CHAPTER 11

TUESDAY, JULY 2

When Marti went down to the kitchen in the morning, there was a stack of library books on the table. She had almost forgotten that she had asked Theo and Mike to pick some up for her. It was early. The house was quiet. Ben was on duty. Everyone else was still asleep. She checked the titles—archaeology, Potawatomi, slavery, even a book on the Underground Railroad in Illinois. She was getting used to using the Internet, but there was nothing quite like a book. She weighed one in her hand. A book. Something solid. Printed words that wouldn’t disappear if she clicked on a mouse. This wasn’t a new book, but one that had been opened and read and read again. She held it to her nose and sniffed. The aroma of ink on the printed page took her back years to when she was a child in Chicago going to the public library with Momma. She would roam the stacks and come home with a bag filled with promises.

Deciding which book to take with her to work was a difficult choice. Finding time to read it would be even harder, but the anticipation of the surprises she knew she would find would beckon to her until she did.

She had only gotten a few hours’ sleep. The Buckner autopsy was scheduled for 8 A.M. They were supposed to be in Springfield at 9 A.M. There was no way they could be there on time. And she felt too tired to try. Anne Devney was making such slow progress with her review of the case that they would be working on it until Christmas. One day wouldn’t make much difference. She left a message on Devney’s voice mail.

After the autopsy, Marti and Vik went to the Sunrise restaurant for breakfast. While Vik slathered butter and syrup on a stack of French toast, Marti cut into a Western omelet with her fork and pushed the pieces around on her plate.

“What’s with you?” Vik asked. “At least this time we know up-front that it wasn’t an accident. There were bruises the size of a palm on Buckner’s back.”

“He was a big man. Two hundred and sixty-seven pounds. It’s not that easy to push someone that big out of that door.”

“Depends,” Vik said, using the French toast to sop up the raspberry syrup.

“Why don’t you just use a spoon?” she suggested.

“Enough momentum, a running start,” Vik went on, ignoring her comment. “And almost anyone could have tipped him out the window.”

“And Larissa Linski? The fieldstones?” she asked.

“Leverage. At least that’s what Stephen says.”

“So, you think anyone could have killed Linski or Buckner and size is not an issue.”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“Well, say something, Jessenovik.”

“We don’t have enough information or evidence to reach any conclusions.”

“We’ve got two people dead in a week!”

Vik poured more syrup. “You’re saying whoever killed them would have to be someone who was strong. And I say maybe.”

“That is a thought,” Marti agreed. She speared a chunk of omelet, then let it drop to her plate. “The Smith family,” she said.

“Frustrating,” Vik agreed. “Look at that homicide case back east a couple years ago. The man’s family was half as rich as Midas. He evaded the law for years.”

“Until someone told on him,” Marti said. “It took a hell of a long time for guilt by association to kick in. I hope that’s not what happens this time.”

Vik scowled. “This isn’t just like any other case, is it? They do have privileges. We can’t bring any of them in for questioning without some solid evidence.” He poured more syrup on the French toast.

“You might as well just drink that,” Marti said.

Vik licked some off his finger. “We’re not ready to question any of them yet, but every time I talk with them, I hate the way they close ranks.”

“And just sit there looking down their noses at us and saying nothing,” Marti added. “They haven’t figured out yet that we are just as tenacious as they are. We’ll build a case this time, same as always.”

“Ummm.” Vik chewed and swallowed, then said, “We have to talk with that guard again after we meet with Caleb. And we need to check out Buckner’s job application, get his social security number. So far they haven’t been able to identify any next of kin.”

Marti signaled to the waitress for more coffee.

“We’re not dealing with professionals, Vik. We’re going to treat them with deference and respect, let them think they’re home free. They’ll make a mistake.”

“They’ve already made a few small ones,” Vik agreed. “They didn’t expect us to figure out that there was something taken from where Linski was digging. And they tried to cover their ass with that deer-hoof rattle. I’m sure they didn’t give any thought to the possibility of bruises on Buckner’s body, or bruises that we could identify as not being caused by the fall. Of course they have had a lot of experience with accidents.”

“They probably think if that’s what they make it look like, that’s what everyone will assume.”

*   *   *

Isaiah sat back and looked across the kitchen table at his grandson, Omari. He couldn’t keep himself from grinning. “You’re really interested in this,” Isaiah said. “I thought maybe your father put you up to it because he’s worried that I’m doing too much.”

“Actually, Grandpa, he did. But man, this is awesome. I can’t believe what you’ve been doing. And you started before I was born!”

Omari had just completed a year at a local junior college. Isaiah liked to think that Omari looked like him, and he did somewhat. They both took after Grandma’s side of the family, with darker skin and kinky hair. But Omari was taller and had his mother’s deep-set brown eyes and her smile. Omari was always good-natured and smiled a lot.

Omari had spent most of the week reading Isaiah’s journal and going through the files he kept on each family member he had identified, along with copies of any documents he had found.

“There is still a lot of work to do here,” Isaiah cautioned. “And you see how organized you have to be. I’ve made it back to Edward Thatcher. He was born in 1874. His father was Samuel Thatcher. But unless Samuel was a freeman—and I’ve not been able to find anything indicating that—he was a slave, and Thatcher would have been his owner’s name. I’m not sure I’ve got the right Thatcher.”

