by Bill Hopkins
“He asked her if it was okay if we came in. You don’t know how to handle this. Either keep your mouth shut or I’m leaving.”
“You speak French?”
“I know a few words. Now you behave.”
Rosswell nodded. He and Ollie moved back to the door in time to see Lazar slipping inside. They followed.
Lazar took up his post by the open door, letting the afternoon sunlight tumble in. Maman rocked back and forth in a handmade bentwood rocking chair, posed in front of a huge fireplace. A tan mutt, his gray muzzle speckled with dirt, lay at her feet, sleeping, occasionally farting and snoring. Rosswell said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that there was no fire. The temperature inside the house had to be eighty or eighty-five degrees. Maman’s shriveled body surely couldn’t be cool, yet Rosswell found no traces of sweat on her pale, translucent skin, the color of a corpse. Maybe she’s dehydrated. Maman wore a pale blue kerchief on her head tied behind her neck, holding back her silver hair. Her dress was a simple brown shift. An earthen smell worked its way into Rosswell’s nose. It wasn’t the odor of spoiled dirt, but a smell of clean ground.
“Bienvenue, chasseurs. Vous cherchez le trésoir.” The voice coming from the crone rose up high and squeaky.
Ollie said, “Anglais, s’il vous plait. Je ne parle pas bien le français et mon copain ne comprend rien.”
“I speak your language for you but she’s a barbaric tongue. English sounds like walnuts in a meat grinder, all clanking and clinking, them.”
She wore no shoes, her feet likely callused from years of treading barefoot. A rough-hewn table dominated the middle of the room, a glass pitcher filled with water and an empty coffee mug at one end. A bench on one side of the table furnished the only other place to sit. No one asked Rosswell and Ollie to take a load off. Rosswell stood quietly as possible, watching the transaction.
Ollie caught Rosswell’s attention before he said, “Yes, Maman, we are hunters and yes, we seek treasure.” Rosswell silently thanked Ollie for weaseling in a translation of the French conversation. “My French is bad and my friend here doesn’t speak it at all.”
“So you said. Your French is bad and his nowhere. You miss much when you don’t have the tools to see.” She leaned down and scratched the dog’s ears. The mutt’s breath flapped his jowls every time he exhaled.
Ollie said, “What have you seen?”
The dog stood and snuffled behind Maman’s chair until he found a dry bone. He clamped onto his treasure, then trotted to a corner where he dropped it. Exhausted from the excursion, he reclaimed his nap spot and fell asleep.
Maman scratched her palm. “I see nothing.”
Ollie kicked Rosswell’s foot.
“Oh. Right.” Rosswell handed the bag of silver coins to Ollie, who passed it to Maman.
Ollie said, “I’m sorry for the poor gift.”
Poor gift? Rosswell was floored. Five hundred dollars was a freaking great gift. What was he going to get for his money? Was Maman going to peer into the future? Shouldn’t she have a crystal ball or tea leaves or Tarot cards? Surely, she must be a psychic or something.
Maman hefted the bag. “Good thing I not see much, me.” The coins vanished. Rosswell gaped, amazed that the old woman could hide the silver on her person so quickly. “Dina, I see.”
“Tina,” Rosswell corrected.
Maman growled. “Many stand by Dina. You heard what I say. I say what I mean. You listen and keep your words behind your teeth. Don’t hear. Listen, you, and watch for them.”
Rosswell nodded his agreement, although he wasn’t clear what he’d agreed to.
Ollie knelt at Maman’s side. “What did you see?”
“Cave of one eye have much treasure. Cave of blind eye, she holds a treasure but not what you seek.” Maman let out a soft sigh, then closed her eyes halfway. In a low voice, she sang words that Rosswell couldn’t decipher.
When she finished her song—or, simply quit—Maman rummaged through a pocket on her dress and pulled out a small gold, five-pointed star, hanging on a black braid. “You.” She tossed the necklace to Rosswell. “Much pain you have. Wear this always.”
Rosswell ran his fingers over the flat and narrow braid. Black silk. He obeyed Maman and slipped on the necklace, thinking that even Maman was in on the new local jewelry fad. Or maybe she was the source of it.
