by Ann Cook
Disturbed, Meg rose from where she had flopped down and again wagged her fluffy plume of a tail. The peace-maker, Brandy thought. John rubbed her head again. “Meg would be wonderful with a child.”
Brandy felt a rising sadness. There was no good resolution. When she did not respond, John swept up his briefcase, shook his head, and tramped into the dining room. A few minutes later Brandy heard him in the bedroom. He would be hanging his jeans and a suit to wear back to the office Monday. For a long time she sat in the growing darkness, staring at the boat in the canal. She had meant to make a good supper—cook roasting ears, snap beans, maybe grill a steak on the back deck overlooking the tidal creek. Now she didn’t feel like it. When she finally went into the house, she saw John had set down his laptop, and spread his papers and sketches over the large dining room table, along with a few Mozart and Bach CD’s. Working and listening to music was apparently how he planned to spend the weekend. Well, she had a project, too: Timothy Hart.
“Let’s go out for chicken wings,” she said. They climbed into John’s minivan in silence, not quite hostile but devoid of intimacy. He did not reach over and give her a pat as he usually did. John wheeled into the parking lot of a small, cypress-paneled restaurant near the ruins of the nineteenth century sugar mill. When they were seated, the conversation quickly returned to their chronic problem.
“I’ve been asked to fill in as a coach on a boys soccer team,” John began as a waitress set out plates of wings and Greek salads. “I used to play in college.”
Brandy smiled. “Why don’t you? You’d get some exercise during the week.”
He stirred his salad with his fork. “I’m afraid it would be too painful.
The other coaches are all dads.” They finished in silence.
* * * *
Back at the house, Meg lay unusually still on the living room carpet between their chairs, her brown eyes turning from John to Brandy, sensing something wrong.
John switched on the television to the local public station. The National Geographic was airing a program about baby animals. Brandy abandoned him to a den of wolf cubs and returned to her notebook.
That night in bed she patted his arm and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, but he pulled away, silent, as he often did when they had quarreled. Brandy rolled over, her back to him, feeling rejected. Probably just as well. Now anytime he touched her, she assumed his desire was not for her but for a baby.
As she lay there, Brandy’s eyes grew moist. Her father had encouraged her, his only child; he had been certain she could be a first rate journalist. Now he was gone, dead of a heart attack before she earned her English lit degree or added the specialty in print media, or had her first newspaper job. He had faith in her, even if John didn’t seem to care.
The image of a tanned face with a lock of blond hair falling across his forehead floated into her mind—Hart’s archaeologist friend. She remembered him in the soft light of the Tiki bar. They might meet again when she paid another call on Alma May Flint. Brandy finally fell asleep and dreamed John and his minivan lifted into the air above Homosassa and vanished, while below the archaeologist stood at the bar, a protective arm across the shoulders of Timothy Hart.
The next morning John and Brandy shared bacon, eggs, and toast on the screened porch. She asked a few questions about his Tampa restoration job, but he showed little interest in the death of Timothy Hart. Clearly he viewed it as one more distraction for Brandy, one that complicated their weekend.
After breakfast he strode into the dining room and began poring over computer print-outs of the historic courtroom. He had a problem with the placement of its amber-colored windows. Brandy stood for a few minutes at his elbow and gave him a weak smile. “Want to get in some fishing today?” she asked, “Or just get out in the boat? We could go down to Tiger Tail Island, and I could show you where I found the body. The old lady who lives there’s a character.”
He rubbed his forehead. “No, thanks. I’ve still got some work to finish before I go back. If I have time, I can fish just as well in the canal.” He stood, walked to the music console, and pulled out a CD. “I know you want to get back to your story. I’ll be okay.”
She sighed. Why did her work always seem to interfere in their lives, while his did not? Still, maybe she wasn’t being quite fair. If he complained about her hours on the job, it was only because he wanted to be with her.
As she loaded the dishwasher, she made her plans. She would take the boat to Mrs. Flint’s, try to talk to her remaining boarder, the archaeologist, and find out more about the Indian mound dig. She would like to locate the elusive Seminole and discover why he was camping on the island. Most important, she wanted to learn what had happened to the journal Hart had found. She left John at the dining room table again, Meg at his feet, while the intricate strains of a Mozart concerto filled the room.
