The Abduction of Mary Rose

by Joan Hall Hovey

  THE ABDUCTION OF MARY ROSE

  By Joan Hall Hovey

  ISBN: 978-1-927111-14-7

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Books We Love Ltd.

  (Electronic Book Publishers)

  192 Lakeside Greens Drive

  Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

  Canada

  http://bookswelove.net

  Copyright 2011 by Joan Hall Hovey

  Cover art by Gary Val Tenuta Copyright 2011

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Deep into the darkness peering long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

  Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven

  Chapter One

  1982

  The teenage girl hurried along the darkening street, head down in a vain attempt to divert attention from herself as she headed for her bus stop, which was still over a block away. The car behind her was a soft growl in the still, warm air.

  It was mid-June, only two weeks till school closed. The air was fragrant with the smell of lilacs that grew here and there along the street. She wore a jean skirt and white cotton shirt, and yet she felt as exposed and vulnerable as if she were naked. She was anticipating the freedom of summer and thinking about spending more time with her new friend Lisa when she became aware of the car following her. She had been thinking maybe she and Lisa would swim in the pond edged with the tall reeds near her house, where she sometimes fished with her grandfather. She'd let grandfather meet Lisa. She knew he would like her. Even if her grandfather didn't quite trust white people, it would be impossible not to like Lisa.

  The growl of the motor grew louder, and she heard the window whisper open on the passenger side, close to her. "Where you goin' in such a hurry, sweet thing?"

  She didn't turn around, just kept on her way toward the bus stop, one foot in front of the other, as fast as she could go without running. Music thumped loudly from the car radio, pounding its beat into the night. It was not music she would have listened to, not like the music they'd played on Lisa's tape player tonight anddanced to in Lisa's room. Lisa had tried to teach her some new steps; it had been so much fun. They had danced to songs by Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Diana Ross' Mirror, Mirror and a bunch more she couldn't even remember. Lisa had a lot of records.

  The music that blasted from the car sounded angry and unpleasant. The car drew up so close to her that she could smell the alcohol the men had been drinking, which mixed with the gas fumes.

  The car edged even closer to the curb, and the man said something ugly and dirty out the window to her and his words made her face burn, made her feel ashamed as if she had done something wrong, though she knew she hadn't. She pretended not to hear, made herself look straight ahead, her eyes riveted on the yellow band around the distant pole that was the bus stop, just up past the graveyard. She kept moving forward, one foot in front of the other, trying not to look scared, praying they would go away. Fear made her heart race.

  The day was fast fading, the sky a light mauve, only a sprinkling of stars yet. Soon it would be dark. She was always home before dark. Grandfather would be worried.

  A few more minutes and you'll be at the bus stop, she told herself. Ignore them. But it was impossible to do with the car following so close that the heat from the motor brushed her bare legs, like a monster's breath.

  The car crawled along beside her. She moved as far away as she could get, but the sidewalk was next to none along here and was broken. "Hey sweet thing," the man said. "You trying to get away from us?" He laughed.

  Despite herself, she turned her head and looked straight into the man's face. He was grinning out at her, showing his square, white teeth, causing her heart to pound even louder than the music. He made her think of the coyotes that sometimes came skulking around grandfather's house at night hunting for small cats and dogs. No. I am wrong. He is not like the coyotes. They are just being coyotes. It is a noble animal. An evil spirit dwells within this beast. One tied with the most fragile of chains. She could feel him straining toward her, teeth bared. She would not have been surprised to see foam coming from his mouth.

  Softly, he said, "Hey, Pocahontas, want a ride?"

  Feeling as if a hand were at her throat, she darted a look behind her, praying to see someone—anyone—who might help her, but the street was deserted. She'd left the row of wooden houses behind her a good ten minutes ago and was now at River's End Cemetery. There was no sidewalk at all here, just the dirt path, a broken curb on her left and the empty field to her right leading up into the graveyard. If a car comes along, she thought, I'll just run right out into the middle of the road and flag it down. But none came.

  She visualized herself safely inside the bus and on her way home to Salmon Cove, to her grandfather's small blue house on the reservation. She would tell him all about Lisa, her new best friend from school. Her grandfather would smile at her, and be pleased for her and call her his little Sisup. She fingered the pendant around her neck that he had made for her, a kind of talisman. To keep evil spirits away.

  Grandfather didn't always understand the white man's world though, and there would be worry on his weathered face because she was not home yet. But she would make them a pot of tea and they would talk, and his worry would be forgotten.

  She was still focused on the bus stop, the utility pole marked by its wide yellow band. With the car so close, the thrum of the motor vibrating through her, the bus stop seemed a mile away. She walked faster, a chill sweeping through her body. She was forced now to walk on the slight incline that led up to the graveyard. Only the ruined curb separated her from her tormentors.

  A taxi fled past, but she'd been so intent on getting to the bus stop she'd noticed it too late. It had been going so fast, out of sight already: just pinpoints of tail lights in the distance, then nothing.

  "Hey, what's your hurry, squawgirl?"

