The House in Banes Meadow

by Jessie Cox

  “Yes. I think I may have found something here,” Ted said, pointing into the trampled bushes alongside and beneath the glassless window. “Does that look like blood to you?”

  “It sure does,” Ray replied. “That rock just under the window is covered with it. Let me see if I can reach it.”

  Ray pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed the stone. Then followed Ted back to his car for a plastic bag to put the handkerchief in.

  “Looks like Luke hid in the house while you were searching for him,” Ted said. “Then after you left he tripped getting out of the window and hit his head on the rock. He staggered into the field where he died.”

  “Looks like it,” Ray agreed. “If you don’t need me any longer, I think I’ll go home and get some sleep.”

  “Sure,” Ted replied. “I’ll take care of the reports. You get some sleep.”

  Ray was walking toward his truck when Ted called. “There is still one thing. What happened to the Ford pickup that Luke was driving?”

  “Someone stole it?” Ray asked in surprise.

  “It seems that way,” Ted replied.

  Ray slowly shook his head. “Just can’t trust anyone these days,” he said, as he got into his truck.

  “....and I think it was some kids that found the truck and hotwired it for a joyride,” Ted finished his report to Captain Abraham, in the Captain’s office.

  “Sounds like a good piece of police work,” the Captain said. “Does it concur with the Coroner report?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Ted said. “I’ve not seen it yet.”

  “Let me know when you do,” Abraham said. “It would be nice to be able to wrap this case up and put it to bed.”

  The next morning in his office Ted began typing the labor intensive forms that had to be filled out in triplicate.

  “One for my master. One for my dame and one for the little boy who lives down the lane,” he sang. His fingers were a blur on the keyboard. Putting the last period in the report with a flourish, Ted sat back in his seat. “Fastest typist in the West,” he congratulated himself.

  “Sounds like so much braggin’ to me,” Sam said from behind him. “And you can’t carry a tune worth a hoot. I brought the report over myself as I wanted to talk to you and Sergeant Corngrower. Is he around?”

  Ted glanced at his watch, then picked up the phone, saying, “He should be ending his shift about now. I’ll call down to the front desk and have someone find him. Do you want to wait for him or do you want to tell me now?”

  Just at that moment Ray walked in.

  “Inspector. Sam. What can I do for you?” Ray asked.

  Sam cleared his throat before saying, “I thought you should hear my conclusions about Luke Barrens. I think he was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Ted echoed. “Our investigation led us to believe that Barrens fell out of a window at the old house and hit his head on a rock, before crawling into the pasture where he died.”

  “At death the body fluids settle in the lowest level,” Sam said. Barrens’ was on his right side, like he was laying on it just after his death.”

  “But,” Ted interrupted. “He was face down when I found him.”

  “I think the buzzards found him before rigor mortis set in and the violence of their tearing at the body turned it face down,” Sam explained. “One thing for sure. The buzzards didn’t pierce his heart with a sharp object, then give him the hickey from hell.”

  Ted looked at the typed forms on his desk. With a heavy sigh, he wadded them up and threw them into the waste basket.

  Ray, who had remained silent during the conversation, asked Sam, “Any idea of what the weapon was?”

  Sam turned to Ray and said, “There was a tiny piece of foreign bone in the wound. Have you ever heard of U’ tiun’ ta"?”

  “The old Creek and Cherokee boogey man?” Ray said with a grin. “It is only a tale to frighten children into staying away from derelict barns and abandoned houses.”

  Later in Captain Abraham’s office:

  The Captain sat unmoving as Ted finished reporting what Sam had said. The huge, unlit cigar that hung forgotten from the Captain’s pursed lips made Ted think of a big butt dog having problems moving its bowels. The cigar made little twirls as the Captain regained his focus and Ted visualized it sliding out of his mouth to land on his desk.

  A faked fit of coughing hid Ted’s laughter at the thought.

  “So,” the Captain began. “You are telling me that an educated professional like Coroner Hall is convinced there is an Indian version of Dracula turning into a bat and flitting around. Did he by chance mention that when it turns into a bat, which end it sticks a feather in?”

  “Uh...No sir,” Ted replied.

  “Seeing as how the tribe is indirectly involved, get in touch with the Creek Light Horse Department and fill them in. Might be a good idea to do the same with the Cherokee Light Horse as well,” the Captain said.

  “Yes sir. Sergeant Corngrower is doing that as we speak,” Ted replied.

  Captain Abraham nodded.

  “You know what we have here? We have a nut. Some poor insane person that thinks he or she is this Indian demon. I want Corngrower reassigned to day shift. You and him will work together on this one.”

  “Yes sir,” Ted replied and stood up to leave.

  “You two be careful out there,” the Captain said as Ted walked out the door. “I’d rather have a dead crazy than a hurt officer.”

