“It was an old home, built back before the Civil War. As you know from caring for Dahlia House, it takes a lot of money to keep a house up. Arbin Bailey had let things slide for a long time. After he left, things just got worse and worse. Back then folks were too prideful to ask for help, and Martha Bailey worked two and three jobs. That left the kids alone. I think one of the girls went on to become a photographer, and one boy is a dentist.” He shook his head. “They came up hard, and everything they got they earned. I don’t think any of them have ever returned to Sunflower County.”
It was time to change the subject. This talk was depressing both of us. So many people suffered hardship, and at the point in time we were discussing, I lived in a kind of bubble of bliss. I’d suffered loss, but I was never abused or hungry or in any way in danger. It wasn’t fair, but so much in life didn’t seem to derive from justice or fairness.
“How about I put on a quick pot of coffee and fill a thermos and you warm up the truck?” I was definitely getting the best end of this bargain.
“You got it.” Coleman kissed my cheek and headed out the front door.
18
In the kitchen I set up the coffeepot in record time. When it was brewing away, I got the thermos from beneath the sink and rinsed it out.
“History is tricky, fair lady. Facts and truth are distorted.”
Although I’d become accustomed, most of the time, to Jitty’s theatrical appearances—and vanishings—I still jumped. When I faced her, I saw a handsome Native woman in what looked like Victorian garb. The frilled collar circled her neck like some kind of mini tutu. Her hair was piled high and topped with a clever little black hat. I had no idea who this woman was, though, based on her skin and bone structure, I knew she was of Native heritage.
“Rebecca Rolfe,” she said as she dropped a curtsey.
“Sarah Booth Delaney.” I could have smacked myself in the forehead. Of course she knew who I was. She was in my home.
“May I consider you an ally?” she asked.
I saw then the loneliness and longing in her face. She was not old, but circumstances had aged her. “Of course.”
“You don’t know my name, but you know my story. At least you know a part of it.”
My memory banks were drawing a big zero. I didn’t know this woman. All I knew was that she came from a time when women were forced to wear awful clothing. I could imagine the corset that was squeezing the air from her lungs. “Could you refresh me?”
She smiled. “When the Pilgrims came to my country, I befriended a young Captain John Smith. It’s said I prevented Powhatan, a great chief and my father, from killing the captain.”
I knew her then—or I knew bits about her past history. Pocahontas, known to be an Indian princess who put herself between John Smith’s head and Powhatan’s tomahawk.
“Yes, that’s the legend.” She’d read my thoughts as Jitty could so easily do. She smiled and the years fell away. “It makes a good story, doesn’t it?”
“I loved the story of Pocahontas. I wanted to be her when I was a young girl.”
“The brave young woman who risked all for an English captive.”
I nodded. “For the man she loved.”
The smile slipped away. “Perhaps to my people I was a traitor.”
Those words stopped me in my tracks. The beautiful fantasy crumbled to dust. I’d been so indoctrinated into the history of the white man—and how all events were told from that perspective—that I hadn’t even considered the tragic consequences of the Native American’s friendliness to the first white invaders. I swallowed hard. “Why are you dressed like that? Like an Englishwoman?”
“I died in England. After I was taken prisoner and converted to Christianity, my name was changed to Rebecca. I was married to a man, John Rolfe, a pious farmer who meant to save my soul from savagery.”
“Did it work?” I had to ask, though I knew it was probably not polite.
“The legends never say, do they?”
I hadn’t missed the phrasing of her words “I was married.” A far different statement from “I married.” The first implied that she was entered into a marriage, perhaps not of her own will. The second, to me, indicated free will. This was a part of history I didn’t have an inkling about.
“Did you want to marry?”
“The wants of women were of no consequence in my time. The wants of an Indian woman, even less so.”
I wanted to ask if she had any happiness, but I didn’t think I could stand to hear the answer. “Why were you in England?”
