by Ian Smith
Ganzera granted Chogan his wish and in seconds he had been split into the two birds. At first he was sad, because he would miss his family and friends. No longer could he collect the rocks on the river or swim deep in its cold water. But Ganzera told him not to be sad. Now he could spread his wings and fly all over the world, spreading warmth and joy not only to his tribe but to the Sioux and Cheyenne to the east and the Menominee and Potawatomi to the west. From then on, Chogan soared across the land, following his people on their summer hunts across the great plains before going north to eat sunflowers and insects on the open farms. Today, the red-winged blackbird is the only blackbird who can sing a song that still makes others stop and listen.
What surprised Sterling even more than the content of the story was the author. A fifth grader from Pembroke Elementary School, whose location wasn't disclosed on the website. According to a brief caption, the story had been created as part of a school project. The students had been assigned to research the various inhabitants of the Northeast Woodlands, then create a myth to share with their classmates during story time. A small photo showed the students gathered around a makeshift campfire in the middle of their classroom, eating, playing games, and exchanging tall tales. Damian Cherry had told the story of Chogan.
Sterling read the story a second time, now convinced that Wilson had sent him a message about blackbirds. Hadn't Mrs. Potter's Heidi called them his passion? But what was Wilson trying to say?
21
Kay Bledsoe requested that the memorial service be simple. Reverend Roderick, the university's portly chaplain, happily obliged with modest arrangements at the school's stately Rollins Chapel. The program would be short: a few comments from Wilson's closest friends and two choir selections. All of the television trucks and intrusive reporters only made Kay more steadfast in her decision to honor her husband's life quietly, exactly as he had lived it.
The waiting, hoping, and praying—and finally the discovery—had been a long nightmare, and it would continue until they found out who killed Wilson and why. The answers wouldn't bring him back, but they would at least give her some sense of closure. It had happened so fast. One night, preparing her husband's favorite meal; the next night, a widow at forty-eight. It helped somewhat to have Sterling in the house and looking after things, but it was still awkward mourning with a brother-in-law who was little more than a stranger.
At first, she had been relieved by all of the familiar faces gathered in the chapel, but then came the painful realization that once they went their separate ways, she'd be spending another night alone, relying on those little blue pills to help her sleep.
President Mortimer delivered his address first, giving a moving history of Wilson's work inside and outside the classroom. He recounted the first time they had met at a faculty dinner and how Wilson had more questions about the family of deer that grazed on the president's property than about Mortimer's academic plans for the college. Mortimer closed with a poem by Wendell Berry:
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
or grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
President Mortimer's deep voice reverberated in the chapel and by the time he had recited the last line, his words had already been smothered by a chorus of plaintive sobs.
A young dark-skinned woman, wearing a simple blue dress without much in the way of adornment, stepped to the podium and bent the microphone down. The airy chapel made her soft voice sound angelic. “My name is Donica Holmes, and I'm a senior,” she announced. “I'd like to begin my comments with something Emily Dickinson once wrote: ‘Unable are the Loved to die / For Love is Immortality, / Nay, it is Deity.' Professor Wilson Bledsoe saved my life,” she said. “He taught me much more than science and the principles of animal behavior. He showed me what it meant to be a good and loving citizen. But more important, he taught me to always dream big. While his scholarship was acclaimed and his lectures entertaining, I will best remember him as someone who loved life and all of the opportunities that it had to offer. There were many times when I was ready to give up and leave Dartmouth, but his gentle encouragement and willingness to lend an ear kept me here and on the path to graduation. Mrs. Bledsoe, thank you for allowing us to share your amazing husband.” She looked up to the ceiling, then closed her eyes. “God, thank you for sending us one of your angels.”
Nel Potter spoke last. Heidi helped her stand and walk to the podium. The old woman looked even more ancient under the bright lights, her thin gray hair pulled back from her chalk-white face. She didn't have any notes, but instead spoke slowly and freely into the microphone.
“Even at my advanced age, I don't understand death,” she said, looking around at the packed room. “One day I will come to know it—maybe even sooner than I think. What I do understand, however, is the goodness of man and how undeniable it can be even in the face of evil.” Mrs. Potter's voice cracked and she paused briefly to collect herself. “I have lived in the Upper Valley for all of my adult life. I can say with certainty and unfaltering conviction that Professor Wilson Bledsoe was a giant amongst men and a gentle spirit to all forms of life he encountered. When you've been around as long as I have, you come to appreciate the smaller things in life that to others might seem unimportant. Wilson Bledsoe and I shared those appreciations. He was an extraordinary scientist and an even greater man.”
Mourners in the packed chapel rose to their feet and filled the cavernous room with applause.
