Airtight Case

by Beverly Connor

  She stretched back down on her mattress, turned on the brass lamp sitting on the floor beside her bed, and took up the CRM report again. The legal documents indicated that the Gallowses were a reasonably prosperous farming family. The entries from Hope Foute’s diary and the page from the Gallows Bible revealed a more personal story. Josh Gallows’s wife, Rosellen, had confided in the doctor’s wife who, fortunately for interested historians, kept council with her journal.

  Hope Foute described Rosellen Gallows as a big-boned, doe-eyed girl, scared of her own shadow, who hated moving from their home in Maryland to the mountains of Tennessee. She was afraid of Indians and dreaded the harsh existence as a farmer’s wife. Her husband’s assurances that the government was “taking care of the Indian problem” did not allay her fears. Nor did her temperament improve as seven of eight children born to her died within their first year. Following the birth of the eighth child, Mrs. Gallows was in such an exhausted state that her husband worried she couldn’t care for the new baby boy, and the child was taken in and nursed by Mrs. Foute’s daughter. Indeed, Rosellen’s ill health must have lasted a while, for the child wasn’t returned until the age of two. He died six months later. Hope Foute wrote that Rosellen Gallows had two more pregnancies that ended in miscarriages. Afterward, Rosellen fell into deep melancholia and died of heart failure.

  Lindsay touched the photocopied page from the Gallows family Bible with the tips of her fingers. The name of each child born to Rosellen Gallows was written in a neat, flowing hand. Rosellen had signed the bottom of the page. It was a sad little page and pitiful to think about Rosellen herself, sitting down and recording the birth and death of each of her children. Infant mortality was high during that time and in that place, as a cursory inspection of the old cemeteries eloquently reveals.

  Josh Gallows’s health and fortunes took a downward turn after the death of his wife. Due to the onset of gout, he was unable to hunt or to run his farm successfully, even with the help of hired hands and his son, Elisha. He died in 1857 of heart failure. Elisha sold the property and moved away.

  The cove community was almost decimated during the Civil War. Only a few of the old families still remained when Elisha Gallows returned in 1882 with a wife and two children. He bought back a portion of his family’s original homestead and built Gallows House near his former home—the house that was now temporary accommodations for the archaeology crew.

  There was a separate page in the folder on the topic of ghosts. Mary Susan Tidwell reported that her great-great-stepgrandmother, Rosellen Gallows, had reported several instances of seeing apparitions in the woods and hearing voices.

  No mystery there, thought Lindsay. Between probable postpartum depression and the trauma produced by the loss of her children, the poor woman’s already fragile mental state was primed for hallucinations. The apparition was likely the white tail of a deer, or perhaps a hunter, or simply her own grief manifested in some ethereal shape.

  Hope Foute, the doctor’s wife, reported seeing a woman in white fleeing through the woods when she was a child. Rather clichéd, thought Lindsay. Mary Susan Tidwell herself said she saw something white on the stairs on several occasions as a little girl while visiting her grandmother in the house built by Elisha Gallows. Miss Tidwell was related to the Gallowses. Interesting.

  Many of the area’s older residents were quoted in the report as saying that Knave’s Seat Cove had a reputation as a bad place. Some said the gate to hell was in the cove, though no particular incident was cited that might have been responsible for attracting malevolence, and the area had no more murders or premature deaths than any other place. One informant told a sketchy story of a young girl drowning herself in one of the cove’s ponds, her body never found. A woman from the historical society writing an article for the local paper one Halloween blamed the manifestations on Rosellen, not so much because she lost so many babies, but because the last one had lived for two years with another family and then died when returned to Rosellen’s care. She suggested that perhaps Rosellen couldn’t leave the earth because of a guilty conscience.

