by Kim Murphy
Margery reached for the glass, but her hand halted in midair. She seemed confused, and the pupils of her eyes were unequal in size.
“Call 9-1-1,” I said. “She’s having a stroke. Margery, you need to lie down.”
All animosity from our earlier conversation had vanished. While Shae dialed 9-1-1, I made certain there was no broken glass nearby. Russ grasped Margery’s left arm, and I got her right. We helped her to the floor. Russ placed a sofa cushion under her head and shoulders, while I removed her glasses. I checked her pulse and breathing rate. “Help is on the way. You’re going to be all right.”
She mumbled something that I couldn’t quite make out. I glanced over at Russ. He shook his head that he didn’t understand either. The left side of her mouth drooped. She uttered more slurred speech and grew frustrated.
“Just relax until help is here,” I said.
“Kenah.”
Unlike the other words, that one had been distinct. She had thanked me in Algonquian.
Margery muttered a string of words, each coming faster and more frenzied. They were Algonquian. That much I knew.
“You understand her,” Russ said.
“Some of it.” Because of Margery’s rapid pace and my infantile knowledge of the language, I couldn’t quite grasp the meaning. I called for Phoebe. She bent down beside me. “What’s she saying?” I asked.
Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“It’s Algonquian.”
“Nay, ’tis gibberish.”
“I’m certain...” I pressed two fingers to my temple.
Margery’s words no longer made sense. Russ stared at me. Aware he was thinking that stress had caused a hallucination, I remained silent. He wouldn’t believe me anyway, and Phoebe would only worry. I couldn’t help but puzzle over what it all meant.
* * *
Two weeks later, I had received a thank you note from Margery in the mail. Her scrawl looked like that of a child learning how to write, but due to quick medical intervention, she would make a full recovery—in time. Between Margery’s letter and the fact that I had finally wrapped up a serial rapist case that had kept me away from home consulting with detectives in a nearby county, I felt like celebrating.
Around two-thirty in the morning, I accelerated the Thunderbird on the winding, twisting road toward Richmond. I was relieved to finally be heading home with the case closed. I should have given Phoebe a call before leaving, but with the baby teething and cranky, she needed her sleep.
Several miles later, a sleek animal darted across the road. I slowed. A fox. Safely past the animal, I increased speed again. Barely had I gone another mile when the headlights picked up another shape on the edge of the road. Before I could slow, the T-Bird slammed into a deer. The animal rolled off the fender, over the hood, and up the windshield.
Fearing the deer would come crashing through, I braked to a halt. The windshield held, and the deer slid off the hood. I was shaking. Thankful the air bag hadn’t triggered, I checked for any injuries. I was numb from the accident but seemed to be in one piece. I grabbed my flashlight and hauled myself out of the car to check the damage.
Behind the car, the deer struggled to get up. Both of its back legs were shattered. Unable to let the animal suffer, I withdrew my Glock. As I aimed at the deer’s head, I thought I overheard a woman’s voice.
I fired.
The deer fell, then lay still.
“Momma...”
It was a woman’s voice, and she sounded like she could have been injured. I holstered my gun. Shining the flashlight on what I thought was the source of the voice, I moved forward. “Are you hurt?” I shouted.
No response.
I made a sweep with the flashlight beam along the forest edge. No one. I had probably scared her half to death by taking out my piece and firing. “Ma’am, I’m a detective.” I held out my badge. “The deer had two broken legs. I put it out of its misery.”
My head hurt. Maybe I had hit it and imagined the voice. Following standard procedure, I took out my cell phone and called in the accident. Out here, between major cities, it would likely take a while for anyone to arrive. Before calling Phoebe, I returned to the T-Bird to assess the damage—a cracked windshield, a big dent in the fender, and a broken headlight. It certainly could have been much worse. Perhaps I should make the best of the situation and get a permit to keep the carcass. After all, Phoebe had been raised on venison.
“I need your help,” came a female voice with a distinct British accent.
