I asked Eddie Wolfe for his cell number in case I had follow-up questions. As we left, Romero said, “I’m going to see the Swifts. Did you know Swifty is missing?”
Eddie leaned against the metal door jamb. “Yes. Dot came by earlier asking if I’d seen him. I hope the boy just wandered too far and got caught out after dark. He’s a smart kid. He knows how to live in the wild.”
“When did you see him last?” Romero asked.
“At Sunday’s ball-play. Not to speak to. He was warming up for the game.”
“Any place in particular he might hike?” Romero asked.
“You’ll have to ask his friends.”
“Were Swifty and Jimmy close?” I asked.
“I reckon,” Eddie said. “Jimmy was his coach and his bus driver.”
“What are you thinking?” Romero asked me.
“Danny Swift disappeared yesterday, the day everyone learned of Panther’s death.”
Romero nodded. “The kid’s run off to grieve.”
“I bet you’re right,” Eddie agreed. “If you need a search party, call me. I’ll clock out and help.” He stepped back inside and closed the door.
I turned to Romero. “I’ll wait in the car while you talk with the parents.”
“What are you going to do? Just sit and twiddle your thumbs? There’s no cell coverage.” He jerked his head toward Eddie’s trailer. “And that was a good question about Swifty’s relationship with Jimmy.”
“All right. If you want an extra set of ears.”
I followed Romero up the gravel road past three mobile homes to the last one in the row. It was also the one with the neatest landscaping. A flagstone walk outlined with white pebbles arced from the driveway through beds of blue pansies. Gray latticework around the base of the mobile home provided the backdrop for a row of wild azalea bushes. The steps and landing to the front door had been stained a dark oak color in contrast to Eddie Wolfe’s unpainted lumber.
“They own their place?” I asked Romero.
“Yes. And the home next door that they rent out. David works as a surveyor’s assistant. In the summer, Dot works at Oconaluftee Village. She demonstrates how Cherokees make pottery. During the school year, she teaches elementary reading. Swifty’s their only child.”
“I guess you’d be worried sick regardless of how many children you had.”
“True.” Romero sighed. “But Swifty was a difficult delivery. Dot can’t have any more children.”
At some point in the near future, Susan and I would like to have kids. The prospect that we couldn’t would be a shock and a disappointment. “That’s too bad. Let’s hope Swifty’s already home.”
“Yeah.” Romero pointed to the yellow Toyota Corolla in the driveway. “That’s Dot’s car. David has an old van. Maybe he’s gone to pick the boy up.”
I stayed in the yard while Romero climbed the steps and rapped on the glass storm door. Within a few minutes, Romero stepped aside to reveal a slender woman in wheat jeans and a purple tunic. Her jet black hair was pulled back in a single braid that fell over the front of her right shoulder to below her breasts. I estimated her age to be close to my own. Thirty-five at the most.
“Any word?” Romero asked.
She didn’t speak. Just shook her head spilling fresh tears down her cheeks.
Romero gestured to me. “This is Deputy Barry Clayton. He and I are investigating Jimmy Panther’s death. We talked to Eddie Wolfe. Is it OK if he comes in with me?”
She shrugged and pushed open the storm door. I crossed the threshold and gave her my warmest smile.
“Would you like some coffee?” She spoke so softly I had trouble hearing her.
“None for me,” Romero said.
“No, thank you,” I said.
The layout of the room was similar to Eddie Wolfe’s trailer, but where he had stark walls and a wide-screen TV, the Swifts’ home seemed to contain only things made by craftsmen. The furniture was constructed of wood and cane, and the upholstery looked like the cushions were covered in handwoven tapestry. Shelves along the walls held pottery of all shapes and sizes. Plates, vases, cups, urns. I remembered Romero said Dot worked summers at Oconaluftee Village demonstrating Cherokee crafts.
“Your home is lovely, Mrs. Swift,” I said. “Did you make all these pieces?”
“Most of them. David and Danny worked on the furniture.” She swept her right hand in an arc. “Please. Have a seat.”
Romero sat on the sofa and the wood creaked under his weight. He smiled. “Sturdy stuff.”