After several minutes of silence, he concluded that the conversation was over. He further inventoried the room. No crystal balls, no cards, no incense, no Ouija board. Rosswell could contain himself no longer. “Maman, are you a psychic?”
Maman laughed down deep in her throat, recalling a scene from The Exorcist. “No such thing. I got eyes and I see. I got ears and I hear. I got nose and I smell. I got hands and I feel. I got brain and I think. That’s all you need.” A fleck of spittle settled on her chin, which she wiped away with a gnarled hand. “No psychic, me. No God up above and no Devil down below. Using senses, me. You pay attention, you.”
Rosswell prayed that Maman and Mrs. Bolzoni would never meet, certain that Mrs. Bolzoni wouldn’t appreciate Maman’s Frenchness.
Maman rocked for many more minutes, the chair creaking, Ollie kneeling beside her, Rosswell silent, waiting for anything else.
The dog woke up, retrieved the bone from the corner, and dropped it behind Maman’s chair. Again, he regained his spot to finish his nap.
Eventually, Maman said, “You boys best be getting, you. Lazar, you got tabac for my pipe?”
Rosswell and Ollie stood outside Maman’s door. Lazar had disappeared.
Rosswell said, “Her left thumbprint was blood red.”
“Maybe she pinched it in a door.”
“It was tattooed. Why?” Rosswell considered all he’d heard. “ ‘Cave of one eye have much treasure. Cave of blind eye, she holds a treasure but not what you seek,’ ” Rosswell quoted Maman. “I don’t understand what went on in there. Are there two caves? Two treasures? Are we supposed to seek the treasure in the cave of one eye but we’ll find a real treasure in the cave of the blind eye but it won’t be what we seek? I’m confused.”
“Omne ignotum pro magnifico.”
“Sherlock Holmes said that. Everything unknown is magnificent. That doesn’t explain anything. She’s an atheist fortuneteller?”
Ollie stared at the closed door. “Maybe she’s never read the Bible.”
“If you believe the scriptures are the only source of knowledge about God, then you have never witnessed a sunrise.” Rosswell fondled the braid of the necklace. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s soutache, an old-fashioned decorative braid, sometimes used to cover a seam on a piece of clothing. The braid represents earth. The star represents heaven.”
“A seam? That’s where two pieces of something come together. Is that what we’re searching for?”
“I’m a lamb lost in the fog.”
“More like a goat confused by the smog.” Rosswell stroked the necklace. “I’ve seen a lot of these around lately. Must be like mood rings. I’ll bet they sell them at every truck stop in the country.” The necklace joined the crucifix that Father Mike Smothers—Mabel’s uncle—had gifted him when he was in the hospital with a gunshot wound at the same time that Tina was being treated for her wound.
Two talismans. Hope one of them works. Preferably both, but if only one works, I’ll be happy.
“Uh-huh, mood rings.” Ollie rolled his eyes. “Anyway, time to go find that cave. If Maman saw something, it must be around here, somewhere on this bluff. Probably on the river side since we didn’t see any caves on this side.”
Rosswell spotted a flat place next to the cabin. Four rows of rocks. He nudged Ollie. “A cemetery.”
Ollie mouthed words silently as his finger bobbed. “Four rows, twenty-five stones in each row. One hundred graves.”
“Unless there’s been a mass death recently, that’s a bunch of old Fribeaus buried in that cemetery.”
“Interesting. But there are th
ousands of graves out in the hills in cemeteries all over the State of Missouri. For now, we need to focus on caves.”
Rosswell said, “All right. Then what’s a cave of one eye?”
“Let’s go find out.”
They clambered down the opposite side of the bluff, the one facing the Mississippi. The cliff was covered with vines, trees sprouting out of cracks in the rock, and various other plants impeding their progress. Here and there indentations appeared, but nothing deep enough to be called a cave.
Rosswell stopped, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Hold on before I collapse from the heat and fall in the river. Let’s talk this out. How would you define cave?”
“A hole in the ground. More specifically, an underground hole that’s got air in it and large enough for somebody to explore it.”
