by Peggy Webb
Wainwright bit off the end of a big cigar, then lit up and sat back, blowing smoke. “And what is it you think you know?”
“I don’t think; I know. These walls have ears, and I’ve heard everything.” He winked. “We both know how Witch Creek got polluted, don’t we?”
Lacey’s jaw clamped over his cigar as he sized up Hal.
“And you want money. Is that it?”
“No. I want a promotion. Executive assistant sounds good to me. I can lie and cheat and steal with a straight face and a clear conscience, and as far as I’m concerned, Eagle Mingo is a man who hasn’t met his match.”
Wainwright blew smoke rings in his direction. Hal didn’t flinch.
“You’ve got balls. I like that.”
Melissa Sayers Colbert had liked them too. But that was a bit of information Hal intended to keep to himself. At least for the time being.
“Do we have a deal?” he asked.
The chair creaked as Wainwright stood up. Taking another cigar from the teakwood box on his table, he passed it to Hal.
“Deal,” he said.
o0o
Bruce Graden was not surprised to find the pink slip in his box. Wainwright didn’t even do him the courtesy of firing him in person.
He cleaned out his desk, careful not to leave even a scrap of paper that would benefit his successor. The janitor, of all people. News like that traveled fast.
It took him until five o’clock to get his belongings neatly boxed and stored in the trunk of his car. Then, as if he were finishing an ordinary day, he punched out and drove home.
His telephone would be safe, at least for a while. But one phone call was all he needed. He looked up the number and dialed. It was answered on the first ring.
“Eagle Mingo here.”
Bruce thanked his lucky stars for the governor’s open-door policy that made him accessible, even in his own home.
“I know how the toxic chemicals got into Witch Creek.”
“Who is this?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Governor.” No one would ever know. And by tomorrow he’d be so long gone that no one would ever find him. “Will you listen to what I have to say?”
“I’m listening.”
As Bruce Graden began to talk, he knew that he might be signing his own death warrant.
Chapter 27
Kate settled into an easy chair with a cup of coffee then switched on the ten o’clock news. A dark, angry face filled the screen, shouting, “Clip Eagle’s wings.”
Kate reached for the remote control to turn up the volume. Pickets milled around the governor’s office, waving signs and screaming.
“Who will feed our children?”
“Who will buy our shoes?”
“Eagle Mingo, unfair to labor.”
The camera panned the crowd, and Kate leaned forward, riveted. One dark man stood out in the crowd, a part of it and yet strangely remote from the bedlam.
The face was vaguely familiar, but before Kate could be certain, the camera had switched to Gracie Wood, reporter for ADTV. Bundled against the cold in a red wool coat and scarf, she stood outside the state house, holding a microphone in her gloved hands. Snow swirled around her.
“In what is perhaps the first unpopular decision of his career, Governor Eagle Mingo some weeks ago ordered the closing of the tool and die plant on Witch Creek. Rumors that the closure is permanent have fueled tempers and sparked the riots you see here at the state house. The governor is in his office in conference with attorneys, and we’re expecting him to emerge any minute.”
In the background the picketers shouted, “We want jobs. We want jobs.”
The camera panned back to Gracie Wood ...and Eagle Mingo.
“Governor, the jobless are picketing your office. Would you care to comment?”
“I regret any hardships placed on the employees of the Witch Dance Tool and Die Plant, but I will not be moved by strong-arm tactics. The major concern of this office is cleaning up the toxic waste and ensuring that the tragic deaths that occurred this summer will never happen again.”
“Are you filing charges against Witch Dance Tool and Die?”
“No comment.”
“Two of the children were from your own family. Is that not correct, Governor?”
Stone Face, Eagle’s political enemies called him. But there was nothing stony about his face now. Pain etched his features and flickered briefly in his eyes.
Kate couldn’t bear to watch, couldn’t bear to listen. Quickly she flipped the TV off then went into the kitchen to find some food.
