by Tom Deitz
But now something was taking shape below that mask. It could almost have been another shadow—except that it was slightly too dense, and the moonlight reflected off it a tad too unevenly. And it could easily have been Sandy’s Driza-Bone that hung on the brass coat stand next to the door directly above Calvin’s outdoor boots—except that was half a yard too far to the right.
Whatever it was had now acquired arms, a suggestion of legs, and an odd sort of three-dimensionality, as it continued to stare at him from the mask that was now much less a mask and far more the likeness of his father: fortyish, square-jawed, and prematurely aged, but still handsome beneath longer hair than Calvin recalled.
Chills stomped across him where he lay propped against the headboard, wishing on the one hand that Sandy would walk in right now and by some cogent observation about quarks or cosmic string banish it forever, and on the other hand hoping very hard indeed she would stay gone longer so as not to have her peace of mind disturbed by whatever post-trauma stress Calvin might succumb to.
And so he lay and watched, his skin alive with goose-bumps, where it wasn’t drowned in the sweat breaking out like pustules across his forehead, chest, and shoulders.
The image was almost complete now, though he couldn’t tell skin from clothing, nor what form either might have. A lump plugged his throat as a host of memories flooded back—most of them bad.
He hadn’t loved his dad.
A half-blood himself, Maurice McIntosh had tried to seal off his son from his Cherokee heritage, insisting that being different rarely made one happy, and wanting Calvin to be happy at all costs. That had prompted rebellion, which had led to words, and finally, when Calvin was sixteen, a schism. But there’d been moments of closeness, too; and as Calvin grew older, he regretted more and more that there were a whole host of topics he wanted to discuss with the old man and would never be able to.
But the worst thing was that they’d parted in anger. Calvin’s last sight of his dad had been of him standing in the doorway of the ranch house down at Stone Mountain two Christmases back, staring at him accusingly, with an awful mixture of pain and anger branded across his face when Calvin had repeated yet again that no, he was not going to move back in, because he still hadn’t got his head straight about which world was his: white, or Cherokee.
He’d missed the funeral, of course, first because no one had known where to find him, then because they thought he’d precipitated it—though how a guy barely twenty was supposed to scoop out a grown man’s liver without a struggle, he had no idea.
But one thing he did know was that if he could see that mask-face just a little more clearly it would show the same angry/hurt expression he’d seen on that final holiday.
Fortunately, he couldn’t quite get it to focus—yet didn’t dare look away. Vainly he tried to think of some formula to banish such things, even as his more rational aspect told him that something which had no substance could wreak no physical harm; that he was master of his mind, and no other.
And yet those eyes bored into him—accusing, almost pleading—and now, it seemed, beckoning; as though his dad’s shade was trying to convince him that if he would only slip out of bed and come closer, they could reconcile all the guilt that lay between them and give them both peace.
But then Calvin saw something that made him shiver so violently he could actually hear the bed frame creak.
His father was not alone! Another shape accompanied him, a smaller one, whose face had begun as knotholes in the paneling. More shadowy than his father it was, and yet clearer. A boy, he thought: blond, early teens, solidly built and intense. The expression—what Calvin could make of it—could only be described as haunted.
Michael Chadwick! It was Mike Chadwick!—one of the three boys he’d met in south Georgia during the Spearfinger Affair. And the one thing this kid had in common with Calvin’s dad was that they had both been killed by that monster!
But Spearfinger was dead herself, and Calvin had been absolved of the blame…
Or had he?
Assorted law enforcement agencies had backed carefully away (or been backed away) from a situation too outré to bring to hearing, much less trial. And Uki had told him that while he had done wrong by admitting Spearfinger to this World, he’d balanced that by removing her again.
Except that, apparently, two…ghosts…? shades…? spirits…? thought otherwise.
Which didn’t make sense either, because Spearfinger had killed four people. Present company excluded, she’d also done in a redneck housewife in Jackson County and the ten-year-old sister of Chadwick’s best friend, Don. Which, beyond the obvious difference in sex, just didn’t jive.
