Behind the truck, Mitch held his temper in check, trying to ignore the oily fumes that spewed from the bouncing tailpipe. Several times he’d been tempted to pull around and pass the vehicle with his middle finger raised, but something held him back. Two Confederate flag decals decorated the Dodge’s battered bumper, and a lethal-looking pump shotgun lay racked across the back window. The brawny left arm of the driver periodically emerged to heave empty Budweiser cans out the window, and every half-mile or so the passenger’s cowboy-hatted head would peer back to see if Mitch still followed them. Between the two men Mitch could see the smaller outline of a blonde woman who wore a black leather jacket with the collar turned up.
Wonder if they’re brothers, he thought. Wonder if that girl belongs to the driver or the passenger?
He scowled as another beer can sailed toward a pine tree. Probably neither, he decided. Probably all three are from the same litter. Isn’t that what they do up here?
Just as he started to pull off the road to let the beer drinkers get farther ahead, they abruptly turned down a narrow gravel path that slid off the edge of a cliff. Wonder what they’re going to do, he thought, watching as the old Dodge became just two red taillights bouncing down the mountain. Fuck, probably, then fight. Mitch felt a sick ripple in his gut. What would it be like to put it to your sister?
He turned his gaze away from the bouncing taillights and sped up the road, for once grateful that Cal was the only sibling he had to contend with. His burst of speed was short-lived, though. The road twisted like a strand of curling spaghetti, and the Ford’s automatic transmission hesitated, unable to decide between second and third gears. As he gained altitude the wind that whistled through the trees grew so cold he had to raise the window and turn the car’s heater on. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to haul up these mountains on foot.
“Maybe old Thaddeus actually earned some of that gold,” he said, grimacing at the thought of dragging a mule up into this flinty, dark wilderness.
For an hour he crept along a crumbling asphalt road that twisted through the peaks. According to his map, the Little Jump Off Trail should be up here, but he saw no hiking trails leading off the highway, nor any signs pointing to anyplace called Little Jump Off. Frustration heating his insides, he parked on one side of a wide curve and unfolded the Geological Survey map he’d bought in Atlanta. Pale green swirls like huge fingerprints indicated mountains and altitudes on the paper; darker lines followed the contours of the land. Red-and-white candy stripes illustrated medium-duty roads, broken black lines were jeep trails, and faint dotted lines represented footpaths. According to the map, Little Jump Off lay in the far right corner of the page, a dotted line springing from the single candy stripe that twisted through the sprawling Unicoi range. He checked his compass and his GPS positioner. By all indications, Little Jump Off should be exactly where he now stood.
“Well, fuck,” he said aloud. “Does the U.S. Government not even know where this shit hole is?”
He scowled at the map, wondering if maybe Lou Delgado had been right. Stopping Mary Crow would not stop any ongoing investigation of him. Still, she might well be the only one who could piece it all together. The only one who had the passion to piece it all together. He’d felt it, on the witness stand.
“Mr.Whitman, now that we’ve established that you not only knew the deceased, and that you would have, if need be, included your brother in some of your moments together, how would you now describe your relationship with Sandra Manning?”
“I’m not sure I understand your question.” Though he was exhausted, he was still determined to play his own version of coy. He was not going down easy for this Mary Crow. He saw his brother sitting beside his attorney, smirking at him. Cal was actually enjoying this! And he was up here sweating, trying to save both their asses.
“I mean, would you describe your relationship with Sandra Manning as platonic? Romantic? Intimate?”
Suddenly, his brain locked up. He knew every eye in the courtroom was staring straight at him, but all he could do was look at Mary Crow, his mouth moving in some vapid semblance of speech.
Then she pivoted, like a cat pouncing on a bird. “Were you not intimate with Sandra Manning, sir?” she demanded. Her voice flicked like the end of a whip.
“I’m . . . I’m not sure what you mean.” It seemed to him he squeaked like a mouse.
“Intimate means sexual, Mr. Whitman,” she said, in his face, hard. “Sexual means that the two of you engaged in sexual intercourse. I’m assuming you know what sexual intercourse means, Mr. Whitman. If you don’t, I’ll be quite happy to pause to let you consult your little brother!” She smiled at him then, her eyes the color of stone as everyone in the courtroom howled. His friends, the reporters, even Stacy Lamb, a girl from school he’d gotten to know. Cal was roaring, even his ashen-faced attorney was smiling as the judge pounded her gavel.
