Twenty-two

STUMP LOGAN’S HEADACHE burst into full bloom on Highway 70, just east of Murfrees­boro, Tennessee. The baby had pitched such a fit after he’d snapped her last picture that he’d fi­nally given up driving and pulled up at a Waffle House. Sugar and caffeine sometimes helped his head, and the Waffle House served plenty of both. He parked the van, commanded Ruperta to watch the baby, and with Paz in tow, walked in and sat at the counter.

“Coffee?” asked a blonde waitress with a shiner going purple on her left eye.

Logan nodded. “Two. Black.”

She plunked down two cups in front of them, then moved on to another customer. For late Monday morning, the Waffle House was doing a brisk business. Truckers, mostly, and three men in brown uniforms who looked like shift workers hulked over their plates, shoveling food in their mouths.

After cooling his coffee with some milk, Logan pulled a bottle of extra-strength Excedrin from his pocket. He shook four tablets out and washed them down with the coffee. Though the combination would make his heart race like a hamster on a wheel, it would be worth it if it dammed up the sick river that raged through his head.

“What can I get for you fellas?” The blonde with the black eye returned, order pad in hand.

“We’ll have scrambled eggs, sausage, and grits,” Stump told her, ordering for Paz. “With another order of the same to go. And add a couple of waffles to mine.”

“You got it.”

She freshened their coffee and yelled out their order to the cook. Trying to keep his head as motionless as he could, Stump sipped his coffee and turned his gaze to the TV anchored above the counter. A news show flickered from the screen. A pretty white girl and a handsome black man were laughing, trying, under the guidance of a trained professional, to carve a Halloween pumpkin. A commercial for an appliance store came on, then the local news. A reporter appeared and the screen cut to images of National Guardsmen throwing tear gas canisters at war painted Indians. Stump leaned closer to listen.

“A political rally turned unexpectedly violent yesterday as National Guard troops were called in to keep order in the mountain town of Tremont, Tennessee,” the newscaster reported.

“Over three thousand people gathered in Tremont over the weekend to protest dangerously high ozone levels in the Smoky Mountains and the construction of condominiums over an ancient Cherokee burial site. Governor Campbell, who has business interests in the site, called up two units of the National Guard after a protester flung a pie in his face and rioting broke out over what Native Americans are calling the illegal in­carceration of six of their leaders. Several injuries have been reported, and National Guard troops are trying to maintain order as tourists flee the area, seeking a quieter place to enjoy the fall foliage. Officials are asking everyone to stay clear of this part of the Smoky Mountains…”

Another commercial blared forth, then the football scores, the local announcer gleefully cel­ebrating yesterday’s victory of the Tennessee Ti­tans over the Oakland Raiders. Logan gawked at the screen, unable to believe his luck. Everybody at that campsite had gone nuts! The local sheriff wouldn’t give a shit about one baby after all that! That poor bastard would be working his county like a field marshal, trying to keep the Indians from killing the wetbacks, at the same time kiss­ing the governor’s ass while he wiped pie off his face!

As Blondie clattered his plate down in front of him, Logan started to laugh. It was all too perfect. First finding Clootie Duncan, then Walkingstick’s troubled little family. Now a pie­-throwing redskin inciting a riot. For once the universe was expanding in his direction.

With tears of laughter in his eyes, he doused his eggs with ketchup and his waffles with syrup. Now if his headache would just go away, he would be God’s own boy…

He ate greedily, inhaling the sweet maple syrup aroma that rose from his waffle, letting its warm, buttery sweetness fill his head. Paz, he no­ticed, picked at his food as if it were poison, tak­ing tiny bites of egg and holding his sausage delicately between his fingers. Stump wasn’t worried. His two Mexicans had served their purpose. Paz and his little tamale of a wife were as expendable as that squalling brat back in the van. Any more grief from any of them and he would slit all their throats, Edwina be damned. This was his last chance to cut himself loose. No one was going to stand in his way this time.

After he swiped his plate clean with a crust of waffle, he left the waitress an extra dollar and handed Paz the to-go order. When they reached the van, he was smiling. His headache had eased up, and both Ruperta and the baby were stretched across the backseat, sound asleep.

“Let’s not wake them, okay?” Stump told Paz as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Let’s just roll down the highway in silencio.”

“Okay.” Paz glanced back uncertainly at his wife.

“Good man.”

Logan stepped on the gas and headed toward Murfreesboro. Half an hour later he turned in at a shopping center just off the main drag. He’d been looking for the library, but nestled in a new strip mall, close to a Starbucks coffee shop, he spotted a Kinko’s.

“We stop here?” Paz blinked at the shopping center, puzzled as if they’d just landed on Mars.

“For a minute.” Stump turned into a parking space. “You come with me. We’ll let Ruperta and the kid sleep.”

He pulled his cap down low over his forehead and grabbed Edwina’s camera. Paz looked at him oddly, but followed him without protest.

Except for two groggy-eyed college boys who looked as if they’d just pulled an all-nighter, the computers at Kinko’s were deserted. Logan and Paz walked to the counter, where two young men in light blue shirts were binding some kind of booklet.

“Help you?”

“I need some computer time.”

“Mac or PC?”

“PC.”

“PCs are on the right wall, in the corner.” Four Apple computers lined one side of the wall, while four PCs lined the other. Stump looked at each one. The first two were too old, but the last two had the USB ports he needed. Choosing the one closest to the window, he sat down and stuck his card into the slot.

The machine booted up quickly, ready to do whatever he wanted. Good, he thought, retrieving his camera from his pocket. This would be a piece of cake.

He clicked on the picture icon, then attached the camera to the computer with a cable. Seconds later, four new shots of Lily Walkingstick appeared on the screen. After studying them for a moment, Stump chose the third one. Anyone with any knowledge of Lily would know the child. Anyone with a substantial knowledge of Cherokee history would know the site. Logan was certain Mary Crow knew Lily Walkingstick. How quickly she would figure out the route would depend upon how closely she’d paid attention in history class.

Smiling, he logged onto Hotmail and began to write an e-mail. Addressing it to mcrow­@deckardcty.gov, he typed in: Mary, we’re waiting for you. Jonathan. Then he attached Lily’s photo as a .jpg file. He typed “Lily Walkingstick” as the sender and clicked the SEND button. The file up­ loaded. Seconds later, the YOUR MAIL HAS BEEN SENT screen came on.

“Another clue, Nancy Drew,” he said softly, deleting the photos from the computer’s hard drive and disconnecting the USB cable. “Come and catch me if you can.”