  Lindsay wondered why the writer of the article hadn’t mentioned the ghosts seen by Hope Foute or Rosellen Gallows herself. It didn’t escape Lindsay’s notice, either, that the only people to have seen the ghosts were children and a woman of questionable mental stability. Mary Susan Tidwell, when asked about the ghosts, said they were simply souls who had left things undone. Lindsay imagined that everyone who died must leave things undone. When in life do you have everything finished? Had she died in the woods after the attack on her, she’d have left a surfeit of things undone.

  Lindsay rose and stretched. If it weren’t for Claire, this would be a great site. Nothing to beat a good ghost story. She finished her drink, dropped the can in the brown grocery bag she used for recycling, and stepped over to the window. The sound of someone coming through the curtain behind her startled her.

  “Lindsay? It’s me, Drew. Can I come in?”

  “Sure. What can I do for you?”

  “We really need to do something about a door for you, don’t we?”

  “A door would be nice.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Cal Strickland said we can make only minimal changes.”

  “It seems to me that refitting a door wouldn’t constitute a change.”

  “I believe he’s the one who removed it. Anyway, I came to apologize. I know that sometimes Claire is difficult to take. But you have to understand what a difficult time she’s had.”

  Lindsay had paragraphs of responses to Drew’s particular defense of Claire, but she said nothing. Drew looked around the room.

  “You need some chairs, too, don’t you? There are some extras in the living room. Why don’t you take one?”

  I will, thought Lindsay, but it’s only a problem when I have company.

  “Claire could be a good archaeologist. She only needs self-confidence. That’s why I gave her the job as site director.”

  “The needs of Claire came before the requirements of the site?”

  Lindsay hadn’t meant to say that out loud. A confrontation with Drew was the last thing she wanted. And, as many of her friends would remind her, it wasn’t really any of her business.

  Drew smiled thinly. “No. I’m still principal investigator, and Claire isn’t incompetent. You know how some faculty are. They consider themselves to be gatekeepers more than teachers. At South Carolina I wasn’t on the graduate faculty, so I couldn’t do much more than give Claire moral support. She froze up during her prelims, and the committee was very sarcastic about her abilities.”

  “Drew, this is none of my business. If you’re satisfied with Claire’s work, then that’s all that matters.”

  “There’s a rumor that you’re here to evaluate our work on the site.”

  Drew stood with her back against the wall. She slid down the wall and sat on the floor. Lindsay sat down cross-legged in front of her.

  “It’s not true. That doesn’t make any sense. Why would this site more than any other need some archaeologist from Georgia to pass on it?”

  “You weren’t sent here to spy on us?”

  Lindsay thought for a moment on how to answer that. The moment lasted too long to deny, and Drew narrowed her dark eyes. Lindsay opted for the truth, rather than some clumsy attempt at avoiding the question.

  “I didn’t come here to spy. I came here under direction from Francisco Lewis to help out at the site. Today I spoke with Lewis. I asked if he had any ulterior motive for sending me here. He and Keith York are friends. He said York is concerned about the Tidwell accusations—not that he believes the accusations, but he doesn’t want rumors to get out of hand. Lewis, as is his way, told York I could come take a look. As is also his way, he didn’t tell me until I’d been up here a week. I’m not a spy, and I believe Lewis and York simply thought I could help in some way. Lewis seems to think I’m good at damage control.”

  “Are you?”

  “I do
n’t think so. I don’t know any of my colleagues who would call me diplomatic.”

  A hint of a smile played around Drew’s lips. “But you do have a knack for solving things. I’ve read about you.”

  “It’s what we archaeologists do, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t kill that Tidwell woman, and I didn’t steal anything of hers.”

  “As far as I know, no one but Alfred Tidwell thinks you did, and from what Sharon and Bill said at dinner, he’s probably just trying to get a settlement.”

  “The only papers any of us saw were from the historical society, and they have the originals.” Drew leaned her head back against the wall and looked at the ceiling. “Maybe he thought those papers were hers.”

  “Have York get you a lawyer.”

  “My husband’s a lawyer. He said he’ll sort it out.”

  “Then it’s on its way to being solved.”

  “I don’t want a public record of these accusations against me.” Drew stood up. “Did you tell that process server, Broach Moore, I was here?”