“You fucking bitch.” Sitting in the car, he suddenly wanted to tear her picture into shreds. “When I find you, I’m gonna make you pay.”
Yeah, right, he thought. But first you’ve got to find her.
He studied the map once more, then decided to start all over again, back at that fat girl’s convenience store. He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. He restarted the Taurus and for what seemed like hours he twisted through the mountains. Sometimes the scenery looked vaguely familiar, sometimes the contorted, acid rain-scalded trees made him wonder if he wasn’t on another planet. He squeezed his eyes shut as a headache began to throb at the base of his skull. Just as the sun began to set he rounded a curve, skirting a peeling white concrete building that had once been a motel. In its weedy parking lot sat a lone figure dressed in buckskins and a full feathered headdress. Beside him stood a small, hand-lettered sign that read Have Your Picture Taken With a Real Life Cherokee. A rangy brown hound dog sat at the Indian’s feet, his long pink tongue flopping from one side of his mouth.
Mitch pulled in. Maybe this Real Life Cherokee could tell him where the Little Jump Off Trail was.
“Hidy!” The Indian seemed to awaken as the shiny white Ford pulled beside him. He hopped up and walked over to the door, the dog ambling close behind.
The war bonnet topped a small, thin man with several teeth missing from his lower jaw. He grinned at Mitch. “Want your picture taken with a real Cherokee Indian?”
Mitch tried not to laugh. Though the Indian’s sharp features were a dusky cinnamon, his manner was obsequious, his accent more Gomer Pyle than Sitting Bull.
Mitch was about to shake his head when suddenly an idea came to him—unbidden, yet full-blown and beautiful. A gold nugget dropped from the ancestral lap of Thaddeus Whitman. It might entail another murder, but after three, who would be counting?
He pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose and gazed sternly at the Indian. “Are you familiar with this area?” he asked, assuming his father’s best command voice.
“I reckon I am,” the Real Life Cherokee said. “Lived here all my life.”
Mitch turned off his engine. “Do you know a trail called Little Jump Off?”
“Why, sure. It’s over near the Tennessee line. You’re way lost if you’re looking for that.”
Mitch dug in his wallet and flashed Mitchell Keane’s Georgia student ID in front of the Indian’s eager eyes. “My name’s Keane. I’m with the Deckard County Sheriff’s Department. I have urgent business with an attorney of ours who’s supposedly vacationing on the Little Jump Off Trail.”
The Indian gave a big grin. “You mean Mary Crow?”
For a moment Mitch didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected this feathered fool to actually know Mary Crow. “Possibly,” he replied carefully. “Can you identify her?”
“About this tall.” The Indian held up one hand at eye level. “Too skinny for my taste. Pretty, though. And smart as a whip.”
“You know her?”
“Sure. Grew up with her, till her grandma stole her away to Atlanta.”
&n
bsp; “Look, I’m not familiar with this territory. If you can guide me to Mary Crow, there’s a thousand dollars in it for you.” Mitch pulled five hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and held them between two fingers. “Half now and half when I reach her.”
The Indian’s eyes widened. He looked as if he’d never seen that much money in his life. He swallowed hard. “Let me go get Jonathan Walkingstick,” he said. “He’s the real tracker. Mary and her friends went up to Atagahi. Me and Jonathan can lead you up there in no time.”
“The more trackers, the less pay,” Mitch said decisively. “You bring in your buddy, your cut goes down by half.”
The Indian took off his headdress, revealing badly cut dark hair sweat-plastered to the angular bones of his skull. He shrugged, disappointed. “Well, okay. I can get you where they’re going. How about we leave at daybreak tomorrow?”
“How about we leave now,” Mitch insisted. “Like I said, my business is urgent.”
“We won’t have but a few hours before dark.”
“The pay goes down tomorrow.” Mitch held firm.
“You can’t go like that.” The Indian eyed Mitch’s thin yellow T-shirt and blue jeans. “It’s cold up there.”