Brandy pulled into Alma May’s rickety pier about 9:30 A.M., in time to see the archaeologist crossing the yard toward his own pontoon boat. On its deck she could see a shovel, screens fastened to frames, hand spades, small boxes, and an ice chest.
“Brandy O’Bannon,” she called to him. “Gainesville Star. Remember, we met at the Tiki bar the other night?”
He halted, walked over to her boat, and placed a tanned hand on the railing. “Grif Hackett,” he said. “Short for Grifton. Don’t think I introduced myself that night. I was too worried about poor old Hart.” He gave his head a mournful shake. The blond lock fell across his forehead. “With good reason, it turns out.” His was a narrow face with high cheekbones, his eyes a startling blue.
Brandy hoped for an interview, but she didn’t pull out her notebook. She would ease into it. “What do you think was the matter with him?”
Again Hackett shook his head. “My Seminole buddy Fishhawk Pine told him about a lot of stuff the Seminoles used to eat. Hart was into that herbal stuff. You have to be pretty careful, though. Experimenting could’ve made him sick. I didn’t know him well, and no one here knew his medical condition.”
He glanced toward his boat. Probably he’s eager, Brandy thought, to get started for the mound. The hour was late for an early riser. “Did he show you an old journal he’d found?”
Grif bit his lower lip and paused. “A journal?”
“I called his sister in Illinois. She told me about it. She was not his biggest fan. Not much sympathy for him there. He says the journal was the reason he came here.”
Hackett gazed across the bay where the Salt River joined the Homo-sassa, as if trying to remember. From its nest atop a tall channel marker Brandy watched an osprey rise on broad wings, flashing white breast feathers, and circle the bay. “Seems to me he said something about finding an early record of some kind,” Hackett said. “Might be interesting to Florida historians. I usually saw Hart only at Mrs. Flint’s. We didn’t talk much.” The osprey plunged into the water, then flapped free, a fish in its claws.
“Did Hart spend his time fishing?”
Grif waved one arm toward the hard wood hammocks in the center of the island. “Mostly he tramped around the island. He was negotiating for Mrs. Flint’s house. First day he was here I took him to buy some heavy boots. Natives call them Homosassa Reeboks. You need them here. But I didn’t see him fishing. Maybe he planned to after he bought the house.”
The white-breasted bird settled into its nest. Brandy could see tiny heads shoot forward. Hackett had called his Indian friend “Fishhawk,” another name for “osprey.” She wondered if Fishhawk, the man, also was a skilled hunter. “I’d like to meet the Indian you were with at the Tiki bar.”
He hesitated a few seconds. “That could be worked out, I guess. He’s from the Seminole Cultural Center in Tampa. We’ve got an arrangement. He’s a spiritual adviser for the work I’m doing at the burial mound near here. It’s been disturbed. The state wants me to assess the damage and try to put things right. They have to have a Ph.D. archaeologist on site.”
Something else to check out—t
he Indian’s connection to Hackett. She had read enough Florida history to know that Seminoles were not mound builders. But then, mound builders no longer existed. Spanish diseases and guns had seen to that. “I’m going to be in the area about ten days. Could I visit the mound, too? I’ve never seen an excavation under way.”
Hackett stepped forward and extended one hand. “No problem. Brandy, isn’t it?” His handshake was firm, the hand callused but scrupulously clean. “We don’t actually do much excavating anymore. Repair work is more like it, and inventorying what turns up. Come aboard and I’ll run you down to Fishhawk’s camp first.” She found herself hooked by a pair of clear blue eyes, then his gaze dropped. She supposed he noticed her wedding ring. It was just as well. “Fishhawk’s place isn’t far. I need to see him anyway. Then I’ve got to pick up a graduate student who’s been helping out at the mound.” He turned his lips down in disapproval. “At least, she thinks she’s been helping. Fortunately, this is her last day. She didn’t find field archaeology as exciting as she expected. She didn’t care for the dirt and the heat and the bugs, especially the spiders and gnats. Understandable, really. Tie your boat up here and come aboard.”