Rosswell poked into one of the indentations in the rock face. “I can see the back of this hole. If it’s a cave, it’s small. Tiny.”
Ollie turned his head left and right, up and down. He threw up his hands. “There aren’t any caves overlooking the river. Or, if there are, they’re lower down and covered by water right now because the river’s up. And if a cave is full of water, we won’t be going in it unless we plan on scuba diving.”
“We’re not equipped to explore wet or dry caves. I hate dark places. Especially small, dark places. Claustrophobia plus fear of the dark.” The thought of how many snakes could be in a cave sent ice spiders shimmying down Rosswell’s spine. There might be real spiders, too. That thought made him whimper. If he were forced into a tight cave, he’d go if it meant finding a clue about Tina. “Center. Center. Center.”
“Center of what? You think you’re the center of the universe?”
Rosswell stopped the chanting since it did no good.
Ollie checked his watch. “Let’s go back to town. We’ll get flashlights, candles, whatever we need and come out here tomorrow, when we’re fresh.”
“I’ll be free about noon.” Then, under his breath, added, “Maybe the snakes will be gone by then. And will have carried off the spiders.”
They trudged down through the trees and brush toward the river, Rosswell hoping that they were headed in the direction of the truck. The sun began its slow march to darkness, the shadows of the men stretching to infinity.
“Wait.” Rosswell stopped. “How do we get back to the truck?”
“There’s a cut in the bluff down by the river. It’s flat and we can walk right through it to the other side of the hill,” Ollie said. “I don’t know why Lazar couldn’t have waited for us.”
“He’s quite inconsiderate.” Rosswell glanced over his shoulder. “Wonder if he made it down—” He grabbed Ollie’s arm. “Take a gander.”
Ollie shifted his view to the same direction Rosswell looked. “Eyes.”
“The light from the sun makes that part of the cliff look like a skull.”
On the formation, one of the eyes was lit by the sun, the other, in shade, stayed dark.
Rosswell said, “The cave of one eye. But is there one or two caves?”
“Two. Unless they’re connected, then there’s one. Which eye do we search first?”
“Let’s try the one that has the light.” Rosswell didn’t try to hide his reasoning. “Maybe that’s the cave we’re searching for. If so, then we don’t have to go in the dark cave.”
They reversed their direction, climbing back up the bluff.
Ollie said, “You’re a spelunker.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s not a compliment. That’s an insult to a caver, which I am.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“There are three terms you need to know. A spelunker is someone who bumbles into caves. That’s you, but not me. A speleologist is a scientist who studies caves. That’s not you or me. A caver is an informed explorer. That’s me, definitely not you.”
“Oh, mighty caver.” Rosswell saluted. “Let us bumble on.”
“Yes, let’s. Missouri is a cave factory, especially in this part of the state. We’ve got lots of carbonate rock, plenty of rain, vegetation galore, entrances you would die for, and variable climate. Not to mention that the caves in Missouri are the only ones in the whole United States featuring true Karst topography.”
“I learned that in math class.”
“No, you didn’t. It’s geology.”
“I knew that.”
“Karst topography means a geological formation shaped by dissolving bedrock. Around here, that’s limestone. Another feature can be sinkholes. We’ve got lots of those. Some Karst areas have a gazillion caves, although the presence of caves isn’t necessary for a region to be true Karst topography.”
“Karst topography means dissolving bedrock.” Rosswell threw up his hands. “Now, please, stop.” He couldn’t take one more syllable from Ollie. “I believe you.”
“Cavers rescue spelunkers for the reason you demonstrated—you don’t want to know about caves.”
The sun, setting on the land side of the bluff, made the side they were on dimmer. If they wanted light, they needed to hurry. Peering inside the cave where the sun’s weakening rays managed to penetrate, it was dry—except where the stream from a small spring gurgled out. The entrance was narrow and the cave shallow.
Rosswell noted droppings, fur, and gnawed bones. “I think a bear is using this cave.”
“I hope he’s out searching for food.”
“Maybe it’s a mountain lion.” Rosswell planted his feet, working up a dab of courage to keep himself moving forward. “I wish I had my gun.”
“I hope the bear and the cat meet up and kill each other.”