“My gear’s in the trunk,” Mitch explained. “I can be ready in five minutes.”
“I’ll need to go home, then. Change my clothes and get a pack.”
Mitch unbuckled his seat belt. “By the time you get back here, I’ll be ready to go.”
“Okay. Give me half an hour.”
Mitch watched as the Indian tucked his headdress under his arm and hurried over to an ancient Toyota pickup. The dog trotted after him, leaping into the truck bed. Mitch scratched his head, amazed at how easily the Indian believed him. No wonder old Thaddeus had been able to move these nitwits to Oklahoma. “Hey, what’s your name?” he called, half expecting the guy to say Crazy Horse.
“Billy Swimmer,” the Indian replied as he tugged open the door of his truck and chugged off to get his supplies.
SEVENTEEN
Mary squinted at the thick maple limb as she made the final shadings on her sketch. When she was eight this tree had stretched up to heaven. She and her mother had often sat on its bench-sized roots—Mary drawing, her mother painting, both happy to sit under its sun-dappled shade. Sometimes her mother would hum an old tune, her eyes growing wistful. Mary guessed she was missing Jack Bennefield then, the handsome young husband and father they’d both known for far too short a time. Or maybe she was wishing that the spring would heal her wounds and deliver somebody new for her to love. But if her mother had hoped Atagahi might produce another love for her, she had died disappointed.
Now, Mary could almost see her sitting there, the sun casting blue highlights on her glossy black hair. She frowned. Her mother would now be over fifty. What would she have looked like? Chubby and diabetic like so many Cherokees? Or would she be merely an older version of the pretty, slender woman with the infectious laugh? Death left a small recompense for your pain, Mary supposed. It took the ones you loved, but left them unblemished in your memory. She smudged in one last shadow on the page with the tip of her little finger and closed her paint box.
She climbed off the maple roots, listening for the voices of her friends. The soft Atagahi breezes usually carried words like the fluff of a dandelion, but only a raspy chorus of jar flies greeted her as she picked her way through the coarse sedge that grew among the boulders surrounding this side of Atagahi. Alex and Joan were probably fast asleep by now, she decided. They’d hiked hard as bear hunters these last two days, and they were just three tenderfeet Atlanta attorneys.
Rock by rock she began to climb. The sandstone felt like warm pumice on the palms of her hands, and she scaled the old boulders as she had as a child—leaping from rock to rock, nimble as a goat. With a final jump she reached the top and stood straight, smiling, hungry to see the whole vista of Atagahi spread out below her. Suddenly her smile froze. Though the bright green water still lapped lush and inviting, two women no longer sunned themselves on its rocks. The place was empty. No one was there at all.
Mary blinked. The warm wind ruffled her hair. A joke, she told herself, ignoring the sudden stillness of the place. This has Alex’s fingerprints all over it. They’ve decided to hide and see what I do.
“Very funny, Alex and Joan!” she called. “You guys are real comediennes.”
No one stood up from behind the boulders. No muffled giggles rose from the rocks.
“Okay, you guys,” she called louder, now irritated. Mostly she loved Alex’s goofy sense of humor, but she was not finding this prank amusing. “It worked. I was scared for a full two seconds.”
Again, her words fell on hushed air.
Mary stared at the blank tableau, uncomprehending, then a tremor of fear rippled through her. Something has gone wrong, she realized as her heart began to beat like a snare drum. Something has gone very wrong.
“Joan? Alex?” she called, scraping her shins on the boulders as she raced carelessly down the rocks, desperate to hear one of Alex’s goofy wisecracks.
No one answered. Her paint box slipped from her fingers, clattering down the steep incline in front of her. She passed the boulders as if in a dream—each stood like a mute sentinel, yielding none of Atagahi’s ancient secrets.
“Joan! Alex!”
Only the rising wind sighed in reply. Frantically, she began to retrace their steps. They had dived in the water here, floated to there, climbed out here, sunned on the rocks there. There. Mary focused on one smooth rock. Could that long splotch on the far side of the boulder be blood?
She raced over, then her heart froze. A body lay sprawled on the rocky ground, the face covered with a black sweatshirt.
