Sinking Suspicions (Sadie Walela Mystery)

by Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  “Thanks for your help.” Sadie waved to the flowered dress and hurried after the young boy. She pulled out a chair and sat across the table from him. “Say, is your computer working?” she asked.

  The boy removed the headphones again. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Are you able to get on the Internet?”

  “Yeah, weird, isn't it?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Different satellites, I guess. Why?”

  “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “This is my dad's computer,” he said. “You're not going to get me in trouble, are you?”

  “Of course not. I need to let someone know I'm okay and the phones won't work. Can you send an e-mail?” She recited an e-mail address and watched the young boy type into his father's computer. At that moment, his mother called to him from the open lobby.

  “I'm coming,” he yelled, as he continued to type. Then he slammed the laptop shut.

  “Wait!” Sadie cried. “Did you send it? What did you say?”

  “I said ‘everything is okay’ just like you wanted,” he said, as he ran toward his mother.

  Chapter 12

  A sharp pain rocked Buck into consciousness, where he found himself in a precarious position. His backside felt like a bullet had ripped through it, and his head hurt. He took inventory of his body parts by starting at his head and moving down. He could taste blood, he had a bump on his head, and his lip throbbed. His arms were both all right, but when he tried to move his legs a burning sensation shot through his bad knee. “Damn,” he said, and gingerly poked at his kneecap with his thumbs. It wasn't broken, he thought, just worn out. It'd come around in a little while. It always did.

  He brushed dirt from his face and looked up, sizing up the extent of his predicament. He had fallen into a sinkhole—a deep one—and landed on a narrow shelf. Even if he could stand up, there didn't appear to be any easy way to climb out.

  How did he fall into a sinkhole? He couldn't remember. “Think, old man. Think,” he said to himself. Eventually, bits and pieces began to form in his memory. The IRS. Someone screwed up his income tax return. He could lose his ranch. He tried to remember the rest, but it wouldn't come. They could call it old age if they wanted to, but he knew the truth. He couldn't remember half of what he did because his brain had been shook up in the war. Shook up the way his mother used to shake up a pint jar of cream, turning it into butter. He knew it and the government knew it, he thought angrily. But the government was unwilling to admit the truth. If they claimed responsibility, they might have to pay him some money. Buck didn't want their money. He just wanted to be left alone.

  He shifted his weight and focused on his current problem. How in the world had he ended up here? He'd seen plenty of the cylinder-shaped holes in and around the county, but he never dreamed he could ever be so unaware as to fall into one.

  He could hear rushing water and realized he'd landed above a stream. It must have taken decades to create the cavity that might end up being his grave if he couldn't get out. He supposed the ancient limestone that was so prevalent in the area had simply given way when he stepped on it. For now, the hole seemed to be stable, for which he was grateful.

  He leaned his head against a rock and assessed his situation. He estimated the distance to the top of the sinkhole to be about fifteen feet. The void beneath him was too dark to determine how far it was to the bottom, so for now, he would concentrate on the top.

  He called out for help. Nothing. Where was he, anyway? Was he on his own property or somewhere else? He couldn't remember seeing any sinkholes on his land. He knew his voice would never carry far enough to get someone's attention unless they happened to be fairly close to the hole. It would take more than a miracle for someone to find him.

  Without food and water, he guessed he might last a week. He tried to relax and overcome the sharp pain in his knee. He wiped his face on his shoulder and tried to adjust his sitting position. Somewhere down below he heard a bullfrog bellow.

  “How in the hell did you get down there?” His voice echoed in the empty space between his ledge and the bottom of what he surmised might be his final resting place.

  The bullfrog bellowed again.

  Buck realized there must not only be a large air cavity, but also a pool in the underground stream for a frog to sit around and call out to other frogs. He thought about it for a minute and then dismissed the idea. If he was ever to get out of this sinkhole, it was going to have to be from the top. He hadn't quite figured out how that was going to happen yet, but if he could climb out of as many foxholes on as many islands as he had in the Pacific, then this shouldn't be that big a deal. The memory of floating on a stretcher to an awaiting ship entered his mind, and he quickly squashed it.