In a few minutes Brandy had thrown a half hitch around a post at the end of the pier and swung up through the gate of Hackett’s larger pontoon boat. He switched on the engine, reversed, and started down Petty Creek on the western side of the island. After they had cruised about a quarter of a mile, Hackett nosed into shore, jumped from the bow, and pulled the boat up onto the sloping bank. Brandy tucked her jeans into the tops of her walking shoes and followed him over the railing and onto a narrow path. It wound upward through wire grass and beside a wide marsh of silvery black needlerush and marsh grass. Near the creek a long, slender canoe lay bottom up.
“At the Cultural Center Fishhawk shows how the Seminoles made these,” Hackett said. “It’s almost a lost art. They were hacked out of the hollowed core of a cypress log. This one’s about fifteen feet long. Back breaking work. Of course, this is a clone, not an original.”
On a rise several yards before them stood a cluster of cabbage palms, turkey oaks, hickory nut trees, and cedars, a typical coastal hammock. “The guy’s getting back to his roots, you might say.” The archaeologist stopped to give Brandy a hand. “He says Seminoles are losing their own culture, even their own language. I suppose they are. There were never many Florida Seminoles. At the end of the Second Seminole War only about three hundred were left in the state.”
A thin coil of smoke lifted above the trees. From the shadows came the low monotone of a chant. Hackett paused to shout, “Hey, there! Company here. Fishhawk!” The voice halted. A cedar rustled at the outer edge of the hammock and the Indian emerged. He wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt, jeans, and boots. If he owned the traditional brightly colored Seminole jacket, he must save it for special occasions.
Up a slight slope stood the “chickee,” a replica of the open-sided housing that nineteenth century Seminoles learned to build when they were constantly on the move, sometimes only a day or two ahead of the army. Four cypress logs supported a roof of palm thatch woven together with vines and thin rope. To make a crude floor, planks had been nailed to the supports a couple of feet above the sandy soil. In the shade of hammock and chickee, Fishhawk did not wear the black, deep-crowned hat that lay on the floor.
Hackett lowered himself beside the chickee to perch on his heels. “You remember seeing this young lady when we had a drink with Hart the other night?”
Fishhawk gave her a curt nod and squatted next to his friend. He looked to be in his early forties. The broad, copper-toned face and black eyes disclosed nothing.
“She wants to ask us a few questions about poor old Hart. I told her we didn’t know much.” Fishhawk remained silent. “Got your chickee up with no problem, I see.”
“You got it,” he said. “A few days ago a friend barged in the cypress logs and palm fronds and a crew of guys to help.” He spoke in a resonant baritone.
Brandy glanced around for something to sit on and finding nothing, sat uncomfortably on the ground beside the archaeologist. “Dr. Hackett tells me you’re exploring your own Seminole culture,” she said. “Kind of re-living it. I understand a band of Seminoles stayed on this island for a while during the Second Seminole War.”
For the first time the Indian looked at her, then shifted his gaze quickly away. “Tiger Tail’s band.” His deep voice had a bitter ring. “Not long before they were taken at Cedar Key. The old man was the last Seminole war chief sent west. He died in New Orleans. Of a broken heart, they say.”
Brandy hurried on. “I read that a thirty acre plantation was built on the island in the 1860s. I mention it because Hart said he hoped to make a valuable discovery here. Looks like you’re exploring the island.” From her chart Brandy calculated Tiger Tail must be about three miles long and a mile and a half wide. Big. “Can you tell me what you’ve learned about the island?”
Fishhawk looked around him, at the oaks with their long fingers of Spanish moss, at the creek beyond, at the saw grass stretching toward Alma May Flint’s house. “We don’t need to explore this island, Miss O’Ban-non,” Fishhawk said. “We need to purify it—and ourselves.” He turned toward the shadows. “There’s evil here. Your people wouldn’t understand. I’m one of the few left who knows about these things. I’m trying to drive out the evil. You Christians call it casting out demons.”
“You’re talking about witches,” Hackett said.
