Not gun. Guns. Two different ones.”
“Whoa, whoa.”
“All of it’s in the police reports, the coroner, medical examiner. It’s all there. Go ahead and read it if you don’t believe me.”
“Just tell me.”
“Your dad took two shots to the chest. Different weapon than the one used to kill Tribue.”
“This is crazy. This is a whole different story.”
“Exactly.”
Parker bent forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.
“I know Dad had an old Colt he kept in his bedroom.”
“That was the weapon used on Jeremiah Tribue, registered to your dad. The gun that killed your dad was a small caliber, probably a twenty-two. It wasn’t found.”
“All right, okay. So let’s say Dad brought his Colt down. He wrestled with Standingdog, the gun goes off and kills Jeremiah Tribue, who’d come there to help put out the fire.”
She shook her head.
“Listen to me, Parker. The only prints on the Colt were Diana’s.”
“No.”
“It’s all right here.” She tapped the lid of her laptop.
Parker stared at the far wall for several long moments, breathing slow and deep, as though he might be shouldering large boulders of memory from one place to another, rearranging the foundations of his past.
Charlotte walked over, and moved behind him. She settled her hands onto his shoulders and began to massage. An old formula between them, a prelude to lovemaking on more than one occasion. Easing his tension, then easing toward the bed.
“Just go with this for a second, okay? Say Jeremiah and Mr. Big set the fire.”
She dug her fingers into the tight muscles, kneading upward to the base of his neck.
“One of them has already grabbed the Philpot kid from your cot, mistaking Philpot for you, drags him over to the house and starts splashing kerosene around. They want to wipe out your family. So far it’s the same story as yours, but with Tribue and Mr. Big instead of Standingdog.
“Your dad is upstairs, sleeping, he hears something, goes downstairs, sees the Philpot kid lying there, the fire going. Tribue is splashing his kerosene. But before Chief can do anything, Mr. Big shoots him.”
Parker laid a hand on hers and stopped the massage.
“And Mother?”
“She hears the gunshot, grabs your dad’s gun from the bedside table or wherever, runs down, starts firing. Kills Jeremiah and scares away Mr. Big. That’s how the second weapon leaves the scene.”
“And when did I come in?”
“I put it about now. Diana’s up on the stairs, working on your dad, trying to revive him maybe, stop his bleeding. The flames are spreading fast, you walk in, the smoke’s so thick you don’t see the bodies. You head toward the stairs, beam falls, knocks you out. Diana hauls you outside to safety.”
Parker ran through it for several moments before replying.
“Couldn’t happen,” he said. “Standingdog’s attorney had access to all this. The two guns, Diana apparently using one, the other disappearing. All of it exculpatory or potentially so. But they didn’t use any of it, didn’t even try.”
Charlotte finger-combed his sandy hair back in place, realigned his part.
“It’s because of the plea deal, Parker. Standingdog pled to the Philpot murder, but wouldn’t go along with a joint trial on the other two.”
“No defense attorney worth two cents is going to let him take that deal.”
“Maybe somebody else had Standingdog’s ear. Telling him how to play it.”
“No way,” Parker said. “No DA’s going to leave two murders dangling like that. Especially somebody like my dad. Well-known in the area.”
“So they keep his file open,” Charlotte said. “Happens all the time. They wait for Standingdog to confess to somebody in prison, wham, they’re back in court.”
“They had enough to indict him then. I don’t see why they’d wait, much less why they’d make any deals.”
“You’re the expert, Parker. But I’ve seen my share of trials. And this case looks too damn messy. Too many different facts. Diana’s prints on one murder weapon, no sign of the second weapon. Most DAs I’ve met would be happy to take a deal like that. They got an eyewitness for Philpot, and they’ve got a strong motive for Standingdog. The DA gets to tell a simple story and Standingdog hangs. Everybody goes home happy.”
“Okay, so why the hell would he go along? Standingdog pleads guilty, winds up sitting in prison the rest of his life for something he didn’t do. What is he, some kind of masochist?”
“Maybe he’s a martyr.”
“Bullshit. The guy’s no martyr.”
Parker was shaking his head to all of it. In full-blown denial.
“When you described this Beloved Woman thing, Parker, you said one of her roles was to make life-and-death decisions. Thumbs up, thumbs down. Which prisoner was executed, which went free.”
“That’s ancient history, hundreds of years ago.”
“I’m just brainstorming, Parker, trying to work with what’s here.”
“So what’re you saying? Diana told Standingdog to take the fall? And he went along? That’s ridiculous, Charlotte. Completely absurd. Why would he agree? What’s in it for him? You didn’t know the man. He was ruthless, mean. The man you saw the other day, dying in his wheelchair, that’s not who he was when he was young. You’re sentimentalizing the guy.”
Charlotte smoothed her hands across his knotted back muscles.
“I remember you said Standingdog was silent during the whole trial.”
“That’s right. He just sat there. Gloating or furious, who knows?”