  Chapter 7

  Amos’ brother, Grayson sat cross-legged before a small fire in the fireplace. Tending the fire with small twigs and bits of sweetgrass, sage and cedar, his lips moved in a silent chant. Tears ran down his cheeks from his non-blinking eyes as he searched the many places viewed within the flames for the Evil that had returned. His mind returned to the stories his grandfather had told him. Stories two hundred years old, when the Muscogee (Creek) Nation still claimed what is now parts of Georgia and Alabama as their own. Of how a powerful shaman who lived deep in the swamps had craved immortality. After many years of failure she was given a dream. In it she was told that fresh human blood contained within the heart was the wellspring of life. She had hardened her skin that no weapon could penetrate it, she had changed her forefinger into a hardened bone with a point sharper than any spear or arrow and she had given herself the strength of five strong men. But as all things except The Creator, must have at least one weak point, she had chosen her eyes, for they would always be protected by her iron hard eyelids when they were closed. She had feasted well in the early days, before her weakness was discovered. Both the Cherokee and the Creek had lost many brave warriors who had come against her, but she didn’t know that someone else knew of her secret. Her medicine had been observed by Grandfather Eagle as he sailed on outstretched wings high in the sky.

  When a council between both the Cherokee and the Creek was called to think of ways in which to kill U’tiun’ta’, Grandfather Eagle was there. The wisdom of shaman and of warriors flowed like a slow river on a cool spring day, but it was soon learned that all the places that might hide a weakness had been tried to no avail. Grandfather Eagle had listened with respect and patience until the last speaker had sat back down. Then with no ceremony, he screamed “Eyeee!” and with the flap of his mighty wings returned to the sky.

  After getting the answer, the council spoke of many plans of how to use it. Finally it was decided that two of the bravest warriors from each tribe would be selected. Three would be bound and presented as an offering to U’tuin’ta’, while the fourth would be armed and ready, hidden behind a bush. The bowman would have only one shot and if he failed to strike home, he was to rush to the tied warriors and slash their bonds, that all might fight together.

  Grayson paused in his remembering to make an offering of tobacco to the Fire Spirit. Adding more sweetgrass, another sprinkling of sage and a pinch of cedar to the fire, he again stared unblinking into the smoke. Suddenly there appeared a face of an old woman w
ith a wild tangle of hair in the flames. Her eyelids drooped. She looked around, as though she had the sense of being watched.

  “U’tiun’ta’,” Grayson whispered, as an uncontrollable shudder racked his ancient frame.

  The face in the fire opened a horrible mouth, as if it was laughing, then disappeared.

  Grayson slid back from the fire and took a clean wet rag from a water bowl beside him and placed it across his burning eyes.

  “She is here,” he said. “But where is she?”

  Chapter 8

  Amos came into the lunch room. His back hurt as if someone had whipped him with an iron rod. Taking the apple he had brought for lunch, he sat down in the metal lawn chair at the long table. He had forgotten and left the cushion on the tractor, but was too tired and sore to go get it.

  He had just taken a bite of the apple when one of his coworkers came in carrying the cushion.

  “Here,” the young man said to Amos. “You forgot this.”

  “Much thanks,” Amos replied as he stood to put the cushion in the chair.

  The young man sat down across from Amos.

  “My name is Reagan,” he said, “but most call me Ray. You’re the new man, right?”

  “Yes,” replied Amos. “My name is Amos. It was nice of you to bring in the cushion.”

  “No problem,” Reagan said. “You have my old job and I know what a rough ride that old tractor is. I was promoted to Assistant Gardener.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Amos said as he finished his apple. “I’m going to close my eyes for a while. Will you wake me when it’s time to go back to work?”

  “Sure,” Reagan replied as he opened his lunch box.

  It seemed that Amos no sooner had closed his eyes when Reagan said, “It’s time to go back to work.”

  Taking his cushion, Amos walked out to the lawn tractor. Sitting down on the cushioned seat, he turned the key. Though the engine turned over it didn’t start. Noticing that Reagan was watching, Amos tried it again. Still it didn’t start. Then Amos remembered the hidden switch. Waving his hand over the hood he muttered in his own language, “Start, you son of a white man’s dog.” Then unseen by Reagan, Amos flipped the switch and turned the key. The engine roared to life.

  Reagan stood watching with his mouth hung open as Amos waved and drove away.

  “Durn!” Reagan told himself. “I wonder if he could teach me how to do that.”

  Instead of going home after work Amos went to Timmy’s house. Timmy had been given to Amos in order that Amos might teach him the ways of Creek manhood. The lessons had been going well and Amos was proud of the boy. For a ten year old, he was learning well.

  Amos walked over the neatly kept yard and onto the clean swept porch. He was always surprised that Timmy’s mother, who worked as a waitress at the casino, could find the time to keep her dilapidated house in such good order.

  Knocking on the door, but receiving no answer, Amos walked to the back of the house where he found Timmy and the little sister he watched while his mom was at work, playing in the back yard.