“I was invited to Whitehall, where I was well received. I could read the Bible and discuss Scripture; the tamed savage turned into the proper wife.”
I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for the course her life had taken, but Pocahontas was not a woman who accepted sympathy. “Did you ever return to America?” I couldn’t imagine her choosing to remain in England wearing a getup like the one she had on.
“On the journey home, I became very sick. The ship docked to provide medical care, but I was too weak to recover and died in a foreign land.”
Tears stung my eyes but I blinked them back. I would not insult her with my emotions when she was so carefully in charge of her own. “What are you here to teach me?” I asked.
“The only lessons worth learning are those you pick and learn for yourself.”
She sounded a lot like Jitty—and Aunt Loulane. In fact, except for the very first things she’d said, she did sound a whole lot like a combination of those two women.
“Jitty!” I needed to see my haint. Pocahontas had left me even more depressed than when I’d been talking to Coleman.
The beautiful woman began to morph. The first thing to go was that wretched collar and stupid hat. In three seconds, Jitty stood before me wearing a sexy Indian maiden Halloween costume. It was scandalous and very inappropriate but a great improvement over Pocahontas’ European garb. “You’re going to catch your death of cold running around in that outfit that barely covers possible,” I groused.
She set the Native American flutes going in the background. “You’d better heed the words of a Native princess.”
“Which words? She said a lot about many things. Betrayal, regret, bad impulse control. What is it I’m supposed to snap on?”
“It’s your lesson, Sarah Booth, and you’re not a dummy. You’ll figure it out.”
Outside the house I heard the truck horn toot. Coleman was ready to go. I looked at the coffeepot, which gave a final gasp and hiss. My whole encounter with Pocahontas had taken less time than for my coffee to brew. I poured it into the thermos with the sugar and cream Coleman liked, sealed it up, and took off with Pluto and Sweetie Pie on my heels. It was going to be a cold adventure, that much I knew.
* * *
The moon floated high above the treetops as we drove toward the Winterville Mound, and I recalled the words of warning from Buffalo Calf Road Woman and Lozen. The moon wasn’t quite full, but it would be the next night or the next. The Crow Moon. Danger to my friends.
I considered telling Coleman, but he had enough worries. He took his duty to protect every single citizen of Sunflower County seriously. Sandra Wells and Bella Devareaux weren’t citizens of Sunflower County, not technically. That didn’t matter. All who stepped foot in the county became Coleman’s wards. Two women had come into his domain thinking to work—and now they were dead. That was unacceptable.
“I’m going to call Cece again,” I said.
“Give it your best shot.” Coleman kept his focus on the road. It was a cold night, but dry, and the road conditions were excellent. As we cut through the fields—newly planted with only the first sprouting of green—I leaned against his side as he put an arm around me. High school. He’d kept his first pickup truck with a bench seat and it ran great. It also had the advantage of allowing a bit of a snuggle on a cold winter’s eve.
I dialed Cece’s number and the phone rang six times before it went to voice mail. I didn�
�t bother leaving another message. I’d left half a dozen; some begging and pleading and others threatening.
We rode in silence, enjoying the moonlight, the motion of the vehicle on the road, the sense of being isolated from everyone and everything in the vastness of the Delta. I tried to let go of the puzzle of Cece’s behavior and allow my subconscious to come up with some answers, but every time I relaxed, I came back to the problem with a nagging sense of anxiety. My friend was AWOL. The visitations from the Native American women with their warnings had worked effectively—I was on high alert and there was little I could do to quit worrying.
We arrived at the Winterville Mound, and I was surprised to see two cars parked at the base. One had a Louisiana license plate—obviously Peter Deerstalker’s SUV. The other was a tricked-out Lexus with Sunflower County plates.
Coleman was taking no risks. He cut the lights on the truck, pulled about fifty yards closer to the mound, and called in the license plate to the sheriff’s office. His answer came quickly.