  “Hey, Bullfrog. Come on up here and fight like a man. I might get hungry later and frog legs sound pretty good.” Buck glanced toward the sky. “Of course, they'd taste better if I could build a fire to toast you on.”

  The frog bellowed again and Buck laughed at the idea of carrying on a conversation with a frog. At least he hadn't lost his sense of humor.

  He rested his head against the wall of earth and felt the pain, thankful he was still alive. He didn't relish dying in this hole, but it would be better to meet his Creator here instead of waiting for medical care in an Indian Health Service hospital. He thought about the emergency-room doctor who had given his cousin two pills and told her to come back if her side didn't quit hurting in a couple of days. Buck watched her die the next morning. Later, they said her appendix had burst.

  Buck rummaged in the pockets of his overalls and found the venison jerky he'd put there before he left the house. “Hallelujah!” He had forgotten he had it. He pulled out a piece and bit off one end. The jerky would sustain him for a few days, but he was going to have to devise a way to access the water below too. Maybe if he tied the laces of his work boots together and attached his handkerchief to one end, he could dip it into the stream below.

  He worked for several minutes putting together his small rope. He made a loop at one end and secured it to his finger so he wouldn't accidentally lose it, then reached over the side of the ledge and lowered the shoelaces and handkerchief as far as he could. He could feel the flow of the water tug at the string. He quickly pulled it up and slapped the cold, wet cloth across his face, sucking as much moisture out of it as he could with his mouth. He repeated the process several times and then stowed the device in his pocket. He couldn't afford to let it slip away in the darkness. He felt better after another bite of jerky and several hankies of water, but he knew this would keep him alive for only a few days.

  Buck stared at the sky. At least he would die peacefully. He would become a part of the earth forever, and neither the IRS nor anyone else could remove him from the land. He closed his eyes and drifted back to the war.

  Suddenly, Buck could feel dirt and pebbles falling around him. Then the sound of a wounded comrade came from above. Why was he hiding in a foxhole when someone needed help?

  “Hang on, man, I'm coming,” yelled Buck. He raised his head to assess the position of the Japanese. Once again, the pain in his knee shattered his dream and he cursed.

  He wiped dirt from his face and several small rocks fell from above onto his hand. Was someone up there?

  “Down here!” he yelled. “I'm in the sinkhole. Can you hear me?”

  Something large and furry appeared in the moonlight at the top of the sinkhole, and a loud bark echoed in the cavern.

  “Oh, hell, Sonny,” Buck exhaled loudly. “You damn near scared me to death.” Then realizing someone might be with the wolf-dog, Buck yelled again. “Help! Anybody hear me?”

  The sound of Buck's voice excited the dog and he dug at the loose rocks, causing more dirt to fall. Then he whimpered and stared down at Buck as if wanting Buck to come out and play.

  “Go get help,” Buck commanded.

  Sonny barked.

  “Go get Sadie.”

  Sonny barked louder and Buck cursed a
gain. He was trying to talk to a dog. How stupid was that? After a few moments, Sonny relaxed, lay down, and placed his muzzle between his paws where Buck could see him in the moonlight.

  Buck thought for a moment, then pulled out the handkerchief he had been using to gather water and untied it from the rope he had made from his boot strings. Then he dug in his pocket for his truck keys and tied the handkerchief to the leather fob. He could use the handkerchief to swing the keys up on top. He contemplated giving up his only means of accessing water, but if Sonny attracted enough attention maybe someone would see the white handkerchief and come to his rescue.

  He swung the handkerchief and keys hard into the air. He heard them land nearby. Sonny disappeared for a few moments before returning to the edge of the sinkhole with the handkerchief in his mouth.

  “Good boy, Sonny.” Buck used the best dog-communicating voice he could muster. “Take it to Sadie,” he said. “Take the keys to Sadie.”

  At the sound of Sadie's name, Sonny promptly dropped his prize, keys and all, into the sinkhole and barked. Buck grabbed the keys right before they fell into the oblivion below.