  She gave no answer, swallowed, and kept going. When the man did not speak for several minutes, she became more frightened by his silence than his talk. The boys at school sometimes called her Indian, and other dumb stuff like pretending to be beating on war drums, or doing a rain dance, and though it hurt her feelings and sometimes even made her cry, this was different. The boys thought they were being funny. Not so with this man. She could feel his contempt, even hatred for her, and something else: something that made her mouth and throat dry and her blood race faster. As she continued to put one foot in front of the other on the worn, rocky path edging the graveyard, she was very careful not to stumble and become like the wounded deer under the hungry eye of the wolf; she kept her eyes on the pole with its yellow band. In the darkening sky, a high white moon floated.

  Everything in her wanted to break into a run, but a small voice warned her that it would not be a wise thing to do. Anyway, no way could she outrun a car. Why did the bus stop seem so far away? It was like a bad dream, where no matter how fast you run you don't go anywhere, and whatever is behind you ... draws closer and closer.

  She shouldn't have stayed so long at Lisa's. But they'd been having such fun, just talking, listening to music and sharing secrets. It was nice to have a best friend, to feel like any other teenager. But you're not like any other teenager. You're an Indian. She should have listened to her grandfather.

  The man spoke again. "C'mon, get in, Pocahontas," he said, his tone quiet, chil
ling her. "We'll have us a little party." He reached a hand out the open window and she shrank from his touch, stumbled, nearly falling, tears blinding her. She heard the driver laugh, a nervous laugh and she knew he was a follower of the other man. There was an exchanged murmur of words she couldn't make out, then the car angled ever closer to her, with its wheels scraping the curb, making her jump back.

  "Got something for you, sweetheart," the grinning man said. "You'll like it."

  More laughter, but only from him now. Adrenaline rushed through her and she started to run, ignoring the warning voice. But it was too late. The car shrieked to a stop and instantly the door flew open and the man burst from the car and grabbed her. She screamed and fought to free herself from the steel arm clamped around her waist, but it was no use. She kicked and clawed at him, but he lifted her off her feet as if she were a rag doll and threw her into the back seat, scrambling in after her. He shut the door and hit the lock. "Go," he yelled at the driver but the car remained idling. The man looked over his shoulder, started to say something but the man holding her down yelled at him a second time to go, louder, furious, and they took off on squealing tires.

  "Please let me out," she begged. "Please…." Her pleas were cut off by a powerful back-hand across the mouth, filling it with the warm, coppery taste of blood. "Gisoolg, help me," she cried out, calling on the spiritual god of her grandfather, and of his grandfather before him. But no answer came.

  Up in the graveyard, an owl screeched as it too swooped down on its night prey. And all fell silent.

  Chapter Two

  Twenty-Eight Years Later

  Naomi's mother lay motionless in her hospital bed, her cancer-ravaged body a small mound beneath the white sheet. A child's body rather than a woman's. She'd become so thin in the past weeks it was as if she were slowly disappearing before Naomi's eyes, which was, in essence, true.

  Naomi glanced up at the now familiar footsteps out in the corridor and gave a brief, sad smile of acknowledgement to the tall, slightly stooped man walking past the door, nodding in at her. They were unwilling members of the same club. Mr. Howell's wife had been admitted two weeks earlier with terminal cancer, the same cruel disease that was killing her mother.

  Muffled conversation drifted to her from the kitchen across the hall, along with the aroma of freshly perked coffee. Someone laughed. Life defied, even in the midst of death and dying. This was the palliative care unit of River's End General Hospital. No one got better in here. Only made as comfortable as possible in whatever time was left.

  This was Naomi's first intimate experience with death and dying. Her mother was the most important person in her life, and it was hard to think about her not being there. They'd never experienced the mother/daughter conflicts she'd heard and read so much about, as well as witnessed between Aunt Edna and Charlotte, and she knew how blessed she was. They were best friends as well as mother and daughter. Her mother was her cheering section, and always the first to hear the latest book Naomi had narrated.

  Though she had little heart for work lately, she did manage to finish narrating the last two chapters of the new children's book her publisher had sent before leaving tonight for the hospital. Deadlines couldn't be put off, and she hoped it was good enough. If not, they could assign another voice talent to redo it and she would forgo her fee.

  It was so hard to focus, to shut out the horror that was happening to her mother. She's given so much of herself to others. To me. It wasn't fair.

  Naomi saw herself as if in a movie: shutting down the computer, showering, giving her long, dark hair a quick brush into a chignon of sorts because it was easiest, then driving here to the hospital. Sometimes she'd grab a sandwich in the cafeteria, and often spent the night on the cot they'd brought in for her. This was her routine for the past three months. A routine that would soon be broken.

  "A matter of hours," the nurse had whispered when Naomi arrived tonight. "I've already called her sister."

  At the ping of the elevator down the hall, Naomi glanced at her watch. 7:00 p.m. Her stomach clenched involuntarily. Aunt Edna. Her aunt's presence was further announced by the aggressive click of Italian leather boots on the highly polished floor. The fragrance of the L'Eau d'Issey perfume she always wore preceded her into the room.