It was Joan. The legs were short, a small gold cross glittered between her breasts. Mud streaked across her upper thighs. Bloody teeth marks ringed one nipple. Raped. The word echoed through Mary’s head. Just like Mama.
“No!” she cried. The rocks echoed her protest back at her, mocking her outrage.
She knelt and yanked the sweatshirt away from Joan’s face. A blood-soaked cloth stretched her mouth in the rictus of a smile; her pretty white skin was blue. The delicate, sculpted shape that had once been her nose had been smashed into a grotesque red mangle. Mary put her hand against her cheek. It was cold. Joan was dead.
“No,” Mary cried. “Not again!”
She wrestled the rag from Joan’s mouth. What was it that you’re supposed to do to people who can’t breathe? Cover their noses and breathe into them? What if there’s no nose left? Shit, she’d only seen this done on television. She reached inside Joan’s mouth and pressed her tongue down with her thumb. With a huge gulp of air, she covered her friend’s lips with her own and blew.
The sharp taste of blood filled Mary’s mouth. She sat back and stared at Joan’s face. Nothing. Joan remained motionless; her skin waxen. Breathing as if inflating a reluctant balloon, Mary tried a second time. Again, nothing.
“Come on,” she demanded. Once more she filled her lungs until she felt light-headed, then she exhaled hard, willing every last molecule of her own oxygen down into Joan’s body. There was no response.
“Joan!” She grabbed her bare shoulders and shook her, hard. “Breathe, dammit!”
For what seemed like an eternity Joan lay motionless, then suddenly her chest jerked as if she had the hiccups. Her belly began to rise and slowly the purplish cast seeped from her lips. Her eyes flickered once, and she woke up coughing, like someone pulled drowning from the sea.
“Oh, please keep breathing.” Mary scooped her up in her arms and held her close. “Please . . .”
She clasped her for a long time, desperately trying to infuse her with her own warmth and strength. Slowly, the pale cheeks grew pink. Mary loosened her embrace and looked down at her. Joan’s eyes were open but focusing a thousand lifetimes beyond Mary’s shoulder. Her breath smelled of bile and blood.
“Joan?” Mary smoothed strand
s of sweaty hair away from the battered forehead. Joan stared straight ahead, seemingly unaware of her. “Joan, it’s Mary. Can you hear me?” She did not respond. Mary turned and looked at the rock where Alex had lain. It bore neither the scuffed marks of a struggle nor the bloody detritus of a rape. Neutral, it revealed nothing. Alex might have been there ten minutes ago; Alex might have been a mirage they’d both imagined. She turned back to Joan, and said in as calm a voice as she could muster, “Joan, do you know where Alex is?”
Joan blinked. She tried to speak, but only a hoarse grunt issued from her throat.
Mary looked into Joan’s eyes, willing her to establish some kind of connection. Though she wanted to scream and shake the words out of her, she took another deep breath and kept her voice low. “Joan, you’ve got to tell me what happened to Alex.”
Joan swallowed, wincing in pain. “A man . . . came,” she finally said in a reedy, old-woman voice. “Barefooted. He tied her arms together. Then he put a snake on me and pulled down my pants.” Her words emerged as if English had suddenly become her second language.
Mary frowned. This sounded absurd. A barefooted man with a snake? She held Joan tight. She would squeeze the answers out of her if she had to. “But what happened to Alex?”
Joan shook her head, her body jerking as if she were having some kind of fit. “He tied her up. He put a snake on me. After that . . . Oh, Mary, I don’t know!”
Joan’s voice disintegrated into a high wail. Mary rocked her, repeating her name, trying to soothe her as a mother soothes a baby. A man had found the two of them. He’d raped Joan. But what had he done to Alex? A rage began to race through her veins. This could not be happening. Not again.
“Joan, I’ve got to find Alex.”
“No!” Weeping, Joan grabbed Mary’s neck and clung to her like a terrified child. “Don’t leave me. Don’t! He hurt me!”
“I’ve got to, Joan. Alex may be tied up and hurt, too.” Mary unwrapped Joan’s arms from her neck and got to her feet. “Sit right here. I’m going to look around the spring. You can watch me the whole time.”
In The Forest Of Harm Page 13