  Buck studied the situation for a few moments. Maybe the dog was smarter than he was. He untied the handkerchief and put it back into his pocket to use later for water. Then in a desperate, angry move, he threw the keys as hard as he could. Once again, Sonny disappeared and returned with the keys. This time the dog gripped the leather fob tightly in his teeth.

  Buck didn't want to expend his last hours of energy playing fetch with a wolf-dog. He decided to ignore Sonny, and as soon as he did, the dog disappeared in the moonlight.

  All the movement had stirred up the pain in his back. He retied his drinking apparatus fashioned from his handkerchief, soaked it in the fresh springwater, and splashed his face. He rested his head against the dirt wall and closed his eyes. A voice came to him—a soft, female voice—reciting a story:

  One day, the goddess of the volcano met a handsome young man. She desired to have him as her sweetheart, but alas, he confessed that he loved another. This enraged the goddess, and she used her magical powers to change the young man into an ugly, twisted tree. His lover pleaded with the gods to return the young man to her, so the gods transformed the woman into a flower and placed the bloom on the tree so they could be together forever.

  Buck could feel a tear slip down his cheek as the voice gradually faded into the emptiness below.

  Chapter 13

  Lance had decided to spend Sunday night at Sadie's house. He wanted to be there in case Sonny decided to come back home. He was beginning to lose patience with both Sadie and her dog. What was he? A dog sitter, a house sitter, a finder of lost neighbors? Why hadn't she called? It wasn't like her to not be in contact. An uneasy feeling crept into his thinking and he brushed it away. He wished he could just go back to work and forget about all this. But of course he couldn't. To rid himself of Sadie or anything that had to do with her would be like chopping off his hand. Way too painful.

  He sipped morning coffee and thought about Buck. Nothing so far made any sense. Sure, Buck was capable of killing, but Lance knew in his heart that wasn't the case.

  He walked to the kitchen sink and looked out the window. There he was. Sonny stood at the edge of the yard staring at the house. Quickly, Lance opened the door and called to him. Sonny turned and walked away for a short distance, then turned back around and sat down. Lance called to him again, and Sonny repeated his routine.

  “Damned dog,” Lance muttered to himself. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Maggie. “Good morning, sunshine,” he said in a friendly voice. “I've got something else I need you to look up for me,” he said as he pulled the small spiral-bound notebook from his front shirt pocket. “Got a pencil and paper? I'm going to have to spell it for you.”

  “From the tone of your voice, I'm going to guess you don't know about the earthquake.”

  “We had an earthquake?”

  “They had a 7.1 earthquake off the shore of the Big Island in Hawai‘i this morning.”

  “What?!” Panic struck.

  “The news says that all the airports are shut down on all the islands. When I heard, I tried to call you, and then I tried to call Sadie. All I got was voice mail from both of you.”

  Lance could feel the muscles tighten in his neck and back.

  Maggie continued to talk. “The news also said that the phone service was out, but I can't imagine why her cell phone doesn't work unless the cell towers were damaged.” Maggie paused for a moment. “And there's another thing. I got a really strange e-mail from someone.”

  “What's that got to do with Sadie?”

  “I think it was the only way she had to communicate with you to let you know she was okay.” Maggie paused again. “The only thing the message said was ‘Everything is okay.’ The e-mail came from someone by the name of Robert Walters III.”

  Lance stood motionless, holding the cell phone to his ear. No words would form.

  “You still there, Chief?”

  “Yeah, I'm here. Let me give you this information. It's an address.” When he was finished spelling long unpronounceable words to her, he continued. “Listen, I'm going to do a little more work on this missing neighbor of Sadie's. Let me know what you find out and…keep me updated, will you?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Lance immediately clicked on Sadie's television with his right hand while dialing Sadie's number with his left. He waited until the sound of her voice on her voice mail prompted a smile. At the signal, he left a short message. “Please call me,” he said, then closed his cell phone and dropped it in his shirt pocket. He clicked from one news station to the other, mesmerized by the video of the earthquake damage, most of which was coming from the Big Island. He turned off the television and walked outside. He called for Sonny, but the wolf-dog had disappeared again.