The organist slowly woke up the organ and the choir stood to sing Wilson's favorite hymn, One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus. The poignant lyrics brought more sobs, and as Sterling looked around he noticed Carlos Sandoza, sitting near the back, dabbing his eyes with the back of his hand. After the choir finished their last verse, President Mortimer once again stood behind the microphone and welcomed everyone to the mansion for light refreshments and fellowship. The choir belted out another hymn, and as the doors to the chapel opened, white-gloved ushers released five doves into the air, each representing a decade of Wilson's abbreviated life.
Sterling stood at the back of the church next to Kay, accepting handshakes and condolences, making small talk. He watched Kay and admired her strength as she smiled through her exhaustion and grief.
An old man with unruly white hair stood at the end of the recession line. Sterling watched as he hobbled on a black cane, tightly gripping the brass elephant-head handle. His badly wrinkled dark suit begged for an earnest wash and pressing. His black rectangular eyeglasses sat slightly askew on the bridge of his bulbous nose.
“My condolences, Mr. Bledsoe,” he said, gripping Sterling's hand with what little energy his emaciated body could muster.
“Thank you for coming this afternoon,” Sterling said.
“I'm Professor Mandryka,” the old man said. He shifted his weight on the cane. “I've heard a lot about you, Special Agent.”
Sterling was surprised the old man knew his occupation. “How did you know?”
“Your brother was proud of you. He told me everything about your accomplishments. He derived as much pleasure from your career success as he did from his own.”
This brought a reluctant smile to Sterling's face. He never imagined Wilson taking an interest in his career, let alone talking to others about it.
The old man continued. “Your brother and I go back a long way. I was one of his professors when he was doing graduate work at the University of Chicago. He was the best damn student I ever had, and let me tell you
, I've had many in my day.”
“What a coincidence that the two of you ended up teaching here at Dartmouth,” Sterling said.
“Oh, it wasn't a coincidence at all.” The old man hacked a dry cough. “Before Willie arrived, there was only one other faculty member here of any true scholarship who was interested in the study of animal behavior. I called Willie and alerted him that this faculty member was going to retire within the next couple of years and the path would be wide open for him to come here and make a name for himself.”
“So he followed your advice.”
“And became one of the giants in his field.”
The old man paused and looked up at the chapel's stained-glass windows. Sterling could tell that he had something to say, but didn't want to rush him.
“Willie was more than a scientist and teacher,” the old man finally said. “He was a humanitarian with an insatiable appetite for giving to others.”
“That's what I've learned,” Sterling said. He now found himself fighting back tears.
The old man looked around and waited for others to pass before stepping closer. He stretched his neck and whispered into Sterling's ear. “I'd like you to come by my laboratory tomorrow morning at seven, before my research assistants arrive. There's something I want to show you.” The old man's voice had taken on an ominous tone.
“Where's your lab?”
“Third floor of the Gilman Life Sciences Laboratory. Over on College Street. It's just in front of the medical school. You can't miss it.”
“What's your room number?”
“There is none. The entire third floor is mine. Oh, and Sterling, make sure you come alone.”
Sterling started a new page in his book and scribbled down the address. “What do you want to show me, Professor?”
Mandryka rested his arthritic hand on Sterling's shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. “Blackbirds.”
A crowd had once again filled the Mortimer house, but this was far from the kind of cheerful gathering that had become customary at the rambling mansion. The music had been silenced and the alcohol had been replaced with coffee, tea, and soda. Kay didn't want to attend, as the ceremony at Rollins Chapel had already exhausted her, but she remained strong, graciously accepting countless condolences and words of encouragement.
Sterling stood by her side most of the afternoon, listening to various anecdotes that attested either to Wilson's goodwill or to his scientific brilliance. But after an hour the stories and the faces of those telling them blurred into each other, and Sterling decided to duck outside for a breath of fresh air. He disappeared through a side door and made his way to the backyard.
The sun had begun its descent toward the horizon, but it still showered wide beams of warmth. Sterling walked across the lawn and stopped at a small, meticulously maintained garden just on the edge of the property. A few flower buds poked through the recently turned topsoil. As the warm wind jostled the tree branches, Sterling thought about New York. He longed to be back in the concrete jungle, picking up his orange juice and bagel at the corner deli and taking his students through the art of dissection and human physiology. He had reached down to pick up an odd-shaped leaf when he heard his name. He turned and recognized Ahote, the petite Native American who worked for the Mortimers.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bledsoe,” she said as she approached. The sun made her black hair look like hot oil. Her skin, too, was on fire, an exciting mix of pink and brown with daring splashes of red. Seeing her in the sunlight only enhanced the sense Sterling had had of her beauty.
“Ahote,” he said, flashing his wide smile. “How are you?”
“Fine, thank you,” she said. “I wanted to share my sorrow with you.”
“That's very kind. Everyone has been so nice to me these last few days.”