I made another wide sweep with the flashlight to no avail. “Ma’am, where are you? Keep calling to me so that I can locate you. Help is on the way.”
The woman sobbed. “He’s dead.”
With a shudder, I moved toward the tree line, telling myself that I wouldn’t get lost in the forest. “Who’s dead? I’m here to help. Keep talking.”
Another sob. “Help us.”
“Keep talking,” I repeated, heading in the direction of the voice.
More crying.
Following the sound, I stepped among the trees. Instead of locating an injured woman, I became engulfed in a mist. Follow the path. Who guided me? I had only engaged in the dreaming without Phoebe on a couple of occasions.
Help us.
The voice was now in my head. I moved forward but stumbled in the thick fog. In the past, the greyhound had led the way. Could I summon it? I envisioned the dog in my mind, but it failed to appear. What was happening? Either I was having my own vision, or the deer had crashed through the windshield and killed both of us in reality. I laughed. And Shae had been convinced that I would die from a bullet.
Unable to see in any direction, I halted. I am dead. Then why was I still breathing? I touched my neck. My pulse was elevated but steady. Convinced that I was indeed alive, I took a deep breath and continued on.
From somewhere within the swirling mist, a crow cawed, reminding me of my true heritage. My Algonquian name translated to Crow in the Woods. I hadn’t known the truth until after meeting Phoebe. Somehow I had reached through time and summoned her.
Hadn’t Phoebe also traveled through the mist to reach me?
Help.
My duty was to protect and serve. Reminding myself that additional help was on the way, I fumbled farther through the fog. I couldn’t ignore the plea. Then I heard a caw, and the mist cleared enough that I could see a crow on a nearby branch.
I was experiencing the dreaming without Phoebe’s aide, for the crow was my spirit guide. The jet-black bird took flight, and I followed. Soon I was standing along the bank of the James River. Shae was hanging onto my right arm, and a gray-haired man in a police uniform stood before me. My father smiled and shook my hand. “Detective. Imagine that. My son, the detective.”
“Dad?” Nearly nine years had passed since his death. I had almost forgotten the sound of his voice.
But the crow cawed, and I meandered along the river once more until I came to a pitched tent. I smelled fish roasting over a campfire. A grinning man sat in a camp chair. This time, my father only had a hint of gray. “Lee, I’ve got something for you.” He handed me a deer-antler arrowhead.
The one I presently wore around my neck.
“You carried it when you were discovered lost in the woods as a toddler. It’s part of your heritage.”
Part of my heritage. My biological father had carved it.
“Only he can give you the answers you seek.”
“Dad?” I reached out, but the mist engulfed him. And again, like the suddenness of death, my father had been taken from my grasp.
With more questions than answers, I wandered. The mist surrounded me, and I felt the dank air on my skin. The crow cawed. I followed the sound. The bird guided me through the camouflaged layers just as Phoebe’s greyhound always showed her the way. Why had it taken me so long to realize the crow was my guardian spirit?
Another crow joined the single bird, then another and another, until a flock had gathered. They
made a horrifying racket. I couldn’t make up my mind which way they were guiding me. I stopped and listened. They cried a warning.
The mist cleared slightly, and I found myself standing beside a tree. The loud cawing halted as suddenly as it had begun. Numerous black birds watched me from the safety of the branches.
One crow moved closer to a nearby branch and made a series of clicks and rattles. Crow in the Woods.
The words weren’t English or Algonquian, but I had heard my name in my head. “Did you speak to me?”
The bird clicked. Danger.
“What kind?”
Clicks and rattles were all around me. You are seeking what once was.
“How is that dangerous?”
Because you have answered the call.
“The call?”
The crows gave an alarming cry, and out of the mist, a man strode toward me. His skin was brown like mine and, although his shirt was wool, he wore deer-hide leggings and moccasins. A single eagle feather rested in his black hair, which fell down the length of his back. The prominent cheekbones and shape of his nose and mouth gave him an uncanny resemblance to me. He spoke in Algonquian.