“That’s another thing you got wrong. The transcript says different. After the verdict, when the judge asked if he had any final statement, an expression of remorse or an explanation for his actions, he spoke in Cherokee. A single word.”
Charlotte gave him a parting pat and walked over to her desk and found the note. She spelled out the word and Parker pronounced it for her.
“Ga-du-gi.”
“Court reporter didn’t bother to translate it in the transcript. You know what it means?”
He nodded.
“Common Cherokee custom. Working together for some mutual goal. Communal generosity, something like that. Dad was always preaching it. Many hands are better than two.”
“Like I said. Sacrificing for the greater good.”
Parker sighed again and took a calming breath. He cleared his throat, looked back at her with fresh clarity.
“So what’s the motive? Standingdog was battling with my father. But these other two guys, what in the hell is pushing their buttons?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “We’re still missing something.”
Parker leaned back in his chair and peered up at the ceiling.
“A hundred and fifty years ago an illiterate Cherokee sacrifices his life so his people can stay in their homeland. And because of that somebody kills my father, and thirty years later they murder my mother and now seem to be hunting down the rest of us? What the hell is this, Charlotte? What the hell?”
She logged off her computer and looked at him while it cycled down.
“If Uncle Mike was telling the truth, they were hunting Diana and you and Gracey,
but not me. That tells me something, Parker.”
But he wasn’t listening to her.
“Ga-du-gi,” he said. “Standingdog said that at the trial?”
He’d taken his eyes out of focus and didn’t seem to be waiting for an answer. So she gave him none.
Thirty-Five
At a quarter after twelve, flustered and uncertain, Nancy Feather arrived at the Tribues’ estate. Farris met her at her car, led her to the front porch, and installed her in a rocker that was angled away from the dog-training area.
He offered her a half-sandwich from the tray on the side table, and Nancy, somewhat unnerved by the enormity of the occasion, snatched it up and took an immediate bite. When she’d chewed and swallowed, she patted her mouth with one of the linen napkins and tried to compose herself.
Nancy Feather ruffled the fur of one of the dogs. Standing still with strict patience, the dog gazed off toward the wide view of wilderness, range after range of mountains stacked behind one another into the hazy distance. Another spring storm was darkening the southern sky, some distant rumbles rolling up the valley.
Sprawled nearby, the other dog assumed a position of tranquillity, but his eyes continually darted in his master’s direction.
Farris extended the serving tray, and Nancy Feather selected one of the glasses of iced lemonade.
“I wish I had longer than an hour for lunch, Farris. But you know how it is. We working girls.”
She took an anxious peek at her watch.
“We have plenty of time. Not to worry.”
“I was kind of surprised, you calling. All hush-hush, don’t tell anybody where I was going. Kind of scared me, I guess. Thinking maybe I’d done something wrong. I was going to get interrogated or something.”
Farris shared a laugh with the woman.
Nancy Feather wore white jeans and a green blouse that was rigidly ironed. Chopped short, her black hair lay flat and lifeless on her skull as if it, too, had been ironed until it had lost its will.
She had a round, homely face with a stubby nose, plump cheeks, and a chin with a deep cleft.
In his crisp blue uniform Farris sat down beside her, and had a sip of his lemonade. She took a dainty bite of her sandwich and made a “yum” noise.
“You’re a good cook, Farris. Most men can’t boil an egg.”
He gave her thanks and bit into his own sandwich.
Nancy, in her anxious desire to please, had not dared to change her chair’s position. Though a simple turn of her head would have brought Shannon Muldowny into view, Nancy had shown no interest in looking beyond Farris’s face or the mountain range.
They ate their sandwiches and drank their lemonade and watched the thunderstorm roll northward, dragging with it several long curtains of rain.
“It’s so beautiful here,” Nancy Feather said. “I can’t hardly imagine what it would be like to have every day free just to watch the weather and play with my dogs.”
“Are you applying for the position?” Farris said.
Some magazine or insipid friend had coached her to laugh frequently and with gusto at a suitor’s remarks, and Nancy Feather applied the lesson with yet another whoop of laughter.
“Tell me about your work, Nancy.”
“Oh, it’s nothing really. Typing contracts, filling out forms. Nothing very demanding. I always wanted to be a schoolteacher, but I didn’t have much of a head for books.”
“But travel,” Farris said, bringing her flighty mind back to the issue. “Surely that must be an exciting benefit to your work.”
“No, I don’t get to travel. I just buy tickets for other people.”
“I see.” Farris looked over at the dogs and they both stiffened.
“If I lived in a place like this, I’d never travel. Why would I want to when I could just sit out here all day and all night and never be bored?”
“Eating plate after plate of bonbons,” Farris said.
She looked at him with momentary alarm, then again resorted to a hearty laugh at his display of wit.
“I believe you handled my brother Martin’s bookings, did you not?”
“Oh, poor Martin. Everybody is so shocked. Struck down like that right out in public in a big-city airport. I’ve heard terrible stories about Miami. I don’t know why anyone goes there at all. Though if they came into the office saying they wanted to travel to Miami and I was to tell them how dangerous it was down there, Mr. Weatherby would fire me in a minute.”
