“We gotta get outta this place
We gotta get outta this place”
He saw again a dimly lit bar. His buddies were there, still young. There was Texas the jeep mechanic who was a poet, always taking out his latest poem and set it in front of him while he drank. There was the helicopter pilot they called Alaska, formerly a bush pilot, who talked about sawdust on honky tonk floors, and sitting beside him, the black soldier everyone called Philadelphia who loved jazz music. In those days he, Frank, was just called Boston, the student. They were all good killers and they had survived together.
The bar was full that night with a couple of hundred American and South Vietnamese soldiers, their guns checked at the doorway. Suddenly up on the small stage a young white American woman jumped out from the flimsy side curtain, her blonde hair rounded up like she was at a beach party. She was dressed like a high school girl complete with sports letter on her sweater, mini skirt, and brown loafers. “Seattle,” said a soldier, “This one’s fresh in from Seattle. She ain’t been fucked out in the boonies yet.” She undid her clothing in front of them, the men cheering her on with more and louder yells and whistles each time she removed another bit of costume. She threw the colorful clothes out into the waving drunk crowd until she was completely naked. Then as the music boomed louder, she laughed and jumped spread-eagled on her belly out into the mass of arms, like she was sliding on the sweat in that room. The soldiers passed her on, one grabbing a bare arm, another a bare foot, she cheering as her young body rode around the room on their up thrust palms, her energetic legs thrusting into the cigarette smoke. Finally, she clambered forth out of the multitude of arms and skipped back up on the stage.
“we gotta get outta this place
we gotta get outta this place”
His mind was back at the site again. He was standing at the barrier rope watching Jake look at his wife. Jake had an expression of total pride. Frank’s ears hurt from the screech of her microphone. Jake’s wife expertly held the mike back from her face and the noises ceased. She smiled and began to speak in the soft voice Frank recognized from her movies. By her carefully chosen words she gave the impression of being just one of the crowd herself, anxious to find out all about the project. She talked about Jake in warm family tones and about her desire to come here to see River Sunday. She wanted, she said, to visit the old family mansion to see where Jake had been a child. Frank could see the movie magic working in the faces of the crowd as the men and even the women fell in love with this actress one after another.
“I feel so sorry about the little bugs,” she soothed. “We all know they have to be managed though, managed that’s for sure, because I’m like you, I like butterflies but I wouldn’t want to live with them.” The crowd laughed loud and long and began to surge toward her again.
Serena, her talk finished, began her silky movement among her admirers, her eye contact radiating heat and driving them to an orgasm of excitement.
Frank heard a boat horn out on the river. Jake’s big white yacht appeared through the tree line, cruising gracefully up the river. The craft could not come all the way up to the site however because of the half sunk barge and the teetered crane and pile driver hammer apparatus. It anchored against the far shore, fairly distant, and with the sun behind it as the afternoon grew, it became a white shape against the blackening trees.
The crane itself was still at the same abrupt angle. Several more of the large diesel fuel drums had rolled into the river and were bobbing near the sunken end of the barge. There was a large swell of oil on the surface and some fish, white belly up, floated in the slick.
The party was going too long. Frank wanted it to end so he could begin work again. With Jake’s threat to close operations in the morning, the late work tonight would be important and critical to finding any more of the mystery of the wreck. Jake had made his opinion clear that all he wanted was for Frank to pick up his equipment and leave. He did not expect Jake to encourage this night work so he knew asking Jake to end the party and send the people home would be futile. Maggie was staring at him. Her stare meant only one thing. Get this party out of here so we can work.
Outside the gate, the human butterfly chant continued to grow in volume. Suddenly Frank thought the chant stopped for a moment then started up again even louder. The noise of the party was too great for him to be sure. He could hear guests making comments about the butterflies though. As visitors came in they remarked to Jake, mostly in fun, that they were surprised at all the insects demonstrating on the highway, that he should be careful because the bugs were coming in for their share of his party food pretty soon.
Jake in turn, responded with his remarks about “outsiders and agitators.” Occasionally one or two of the guests would agree and bemoan the future of the Eastern Shore or River Sunday. They would talk about the good old days when townspeople knew how to behave and there were no “liberals.” They would proclaim, “This kind of behavior by Birdey Pond would have been scared off quick if your father were still alive.”
Then Birdey Pond arrived. Frank was actually looking the other way when she came in through the crowd. There was a murmur, then a silence, and as Frank turned around to see what was going on, Birdey had reached the center of the group. Her white hair and strong face contrasted bitterly with the softness of Serena standing only a few feet away. Birdey stood there, her eyes scanning the groups, her feet apart, her right hand holding a piece of orange cardboard. The cardboard, which was a part of one of the butterfly wing costumes, was torn at the bottom. Where the tear was located, it was smeared with blood.
Jake turned to watch her. He was smiling but with his head bent forward as if to withstand a fist aimed at his face. “What do you want, Birdey?” he asked.
“One of the children who was demonstrating outside your farm. Your man came outside and beat the child, hurt him.”