Ollie dove into the cave. Rosswell reluctantly followed.
They crawled along the floor and examined every wall. Near the back of the cave, Rosswell disturbed a salamander. “Crap. A snake with feet.” If there were treasure of any kind, it wasn’t visible. “Nothing of value here.”
Outside, Rosswell watched the sun’s rays weakening. “Let’s get in the next cave before we lose all our light.” This side of the bluff, facing east with the sun behind it in the west, grew dark before the other side of the bluff.
Rosswell, his courage a tad stronger now that he’d explored a hole in the ground without dying, plunged into the dim cave before Ollie. The darkness swallowed the light shining from the outside. He pushed away thoughts of snakes, bears, or something else watching him from somewhere in the back of the cave.
That’s when he stumbled over a body and fell to the ground like a burlap bag full of hammers.
Rosswell screeched. “There’s a corpse in here!”
“Freaking frost!” Ollie yipped, then, glancing at Rosswell, who was indeed lying next to a dead person, asked, “Are you all right?”
A sharp intake of air hurt Rosswell. No bones were broken. “Better than him.” The corpse paid no attention to the men. “Got the wind knocked out of me. I’ll be okay when I remember how to breathe.” Rosswell eyeballed the dead guy. “Is that who I think it is?”
Ollie stared at the corpse in the remaining light. “This messes up our investigation.”
Rosswell’s nose caught a faint odor. There was only the barest hint of decay. The corpse was fresh. In fact, the corpse was Ribs Freshwater. A hole, drilled in Ribs’s forehead by a small caliber weapon, was the only obvious wound. A trickle of dark stain meandered down the corpse’s nose.
Rosswell pointed to a plastic bag lying on top of the body. “What’s that?” A piece of paper lay inside, the typed words on it starkly visible even in the waning light.
Ollie knelt and leaned over the body. “There’s a message.”
“Don’t touch anything.” Rosswell struggled to his feet.
“But—”
“This should be called in right now.” Rosswell, hands shaking, wrangled his cell phone from his pocket. “No bars. I’ll have to get out of this cave to call 9-1-1.” Rosswell stepped out and reported the find. After
he disconnected, he asked Ollie, “Can you read the message?”
“It says, ‘Rosswell Carew is next.’ ”
Chapter 12
Last Wednesday Afternoon
Although Sheriff Gustave Fribeau arrived on the scene quickly, it seemed to Rosswell that it took hours. Waiting with a dead man slowed time way down.
“Judge, you find more corpses than the average bear.”
“It’s a talent I have.”
“You have that fancy camera with you?”
Rosswell fixed the Nikon at eye level. “Always.”
“I’ve got crime scene folks coming down from Saint Louis. But I want photos myself. You got plenty of flash bulbs? It’s mighty dark in here.”
“I haven’t bought a single flash bulb since 2006.” Rosswell snapped a picture of Gustave, filling the cave with a burst of light brighter than sunshine. “Electronic flash.”
Gustave blinked and spit on the ground. “Do you mind taking photos?”
“No.” Rosswell started snapping. “By the way, be sure to tell the CSI that black thing on the ground is part of your cigar. You don’t want to screw up the crime scene.”
“Don’t you screw up the crime scene.” Gustave drifted close to Ollie. “And you are?”
“Ollie Groton.” Ollie stuck out his hand but Gustave ignored it. “I’m Judge Carew’s research assistant.”
“I didn’t know judges had research assistants.”
“Special assignment.”
Rosswell stopped snapping pictures. “I pay Ollie for information on non-judicial projects I’m developing.”
Gustave’s reaction showed he wasn’t buying this greased pig in a puny poke.
“In fact, I have heard about Ollie. Your sheriff in Bollinger County tells me he’s a criminal.”
“Respectful correction, Sheriff,” Ollie said. “I’m certain that Sheriff Frizz Dodson told you that I was a recovering criminal.”
“See to it that you don’t recover anything in Sainte Gen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Even though Ollie had never stolen anything, Rosswell knew his research assistant was smart enough not to argue with a sheriff. Ollie didn’t want to spend any more time in jail on charges, trumped up or real.
