Eighteen
WHILE GABE AND Clarinda helped Ruth set up the camper, Mary walked beneath the bright yellow trees. She still could not imagine how Dwayne Pugh could have put her, Lily, and Jonathan together, but he had to have done it. There was simply no one else. No one alive and walking the earth, anyway. She needed to have Pugh questioned, and questioned hard. She could call Sanford and Maestra, the two vice detectives who’d worked the case, but that would go in the official log books. If it got back to Virginia Kwan that Mary was having her client interrogated about a kidnapping that occurred two hundred miles away in Tennessee, Kwan would have one of her famed fire-breathing dragon fits. Mott would find out and probably declare Mary mentally unfit to prosecute anybody. Until she could tie Pugh’s threats to the missing Lily, she needed to proceed quietly. Inadvertently she shivered. She knew exactly who could help her.
She pressed one of the preprogrammed numbers on her cell phone. The phone rang twice, then a man answered.
“Justice Center gym.”
“Mike Czarnowski, please.”
“Hang on.”
She waited, listening to the muffled shouts of what sounded like a fairly rowdy basketball game. Then a male voice came on the line.
“Czarnowski.’’
‘’Mike? This is Mary Crow.’’
“Hey, Killer.” The gruff voice softened instantly. “You coming down this afternoon?”
“Not today, Mike.”
“So what’s up?”
“Mike, I need a favor.”
“You name it.”
“Remember Dwayne Pugh?”
“That asswipe you’re prosecuting?”
“Exactly. Look, Mike, I’ve got a situation here. I’m up in Tennessee. Someone abducted the baby of some friends of mine.”
Czarnowski gave a low whistle. “Stole a baby? Jeez, Mary.”
“Listen, I know this sounds paranoid as hell, but I’m wondering if Pugh set this up somehow.”
“From jail?” She could hear the same incredulity in Mike’s voice that she’d heard earlier in Benge’s.
“He could do it.”
“You want me to find out?”
Mary hesitated. Never had she thought she would ask for such a thing, yet never had she dreamed anyone would steal little Lily Walkingstick. It was time to take the gloves off and play outside the rules. “Yes, Mike. I do.”
“Give me some particulars.”
“The victim’s a three-month-old Cherokee female. Black hair, brown eyes, light tan complexion.” My godchild, she thought. The closest thing to family I’ve got left. “Her name is Lily Walkingstick. She was abducted from the Hillbilly Heaven campsite in Tremont, Tennessee, sometime Saturday afternoon. Sheriff’s got an APB out in Tennessee and Carolina.”
“Feds involved?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Mary replied. “Hopefully, they soon will be.”
“Okay, Killer. Don’t worry. I’ll find out something.”
Mary switched off the phone. She knew cops beat confessions out of people every day, but she’d never dreamed she’d call and order one up like a take-out pizza. Cracked ribs and bruised kidneys, please, but for God’s sake, no black eyes!
But there was nothing she could do about that now. She rejoined Gabe Benge back at his van, and minutes later they were edging into the line of traffic heading west.
“So how far away is Nancy Ward’s grave?” she asked him.
“A couple of hours,” he replied. “Take a nap, if you want. I’ll wake you when we get there.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay.” She didn’t want to nap; a short sleep would only make the great mound of fatigue inside her heavier to bear. Still, as the bright autumn landscape flashed by, Gabe’s invitation began working like a subliminal suggestion, and she found her eyelids drooping. Sitting up straighter in the seat, she turned her attention to him.
“So how come you know so much about Cherokee history?”
He shrugged. “My dad got me interested when I was a kid.”
“Really? Is your father into Indian lore, too?”
He glanced at her. “You don’t know the villainous name of Benge?”
She shook her head.
“I’m a descendant of Bob Benge. He was a Cherokee outlaw who terrorized the pioneers in southwest Virginia.”
“Wow. FBI criminal, huh?”
“FBI?”
“Full-blood Indian.”
He chuckled. “He was. I’m not. Benge’s descendants intermarried with the Scotch-Irish Virginians pretty fast. I’m a half-breed, at best.”
“Join the club.”
“You’re not full-blood?”
“My mom grew up in Snowbird, my dad was from Atlanta.”
“Zalagish hewonishgi?” he asked eagerly.
Hearing the soft, musical speech of her childhood, Mary smiled “Some. Gado dejado? Hadlu hinel?”
“I can’t believe I’ve finally found somebody to speak Kituwah with!” He grinned, then remembered to answer her question. “Gabriel Fergus Benge. University of Tennessee, most years.”
“Most years?”“
“This year I’m on sabbatical. I had planned to go dig up mummies in Peru.”
“And now?”
His smile faded. “I don’t know Ruth Moon well, but I’m the one who persuaded her to get involved in this rally. I’m not leaving until her daughter’s been found.”
Mary studied him, impressed with the way he shouldered that responsibility. Though she’d never seen or heard of Gabriel Benge until last night, something about him felt comfortably familiar, as if they were old friends resuming a long-interrupted conversation without a beat of hesitation. Pondering that, she leaned back and turned her gaze out the window. A herd of Black Angus cows dotted a green hillside like black ink drops spilled from a pen. Me, Lily, and Jonathan, she wondered. How could Pugh have tied us together?
