Lindsay took a drink of tea, letting the sweet, cold liquid slide down her tight throat, hoping her hand wasn’t shaking, but she could hear the ice clinking in the glass as she drank. The people at the table stared at her.
“I tried to fight them off. I tried to run into the woods. Then . . .” She shrugged. “Then, nothing. One of them hit me with something, or perhaps tried to shoot me and the bullet creased my head.”
She touched a thin red scar on the side of her forehead. “I don’t remember. If the blow is hard enough, you don’t remember getting hit. It was never recorded in my memory.”
“My God,” whispered Erin.
“They apparently thought they had killed me. My next memory was waking up choking on dirt. They had buried me, and I had to claw my way out of the grave. Fortunately, it was a shallow grave.”
Shallow grave, thought Lindsay. How many had she excavated in her career? And now, she had excavated her own . . . from the inside. How ironic.
“That would sure make me have a nervous breakdown,” said Sharon, after a long pause during which the only sound was the creaking of the house, like the gentle rattling of old bones.
“But that wasn’t the result,” Lindsay said. “The head injury and the trauma of the attack caused me to have amnesia. I didn’t know who I was or where I was. A truck driver found me wandering down the highway and took me to the hospital in Mac’s Crossing, the nearest town. After a couple of days, a strange man tried to claim me by showing a doctored picture of me and him together to the hospital personnel. Fortunately, I was able to escape. The FBI established my identity from my fingerprints. My boyfriend, John West, came looking for me and found me hiding in the woods in the dark. He took me home to Georgia, where I recovered my memory the following day.”
Lindsay waited for the sensation that the dark fear surrounding her was lifting with this telling of the story. But as with the other tellings and retellings, this recounting of the experience didn’t change anything. She still felt like she was smothering in a grave.
Everyone was still, perhaps afraid to speak. Claire stared at her food, twirling her fork in the mashed potatoes. Drew’s face was frozen into a concerned frown. Adam, who had unwittingly opened this can of worms, stared at the table, as if watching them squirm about. Mrs. Laurens broke the choked silence.
“What a frightening experience. I’d be at home with my doors locked. You must be a strong girl.”
“I just don’t want them to win.”
“Do you have any idea why they attacked you?” asked Marina.
“I think it was random. Maybe they’ve done it before. I don’t really know. The police are at a dead end.”
“That’s a terrible thing to have happen,” said Drew. “And here I’ve been worrying about a little process server.”
“You said someone tried to claim you,” said Kelsey. “Was it the one who attacked you? You mean he came after you?”
“I believe it was one of the men who attacked me—there were actually two of them, the other one was waiting outside the hospital. I assume they wanted to make sure I didn’t recognize them. They were never found. I couldn’t describe them, and apparently the nurse at the hospital was no help. Unfortunately, after I recovered my memory, I could no longer remember much about what had happened during the time I had amnesia.”
“Aren’t you scared?” Kelsey asked.
“Not now,” Lindsay lied. She was terrified.
Mrs. Laurens rose to get dessert. Chocolate cake, in honor of Drew’s visit.
“It’s a wonder you didn’t go completely crazy,” said Powell.
“I’m getting accustomed to adventure.” Lindsay tried to give him a convincing smile.
“You mean similar things have happened before?” Bill pushed his plate forward to make room for dessert.
“I’ve been shot, stabbed, kidnapped a couple of times, and lost in a cave. Being buried alive was a piece of cake.” That’s right, her inner voice told her. Laugh at your fears and they will go away—someday.
Everyone laughed. They thought she was kidding.
“You’re serious,” said Bill after a moment.”
“Unfortunately, it’s true.”
“Exactly how do you get into these . . . adventures?” he asked.
“I’m also a forensic anthropologist. In the course of identifying skeletal remains, I sometimes become entangled in the solution of the crime.”
“What, exactly, does that mean?” Dillon asked.
“It means she doesn’t mind her own business and gets into trouble.” Lindsay could see she hadn’t enlisted Claire’s sympathy.
“Claire,” said Kelsey, “what is wrong with you?”
“I just call things as I see them.”
“You’re just rude . . . and jealous,” said Adam.
Trent leaned forward and glared at Adam. “Now listen here, don’t you . . .”
“You’re just sucking up to Lindsay because you want to apply to graduate school at UGA,” Claire said to Adam. “Don’t think everyone hasn’t noticed.”
“Stop this,” said Drew. “Obviously, Lindsay’s been through a lot, and I’d like to eat Mrs. Laurens’ wonderful cake in peace.”
“Amen,” said Powell.
Dinner ended after the cake. As usual, several of the women asked Mrs. Laurens if they could help with the dishes. And as usual, she refused.
“Jimmy and I can do them,” she said, smiling.
Lindsay imagined that dining with the crew was enough for her, and washing dishes alone with her husband was a relief.
As Lindsay started to climb the stairs to the second floor to her room, she heard Drew’s voice ring out from the living room. “I love it!”
Lindsay walked across the hall and peeked in. Sharon and Bill were there about to hang a photograph next to the site map.