I took a cane-back rocker and Dot sat on the edge of a hard-back chair.
“David’s not here,” she said. “He’s gone to the Oconaluftee Village to see Robbie Ledford.”
“What’s Robbie doing there?” Romero asked.
“He works after school burning canoes.”
I sat quietly, not understanding the conversation.
“Swifty working there too?”
“Yes. Danny demonstrates the blowgun for the tourists.”
I noted how Dot didn’t refer to her son by his nickname. Most mothers never accepted a nickname conferred upon their children by those outside the family.
“Barry, Robbie’s a boy Swifty’s age,” Romero explained. “Since the village stays open in October through leaf season, some of the kids have part-time jobs after school. They play roles in the portrayal of a 1760 Cherokee settlement.” He turned to Dot. “Did Robbie say he knew where Swifty went?”
“No. They all heard about Jimmy at school and Danny left at lunch. No one’s seen him since.”
“Why did your husband go to the village if you already learned this from Robbie?”
“David wanted to see Robbie face-to-face. He thinks Robbie must know more than he’s telling, and he wants to look him in the eye.”
“Kids will protect each other,” Romero agreed. He looked at me, inviting a comment.
“Mrs. Swift, did your son have a bicycle at school?”
“No. The bus picked him up at the end of the road.”
“So, he left school on foot.”
“I suppose so.”
“Are any of his friends old enough to drive?”
“Not that I know of. Danny mainly hangs out with boys his own age. Mostly members of his ball-play team.”
“Is there any place at the Cherokee Boys Club he might be hiding?”
Dot Swift leaned forward in her chair. “We drove by after Danny didn’t come to the village to work. No one had seen him.”
“I’ll swing by again,” Romero promised. “Maybe he’s holed up in a storeroom or something.”
I didn’t know what relevance the boy’s disappearance had to my case other than Jimmy Panther’s murder could have triggered it. Still, I wanted to help if I could.
“Do you have a photograph of your son?” I asked.
She rose from the chair and went to a bookshelf at the end of the room. She took down a rectangular piece of pottery that was a picture frame. The eight-by-ten featured a grinning Cherokee boy standing in front of a roughly cut open field. He held a wooden stick with a circular webbed pocket at one end. A beaded headband pulled his black hair off his high forehead. He stood shirtless, the ball-play stick angled across his chest.
In the field behind him, other boys were frozen in mid stride as they ran—some with shirts, some without.
“Nice looking kid,” I said. “How old’s the photo?”
“About a month. He was playing a team from one of the other towns. Danny had a great game.”
“Did your son ever take part in any of Jimmy’s protests?”
“No,” she said emphatically. “While David and I agree with some of what Jimmy is fighting for, we didn’t go along with his confrontational tactics. Jimmy never let the kids get involved.”
“How did your son feel about Jimmy?”
“Danny idolized him,” Dot said. “Second only to his father. Sometimes I think David was a little jealous.”
It sounded like Swifty didn’t need a father figure, but as an only child, he might take to Jimmy as a big brother. “Is it fair to say he would be very upset by Jimmy’s murder?”
“Devastated.” Again, the tears flowed. “But not as devastated as I will be if something’s happened to him.”
Romero looked pained by the woman’s distress. “We’ll find him, Dot. Don’t you worry. And I’ll talk to Robbie myself.” He stood. “Anything else?” he asked me. His tone told me my answer should be no.
“One other thing if it’s not a bother. Could I see your son’s room?”
Tommy Lee had told me always check the bedroom of a runaway. Sometimes there could be clues through magazine clippings or saved pictures as to the child’s destination.
“Yes,” Dot said. “But he didn’t leave a note or take any of his things. He didn’t know Jimmy had died when he left for school yesterday.”
“It’s a good idea, Dot,” Romero said. “We might learn something.”