“What man is that, Birdey?”
“Your Spyder.”
“Spyder, come over here.” Spyder walked out from behind the farmhouse into the silent group.
“Spyder, do you know what this woman is talking about?”
“They started it,” said Spyder, his voice almost childlike, like a boy who has been caught by a parent doing wrong and seeks sympathy.
“We were having a peaceful demonstration. Spyder provoked this.”
“How?” asked Jake.
“He just walked up and started hitting the marchers with his fists. One boy fell and seriously cut his arm.”
“Knowing you, Birdey, I’m sure you provoked the fight. Anyone else see this?”
Jake stared at the crowd, almost as if he was daring anyone to come forward, to verify Birdey’s claim.
“All my friends saw this monster,” Birdey shouted at Jake.
“Birdey, we need witnesses who don’t work for your causes. Is there anyone here who saw this who is not dressed in a butterfly costume?” There were titters of laughter. Jake went on, encouraged. “For all we know, you might have hurt the boy yourself just to prove your point. We can’t reason with people who would do such a thing. Why don’t you go home?”
“Jake, you always did like the short cut, the nasty trick. You’ve graduated to the big time. You hurt children. You’ve become a true menace, and I expect you’re capable of anything.”
“You have a bad old mouth, Birdey.”
“You should have stayed away from River Sunday, Jake. You should have stayed in Baltimore or New York where you look good on television and folks don’t have to know you well. Your money counts for more there. Now that you came home people can see you for what you are. We know you around here, Jake. You can’t scare us.”
“Nobody is trying to scare you, Birdey,” Jake said in a calming way. He looked around and smiled. “Why don’t you just go on home and let everyone have a little fun at the party.”
“I heard about you fathering a child by that poor young girl and then running off. I heard what you did cheating those farmers on the island
. I heard about what you did to that preacher’s business with your fire. All taking and not giving back. Your father knew better. He tried to change, to give back, to end the ravishing of this land.”
She stepped up on the porch step. She was a tall woman and this made her even taller and more imperious. The crowd had become very quiet. Everyone, even Serena, watched her.
“Blood tells, Jake. Maybe why you never understood your father was because you weren’t really a Terment.”
Jake’s eyes narrowed.
“Those of you who can still think for yourself,” she said. “Those of you who do not live in this man’s pocket. I’m talking to you. Listen to me. The Terment development is not the kind of investment we want here in River Sunday. This man Terment is the worst kind of pollution.”
She held up the piece of butterfly wing. “I ask you to help us get rid of a man who can order this done. Jake Terment lies and cheats. Help us to stop this bridge he wants to build so he will be forced to leave. If we can delay him long enough we can stop him.”
She looked at him, defiant. “You hear me good, Terment. You’re through taking. The time has come to give back.”
She waved the wing above her head. “People, the butterflies can be our future or our past. You must decide.”
She stepped down from the porch and walked slowly toward the lane. The crowd parted as she walked through. No one said a word.
Jake calmed down as he watched her leave. He immediately ordered the waitresses to pass out refills for everyone’s drinks. The cocktail conversations returned to their former tempo. Frank was becoming resigned to the party lasting well into the night. Then a loud scream made everyone turn their heads back toward the far end of the excavation. Frank turned and ran towards the spot. There, Jake’s wife was lying on the ground, her flimsy dress ripped almost off and blood flowing from deep scratches on her thighs. Jake arrived and pushed aside the bodyguards who were kneeling beside her trying to stop the blood.
“Is there a doctor here?” Jake yelled. A heavy set man, red faced from drinking Jake’s gin and tonics, stumbled toward Jake, his hand up, saying again and again, “Here, here, I’m the doctor, I can help her.”
In a few moments, Jake, the doctor and the security men had her moving towards the beach, one of the men calling on his cellular for the boat to come in from the yacht. “Forget the limo,” he yelled into the phone, “The boss wants her taken on the boat. Yes, she’ll be all right. Just shaken up.”
“What happened?” Frank asked one of the security men as Jake and the others went ahead towards the beach.
“I saw it all,” the man said. Then his head turned from Frank as there were three loud shots echoing from behind the old farmhouse. Some of the guests began running towards their cars. Three more shots went off. Frank looked at the man. “What in hell is going on?”
“She was standing there,” the guard said, “Just looking at the site, couple of us guarding her while that old lady was talking. Then this spotted cat come along, just purring rubbing her leg. Suddenly the cat snarled, caught its claws in her dress, then jumped right on to her chest, his claws ripping downward on her skin. She didn’t have a chance. We think she sprained her arm when she fell back. Should have been dressed up more, jeans or something back up here in the country. Tried to warn her about animals, but Jake wanted her to wear that skimpy stuff for the crowd. Anyway we got the animal off, wasn’t a sick animal or nothing. Just jumped at her like it was angry at her. Afterward, it sat there looking at us and then scampered back over to the woods again. Jake said to shoot it so there’s someone back there trying to get it.”