Only grasping a few words here and there, I said, “Nows.” Father.
He waved for me to accompany him.
On and on I marched until the mist engulfed me in a fog. Black Owl continued speaking, and I followed the sound of his voice. “Nows, what happened?”
He halted and turned to me. “I will not abandon you a second time.”
My mother’s death scream echoed in my head. “Phoebe says you were away hunting at the time. You couldn’t have known.”
“Phoebe?”
What had Phoebe’s Algonquian child name been? “Red Dog. She is my wife.”
A hint of a smile crossed Black Owl’s face. “Then you should be well prepared for the upcoming journey.”
“Journey?”
But like my adopted father, Black Owl was swallowed by the mist. Once more, I was on my own.
A crow cawed.
No, I wasn’t alone. The crow would guide me, if I let him.
The black bird flew overhead.
I traced my steps carefully and stretched my arms. The crow lifted me toward the sky. Exhilarated by the feeling, I rode the wind alongside the bird. The passage of time had little meaning here. Voices whispered in the breeze. On the ground below me, Shae waved. Beside her stood my adopted mother and father. The wind currents changed, and I floated toward the light. Around and around in a giant arc.
“Lee...”
I floated to the ground, and Phoebe stood before me. She wore a long green skirt, a laced top with metal eyelets, and linen cap. She was dressed the way I had envisioned her during my first experience with the dreaming.
Glistening in the light, her fingers stretched toward me. “Come with me,” she said.
I reached out to her. She whispered her love. Our fingertips nearly touched, but the shimmering light changed to a feathered wing. With a cry, the crow spread its wings and took to the sky.
My hand closed over emptiness. I let out an anguished cry. Phoebe.
* * *
6
Phoebe
With a sudden start, Phoebe sat up in bed. Certain she had heard Lee summon her, she checked the other side. The sheets were cold neath her fingertips. “Lee?” The clock aside the bed read 4:55. She switched on a light. In her bare feet, she donned her robe and peered into the bathroom and called again. Turning on the lights as she passed, she searched the house. His car was absent from the garage.
Fearful of what might have happened, she placed a call to Lee’s cell phone. Voicemail answered, and she left a message for him to call her. Then she dialed Ed. “Lee ne’er made it home, and he doesn’t answer his cell.”
A sleepy voice responded. “That’s odd. I talked to him this morning just before he left Williamsburg. It was around two. He should be home by now. Let me check further, and I’ll get back to you.”
As she hung up the phone, she muttered her thanks. Unlike when she had lived with the Arrohateck, she felt so alone—always alone. There the women played separate roles from the men and consoled each other. In this time period she had no extended family. Neither did Lee.
Briefly she thought of calling Meg, but decided to wait. At any minute Lee might walk through the door, or Ed might call to say that he had been found. Heather would rouse shortly. She needed to remain brave for her daughter’s sake.
When the clock struck seven, Phoebe fed and bathed eight-month-old Heather. She splashed and cooed, unaware that her poppa was late. Her eyes and skin tone were brown, her hair black like her poppa’s. At eight, Phoebe heard a car on the road outside. Hoping that it was Lee, she ran to the window. As she parted the curtain, her hope sank. The car was red, not the dark blue of Lee’s Thunderbird. At eight-thirty, the phone rang. She hurried to answer, only to be asked about a magazine subscription. At nine, she faced the four winds and said her prayers to Ahone. At nine-twenty, she heard another car. This time, it pulled into the drive. When Ed’s bald head emerged from the car, her heart nearly stopped. ’Twas bad news. He wouldn’t have visited in person if it wasn’t. Fighting tears, she answered the door and invited him inside.
“Lee’s car was found. He hit a deer and apparently called in the accident around 2:40 this morning. By the time the tow truck arrived, he was gone. The deer had been shot. Ballistics will verify if it was from his gun, but I suspect he put the animal out of its misery.”
“Then where is he?”