“Now that’s beautiful,” said Lindsay when she saw the object of Drew’s praise.
Bill smiled broadly. “It is, isn’t it?”
The twenty-five by seventeen inch photograph was a wide panorama of the crew working on the site, with a hazy view of the mountains in the distance. She had remembered him taking photographs, but had no idea he was such a good photographer. The neat thing about this one was the ghostly superimposed cabins and outbuildings—as they might have been.
“Bill is really good,” said Sharon. “I’ve tried to encourage him to chuck the accounting business and take up photography, but no deal.”
“The photography probably wouldn’t be as fun if I did it for a living. Besides, I like accounting. As long as there are things to count, there’ll be a need for accountants.”
“Bill comes from such a conservative family. I’m not sure they know what to do with an archaeologist among them.” Sharon gazed at her husband with obvious pride.
“How did you do it?” Lindsay asked. She looked closer at the crew. “In fact, how did you get yourself in the photograph?”
Bill laughed. “Magic, my dear. Actually, the cabins are the ones in Cade’s Cove. The picture of me is one I made with a timed delay. I used a computer to combine all the images.”
The phone rang. Drew answered it and settled into a far corner with her back to them, talking in low tones.
“What I’d love to do is to write a book about the site and use this as a cover,” Sharon whispered. She peeked through the dining room and hallway door. “That is, if the site turns out decent. Claire just doesn’t have it, and I’m afraid she’s going to mess the whole thing up.”
“It would make a lovely dust jacket,” said Lindsay. “I’d love to have a copy of this.”
“Sure,” said Bill. “I’m glad you like it.”
“It’s wonderful.”
Lindsay left them in the living room and took a chance that Claire would be alone in the bedroom she shared with Drew.
Claire stood looking at papers spread out on a table beside the door to the second-floor balcony off her room. The fading sunlight shone through he
r permed light brown hair like a halo.
“Claire,” said Lindsay, “I need to speak with you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I don’t know what I did to offend you, but whatever it was, I apologize.”
She blew across the surface of the mug of hot tea she held in her left hand. “You came to apologize?”
Lindsay couldn’t see Claire’s face clearly because of the setting sun shining through the trees, so she came into the room and stood in front of her.
“That, and to tell you to stop telling people I’ve had a nervous breakdown and that my work has suffered because of it. If you got that mistaken impression from somewhere, I can understand. If it’s malicious, I’m afraid I’m at a loss. Whichever, it has to stop.”
“I believe they call what you had hysterical amnesia.” She emphasized the word hysterical as though Lindsay had been found screaming in the woods.
“Don’t fence words with me. You may think you’re being clever, but I take my reputation seriously and will defend it seriously.”
Claire’s dark eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me?”
“I don’t threaten. Nor do I bluff. I’m trying civil conversation first. If that doesn’t work, then I hope you have extra funds in your personal budget for an attorney.”
“I suppose you want special treatment, too.”
“No. I want you to stop spreading rumors.”
Claire balled up her fist at her side. “You people think you’re so important, sitting up there in your clubhouse judging who can get through the gate and who can’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Prelims? Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Get out of here. If you want people to think nothing happened to you, fine. I’ll go along with your charade.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Get out. This is my room and I didn’t invite you.”
Lindsay turned to leave, but looked back. “We all admired you making off with the truck today. You should have seen the look on the guy’s face.”
Lindsay left before Claire could respond, passing Trent on the way through the door. “Is she bothering you?” she heard him say as she turned the corner to the hallway that led to her room.
She’s angry with me because she didn’t pass her prelims? Lindsay shook her head. If I had any sense, I’d leave right now. Why in the world did I tell Lewis I’d give it another week?
She knew why—it was the way everyone treated her, even her friends. They made her feel incompetent, that she needed a rest—as if she could no longer think—and her ability to think was who she was. Lewis had trusted her to do a job, treating her injuries as if they were no big deal.
Lindsay sighed, kicked off her shoes, and stretched out on her mattress with the folder Marina had left with her earlier.
Chapter 11
A Ghost Of A Girl
THE SMOKY MOUNTAINS are ancient. The rocks forming the tops of Mount Le Conte and Clingmans Dome had their origins beneath an ocean more than a billion years ago. A creeping collision of continents caused massive strata of rock to thrust over one another, fold, and tilt upward, forming the Appalachian Mountain chain, of which the Smokies are a part. Through the eons, the continents broke apart and separated again, leaving a segment of the long Appalachian chain on the North American continent and a segment in the British Isles and Europe.
The Smokies were tall in their beginning, as tall as the brand-new Rocky Mountains are today. But the effects of wind, rain, ice, heat, and cold worked like a sculptor’s chisel, carving deep ravines and leaving tall peaks. Where the artist’s chisel sculpted through older, harder Precambrian rock of the high ground, it exposed younger, softer Paleozoic limestones and shales that had been overridden by the thrust fault.
Over time, the erosive effects became more like the fingers of an artist, smoothing the sharp edges and working down the mountains into gentler hills and valleys. The Paleozoic layers became the coves—valleys surrounded by higher and older Precambrian rock formations. The ceaseless weathering of the limestone in the coves created deep, fertile soils, making perfect homesteads for farmers like the Gallowses to settle.