Omari leaned forward. “So, what do we do now?”

We. Isaiah liked the way that sounded. He wasn’t going to have to work alone anymore.

“You’re going to have to do a lot more reading. You’ve got to know our real history, all that they didn’t teach you in school, before you can understand what we’re trying to find out and how hard it is, and why it’s so hard. Then you’ll do a little traveling, take a few trips. There are places that have records that I can’t get hold of because I have to go to them and I can’t do that anymore.” His health being what it was, his trip to the family reunion next year would probably be too much. Besides, he didn’t like being that far away from a hospital he knew and a doctor he trusted.

“Travel? For real? I’ve only been to Washington, D.C., on our eighth-grade graduation trip, that and the black college tour I went on in the South. Family reunions don’t count.”

“Worry about catching up on your reading first. Instead of trying to find Samuel, we’ve got to stay with Edward and try to find out if he has any brothers, sisters, cousins, whatever. I hit a stone wall when I tried, and it’s kept me from getting to Samuel, so we have to try again. Now, you always start with the death certificate and work back from that. Edward died in St. Louis, Missouri, in 1921.”

“Is that where we’re going to start looking? How do we find out?”

“That’s what I’m going to explain next. Now you’ve got to remember, this takes time. Don’t try to rush it. Black folks don’t have records going way back the way white folks do. Sometimes, when someone was born it was months, even years, before it was recorded. Sometimes the only record you have is a census count and no birth records at all. Sometimes, the birth record will say ‘baby boy’ or ‘baby girl’ and not even give their Christian name.”

“And you haven’t found Edward’s birth certificate yet?”

“No, just his marriage license, but it gives his father’s name as Samuel Thatcher and his mother as Cynthia, no maiden name, which makes me think she was a slave and didn’t use her owner’s name.”

Isaiah was still concerned that Omari would not understand how difficult the research would be. “I tried jumping from that marriage license back a generation to Samuel, but I couldn’t do it.”

“And you found this Samuel slave of Thatcher because you were looking at Missouri, Tennessee and Arkansas. Was that the only Thatcher you found in those three states?”

Isaiah was pleased. The boy was smart and catching on fast. “There were a few others, the name’s not that common, but this was the only one who listed a runaway slave named Samuel.”

“So,” Omari said, “you’re thinking that if this Samuel is the right one, and he was a runaway, the odds were good he’d get to the Missouri River to throw off the dogs, and follow that to Alton, Illinois and continue along the Illinois River to the Des Plaines River. Illinois was the nearest free state.”

“Good thinking, but don’t get ahead of yourself. We want to find the right Samuel, not any Samuel. So we have to stay here for a while, find out as much as we can about Edward and everyone we can identify who was connected with him. That might lead us right to Samuel without any guesswork.” Kids today seemed to want everything right now. “You sure you can handle this? It takes patience.”

“You’ve been doing it for almost twenty years.”

“Suppose it takes you that long to find Samuel?”

Omari thought for a moment, then said, “I think I have to find him, Grandpa. I think I have to.” He thought again, and then said, “Knowing this much, I have to know the rest. It’ll drive me nuts if I don’t at least try. And not being sure it was the right Samuel would be worse than not being able to find him at all. I see why you’ve taken so long.” He tapped the folders with his finger. “We know these people really are family.”

“Good,” Isaiah said. “That’s good. Now you’re thinking. We’ve got a general area to look at instead of the whole country. But don’t get ahead of yourself. Death certificate says he was forty-seven years old. Died young. Heart attack. That’s how I know he was born in 1874, but I can’t find no record of that. I got on the computer and went from Saint Louis to Little Rock looking for records, then from Saint Louis to Chicago. That’s how I found out he was married in Cook County.

“Now the marriage license doesn’t tell you much. But in order to get a license, you have to fill out an application. That’s where the information is. I’ve called the Cook County Recorders office four times asking for a copy of the application. Best answer I got was that if it still exists it is archived somewhere. I tried to work around that by going back another generation to Samuel, but it won’t work. So, I need you to go to Chicago. There’s an African-American Genealogical Club there that meets at Woodson Regional Library. I called and there’s a brother who will put you up and help you make your way through the recorder’s office.”

“Awesome, Grandpa. This is awesome.” Omari got up, came over and hugged him. “You are awesome.”

Isaiah hugged him back. It felt so good to be sharing this with someone, so good not to be searching alone. “I’ve got to get started cooking for today and tomorrow. And I need you to go to the cleaner’s for me sometime this afternoon so I’ll have something to wear to temple this evening.”

“Can I come?”

“Are you sure you want to, boy? I’m real glad you’re helping with this, but religion is a personal thing and you been raised Baptist.”

“So were you. Is all this stuff what got you going to a temple?”