“Belongs to Elton Cade,” Budgie said. “What’s up?”
“I’m not certain.” Coleman reached across me and got his gun from the glove box of the truck. “Budgie, you might give the Washington County sheriff’s office a call and let them know I may need backup.”
Coleman’s words chilled me but I said nothing and waited for him to make the first move. If I opened the truck door, I might illuminate us. If a shooter was waiting, he’d have an easy target.
Coleman clicked off the dome light in the truck and motioned for me to slip out. I did so and took cover, waiting for him to join me. “You should stay here,” he said. “I need to check out what’s happening on top of the mound. Make sure Cece and Peter are okay.”
Or find out that Peter was doing something nefarious to my friend. “I’m in as much danger here as with you.”
“But if you stay here, you have access to the radio.”
He was right about that. “What if this is a trap? You might need my help.”
Coleman’s focus was on top of the mound. We couldn’t see anything, but he finally said, “Okay, just stay behind me. Do whatever I do.”
“Okay.”
He started toward the mound at a sprint, and I was on him like a second skin. A filmy cloud slipped across the moon and gave us the best cover we could hope for as we started up the incline. My muscles screamed, but I pressed forward, ignoring them. Coleman moved with the grace of a jungle cat, and I did my best to emulate him as I followed close behind. What would we find at the top? I carried a burden of dread. I should have started looking for Cece hours ago instead of going home. I should have kept calling.
My regrets were futile and nothing I could have done would change the situation in front of us. Cece wouldn’t have answered her phone no matter how many times I called.
We made it to the top of the incline and I grabbed Coleman’s ankle, holding him in place while I crawled up beside him. I was afraid for him to stick his head up—he might get shot. I lifted my hand up, gritting my teeth as I waited for the sound of a gunshot.
Nothing happened. And there was no blast.
“What the hell is going on?” I whispered to Coleman. “If they’re here, what are they doing?”
“I don’t know.” Coleman propelled himself up to the top and froze on his hands and knees. I settled beside him, feeling completely exposed and like someone had eyes on me. I was a sitting duck, as was Coleman.
Like linked shadows, we moved across the mound to what looked like a historical marker. Coleman had a penlight flashlight and turned it on. A small pool of blood had collected around the marker and was coagulating.
“Damn.”
“We’re going to have to use some light,” Coleman said. “If someone is injured up here, we have to find them. That’s not a serious amount of blood but it signifies an injury.”
“We’ll be sitting ducks.”
“Go back to the truck. Radio Budgie to call the Washington County sheriff and get an EMT team here.”
“What about Doc?”
“It’s not my county, Sarah Booth. We have to use whoever they send. Now make that call and wait at the truck. I have to know you’re out of harm’s way if I need to take a shot.”
“But—”
“No buts, Sarah Booth. Promise me.”
I touched his arm. “Be careful.” I had sworn to myself I would not argue with Coleman when we were in a tight place. He was in charge. I followed his orders. I slipped backward, heading down to do as he bade. We had to get backup and help. I listened carefully as I traversed the side of the mound, but all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears.
At the truck I put the radio call through to DeWayne, who assured me he’d already called the EMTs and the local sheriff. Help would be there fast. He was also coming, in case Coleman needed him. I felt some relief that the cavalry was on the way, but not knowing what Coleman might be confronting had me so wired I felt like I would explode. My inclination was to rush back to the top, but Coleman had urged me to stay at the truck so he could work without worrying about me. If I ignored his wishes, I could put him in even more danger.
I dialed Cece one more time. The rush of anger I felt was unreasonable, but if only Cece had called us back. If only she’d included us in her plans so we could have been better prepared. If only I knew she was okay so I didn’t have that worry piled on top of everything else.
The phone began to ring, and I froze. Somewhere off in the darkness Cece’s distinctive cell phone ring broke the night. “Pussycat Moan” was a blues song she loved and she’d had a custom ringtone made. I knew it was her phone, and it rang and rang. I hung up, afraid of drawing attention to my location.