She led us down a short hall to a bedroom at one end of the mobile home. A single bed with a plain brown blanket was underneath a window overlooking the front yard. Over a dresser on the opposite wall hung twin ball-play sticks crossed like blunt spears. A desk with a goose-necked lamp sat under a smaller window in the trailer’s end wall. Three books were stacked on the desk. I picked up the top one. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Not unusual reading for Swifty’s age. Below it was The Hunger Games, also popular with teenagers and shot in the western North Carolina mountains. The third book wasn’t in the bedroom of many readers of any age. Ultimate Guide to Wilderness Living.
“Is your son reading this for a group activity?”
“No. It’s his own interest. Danny likes nothing better than being in the forest.”
I flipped through the pages but no notes or bookmarks fell out. “So, he’s read it?”
“That and at least ten others,” Dot said.
The boy could probably outlast a Special Forces patrol, I thought. Unless he’s been injured, he’ll come in when he wants. I looked around the room again. No toys, no video games. I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed.
“He doesn’t keep anything under there,” Dot said.
I pulled out a ball-play stick.
“I don’t know where that came from,” Dot said. “Maybe he was making it.”
To my uneducated eye, the wood looked older than the sticks above the dresser. The webbing or whatever they called it at the end was worn and broken.
“Let me see that,” Romero said.
I sat on the floor and raised the stick to the giant towering over me. He moved the shaft laterally in front of his eyes.
“I’ve seen this before. It belongs to Jimmy Panther.”
I scrambled to my feet. “Would Jimmy have given it to him?”
“Maybe.” Romero gave a slight shake of his head, cuing me to let it go. He turned to Dot. “Mind if I keep this? I’ll ask Emma for a positive identification.”
“OK. But I know my boy didn’t steal it.”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” Romero said. “And I’ll show it to Robbie. Maybe he’ll know why your son has it.”
“It wasn’t there Saturday,” Dot said. “I dusted under the bed.”
“Probably has nothing to do with anything else. But we’ll go straight to the village. You have a landline, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Dot went to her son’s desk and wrote the number on a sheet of paper. “Please call if you learn anything.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Romero assured her.
We said good-bye and walked down the gravel road to the patrol car. Eddie Wolfe was heading to his Camaro when he turned at the sound of our footsteps. He eyed the ball-play stick.
“Is that Swifty’s?”
“No.” Romero stopped in front of Eddie. “It’s definitely not Swifty’s.”
Eddie’s eyes widened as he studied the stick. “That’s Jimmy’s. Is Swifty back? Did he bring it with him?”
Romero walked over to the patrol car and tossed the ball-play stick across the backseat. “Swifty’s still missing. We found the stick under his bed. Any idea why he’d have it?”
Eddie stared at the patrol car. “No,” he finally said.
Romero slammed the back door and signaled me to get in the car.
“You don’t think Swifty’s the one who stole Jimmy’s collection?” Eddie asked.
“Not for a second.” Romero got in and started the engine.
As we pulled away, I looked back. Eddie stood frozen by the Camaro, watching our departure.
“Is that the ball-play stick Skye mentioned?” I asked. “The one that’s been in the family so long?”
“Yes. I don’t know how many greats in front of grandfather, but one of them fashioned it before the Trail of Tears. That’s pre-1838.”
I knew the Trail of Tears had been the forced relocation of the Cherokee to Oklahoma so that Georgia could claim part of their land, the land on which gold had been discovered. President Andrew Jackson defied the U.S. Supreme Court and let the ethnic cleansing occur. Over thirteen thousand Cherokee were driven from their ancestral homeland in the winter of 1838 without proper clothing, food, or shelter. Between four and six thousand died along the forced march. It was a shameful blot on our history and national character.
“Why are you so sure Swifty didn’t take Jimmy’s artifact collection?” I asked.
“Because he would have had to have stolen it after Sunday night. Jimmy would have sent out a hue and cry if he’d found it missing. If Swifty didn’t learn of Jimmy’s death till noon yesterday, he couldn’t have made it to Jimmy’s on foot before we got there. By then the collection was already gone.”
“So, what are you thinking?”
“That the ball-play stick might pry loose Robbie Ledford’s tongue if he knows anything. How’s your time?”
I checked my watch. Three thirty. “I’m OK. I need to meet my wife no later than five.”
“Then let’s see where this ancient stick leads us.”