Abruptly, a clock chimed in the greatroom, announcing 1:00 A.M. And with that, the visitations faded, in reverse of how they’d formed, with his father’s eyes going last. But as the last echo drifted into silence, he heard a voice, faint but clear, whisper, “Help us, my son, only you can.”
Whereupon reality reclaimed the night.
For a long time Calvin lay there, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the rafters slide as the moon continued its march. More than once he thought of phoning Sandy at her hotel and trusting to her solid good sense to set him a course that was true. And far more than once he considered making a pot of coffee and sitting up the rest of the night. Surely he could find something to distract him until daylight and temporal distance dulled his memory to the point where he could dismiss tonight’s occurrence as a dream.
But still the words gnawed at him: “Help us, my son, only you can!”
But how could one help the dead? Shoot, what kind of help did the dead need? Where did one go? What did one do?
What was Michael Chadwick doing with his father’s shade?
And, drat it, what about his promise to Brock, that was rapidly approaching zero hour?
Well, nothing could be resolved here, and at least two problems had to be resolved, one of them quickly.
But waiting until daylight to leave would increase the odds of Sandy catching him at home (she was an early riser and had a tendency to make check-in calls over her morning coffee). And if that happened, he’d have to lie, which he wouldn’t do. Or else there’d be discussions, and more delays, and explorations of options he’d already explored in his own mind ad nauseam. And of course she’d want to come along, when he didn’t even know where along was, or how long it might take to get there. None of which was good for a high school physics teacher who had bills and a mortgage and needed to start short-session summer school in a week herself.
Which left one choice.
Calvin eased out of bed, grateful for the sheepskin rug that muffled even the gentlest of thumps—Sandy was a light sleeper, thus nighttime stealth had become a habit. Then, moving with a silence honed equally by habit and hunting in the woods of more than one World, he spent the next quarter-hour dressing—jeans, black Frye Boots, black T-shirt, black leather jacket, stooping falcon ear-stud—and collecting a minimum of food, money, and gear, including most particularly his two war clubs. A good bit of what he needed was already squirreled away in his motorcycle saddlebags—he’d learned long ago not to rely on having only one of anything crucial, and knew from experience that he tended to hit the road on impulse. Besides, if it came to it, he could live off the land—Lord knew he’d done it before. He’d start off civilized and wing it from there.
So where was there? What was to be his destination? He only knew that it lay to the south: Whidden, Georgia, if he was to deal with Brock in a timely manner. And along the way lay certain other folk he could consult.
Before he left, he scribbled a note for Sandy and set it on the counter by the sink, signing it with his name in the Cherokee syllabary.
You’re fond of saying it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission, so I hope you practice what you preach, ’cause I’m gonna need some heavy-duty forgiving! I’ve got a couple of problems haunting me that I’ve got to resolve. But never doub
t that I’ll come back. Love. He-Goes-About.
Five minutes later, he rolled his BMW R/80 GS out of the garage, cranked it, and let it mumble along at idle until he’d navigated the steep narrow switchbacks of the rocky pig-trail called ’Coon Hound’s Despair—which was also Sandy’s drive. The moon was still bright when he glided onto pavement, nor was it all that long until dawn and Target One. And for a while Calvin rode down empty mountain highways, almost like a ghost himself.
Chapter VI: Stealth and Bribery
(Qualla Boundary, North Carolina—Saturday, June 16—just before dawn)
If it had been the kind of night Calvin hated—not for any flaw in the entity itself, but because of what it conjured—it was now the kind of morning he loved.
The air had been clear, the sky a jeweler’s spill of stars, when he’d left Sandy’s cabin—and it had remained that way throughout the ensuing ride. And though the bike had speed aplenty, he’d chosen a slower pace around the well-banked curves that sparkled like gray snow as they ribboned through the forested peaks that reared rough silhouettes of black and blue, veridian and violet around him. It was less than twenty miles to Target One, and he’d split shortly after 1:00 A.M. But he tripled the distance by taking the long way round: east on wide, smooth US 23 almost to Asheville, where he’d been seduced by a Waffle House’s promise of a wee-hours coffee fix, then back west again along Highway 19, which wound its way in tighter curves and steeper grades through far less traveled country. Twice he saw bears, three times deer, and once had to swerve to miss a meandering ’possum. But no falcons. Which was probably just as well, for though peregrines were his totem, they were also diurnal and tended to haunt the coast. A sighting now would therefore be significant—but he didn’t need such things to make him wary.