A guard came out of the woods, putting his revolver back in its holster.
“Get him?”
“Think I had a shot at him. Damn cat had a mind of its own.”
In another half hour, the crowd was gone. The caterers had packed up quickly and left as soon as Jake went out to his yacht with his wife. The movie limousine left quietly too.
Frank signaled to Maggie and the Pastor. They crossed the barrier and began work, the Pastor taking off his suit coat and kneeling down in his good trousers. The only sound was the scratching of the archaeologists’ trowels.
Then there was one more interruption of the peace of the marsh. For a few moments there was a tremendous resounding noise. This was the booming sound that Frank had heard when he first came to town. The rumbling came up the river in the late sunlight. One time and then a second time a few minutes later . This time Frank did not tense. He continued to work as fast as he could.
“The Cannon Club rehearsing,” said the Pastor.
Frank sat back on his dirt streaked bare feet and looked at his work. “Maggie,” he called, his mind back on archeology. “This Q area is not developing very well. I’m down more than three feet. Except for the remnant of that clay pipe, I’ve seen nothing here.”
He lifted out the soil carefully. He placed it on the plastic sheeting along the edge of the pit. “Before I quit tonight, I’ll run this soil through the sifter.”
“You’ve done a good job on that one,” said Maggie. “If there had been anything there you would have found it. “
He scraped again. The trowel had become heavy to his exhausted arm and shoulder. Suddenly he felt the change in the friction of the soil.
“Wait a minute,” he said. He bent his head down to look more closely. There was a change of color in the strata. Even in the poor light he noticed the brown spot. It was a piece of bone that had appeared in front of him, a pale fleck against the black. The bone was like a drug, a tonic, a revitalizing medicine. At once he was alert, exhaustion gone, every muscle tensing, fingers grasping his trowel with new strength as he skillfully teased the soil away from the bone, to make it come out of hiding.
“What is it?” Maggie said, standing above him in the darkness. Frank worked quickly, not answering her. As he excavated, the bones appeared. In a few moments, there were two skulls, side by side as if they had come to rest in a hug or an embrace. He sat back on his heels, holding his eyeglasses, breathing slowly to calm himself.
“We’ve got something.”
Maggie and the Pastor brought over the lights. After they were plugged in and turned on, the light burned away the shadows in the pit. The insects swarmed at the bulbs.
“The light makes a big difference. These are definitely old bones. This is at an earlier strata, earlier than the soldier, about the same as the giant, the sailors,” said Frank. “The soil is different. It’s got the charcoal that I found earlier, from the burned shipwreck. The skulls are burned too. See the effect on the bones, the burn fractures.”
“But why two skulls this close together?”
“One of the skulls is definitely larger than the other, probably an adult.”
“Maybe the larger person was shielding a child.”
“The large skull definitely has some African characteristics.”
“Yes, it’s probably a black man.”
“Maybe the smaller skull is African also.”
“This bone,” he pointed with his trowel. “It looks like part of the forearm of the larger person. See how it is in the fighter position.”
“Pugilist,” corrected Maggie.
“What does that mean?” asked the Pastor.
“It means the skeleton was probably burned. When a body is burned the muscles contract and make the arms and legs tighten up like a person is crouching for a fight, like a fighter’s stance. That’s why they call it pugilist,” said Maggie.
“Could this be a grave?” asked the Pastor.
“It may be. It dates to the period of the ship though. That means it would have been a burial at the time the ship burned,” said Frank. “We already know the ship was likely here before slaves were buried in this area of Maryland.”
“Yes,” agreed the Pastor.
“Or it’s two Africans who were caught in the ship fire somehow,” suggested Maggie.
“I just don’t know,” said Fra
nk. “This is, however the most intriguing discovery yet. The sailors belonged on the ship. These people do not. This is quite a find.”
The water was filling in around the skeleton as they talked. “We’ll need the pump here,” said Frank. After they had placed the pump beside the pit, Frank pulled the starter and after two pulls the engine popped to action. Frank moved the water outlet hose so that it discharged into the marsh grass ten feet from the side of the site.
“Well, Maggie, shall we?” said Frank as he held his arms toward her with a grin.
She looked at him, unsure what he meant. Then remembrance came across her face. “Sure,” she smiled back. “Got to have the discovery dance.”
They stood in the darkness outside the spot of the lights. The light flickered off their bodies, first in shadow then in light. They locked their arms in a square dance twirl and turned themselves around and around until they fell on their sides in the muck, laughing.
“What was that all about?” asked the Pastor.
“An old tradition. Something Frank’s field students always did when we made big discoveries on our sites. You’ll have to let this go by, Pastor.”
“Like winning a skirmish in a battle,” he said.
“Yes, just like that,” said Frank.
Chapter 15
Maggie had dug to a depth of almost three feet below the topsoil. Above this was the mass of unrelated soil that Frank agreed had been brought in from another area of the farm. The cannon and the clay pipe had been found in soil contemporary to the one Maggie was searching.
Slave Graves (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 1) Page 20
