Two

Little Jump Off, North Carolina

October 8

STUMP LOGAN PRESSED himself against the weathered gray logs of the store. He hadn’t made this particular climb in almost twenty years, and the effort made each breath sear through his lungs like fire. As he waited for his heart to slow and his legs to stop their shaking, he studied the place that had once been his second home.

Outside, not much had changed. The Little Tennessee River still glittered like a silver ribbon on the other side of the road; the gas pump still cranked out hi-test, though not at the twenty­ one-cents-a-gallon price of his youth. Moths still batted against the small blue neon sign in the window, ultimately tumbling dead on the old porch that still remained silent as he hauled his sixty extra pounds across it. He smiled. It was just as if Martha Crow still lived here. His heart began to swell with the memory, then he heard an angry male voice inside the store. He turned and peered in the window.

For an instant he wondered if his brain wasn’t short-circuiting again. Jonathan Walkingstick, the best tracker in all the Carolinas, was standing right there, in the prime weeks of hunting season, joggling a baby over his shoulder! He’d shortened his hair from a ponytail into a regular barbershop haircut and he’d exchanged his Army camouflage outfit for a red plaid shirt and blue jeans. Jonathan Walkingstick was looking like a real family man.

“You’ve pissed off that whole county.” The tall Cherokee pointed his finger at a woman who was kneeling on the floor, writing with a black marker on a piece of yellow poster board. “Those men need those jobs. They have families to feed.’’

“We’re not asking that they not build the condos. We’re just asking them to build them somewhere else,” the woman replied, not look­ing up from her work. “They’ve got plenty of other flat land over there.”

“Not on that riverbank. And not owned by the governor of Tennessee.” Walkingstick paced faster in front of the glowing fireplace. “You’ll never stop them. They’ve got too much money. Too much clout.”

“We’ll see.”

Logan watched, stunned. He hadn’t had much luck trying to kill Mary Crow in Atlanta, so he’d come up here hoping that Little Jump Off store might give him some clue as to getting rid of her. Though he’d figured out that Walkingstick and Mary Crow were no longer a couple, he assumed the great hunting guide would mend his broken heart with a new bow or a fishing rod, not a new wife and baby.

“But you’ve got no business over there.” Walkingstick jiggled the baby faster. His hawkish features softened as he nuzzled the child’s neck. “They’re Tennessee bones.”

“Those bones belong to us, Jonathan, just like Tennessee used to.”

“Yeah, three hundred years ago.” Walkingstick transferred the fretful infant to his other shoulder. “That war’s over, Ruth. Andrew Jackson beat us, unfair and unsquare.”

“Ruth,” Logan whispered, watching as the woman capped her marker and moved over to the rocking chair. With the fire bathing her face in its flickering glow, he could almost see Martha Crow sitting there. They had the same black hair and cinnamon skin. Ruth. He looked closer, then caught his breath as she shucked off her sweater. All at once she sat there naked from the waist up, her breasts big as melons. Jesus, he thought, feeling a kind of awe inside. Martha had never done that.

Walkingstick handed the baby to his wife. The woman cradled the child in her arms and pressed one dark nipple into its mouth. Logan could not tear his gaze away.

“I don’t understand you, Jonathan.” Ruth continued their discussion as the baby nursed. “Clarinda’s coming to help with Lily. They’ve given us a VIP campsite. Archaeologists from all over the country will be speaking. You’ll have a wonderful time.”

“Lily doesn’t need to be there. A thousand things could happen.”

“Like what?”

“She might get sick. Everybody will want to hold her. Somebody with some weird strain of flu might breathe in her face. Somebody might drop her.”

“I’m taking my medicine bag, Jonathan. Lots of sage and comfrey. Granny Broom told me what to do if she gets sick.”

“Granny Broom?” Walkingstick frowned at a row of bushy plants that hung from the mantel, drying upside down. “What the hell does that old witch know about children? How much sage should you give an infant? How are you going to get comfrey in a nursing baby?”

“You make a tea, Jonathan. Give her little sips, if she needs it, which she won’t.” Sighing, Ruth frowned at her husband. “Listen. You’ve got to lighten up. You can’t protect Lily every minute of every day. You’ll go crazy before she even starts walking.”

Logan watched, mesmerized, as Ruth lifted the baby to her shoulder and patted her on the back. Moments later, she nestled it against her other breast. An ancient anger began to stir inside Stump Logan, like the coals of a long-dead fire rekindling into flame, suddenly glowing orange where they’d long been sooty black. Lately he’d been so caught up in his efforts to rid himself of Mary Crow that he’d forgotten how much he hated Jonathan Walkingstick. The smart-ass bastard had almost torpedoed Martha Crow’s murder investigation fourteen years ago, asking questions that could not be answered, proposing murder theories that only frightened people more. He thought he’d gotten rid of Walkingstick when he’d hassled him so badly, he’d joined the Army. But Walkingstick had done his hitch and returned, ever since looking at the sheriff of Pis­gah County as if he were some pale, nasty thing that had crawled out from under a rock.

“Have you got permits and toilets and para­medics lined up?” Walkingstick was asking his wife.

“Gabriel Benge took care of all that.”

“Ah, yes. How could I forget the University of Tennessee’s answer to Indiana Jones.” He reached down and propped Ruth’s poster up against the wall. “Cherokees! Attend the Save Our Bones Rally,” it read. “October 11–13, Tremont, Tennessee.”

Logan memorized the poster, then his eyes returned to the nursing mother. His wife’s tits had been not much bigger than a boy’s, and she’d always recoiled from his touch. Never had he gotten to caress breasts so beautiful. Only when it was over had he touched Martha’s at all.

Walkingstick tilted his head at the poster as if looking at a work of modern art.

“What do you think?” Ruth asked as her nip­ple slipped from the satiated child’s small pink mouth.

“Reminds me of Wounded Knee,” said Jonathan sourly. “What a treat for Lily.”

“Oh, give me a break, Jonathan.” Ruth drew the baby closer and kissed the top of her head, all covered with wispy dark hair. “Someday, our Lily will tell her grandchildren that she was there when Indians finally came together and spoke with one voice.”

Our Lily. Logan shrank back in the shadows as an idea struck him like a thunderbolt. He’d been going about this all wrong! Three times he’d tried to kill Mary in Atlanta, three times he’d failed. Now he realized that the one fail-proof way to do it was right here, just inside this cabin. Lily Walkingstick. Walkingstick’s child.

He looked up into the sky and shivered, wondering if he was like one of those old people who won the lottery at ninety—someone whose entire allotment of luck got doled out at the very end of their life. He’d never had any luck when he was young, but ever since he’d taken Clootie Duncan’s Jesus card seven months ago, the stars had seemed to align, just for him. He’d gotten out of the cave with Clootie Duncan’s IDs. He’d found a job that allowed him time off with money to spend. And tonight he’d just been given the way to rid himself of Mary Crow for good and maybe lay some major pain on Walkingstick as well.

He lingered on the porch a bit longer, watching as the young couple’s domestic discord abated. Walkingstick started dancing the baby to Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” while his wife put her sweater back on and began another poster. Softly Stump eased his bulk off the porch and back into the dark forest. He had a few more details to work out, but all the basics were right here.

“Lily,” he whispered, testing the syllables on his tongue as he shuffled through the trees. What a pretty name. Who would have ever thought that you could set a trap for a crow with a flower?