The Indian glanced at him, the look in his glistening eyes guarded. “I know how to protect us. Hart wouldn’t listen. Mrs. Flint and a bunch of white people with money may think they own this island. But to the Master of Breath it belongs to us.”
Brandy knew that many contemporary Seminoles had only a fraction of pure tribal genes, but Fishhawk’s weathered, red-brown face looked a hundred percent Indian to her. He seemed as natural to the island as its cabbage palms, its hammocks, and its water birds.
Still, Brandy wondered if Fishhawk was casting out demons or searching for treasure, but she only smiled. “I read about the settler’s cabin that was on the island. I believe a family was killed there by Seminole warriors in the nineteenth century.” Brandy felt sure he knew about the massacre at the Flint’s pioneer homestead.
“There was a lot of death on this island. A lot of the white soldiers hadn’t much use for settlers themselves. A surgeon with the army about that time called the settlers’ children ‘little white-headed responsibilities.’ But because of them, soldiers drove my people off their land.”
Brandy had no answer. There were many other deaths, of course, Indian ones of more than one tribe, slaves, soldiers, too. The area had known two wars. Evil had struck the island time and again. Brandy remembered the eerie feeling she had while she waited on Tiger Tail Island for the detective.
“Fishhawk was raised by his grandfather. A respected medicine man,” the archaeologist said in a quiet voice.
He pointed to an iron skillet, brimming with green leaves, over a charcoal fire. “Getting the black drink ready to purify yourself?” When the Indian nodded, Hackett added, “One treatment was enough for me. You want to go to the mound with me today?”
Fishhawk scowled. “Not unless I have to. But I got to stay around, anyway. That big Sheriff s detective told me I had to.”
So Strong had interviewed him already. Brandy wondered if the detective had more success in getting him to open up.
“Annie called,” the Indian said to Hackett. “Wants friends to drive her up from Tampa to join me. Wants to bring our little girl.” A suggestion of a smile lit his dark face, then vanished. He took a sober look into the black brew. “I’m afraid it’s not a good idea.”
Hackett stood, stretched, reached one long arm to help Brandy up, and looked at the Seminole. “You’d enjoy the company. They’d keep you busy, all right.” He frowned at the chickee. “But your wife’s going to want more comfort than you’ve got here.”
“Yeah,” the other man said with another fleeting smile. “She do hug her air conditioner.”
“Is it safe for your little girl?” Brandy asked, glancing around at the crude shelter and the woods.
Fishhawk snorted. “You ask a Seminole that? Children survived a lot worse camps than this. I can protect them. Anyway, I shouldn’t be here much longer.”
“I’d like to meet your wife and daughter when they get here.” Brandy smiled. Fishhawk didn’t seem to know how to respond. He remained silent, but Brandy was not easily discouraged when she thought she might learn something new. “Maybe I’ll drop back by.”
In the silence Hackett turned to Brandy. “Come on. Fishhawk’s busy getting purified and ready for his family. We’ll go to the mound after I pick up my student. It’ll give me a chance to tell you about my own search.” He smiled, led her back toward the path, and dropped his voice. “Actually, I’m the one who’s made the real find, not poor old Hart. Only mine hasn’t any value except to research, and no museum can keep it.” He shook his head. “Fishhawk’s my friend, but don’t ask him about studying burial mounds. He doesn’t approve. Disturbing the dead’s a big negative.”
“You must’ve found Indian bones.”
Grif nodded. “I didn’t create the problem. Thieves who steal from Indian graves did.”
CHAPTER 4
“Fishhawk isn’t my friend’s English name, of course,” Hackett said as they pushed his boat off the shore. Brandy scrambled to find a seat among the sifting screens, trowels, and a small tool Grif identified as a probe. “Fish-hawk’s American name is Franklin Pine. But he likes to use the name he got at a naming ceremony as a boy. Comes from a dream his grandfather had when Fishhawk was a baby. Something about an osprey swooping down and plucking something valuable out of water. Even the name Fish-hawk is Anglicized. It’s really a Miccosukee word I can’t pronounce. Still, his mother had him baptized. Go figure.”