* * *
Lindsay reached for a Dr Pepper in her ice chest and popped the tab, sending a tiny mist of fizz over her bed. She took a long drink before continuing to peruse the results of the Gallows farmstead survey by Eco Analysts.
Eco Analysts had not skimped on their work at the site. Before the company went under they had produced maps of the topography, the current vegetation, the distribution of surface artifacts, and a map based on their survey with metal detectors. They also had taken an aerial photograph and produced ground-penetrating radar profiles. The results of the survey with the metal detectors were particularly impressive, producing a prodigious number of hits around the area identified as the barn. A large version of their artifact map on the living room wall downstairs had the excavation units marked as black squares.
Lindsay pulled out the Cultural Resource Management report. CRM reports are often dry, and sometimes only a cursory exercise to fulfill the legal obligation that they be produced. This report, however, was a detailed description of the method and discoveries made in the initial culture survey. Lindsay looked to see who had written it and noted several of the current crew among the authors—including Claire.
She spotted another interesting name in the acknowledgments. The late Mary Susan Tidwell had been one of the informants who supplied the survey team with anecdotal information and led them to documents archived by the local historical society. Copies of those documents also were in the folder—Josh Gallows’s will, his deed to the farmstead, a church membership role, pages from a diary written by Hope Foute, wife of the local physician, and a copy of the record page from the Gallows family Bible. The CRM contained enough information to produce a reasonable history of the area, the family, and their farm, even without the data the archaeologists were currently recovering from the ground.
Knave’s Seat Cove, location of the Gallows farmstead, was a smaller version of the popular Cade’s Cove located in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The valley, lush in the summer, harsh and often inaccessible in the winter, was, for a period of time, home to several self-sufficient families. Josh Gallows bought his three-hundred-acre parcel from Clarence Foute in 1836 and moved to the property with his wife, Rosellen, and Elisha, his eight-year-old son from a previous marriage. Together, with the help of their neighbors, they built a house and barn.
According to information contained in his will, by the time Josh Gallows died in 1857, he also had built a smokehouse, a springhouse, and two other unnamed outbuildings. Listed among his property were eight cows, two horses, seven pigs, a loom and tackle, flax wheels, a hunting rifle, and several kinds of animal traps, all of which he left to his only surviving offspring, Elisha Gallows. Those possessions suggested that Josh Gallows had grown flax, from which he had made linen, that he raised farm animals, and that an important part of his livelihood came from hunting. He had not been a slaveholder, but kept from two to three hired hands at any one time.
“He grew flax,” Lindsay whispered to herself. “Where were the fields?”
The research questions underlying the Gallows farmstead archaeological excavation concerned site habitation and techniques used in the construction of buildings. The excavation site proper was small—about three acres—but Lindsay was curious about where the entire three-hundred-acre farmstead had extended. The original farmstead was cleared in 1838. Now, trees grew over it in abundance. How long had it remained in cultivation? Perhaps there was a clue in the trees.
The vegetation maps showed that except for the side bordering on the national park, the woods immediately surrounding the excavation site were mostly immature pines mixed with hardwoods of no more than twenty or thirty years of age. These fields could have been in cultivation until relatively recently. Or, they could
have grown to mature forests and been cut several times since the last habitation of the farm. How long is forest succession in this area? she wondered to herself. She didn’t really know.
She had seen the old growth stands in dense wilderness areas of the Smokies where the toppling of a giant tree can open as much as a quarter of an acre to the sun. There was none of that old growth here. Two-thirds of the Smokies have been logged, some as recently as seventy years ago. Those areas have grown back a succession of pines and softwoods to dense forests of tall hardwoods of a hundred feet or more in height. None of the trees around the Gallows site came close to that.
Lindsay got up to look out the window. Although her room didn’t have a door, it did have intact pane glass windows. Most of the other windows in the house had succumbed to the rocks and bullets of vandals and were now covered with clear plastic and duct tape, or completely boarded up. The round shape of her bedroom with its three windows allowed her a panoramic view of the woods, about the only perk the place served up.
In the fading light, the mountain laurel, rhododendron, and groves of devil’s walking stick were deep green against the dark hardwoods looming behind them. She noticed Mr. and Mrs. Laurens lingering in the parking lot, talking to Erin. Before Mrs. Laurens got in her car, she shook a finger at Erin. She shut the door and Erin walked away with her head low and her arms folded under her breasts. Odd, thought Lindsay, what an intimate personal gesture a scolding is. She wondered if Erin and Mrs. Laurens knew each other before meeting at the site.
Lindsay shifted her gaze to the view of the site. In her mind’s eye, she rebuilt the house, the barn, the outbuildings. It looked like there were two springhouses, one completely excavated, and the newly discovered one. She could barely see anything of the woods except a dark tree line; however, she would bet that the flax fields were across the Little Branch Creek. Soil samples would reveal if there were flax pollen there. Perhaps she’d take soil samples from the woods, just to satisfy her curiosity.
Airtight Case Page 8