“It’s anyone’s guess. There was a lot of blood at the scene, but we think it belonged to the deer. I’m making certain forensics goes over the area and car with a fine-toothed comb.” She was puzzled why investigators would use such an instrument, but he continued, “There was no sign of a struggle. Although we can’t rule out foul play at this point, he might have been injured and in a daze, then simply wandered off. In that case, rest assured, we’ll find him soon and bring him home. The search dogs are trying to pick up his track as we speak.”
Whilst Ed spoke in a comforting manner, she had already been a detective’s wife long enough to comprehend what he left unsaid. His brow furrowed, making his bushy eyebrows appear more like a hairy caterpillar. His countenance alerted her that he was worried. “Ed—”
“Phoebe, is there anyone who can stay with you, or somewhere I can drive you? I don’t want you to be alone until Lee’s found.”
He was more vexed than she had feared. “Aye,” she responded.
“Then please make the call now. I won’t leave until I know you’re in safe hands.”
She touched his hand. “I know you’re worried, but he’s not dead.”
Not wishing to share his emotion with her, he pulled away. “Make your call, Phoebe.”
His reaction warned her of his deepest fear. “Do you recall when Lee was shot and nearly died?” she asked.
His gaze came to rest upon hers. “How could I ever forget? He saved my life.”
“I felt the shooting when it happened. This morning I heard him call out to me, but he hadn’t died. I would feel it, if that were the case.”
“I hope you’re right. I’d still prefer you weren’t alone until we find out what’s happened. I would be able to do my job better knowing that someone was with you. If the situation were reversed, Lee would do the same for Marian. If you can’t find someone to come here, then you and the baby can stay with us.”
She thanked him and placed a call to Meg at the doctor’s office where she worked. Ten minutes passed afore Meg returned the call.
“Phoebe, what’s wrong?”
“Lee’s missing.” Phoebe went on to explain the situation as best as she could.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She hung up the phone. “Meg and her daughter will stay with me.”
“Good. Everything’s going to be all right.”
He gave her a hug and kissed her upon the cheek afore partin
g. The action warned her how worried he was. But she had grown accustomed to waiting. Her first husband, Lightning Storm, had frequently gone on hunts and raiding parties. And Henry had sailed the Atlantic, often absent for months at a time. On his final voyage, he had contracted the smallpox and taken three years to return. For now, she must focus on her daily activities and pray that Lee would be found.
An hour passed afore Meg and Tiffany arrived. “Any news?” Meg asked, embracing Phoebe.
“Ed says he will call when he has more information.”
Her friend squeezed Phoebe’s shoulder. “He’ll be all right, Phoebe.”
Meg’s presence gave her comfort, but throughout the day, Ed brought no word. After putting Heather to bed that eve, she went into the bedroom she shared with Lee. His jeans remained folded in the drawers, and his suits hung in the closet. ’Twas almost like he was on duty. A photograph rested on the dresser. It had been taken afore Heather’s birth at a historical park in front of replica seventeenth-century sailing ships. “Lee, call to me again, and I shall find you.”
The phone rang. She overheard Meg’s voice in the other room. “I’ll get her.” A knock came to the bedroom door. “Phoebe, it’s Ed.”
She picked up the phone, praying that he had some news.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier, but there’s nothing new to report. The dogs picked up a scent and lost it almost as quickly as they had found it. We can only surmise that he must have gotten a ride with someone, but what happened after that, we don’t know.”
Detecting something unspoken, she said, “Ed, be completely truthful with me.”
“All right. Lee has vanished without a trace. So far, there are no leads—absolutely nothing. We’ll need to wait for the lab results to see if anything turns up there, but my hunch is that someone followed him. They were likely armed, otherwise there would have been a struggle. We’ll go through all of the cases he’s worked on and see if we can find a likely suspect. I have a couple in mind that I want to question.
“Phoebe, there is one other thing I must ask, and please forgive me, but has everything been okay between you and Lee?”