  “Greetings, Nephew,” Amos said. “How are you and Naomi this fine day?”

  “Greeting Uncle,” Timmy replied. “I am honored to have such a distinguished guest. Will you eat?”

  “Thank you, no.” Amos replied. “But I would be honored if you and Naomi would allow me to buy you both dinner at Maggie’s.”

  Amos sat on the front porch while Timmy helped Naomi get ready, before washing his face and changing clothes himself. Once ready, they walked the four blocks to Maggie’s cafe.

  Inside and seated, Amos asked the children what they wanted to eat, then, mentally counting the money in his wallet, he settled for a glass of tea.

  When the burgers had arrived, Amos watched the children eat.

  “I like this so much better than boiled cabbage or cabbage soup over bread,” Naomi said, stuffing a french fry in her mouth.

  “Hush,” Timmy said between bites of burger. “Mom does the best she can and boiled cabbage is better than nothing.”

  Amos said nothing, but wished that payday was not so long away.

  The meal finished and the plates picked clean, Amos walked up to the cash register while the children went outside to wait.

  Maggie took the ten dollar bill from him and handed him a twenty in change.

  “You give too much,” Amos said, trying to hand the bill back. “I gave you a ten.”

  “I know,” Maggie said. “But take that and buy the children something. Call it an advance on the next load of catfish.”

  “I am humbled by so great a generosity,” Amos said.

  “Oh pshaw,” Maggie replied. “Go on with you.”

  After joining the children outside, Amos took them to Esteban’s Five and Dime.

  Telling the children they could each pick out a toy, Amos chatted with Lottie, the store owner.

  Through previous conversations Amos knew that Lottie was born and raised in the Bronx of New York. She was a self-proclaimed Tough Bronx Broad who had no patience with drunks, smokers, or drug addicts. After Amos had his stint with the bottle, it had taken Lottie a long time to warm up to him.

  “I tell you that being an alkie is not a disease,” she had told him. “It’s a habit, just like smoking! I got tired of digging around under couch cushions looking for enough change to buy smokes or booze when my kids were little. So I quit both and if I can do it while raising four bratty kids, anyone can.”

  “Yes ma-am,” Amos replied. “I reckon you are right.”

  “Damn right, I am,” Lottie said, pulling her shirt sleeves up as though to fight anyone who disagreed.

  At that moment Timmy and Naomi arrived at the checkout. Placing the two dolls on the counter, Amos paid for them.

  Lottie looked at the two dolls, then at Timmy.

  “Play with dolls, do you?” Lottie asked.

  “No,” Timmy said, turning red with embarrassment. “Naomi couldn’t decide which one she liked best.”

  Lottie handed Amos his change, then taking two all-day suckers from the counter, gave one to each child. “Here, cuties,” she said. “These are free. One per customer today.”

  The children looked at Amos, who nodded his head. Saying their thanks, they left the store.

  As they strolled home, Amos said, “Nephew. There are things we need to speak of. Would you like to go fishing tonight after your mother gets off work?”

  “I want to go fishin’ too,” Naomi said before Timmy could answer.

  “Perhaps we can all go fishing sometime,” Amos replied. “But tonight it’s us men who need time alone.”

  Though disappointed, Naomi said nothing more about it.

  As they turned onto the street where the children lived, they saw their mom get out of a car in the driveway and say something to the driver before entering the house.

  “Mommy!” Both children yelled as they ran to the house and burst through the door.

  Amos slowed his pace that the children might have time with their mother before he arrived.

  Finding the front door open Amos knocked and said, “Hello Marlene.”

  “Hello Amos,” Marlene said from the couch where two pair of arms hugged her tightly.

  “Come in. Will you eat?” She asked.

  “Thank you. No,” Amos answered. “We just got up from the table.”

  “So I’ve heard,” she said. “and about the dolls and the suckers and the fishing trip, all in one breath.”

  “Is it okay if Timmy goes?” Amos asked. “We’ll only be gone a few hours.”

  “Of course he can go,” Marlene replied. “But I’d like him to be back by midnight.

  That’s two hours past his bedtime and he needs his rest.”

  “We’ll only be that long if the fish are biting,” Amos said.

  “Aw, Mom,” Timmy said in a dejected tone. “If the fish are biting, can’t I spend the night? Amos will watch out for me.”

  “You’ll have to take a bla
nket to sleep on,” Marlene said. “And only if it’s okay with Amos.”

  Timmy looked hopefully at Amos’ face, his eyes pleading for Amos to agree.

  “Let us go prepared to spend the night, but if the fish aren’t biting or you get scared we will come home,” Amos said.

  Timmy did a little dance as he ran to get his fishing rod and blanket.

  Chapter 9

  “Car Two! See the man with an intruder at RR 3 Box 279 on County Line 22,” Dispatch said over the police radio.