Ahote looked back in the direction of the house. When she turned, Sterling noticed a small purple flower resting in her hair. He wondered how it stayed there without anything holding it.
She stepped so close that they almost touched. The sun made her deep blue eyes even more intense. It was difficult not getting lost in them.
“Everyone is not so nice,” Ahote said.
Her terse words startled Sterling.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“My people have lived in these mountains for a long time,” Ahote said. She spoke in a kind of singsong. “We know the land and the way that nature prefers things to be. Everything is not as it should be or as it appears.”
“Does this have anything to do with my brother's death?”
Ahote looked down for a moment, then back into Sterling's eyes. “Askuwheteau was a man of love and peace. His death is not only your loss but a loss to my people and the wonderful animals that roam these great mountains.”
“Why did you call him that?” Sterling asked.
“In the Algonquin tongue, Askuwheteau means ‘Always Keeping Watch.'”
“What did he watch?”
“Everything. He had the eye of a great warrior and the mind of a wise man.”
“Ahote, how did you come to know my brother?”
“All of my people knew him. His heart was with us. He respected nature's freedom as we do. He understood our way of life.”
Sterling wondered if Wilson had also found her attractiveness irresistible. “Did you spend time with him alone?”
“He spent time with all of us, Mr. Bledsoe. Like many of us, he believed that the world was best served by allowing all living things to enjoy nature's beauty.”
Sterling looked deeper into Ahote's eyes. He saw jagged specks of green floating in the deep blue waves. Her strength was well hidden, but it was there, buried within her beauty. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Ahote, I'm going to ask you a question, and I need you to be completely honest with me.”
“I am an honest being, by nature,” Ahote said. “Ask your question.”
Sterling lowered his head and spoke firmly. “Do you know who killed my brother?”
Ahote never flinched. She'd expected the question and responded immediately. “I do not,” she said. “But my people and I share your determination to catch the killers and punish them.” Ahote reached underneath her shawl and produced a folded sheet of paper. She handed it to Sterling. “This is the name of the person you should speak with.”
Sterling unfolded the paper. The word “Kanti” had been written in small black letters. “Who is this?” Sterling asked.
“Kanti knows all,” Ahote said. “He is our great leader.”
“How can I find him?”
“Don't worry, Mr. Bledsoe. You don't find Kanti. He finds you.”
“Agent Bledsoe,” a man's voice echoed from across the lawn. Sterling turned and saw Lieutenant Wiley waving his hands. He folded the paper and placed it inside his black book. By the time he turned to thank Ahote, she was already floating across the lawn in the other direction.
Sterling walked over to Wiley. “What's going on, Lieutenant?”
“I just got a call from the station,” he said. He was short of breath, as if he had been running. “They got those pictures back.”
“Which pictures?”
“The stills you wanted from the video over at Burke. Someone just delivered them fifteen minutes ago.”
“What's on them?”
“No one wanted to open them till we got back to the pit.”
“Let's not keep them waiting.”
“One more thing, Agent. We definitely have the wrong men.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I talked to Jack Spriggins, the sheriff down in Claremont. An old friend. He did some digging around. Nothing.”
“What if he's wrong?”
“Jack Spriggins is a bit of a loose cannon, but when it comes to these matters, he's never wrong. He rules that town with an iron fist. He said Tex and Buzz have air-tight alibis. The night of your brother's murder, Tex was down at the Chicken Shack, eating wings and throwing back Buds.
One of my nephews tends bar there and said Tex came in around six and his girl carried him out sometime after midnight.”
“And Buzz?”
“Locked tight. He and Sheila ate dinner that night at the Mountain Roadhouse. Had dinner from seven to eight thirty, then went over to the Elks lodge for bingo. They didn't get out till after the jackpot round, a little after one.”
Sterling nodded. He wasn't surprised. “If they didn't do it, someone in their crew might've been involved or could know something.”
“Negative. He's checked them all out.”
“But we should do some work on our own to make sure.”
“I'm skeptical, but I agree. That's why our men are out there looking for them. And for now we're keeping Tex and Buzz in custody. Spriggins says he hasn't gotten this much sleep in years.”
“We better get to the pit. Those pictures are all we have going for us right now.”
“I'll work the phones on the way over.”
22
The large black envelope sat by itself in the middle of the conference table like a bomb waiting to detonate. An index card with Sterling's name on it had been stapled and taped to the outside flap. The room was uncharacteristically busy—some officers shouted into phones while others dusted off the last of a large pepperoni pizza. With the autopsy over, the phone records collected, and the time line almost completely filled in, they were confident that Professor Wilson Bledsoe died between his last phone call, at a quarter after seven, and eleven o'clock that evening. The scratch marks on his stomach were evidence that he had been dragged for several feet, then deposited underneath the bush where he had been found.