  Lindsay stood. “No, I didn’t. Why on earth would I? I have my own problems.”

  Drew focused on the woods in the distance, as if trying to see something that made sense to her.

  “Maybe it was Mr. Laurens or his wife who tipped Moore off. They live in the community. Maybe they thought it was their duty.”

  “Maybe Adam was right,” Lindsay suggested. “Perhaps Moore came back looking for his truck and just saw you. I can tell you, he loves that truck.”

  Drew shrugged. “Maybe. Look. I’ll tell Claire to lay off you. I know she’s not easy to get along with.” She pulled back the curtain and started to leave, hesitated, and turned back to Lindsay. “I’d prefer you not investigate this Tidwell business. After all, it isn’t your or Lewis’s concern, is it?”

  “No it isn’t. I didn’t really plan to do anything but talk to you anyway. This was not my idea. There is one other thing.”

  “What’s that?” Drew let the curtain drop.

  “Trent. It’s obvious that he stays in some kind of altered state of awareness. You really need to have a talk with him.”

  “Have you seen him using drugs?”

  “No. But this is a big house. I have a theory that some of the knocking and tapping sounds are Trent going either to the attic or the basement. I know others at the site are concerned about it. If this thing with Tidwell does end up in court, it won’t help your case if a member of the crew under your supervision is caught buying or using drugs.”

  “That’s a good point. I’ll speak with him.” Drew smiled and left.

  Lindsay hoped Drew would remember to see about a door. Maybe John would build her one. She sat back down on her bed and studied the maps. As she leafed through the ground-penetrating radar profiles, an anomaly jumped out at her. It was in the profile that sliced through the trash pit—where Adam was digging a trench. Something large and solid about four feet deep. She carefully examined the other profiles and found a similar pattern at the same depth in the slice through the feature she believed to be a cemetery. Lindsay circled the suspicious shapes. She had an inkling of what they might be. She had seen a radar profile with a dense signature like this before. This kind of discovery was far more interesting than whatever drama Drew and the local community residents were playing out.

  She thought about showing the anomalies to Drew but decided against it. Right now, Drew was probably too focused on her legal problems to appreciate the possibilities. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Instead, Lindsay changed into her nightshirt and slipped under the covers with a book she’d been wanting to read, an autobiography of a female forensic anthropologist. Maybe I should write a book, she thought as the room grew dark, leaving only a small circle of lamplight at the head of her bed.

  She didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly it was pitch dark and she was lying on something lumpy. She couldn’t breathe. She strained to take a breath, and jerked with a spasm of coughing. Something grainy was in her mouth . . . Dirt? Was it dirt? She tried to spit it out, but couldn’t. It was harder to breathe, and her head ached. She could die from the pain. She wanted to hold her head in her hands, but her arms were pinned. Some heavy thickness covered her entire body. She felt paralyzed, unable to move. She panicked, tried to cry, but choked on whatever was in her mouth. She was blind, or in the dark, or her eyes were closed.

  Open your eyes.

  Darkness.

  Open them!

  Glittering shafts of light danced for a moment, then were gone, then were back and gone again. There was a small hollow of space around her head, a small place that wasn’t covered by the heavy thickness, but the space was disappearing. Every struggle to move made the space smaller.

  You have to move. You have to move.

  She lifted and pushed her right arm with all her strength . . . until she felt . . . a breeze. Something fell on her face. She felt panic.

  Move. Move. Hurry. Struggle harder.

  She rose from her grave.

  Lindsay jerked awake grappling with the sheet covering her head, gasping for breath. Her heart beat so fast and hard her hand went to her chest to hold it. She stayed in that position, frozen with nauseating fear.

  Oh, God, don’t let me relive this every night.

  Her breaths were as ragged as if she were still . . . still there. She gathered the strength to get out of bed and slip on her shoes. Shaking from head to foot, she grabbed her robe and slipped it on as she stumbled through her curtains and down the hall.