  Edna strode in with barely a nod at her. Her hair is different, Naomi thought. It was a lighter shade of blond: cut shorter, more youthful. She wore a dove grey suit and a silk royal blue print scarf.

  Edna always looked so nice, so perfectly put together. If she would just smile once in a while. Then again, she rarely smiled at her niece. Her mother's younger sister had never liked her, in fact barely tolerated her, though she was always careful to hide it when Mom was around. But a look can speak volumes, especially to the shy, sensitive child she had been. She had tried so hard to please Aunt Edna, running to her with a poem she'd written or a drawing she'd done. But her aunt acted as if Naomi were a scraggly mutt wanting to jump up on her with muddy paws. Naomi had stopped trying a long time ago. But the hurt was still there. Aunt Edna never failed to stir a vague sense of inadequacy in Naomi.

  Standing at the foot of sister's bed, Edna said, "How is she?"

  How do you think she is? She's dying. She didn't say that, of course. What she said was, "Sleeping quietly."

  Edna gave a sigh of impatience, of resignation, as though her niece was quite incapable of intelligent thought or comment. "I can see that, Naomi. You should go home and get some sleep yourself. You look like hell. Almost as bad as Lili."

  "I'm okay. But … thanks."

  Edna wasn't there five minutes before she began her predictable fidgeting, restlessly turning pages in a People magazine; why did it seem so loud? She tossed it on the chair and wandered to the window.

  Not much to see out there, Naomi thought, following her gaze. Through the opening in the heavy oatmeal drapes, only the lower half of the steeple of St. Luke's Church was visible, its top erased by the thick fog that so often shrouded River's End. Naomi was glad the sun wasn't shining. It would have seemed a further betrayal to her mother who would never feel the sun's warmth on her face again. The thought brought a lump to her throat. Don't cry, dammit. Not in front of her.

  Edna abruptly turned away from the window and busied herself pouring more water into the plastic glass with its L-shaped straw. An unspoken criticism of the nurses? Or me? Naomi thought. What else is new? No, I'm being unfair. She just feels a need to perform some small act of kindness for Mom while she still can.

  Thinking Edna might like to spend some time alone with her sister, Naomi rose from her chair, "I'm going to get a coffee, Aunt Edna. I'll bring you a cup? How would you like...?"

  "No, no coffee for me." She glanced at her watch as if there were some important appointment she had to get to. "I can't stay."

  Anger flashed hotly through Naomi, but she didn't give it voice. The last thing Mom needs is a scene between me and Edna. She motioned Edna out in the corridor. Maybe she didn't understand that the big sister she claimed to love so much, she might not see again.

  "The nurse said it's just a matter of hours, Aunt Edna," she whispered. "You might want to...."

  Edna turned to the picture on the wall with its mirrored frame and began fussing with her scarf, fluffing it just so at her neck. "That's what they said last week, and the week before that. Not that it wouldn't be a blessing. Damn, I hate this place. It stinks of death. You can taste it."

  She was right about that. There was an underlying smell of death on this floor that all the potpourri in the world couldn't mask. But at least you get to leave here, auntie. And she was glad when she did.

  Naomi couldn't see the vengeful bitter malice on her aunt's face as Edna headed for the elevators but she sensed it in the rigidness of her back, and it puzzled her, as she was always puzzled by Edna.

  * * *

  Edna was gone maybe half an hour when the night nurse popped her head in and said hi. Carol Brannigan was an angel with red hair, a
million freckles and kind brown eyes that had witnessed many such nights on this floor, with many families. Over the past weeks, a friendship of sorts had formed between them. She was a comforting presence.

  "Anything you need, Naomi?" she half-whispered. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

  "Just had coffee, thanks Carol. I'm good. How about you? Busy night?"

  She came further into the room, her shoes squeaking faintly on the tiled floor. "Not so bad." She checked her patient's pulse, a futile task, Naomi knew, performed mostly for her benefit. "She's so good," the nurse said softly. "If it's true what they say about nurses making the worse patients, then your mom is the exception."

  It was true. In the two years since she'd been diagnosed with cancer, rarely did Naomi hear her complain. It was only ever in the night, when the drugs did not quite reach the pain or if she'd been having a bad dream. Never when she was awake, though. But Naomi had known by the little frown on her forehead when the pain was bad, and would give her the pills, sometimes a little before she was supposed to take them. Naomi was grateful to have the responsibility taken over by the nurses.

  Soon she was alone again. The only sound in the room was her mother's shallow, raspy breathing. A gurney rattled by out in the corridor. Someone paged a Dr. Johnson, and then it fell silent.

  "Naomi."

  Naomi had closed her eyes without realizing it. "Mom, hi." So little to say to her now. And yet so much― years of conversations they would not have.

  "Is Edna here, dear? I thought I heard her voice."

  "She was, Mom. She just left a while ago. She didn't want to wake you."

  Her mother nodded. "I'm so blessed to have you," she said, her voice weak and thready. Her hand trembled as it reached for Naomi's, who covered it with her own. Beneath hers, her mother's hand felt fragile as a sparrow's wing. It was hard to talk past the thickness in her throat.