A head of wilted lettuce and two shriveled carrots stared back at her from the refrigerator. Though she had no appetite, she knew she had to eat. She couldn’t keep up her pace without food. Rummaging in the crisper, she found two slices of ham left over from the days of Mark Grant.
What was he doing now? Did he miss her? Did anybody miss her?
A wave of loneliness struck her so hard, she leaned her head against the refrigerator. Loneliness and anguish. All those little children, all those little graves. And it wasn’t over yet. Who knew how many children had played in Witch Creek, how many new cases would crop up over the next few months?
Sometimes she felt inadequate for the task she’d set for herself. She took two deep breaths to ward off the helpless, hopeless feeling.
“Snap out of it, Katie Elizabeth, or soon you’re going to be having a pity party.”
With her chin jutted out, she grabbed the ham and a jar of mayonnaise and marched to her bread box. Setting the ham on the kitchen counter, she lifted the lid. The jar of mayonnaise slid from her hand and crashed to the floor. Sticky goo spattered over her shoes, and a large shard of glass ricocheted off the floor and cut her leg.
Kate never noticed.
Inside the box lay a cloth doll with red hair. Its neck had been sliced and blood had been smeared on the front of its dress. With trembling hands Kate lifted the effigy. The blood was real ...and the hair.
Violent shivers overtook her. Someone had been in her house, someone who hated her. Still holding the doll, she hugged herself hard to keep the shivers from becoming convulsions.
A glimpse of white at the bottom of the bread box caught her eye. Kate leaned over so she could read it without touching it.
You’re next, witch.
The note was scrawled in blood.
Kate dropped the doll on top of the note and slammed the lid of the bread box shut. Outside her window a whippoorwill called. Or was it a signal of some kind? She knew that many of the Chickasaws were excellent at bird imitations.
The hair at the back of her neck stood on end. The darkness had eyes.
Moving methodically, she checked the locks on all the doors and windows and lowered all the shades. In the safety of her bedroom she sat huddled in the middle of the bed. Wind moaned around the eaves, and the old house creaked and groaned. Funny, how she’d never noticed the noises before. Now every one raised prickles on her skin.
Something clattered against the side of the house, and she jerked, covering her mouth with her hands. The banging noise came again. Tiptoeing, she peeked through the shade.
A loose shutter. She remembered now. Mark had noticed it last week.
In the growing darkness the objects in her room loomed large, took on a life of their own. Had she left her robe hanging on the chair like that? And her high-heeled shoes? She remembered kicking them off the day before, and now they sat side by side, perfectly aligned, like soldiers waiting to go to war.
The antique wardrobe in the corner was big enough to hide a full-grown man. Kate jerked the door open so hard, she set the clothes swinging on the rack. The silky skirts whispered against each other, then settled into place. She reached inside and felt into the dark recesses of the wardrobe.
Nothing there. She was letting herself get spooked.
She jerked up her pajamas and marched into the bathroom, careful to lock the door. Bathed and dressed for bed, s
he sat down at the vanity and reached for her hairbrush. It was not there.
Pushing away the panic that threatened, she began a methodical search. She had misplaced it. That was all. People with too much on their minds frequently misplaced things.
The hairbrush was nowhere in the bathroom, nowhere in the bedroom. At last, emotionally exhausted with the search, Kate turned back the covers. And there on her pillow was her hairbrush. It lay on a black silk cloth. All the hair had been carefully plucked from the bristles and arranged in a red circle upon the black silk.
Another white note was pinned to the silk: Your tormentor sees all, knows all. Nothing is safe from me.
Kate stifled the screams she felt welling in her throat. She felt violated.
Outside her window the mournful call of the whippoorwill sounded once more. Moving swiftly and surely, Kate went to the wardrobe and took down a gun.
Someone wanted her dead, but she had no intention of being an easy target.