Going by auditory memory, I moved away from the truck, looking for Cece’s phone. Coleman and I had driven to the mound site in the darkness. What outbuildings, hideaways, clumps of shrubs that might be near, I couldn’t say. I thought of turning on the truck headlights, but we’d rolled up to the location without them because of the risk. I’d have to look for the phone by feel—a task that seemed impossible. Lucky me, I had time on my hands to crawl around searching.
I crept around the truck in the direction I thought the phone ring had come from. Moving on my hands and knees, feeling the ground in front of me, I was determined. If I found the phone, it might yield some clue as to Cece’s whereabouts. Because she wasn’t sitting around in the dark on top of the mound—not without her phone. Cece’s addiction to her phone was legendary. And I could not think that she might be incapacitated, or worse.
When I’d covered the area where I thought her phone might be, I dialed once more.
About twenty feet to my left, I heard it and saw the screen light. I hung up and scuttled over toward it. I had at least accomplished something that would help when the law arrived with searchlights and more artillery. Lots of artillery, I hoped. Maybe a stinger or two.
Patting the ground, I inched along. The location of her phone explained a lot. Cece couldn’t return calls without her phone. She may have dropped it accidentally while getting into a vehicle, but I had a sense the location of the phone was a lot more sinister. Moving slowly and methodically, I searched. At last, just as my knee hit a sharp rock that made me flinch, my fingers found the phone. I had it.
Success was indeed sweet. I started to pick it up.
The shot that rang out was like a Taser to the base of my spine. Automatically, I dropped the phone and rolled. Another shot came and clods of dirt exploded in front of the phone. Even as I rolled for my life, I realized someone on top of the mound had a nightscope. And they had zeroed it in on me or that damn phone.
I back crawled as fast as I could until I was twenty feet away. Then I stood and ran back to the truck, hiding behind it.
Another shot rang out and pinged into the side of Coleman’s truck. “Damn.” I ducked lower.
“Hands up!” Coleman’s voice carried to me.
The response was another gunshot�
�and then silence.
19
It took all of my effort not to call out to Coleman. Instead, I dialed Doc. “You have to come,” I told him. I was barely able to control my tears. “I think Coleman’s been shot.”
“What?” Doc sounded like he’d been asleep. “Can’t you tell if he’s shot?”
“No, I can’t. He’s at the top of Winterville Mound and I’m down at his truck. But if he hasn’t been shot, someone else has. I don’t trust anyone but you.” I forced my voice to remain calm, but I was terrified. The image of Buffalo Calf Road Woman came back to me. I’d been warned. It was not quite the full moon, not yet, but it was close enough. “Just come, Doc. Come right now. Please.” I opened Coleman’s glove box and found the extra gun he always carried. I checked to be sure the magazine was loaded and stuck it in my waistband.
“Stay at the truck,” Doc told me. “Stay safe. That’s the best thing you can do for Coleman. I’m on my way, Sarah Booth.”
I hung up and strained to hear anything from the top of the mound. Where in the hell were Cece, Peter, and Elton Cade? Where was Coleman? Was he injured at the top of the mound? If he wasn’t hurt, he would have found a way to let me know. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Coleman!” I called as I ran to the base of the mound. “Coleman!”
“Stay back! Don’t come any closer.”
I could tell by the strain in his voice that he was hurt. “How bad is it?”
“Don’t come up here. He’s using me for bait.”
“I’ll stay down here. Help should be here any minute. I called the local sheriff’s office and your deputies. They’re calling the state troopers, and the state bureau of investigation is sending a team.” I was playing to the shooter, hoping to flush him out—or, even better, to make him run away. “This place is going to be crawling with cops in another five minutes.” Even as I spoke I was climbing to the top of the mound. Bait be damned. Coleman was hit. There was no way I was going to hide behind a truck.
Game of Bones Page 16