  The bathroom door was closed and she saw a thin strip of light coming from under it. Someone was there. Damn. What time is it? Why don’t people stay in bed? she thought irritably as she started downstairs to the bathroom on the first floor. The stairs were dark. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a flashlight? She walked slowly, keeping a hand on the wall. Except for the creaking, the dark confined space reminded her of the cave she’d been lost in. The stairway was like the long cave tunnels she had wanted to lead upward, but invariably led down.

  It’s a staircase, she told herself over and over. A staircase. You know where it leads.

  The tiny bathroom at the bottom of the stairs, thankfully, was unoccupied. She fumbled with the light switch and made a mental note not to drink anything before she went to bed at night. She wished she had brought some aspirin with her. Her head was splitting.

  Lindsay crossed over to the sink and turned on the faucet. She glanced into the mirror over the sink and jumped back. She would have screamed if she had any breath in her. It wasn’t her face staring back at her. It was the face of a girl with flaming red hair, freckles, deep green eyes, and features contorted in terror.

  Chapter 12

  Something In The Trench

  LINDSAY STARED AT the face, not moving, not realizing that she was holding her breath until her lungs forced her to gasp for oxygen. She closed her eyes and rubbed her eyelids with the tips of her fingers. When she looked in the mirror again, her own face stared back at her, pale and frightened.

  God, what was that? Lindsay reached out and touched the mirror. Was it a trick of the light? How could the light have changed her image to such a ghastly reflection? A ghost? There’s no such thing as ghosts. Insanity? No, not that, please.

  She shook as she washed and dried her hands, avoiding looking in the mirror again. At the bottom of the staircase, she stopped cold. Unable to walk back up the dark narrow stairs, she turned and ran out the front door of the house to the safety of her Explorer.

  The metal door handle of the truck was ice cold to the touch. The upward pressure of her grasp on the handle caused the interior light of the vehicle to come on. She pulled on the door. It was locked. What was the door keypad code? Her mind was blank.

  Stop and think . . . Fox . . . the dental formula for a fox.

  Her finger flew over the keypad. The door unlocked with a loud click. Once inside the safe chamber, she slammed the door behind her, belatedly worrying about waking up
the household. But the windows were all still dark.

  In the relative safety of the SUV, she started to cry. Her sobs were checked by some deep-seated inhibition against displaying weaknesses. If someone saw her run out of the house, it wouldn’t do to have red swollen eyes in the morning.

  Why do I care? What’s wrong with me?

  She wiped her eyes, feeling alone and needing to talk to someone friendly. But who? Her friends and family would only worry. Her enemies would use it against her. Everyone would think she had lost her mind.

  She should talk to John, but his company had been awarded a big project that required his full attention. He couldn’t be worried with holding her hand. Her brother would want to come get her. Her good friend Harper was gone to Spain. Her parents didn’t know the whole story. There was no one.

  She thought of Derrick. Perhaps she could talk to him—Derrick, her ex-fiancé, at one time her best friend. The usually unflappable Derrick had come close to yelling at her.

  “Lindsay, dammit, you just barely escaped permanent damage to your brain—your brain, Lindsay!”

  As if that were worse than death. Maybe it was worse for her, and maybe she had come close to dying so many times that Derrick was used to that danger. No he wasn’t. It was why he’d left her.

  “You’re a danger junkie, Lindsay,” he had said to her. “You’ve made danger an intellectual pursuit. I just can’t take standing by, watching you go from one peril to the next.”

  What would he say now? That he’d warned her. That she’d finally done it. No, she couldn’t talk to Derrick.

  Get a hold of yourself, said that inner voice that was the core of her. You just saw something. People do that. It’s not a big deal. The doctors said your brain is fine. The scans found nothing wrong. Do your work here, or go home, one or the other, but don’t fall apart.

  She opened the sleeping bag she kept tucked behind the driver’s seat and let the back seat down. When she finally settled into the fleecy warmth, she fell asleep thinking those thoughts over and over.