Book 3
The Passage
When the land grew weary with strife,
The Great Spirit sent rains to wash away the blood and winds to blow away the anguish.
From the center of Father Sky came a bright light, shining on all the earth’s people.
And into the light flew the Eagle, his great wings outstretched, protecting the pride and the spirit and the honor of a nation.
Chapter 28
Martin Black Elk had been in police work for twenty-five years, serving the last ten as chief of tribal police, but he’d never seen tracks covered as well as those of the intruder who came into Dr. Kate Malone’s house. Except for the things he’d meant to leave behind—the notes, the circle of hair, the black cloth, and the doll— there was nothing.
“Do you think you can find out who did this?”
The dark circles under her eyes were evidence of a sleepless night, but otherwise Dr. Malone looked as if she would personally deal with the next person who came to her house uninvited. Her voice was firm and her chin was high. She was packing a gun, too. That was the first thing he’d noticed. She was some gutsy woman.
But then, he already knew that. She’d fought like a tiger to save his grandson’s life. That’s one reason he didn’t mind giving up his Saturday morning.
“It’s going to be hard, Dr. Malone. Whoever did it didn’t leave me much to go on. I’d like a list of people you think might have a reason to do this.”
“That list would include just about everybody in Witch Dance.”
Martin stuffed the notebook back into his pocket. What she said was true. She’d had enemies from the day she started building the clinic, and there were people out of work at the tool and die plant who hated her.
“I’m going to do my best to find the perp. In the meantime, don’t talk to the press. I’d like to keep this out of the papers.”
“I have every confidence that you’ll find him.”
“For you, I’ll move heaven and earth. I owe you for saving Graham.”
“I did only what any other doctor would do.”
“You went beyond the call of duty. A man doesn’t forget things like that.”
She shivered as she glanced at the evidence bag.
“It’s probably a prank.” She didn’t look as if she believed what she was saying.
“I wouldn’t count on it. Too much is happening in Witch Dance right now, and you’ve been right in the center. You’ve made enemies.” He nodded at the gun on the end table beside the sofa. “Do you know how to use that thing?”
“Right now I know enough to hit the side of a barn, but when I’ve finished practicing, I’ll be able to give you a run for your money.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Black Elk gathered the evidence in bags and headed for the door. “Call me if anything else turns up, Kate.”
“You bet.”
“And, Kate ...be careful.”
When Black Elk got back to his office, he examined the evidence once more. The circle of hair was the most disturbing, and the most telling. The sacred circle. The medicine wheel. What goes around comes around. Kate’s would-be assailant was out for revenge ...and he knew the Chickasaw culture.
Unconquered and unconquerable.
Whoever was after her wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted ...and he wanted Kate Malone dead.
o0o
Twelve empty soup cans were lined up on the fence posts behind Kate’s cottage. Standing with her feet apart and the gun in both hands, she squinted one eye and took aim. The loud report made her ears ring and sent a crow squawking toward the sky.
She opened her eye and counted the cans. Twelve.
“Damn,” she said.
She shifted her stance and took aim once more. The bullet twanged against the steel trough, and water spurted out the hole.
“Hell’s bells. Who could do anything with this damned coat on?”
She jerked off her coat, tossed it across the fence then resumed her position.
In quick succession she got off four shots. All the cans were standing.
“If you think I’m giving up, you’re sadly mistaken.”
This is what being scared had reduced her to: talking to tin cans. She reloaded her gun and took aim at the carrot soup can. It hadn’t been fit to eat. Maybe her father had been right when he’d said she ought to learn to make carrot soup.
“Prepare to die,” she said, and then with both eyes open she squeezed off a shot.
The twang of a solid hit rang in the still, cold air as the carrot soup can became airborne.
Mick Malone would have celebrated with a good Cuban cigar. But then ...Mick Malone wasn’t around to see her triumph.
With her jaw set, Kate stood back and took aim at the pea soup.