“You arranged Martin’s trip to Miami?”
She was not so dense that she failed to hear the harsh authority in his voice.
“Yes, sir. I did all his plans.”
“Call me Farris, please, Nancy. No need for such formality.”
Now Nancy was thoroughly befuddled. Was this police business or a social call or something else entirely? The moment had tipped precipitously, and her round face was pinched with worry.
“I didn’t know young Mr. Tribue that good. But he always asked for me. I guess he thought I was nice or something.”
Nancy took a hurried sip of her lemonade and plucked the rest of her sandwich from the plate and bit into it in such haste that she appeared to believe she was about to be evicted.
“Do you have any friends, Nancy? Women you talk to sometimes?”
“Sure, I have friends.”
“Do you ever discuss your work with your friends?”
“It’s usually so boring at work, there’s nothing to talk about.” Then she laughed again.
One of the poodles stood up and walked over, its nails clicking against the oak planks. It stopped in front of Nancy and stared at her.
“I’m curious,” Farris said. “Mr. Weatherby told me he thought one of your friends might be Lucy Panther. Is that true?”
Nancy Feather looked at the poodle standing just two feet in front of her. She reached out and patted its head with a hand so stiff she might have been flattening dough. The dog could tolerate her touch no longer and turned and rejoined its littermate.
“Me and Lucy were in the same class at reservation school. We knew each other from a long time back.”
“Do you still see her, talk to her?”
Farris watched as she wrestled with the question. She looked at the poodle, then out at the distant storm.
“I see her,” she said quietly. “Sometimes.”
“Did you by any chance discuss Martin Tribue’s recent travel plans with Lucy Panther, your friend from long ago?”
She swallowed and set the remains of her sandwich back on the plate.
“I’m not supposed to talk about the personal affairs of our clients. That’s one of the rules. Mr. Weatherby’s very strict about his rules and regulations. They’re on the bulletin board in big letters.”
“Don’t worry about Julius. This discussion is strictly confidential.”
“Okay.” Her breathing had become shallow and irregular. “Well, yeah, I might have said something to her about Mr. Tribue going to Miami.”
“Why did you do that? Did she query you on the matter?”
“Query?”
“Did Lucy Panther ask you to keep her informed about Martin’s plans?”
She shrugged and licked her lips and looked longingly at the remains of her sandwich.
“I guess so,” she said. “Lucy knew Martin, and I guess she was curious what he was up to. You know, his comings and goings.”
“Where can I find Lucy Panther?”
She shook her head, mouth clamped like a child refusing medicine.
“You won’t tell me such a harmless thing as that?”
“Those FBI men, they’ve been hounding her for two years, tracking her everywhere she goes. I swore not to say where she was living, not tell anyone.”
“But I’m not just anyone,” Farris said.
Again Nancy Feather shut her mouth tightly.
When he stood up from his chair, both dogs rose in unison.
Farris reached down and gripped the back
of Nancy Feather’s rocker and wrenched it ninety degrees to the left.
She looked over her shoulder at Farris. Eyebrows arched, her mouth a dark, perfect hole of shock.
“Now watch,” he said.
Nancy turned her gaze to the clearing where Shannon Muldowny was gagged and bound to a wooden fence post, her arms and legs loose so she could make some attempt at defending herself.
Farris had taken care to plant the post in a shallow footing, so it would collapse when sufficient force was applied. Thus the dogs would be less likely to injure themselves when they flung their bodies at her.
With the dogs focused intently on his every move, Farris raised his hand to his forehead, held it there for a moment, then he saluted the young woman from Boston. His father’s concubine, his mother’s replacement.
Without hesitation, his two poodles rushed from the porch, scampered across the lawn, and did their silent duty.
It was the first time he’d substituted human flesh for the mannequin, and Farris was pleased to see the dogs appeared to notice no difference.
Martin would have been thrilled.
Nancy Feather closed her eyes and ducked her head, but Farris ordered her to open them and she obeyed, however briefly.
“Now tell me, Nancy, where I can find Lucy Panther.”
Thirty-Six
Getting out of the bathtub was the easy part.
Nancy Feather got her duct-taped feet over the edge of the tub, and she wedged her back against the other side and straightened out as much as she could. Inch by inch she shifted her balance farther toward the open side of the tub until she got her knees over it and scooched down toward her thighs, then she had to press hard with the back of her head and thrust her skull against the wall. With a loud grunt she seesawed out.
She crumpled onto the white tile floor. Outside, in the hallway, she could hear the dogs pacing. Their claws clacked on the wood as if they were standing guard.
She got to her knees and wriggled into a standing position.
Farris was gone. She’d heard his police cruiser pull out about ten minutes before. Only reason she was still alive was because he probably doubted she’d told him the truth, and wanted to be able to come back and torture it out of her later if she’d lied.
Forests of the Night Page 28