Besides, it was hard to dwell on omens when he could watch morning arrive. It began as a wash of pink at the eastern hem of the sky and a piping of red along treetops and ridge lines, followed by a gradual gauzing of the more distant vistas and deeper valleys as fog awakened to dress the between time. It was still a few days shy of summer, but the edge of chill cutting the air served to remind him that every joy carried a ghost of intransience that was close-kin to pain.
His shadow was still stretching long before him in the ruddy predawn light when Calvin rolled into the seat of the Eastern Cherokee commonly called Cherokee, but more properly termed Qualla Boundary. In spite of his deliberate delays, it was still earlier than he expected; too early, to be honest. Nothing was open yet, at least not along “The Strip,” as locals termed the ugly stretch of bogus log cabins, tourist traps, restaurants of assorted qualities, and gift shops that sold more crafts of Taiwanese tribes than Native American.
Fortunately he found an all-night burger joint a block off the main drag and got a booster shot of caffeine there, adding an order to go: double hash browns and breakfast biscuits—two each of sausage, ham, steak, and bacon. Those safely bagged and bundled into his jacket, he kicked the bike awake and rode north past the Museum of the Cherokee toward Smoky Mountain National Park. After a few miles, he turned left to follow a narrow, rutted road that angled sharply up a ridge before leveling after an eighth of a mile to flank it above a steep-sided valley.
A further quarter mile up the hollow he passed an arch of walnut trees, rattled across a wooden bridge, turned left around a laurel hedge—and found himself facing a small but well-maintained ranch house perched between a frown of mountain and an acre of neatly mown lawn. A cinder-block structure to the right disgorged an assortment of cars in various stages of dismantlement—all of them Thunderbirds from the sixties, save a single hawk-nosed ’71, which, atypically, looked as if it might actually run. Calvin grinned at that: some things never changed—including a certain person’s obsession.
No lights showed in the house, which didn’t disturb him, since it wasn’t his destination anyway. That lay to the left, where a tiny, weathered log cabin snuggled between the laurel, the mountain, a creek, and the yard—rather like a determinedly poor relation. It was roofed with split-wood shingles, and the full-width porch was rough-planed boards. The single door was flanked by two windows, while numerous strings of drying vegetation hung from the rafters and along the walls. It might have been a scene from the last century—except for yet another T-Bird glaring around one side, this one a perfectly restored ’66 Town Landau: burgundy, with a black vinyl top. Which meant that Target One was in residence.
Grinning, Calvin cut the engine and walked the bike to within ten feet of the steps. He parked it there, rearranged the still-warm food in his jacket, and crept silent as a shadow across the remaining yard and onto the porch. A beagle stared at him dubiously from the rough boards but didn’t lift its head. He raised a finger to his lips. “Shhh! Winford!” he hissed. A scrawny one-eyed raccoon he didn’t recognize hissed at him from a river cane basket tucked amid the rafters.
The door was open, which was normal, and dawn-light was plenty to see by as he eased in. A large room reached around him from the left, dominated by a fieldstone fireplace with a raised hearth. The furnishings were rustic—mostly unrestored antiques: solid and comfortable. A few armchairs lazed about, and long tables lounged before each window. Shelves engulfed the right-hand wall, all full of books—thousands of them on every topic, though they tended toward archaeology and anthropology. A curio cabinet by the far end held an assortment of Indian artifacts, including two shell gorgets and several soapstone carvings.
An open door showed just past it. He tiptoed that way, even so fearing his boots might make the pine floor creak. A smaller room lay beyond, dominated by an old-fashioned iron-framed bed. A figure sprawled diagonally across it: male, mid-twenties, and trimly lanky; copper-skinned and black-haired; facedown and carelessly naked upon a patchwork quilt. He was snoring softly.