  He walked down the stairs and sat on the bottom step. He thought he would try one more time to make friends. “Come on, you goofy thing.” He spoke partly to the wolf-dog and partly to himself.

  On the ground next to his foot, Lance noticed something he hadn't seen before. It was a key ring holding two generic-looking keys and a leather fob displaying the U.S. Marines insignia. Lance picked it up, turned the well-worn piece of leather over in his hand, and frowned.

  Who did these keys belong to and how did they get here? Why hadn't he noticed them before? Maybe Sadie had dropped them on her way out the day before.

  He got up and tried both keys in Sadie's door. Neither worked.

  Another thought struck. Maybe someone had been snooping around and accidentally lost them. He sat back down on the bottom step. The next thought that crept into the back of his mind gave him an uneasy feeling. Maybe Sadie had a friend he didn't know about, a male friend, a Marine friend.

  He began to think about all the Marines he knew in Delaware County, too numerous to count. From young to old, Indians loved to join the Marines, including himself. Even Buck is a Marine, he thought, as he remembered the old trunk in the abandoned house. His mind began to race. Maybe Buck was running from the law after killing the identity thief, came looking for Sadie, and discovered she was gone. He rubbed his face and dismissed thoughts of a murdering Buck. He couldn't buy that argument even from himself.

  He looked up long enough to see Sonny appear and disappear again. Maybe if he waited, the dog would return.

  Then his thoughts shifted. Who exactly was Robert Walters III?

  He spit in the yard and looked closer at the keys. The leather piece looked like it had canine teeth imprints on the corner. Maybe the unknown Marine had a stupid dog too. Well, Lance allowed, Sonny wasn't stupid, just independent and stubborn, like his owner. Was he rationalizing? Maybe the dog had found the keys and brought them home as a gift for Sadie.

  He called again for Sonny. No movement. No sound.

  He bounced the keys in his hand and shoved them in the pocket of his jeans. His next stop would be a re
staurant for some bacon and eggs and strong coffee. He could always think better on a full stomach and a double shot of caffeine.

  Chapter 14

  Dee Dee Skinner pulled her black Cadillac into Buck's front yard and stared. “This house is going to fall in on your head, old man,” she mumbled.

  The grueling, two-day drive from California to Oklahoma had left her cranky and stiff. She slid out of the car, stood up, and stretched her long legs and lean body. She looked around the yard and shook her head, then walked up onto the porch and pushed open the front door.

  “Uncle Buck, are you here?”

  Dee Dee wrinkled her nose at the stale air in the quiet house. She walked into the kitchen and caught her stiletto heel on a small hole in the linoleum flooring, causing her to trip and fall toward the kitchen sink. As she banged her hand against the counter, one of her long, candy-apple red fingernails snapped off and bounced onto the floor. She cursed loudly, and then jammed her finger into her mouth. After she regained her composure, she retrieved the piece of acrylic and held it in her hand before forcing it into the pocket of her skin-tight jeans. Maybe she could pick up some nail glue later and fix it.

  Perspiration had already popped out on her forehead and upper lip. She gathered her fiery red hair in her long fingers and lifted it off her slender neck, then pushed open the window above the sink, allowing a small, stifling breeze to enter the room. Knowing her uncle had no air conditioning, she would need to work fast. She couldn't stay trapped in this house for very long, she thought, or she would pass out right on the spot.

  She pushed the button on the answering machine and listened to her own voice, the message she'd left two days earlier, then began to search through the drawers and cabinets. When she got to the kitchen table, she fingered the envelopes from the IRS. She read the top letter, cursed again, and spoke aloud. “Oh no, you don't, you old coot. You better not lose this place to back taxes. This place is supposed to be mine.” She dropped the letter back onto the table and had just decided to move her search into the rest of the house when a knock at the door caused her heart to jump.