The watcher on the hillside smiled, knowing his time was about to come.
o0o
Shameless. That’s what she was.
Only her second date with Eagle Mingo, and already Deborah was trying to maneuver him toward bed. She was succeeding, too. Partially.
He hadn’t sounded too enthusiastic about a Saturday horseback ride, though she knew that was one of his favorite pastimes; but he hadn’t declined either. She guessed that was a good sign.
And now, windswept, chilled, and surfeited with racing, she was making her way into his house. If rumor could be trusted, he considered his house off limits to women. Some said he eased his sexual ache with a woman in Tulsa, but others said he hadn’t had a woman since Kate Malone, that he was celibate, like some kind of priest worshipping at her shrine.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He bent to stoke the fire. She’d hoped for something else. Moving close, she held her hands out to the blaze. The heat from the fire warmed her skin, but it couldn’t compare to the sexual heat that warmed her body.
Eagle glanced up, and Deborah held her breath under his solemn regard. Without changing expression he reached for her. She went into his arms in slow motion, wondering, now that she had come this far, how she would ever fight the ghost of Kate Malone.
She’d had many beaus in her time, but she’d never been kissed by an expert like Eagle Mingo. If his heart was not in the kiss, she couldn’t tell. Nor did she want to. All she wanted was to be swept on the wave of sensation all the way to his bed.
Heady with love and excitement, she was only vaguely aware of having her blouse unbuttoned, barely conscious of being led away from the fire and down the hall. But suddenly she saw his bed, and she knew she was in the inner sanctum, a place where no woman had been allowed.
“This is not love, Deborah,” he said as he moved them inexorably toward the bed.
“I know.”
“It will never be love.”
“I don’t care.”
He would never know how she lied. Love was a beautiful dream she’d had once, but like all dreams, it faded in the light of reality. She was twenty-six years old, and every night she still went to her cramped little r
oom at the back of the general store. When morning came, she woke up to the quarrelsome voice of a father who hardly ever remembered her name.
He needed to be in a nursing home, but her salary at the clinic wouldn’t stretch far enough to add those expenses, and Hal was no help at all. She rarely ever saw him, and when he did come to visit, he was distant and unapproachable. The brother she’d once known and loved was filled with a subterranean darkness that Deborah didn’t dare explore.
Even if Eagle Mingo wouldn’t be the love of her life, he would be her way out. Sighing, Deborah stretched upon his bed, bartering her body for freedom. The red light from his telephone answering machine cast a ruby glow across her cheek.
Cupping her face, Eagle bent toward her. With his warm breath fanning her cheek and his lips only inches away, he tensed. The light on his answering machine beckoned.
Without a word he snaked out his hand and punched the message button.
“Eagle, I just thought you needed to know . . .” The voice of Black Elk, chief of tribal police, filled the room. Deborah closed her eyes, trying to shut out reality
“Somebody is trying to kill Kate Malone.”
Eagle grabbed the phone and punched Black Elk’s number. Holding her blouse together over her naked breasts, Deborah sat up, listening to one side of a brief, clipped conversation.
“This is Eagle. What’s happened to Kate?” His back was rigid with tension.
“When?” Deborah heard his long, shuddering breath.
“Do you know who did it?”
Black Elk’s reply was a muted, distant murmuring, and when it ceased, Eagle replaced the phone. In the screaming silence Deborah held her breath. Finally, he turned to her.
“I’m sorry, Deborah.”
She sat on the bed, watching him leave. His footsteps echoed down the hall and through the den. Still clutching her blouse, she heard the front door slam, then the distant pounding of horse’s hooves.
Humiliation came over her, and on its heels a deep, creeping shame. Her best friend’s life was threatened, and she hadn’t even asked any questions. The shame stayed with her while she buttoned her blouse and mounted her horse. By the time she got home, her humiliation was beginning to abate. But not the shame. It would be with her always, a black thread woven into the fabric of her life.