“Mary?“
She jumped. “What?” she croaked, for an instant unable to place herself. Time and distance seemed to have passed without her notice.
“We’re here.”
She looked out the window. The van had stopped in a paved parking lot at the base of a hill. A Tennessee state historical marker rose directly in front of them. Slowly it all came back to her. Gabe Benge was driving her to Nancy Ward’s grave, to look for Lily. Somewhere between the Black Angus cattle and here, she’d fallen asleep.
“Okay,” she said, willing the muzziness out of her brain. “Let’s go look around.”
They climbed out of the truck. On one side of the lot, a dirt path led to a canoe launch on the Ocoee River. On the other side, a paved, landscaped pathway curved around a small hill. They walked up the hill, looking for anything that might indicate Lily had been there. Yellow chrysanthemums bloomed tightly on either side of the trail, the grass grew to a sedate half inch, and someone had swept the walk free of dead leaves. It was the cleanest public park Mary had ever visited, but there was no sign of Lily. As they neared the hilltop, she saw a mound of stones surrounded by a tall iron fence. Gabe pulled the photograph from his jacket.
“This looks like the place. The kidnapper must have jumped that fence, set the baby down at the base of the grave, and snapped the photo. Judging by the shadows, I’d say they did it early this morning.”
Mary eyed the fence. It stood well above her head, the iron spikes sharp and pointed. “There must be at least two kidnappers, then. Nobody could jump that fence with a baby in their arms.”
Gabe nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right.”
They walked clockwise around the fence, which was studded with various items people had left to honor Nancy Ward. Bedraggled eagle feathers dangled in the breeze, mixed in with faded dream-catchers and scraps of bright red yarn. As they circled the enclosure they found a mud-encrusted Lookout Valley High School ring from the class of ’99, an empty champagne bottle, an upturned horseshoe spray-painted gold. Nothing, though, remotely to do with either Lily or her. If Pugh had left some clue here to taunt her, she and Gabe were both missing it.
A hundred yards away, across the highway, stood the beginnings of a new subdivision. The main road looked like a deep orange scar in the earth, and three houses rose in various stages of completion. Tomorrow, construction workers would return and resume their work on the site.
Today, Sunday, the subdivision looked as deserted as this grave.
“Nobody would have been working over there this morning,” she told Gabe Benge. “Nobody would have seen anything going on up here.” Suddenly she felt the frustration of cops. By the time she got cases, most of the loose ends had been tied up. Out here, in the world beyond the Deckard County Courthouse, trails went cold fast.
Her phone beeped. Quickly she dug it out of her pocket. Any news, at this point, would sound good.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Killer. Mike here.”
She fought the urge to turn away from Gabe and whisper. “Did you talk to Pugh?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.” Czarnowski sounded smug. “I talked for a good while. Old Dwayne listened pretty good, too.”
“And?”
“He’s not your boy, Mary.” Czarnowksi’s voice went flat.
“What?” She couldn’t believe this. Pugh had to be the one.
“He didn’t do it. By the end of our conversation he wished he had, but he didn’t.”
“But how can you be so sure? He’s a sociopath and a liar. And he’s smart, and he’s—”
“Mary, men lie to me only once. When they learn what that lie costs them, they always come up with the truth. Trust me on this, darling: Pugh’s a slimy wad of snot, but he didn’t have anything to do with your little Cherokee baby.”
“Mike, are you positive?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
Mary closed her eyes. She’d engaged in junta tactics, and for what? Nothing, except for inflicting some well-deserved pain on Dwayne Pugh. She felt sick inside.
“Thanks, Mike,” she said sadly, knowing she would never again walk into the Deckard County Courthouse in quite the same way. “I appreciate your trying.”
“I’m sorry, Mary. I wish I could have done more.”
She dropped the phone back in her purse just as a mockingbird landed on top of Nancy Ward’s gravestone. The gray-feathered bird perched with its long tail at a rakish angle, its throat throbbing with song. Although it sounded beautiful, all she could hear was Lily, crying on that grave.
Gabe touched her shoulder. “I take it you did not get good news?”
She turned and faced him, straight on, feeling as if she were confessing a sin. “For the first time in my career, I just had a man questioned by an officer famous for encouraging reluctant criminals to own up to their deeds.”
“In other words, you had the shit beat out of him.”
“Right.”
“And?”
“And he couldn’t get Pugh to cop to any of this.” Miserable, Mary shook her head. “My wonderful theory just crashed and burned.”
“You’re absolutely convinced that it isn’t Walkingstick?”
“Without a doubt,” she answered firmly. She stared at Nancy Ward’s tombstone a moment, then switched her cell phone back on. “I’m calling Ruth,” she told Gabe. “Maybe she’s gotten some news from Dula or Jonathan.”
“What if she hasn’t?”
“Then I’m calling my assistant in Atlanta. To tell her to ask for a continuance.”
She pushed the buttons that would connect her with Danika when, just as before, a blinking e-mail icon materialized on her screen. Once again, she’d received a picture; once again, the image was of Lily Walkingstick.