Calvin’s grin widened as he padded the two paces to the bed. Holding his breath, he extended a finger and slowly drew it along the arch of the nearest bare foot.
It twitched. The snoring fumbled.
Another stroke, this time with an S-shaped flourish. “Wha? Huh…?” Then, like an explosion: “Jesus Christ! Shit!”
Calvin caught a blur of long limbs twisting, of bright eyes flashing, and of something much brighter and more deadly-looking flashing as well—and was suddenly crammed between the iron footrail and a very strong and undoubtedly pissed-off Native American holding a Bowie knife to his throat.
The grip tightened, the blade flickered again, before sense returned to those blazing eyes and the pressure lifted.
“Look down—cuz!” Calvin gasped. The face inches from his own—a handsome one, as it happened—tipped just far enough forward to note where Calvin’s custom-made Rakestraw poised a finger’s width from his balls.
“Fargo, you asshole!” the man growled, as with one smooth flick of his wrist he flung his weapon past Calvin’s head to thunk home in the mantle. Calvin exhaled gratefully. His cousin—for so it was: his father’s sister’s only boy by a half-Irish father—released him and snatched up a pair of jeans as he staggered to his feet.
“No wonder you sleep with the doors open and your bare ass moonin’ the rafters.” Calvin laughed, likewise rising.
“Mr. Bowie’s still less dangerous ’n a woman,” his cousin chuckled, now minimally decent. “And he’s a helluva lot more reliable.”
“I noticed,” Calvin observed wryly. “So, how’re you doin’…Churchy?”
“Watch it!” the man shot back.
“You prefer Kirkwood, then?” Calvin teased.
“I prefer Kirk,” the man gritted as he gathered his shoulder-length hair into a stubby tail. “I suffer los turistas to call me Thunderbird when I’m duded up—that’s what’s in the program for Unto These Hills. The folks that pay me to talk about Native Americans call me Mr. O’Connor. You may call me God or Oh-Wise-One, if cuz, or Kirk, or Hey-You won’t cut it.”
“I brought breakfast.” Calvin yawned, patting his jacket. “—The hard parts,
anyway. I presume you’ve got coffee?”
Kirk froze by the door and fixed him with a scornful glare. “I’m an archaeologist, sir. You know the motto: ‘Have trowel will travel; have percolator, will travel much further and not be grouchy.’”
“Dug up any good dead Indians lately?”
“No, but I’ve had some reburied.” Kirk snorted as he ambled toward the other room. “But that’s business,” he added, “and I refuse to talk business before breakfast.”
“Prob’ly just as well.” Calvin yawned again. He dropped the bags of biscuits on a table and flopped into an armchair. Fatigue found him instantly, and he watched through increasingly heavy lids as his cousin plugged in a hot plate and set a battered aluminum coffee pot to perking. Without intending to, he dozed, rousing with a start as something hot and wonderful-smelling steamed into his nostrils.
“Breakfast is served,” Kirk said primly as he waited for Calvin to focus enough to receive the cup. “You take yours black, if I recall.”
Calvin sampled it and sighed appreciatively. “Not your basic Maxwell House, is it?”
“Antigua. You like?”
“Passable.”
“Sooooo,” Kirk continued, backing toward another armchair, “in spite of your calculatedly casual entrance, I doubt you dragged your skinny ass away from your lady’s lovin’ arms just to feed your impoverished anthropologist kinsman hash browns and ham.” He raised an eyebrow and waited.
“You got it.” Calvin sighed. “But if I stay here, I’m gonna fade before I get anything told. So how ’bout we go outside and watch the mornin’ saunter in?”
“Fine with me,” Kirk replied. “I gotta feed Sammy anyway.”
“Sammy?”
“Sammy Davis. What else would you call a runty one-eyed ’coon?”
“Tsk,” Calvin clucked as he followed his cousin back outside. “I figured you of all people’d be politically correct.”