Isaiah thought about that. “Not really; I was reading about black folks living in villages in the Holy Land, black people who have always lived there and have known no other land, no other country. Then I read the parts of the Bible that tell about Ethiopia and Sudan and Cyrene, African places. Finally, I went to Shabbat, the Sabbath service. Most of the prayers and songs were in Hebrew, which I couldn’t understand then. But my soul heard the words, my heart felt what was sung. So, I stayed. Are you ready for some lunch? Getting toward noon and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

Isaiah layered bell peppers, sliced tomatoes, and onions in a casserole dish. He scrambled eggs and poured them over the vegetables, then put cheddar cheese on top. He made toast and poured boiling water over instant coffee. While he was cooking, Omari turned to the news channel, then added milk and sugar to the coffee. The books Isaiah had given him on African-American history were stacked on the table. For a moment Isaiah felt sad. Those books were filled with much more truth and pain than the history lessons and civil rights stories that Omari had been taught in school.

*   *   *

When Marti and Vik reached their office, Slim and Cowboy, the two vice cops they shared space with, were on a search-and-destroy mission. It was earwig season. Marti suspected that Slim was afraid of bugs. Since he was carrying a Glock nine-millimeter, she didn’t do anything to find out.

“Think we got them all, partner; for now, anyway,” Cowboy drawled. He pushed back his five-gallon hat, releasing a shock of blond hair bleached almost white by the sun.

Marti watched as he ambled over to the coffeemaker. “You should have done that first,” she complained.

Slim—tall, lean and caramel-tan, sauntered over just as Marti opened her briefcase. She took out a sheaf of computer printouts.

“Well, well,” Slim said, giving her a dimpled cupid’s-bow smile. The odor of Obsession for Men didn’t seem as strong as usual. “Looks like Mrs. Officer Mac has entered the computer age. What you got there?” He picked up the top printout. “‘History of Lake County.’ What’s got you off on this, that accident at the Smith place? Someone in their family has been here since before God created the Indians. You find their name anywhere?”

“They’re here.” She had found lists of names of the first settlers in Lake County. Idbash Smith and his sister, Rachel, were among them.

“I think their property is the only land left around here that hasn’t been turned into condo land, rich folk’s palaces, or shopping malls,” Slim observed.

Cowboy ambled over too. “Damned shame that they’re finally selling. They might have the only virgin forest left in this part of the state. Were you looking for anything in particular?”

“What they could have done that was illegal.”

“The hell you are,” Cowboy said. “A hundred and seventy-five or eighty years ago? Or now?”

“Both, maybe.”

“The Smith family?” Slim said. “Rich folk? Is nothing sacred anymore?”

Vik picked up his mug. “Damn. Still empty.” He turned it upside down. “What’s taking so long? Do you have to grind the coffee beans?”

Cowboy dismissed that with a shrug. “What the little lady’s got here looks a lot more interesting than making coffee.”

“Then I’ll make it myself,” Vik threatened, without making any attempt to get up.

“It’s coming. It’s coming. Needs to brew for a few more minutes. Now”—Cowboy turned to her—“what have you got? They have any lawmen here back then?”

“I don’t think they had much of anything here before the Indians were relocated. The Potawatomi had the use of the land until 1836. The earliest land survey we were able to find for the Smith property was 1840. I think they might have waited until the Indians were gone before they started doing land surveys.”

“Probably so nobody would know how much land they got that they shouldn’t have,” Slim said.

“You cynic,” Cowboy responded. “The early settlers were heroes, not thieves.”

“Whatever,” Marti said. “The survey our cave-in expert found doesn’t show any root cellar.”

“You’re still stuck on that?” Slim said. “Nobody could see it. It was belowground. What are you thinking, Big Mac, that there was something down there that shouldn’t have been?”

“Something relatively small,” Vik said.

“How do you know that?”

“We don’t,” Vik admitted. “But we do think that something was probably found there and removed.”

“Hummmm,” Cowboy said. “Friend of mine’s father found a musket ball embedded in a tree he cut down a few years ago.”

“That’s small,” Slim said. “Could there have been a gunrunner in the Smith family?”

“Crooked politicians, I could believe,” Cowboy drawled. “Even fraudulent land-grabbers, but gunrunners?”

“No way,” Slim said. “Back then everyone had a gun. What are the odds someone would get killed now over something like that?”

Cowboy adjusted his five-gallon hat. “Murder.” He rubbed his hands together. “That’s where we’re going with this.”

That was where they were going, Marti thought. They just didn’t have a case yet. There was something important about that root cellar, though, or Larissa would not have died there.

“Think there might be a hooker in this somewhere?” Slim asked. “Maybe the Smiths had the first house of ill repute in Lake County but used someone else’s name on the deed.”

Marti wondered about using someone else’s name. She assumed that since the Smiths were selling the property, it had to be in their name, but according to what she had found out on the Internet, Idbash could have worked out land deals with people who were not Potawatomi. She didn’t understand the legality of any of that. She had made a note to find out if she could look up land deeds going that far back. If there were none, she could forget about it. Right now it wasn’t important enough to prioritize.

“Interesting family,” she said after Cowboy and Slim left. “There’s not much about Idbash except rumor, but his sister Rachel was very well-known. She kept her own name. She was a suffragist, an abolitionist, gave speeches. I even found some newspaper articles she wrote. Quite a lady.”

“I’m sure the Wagners have been capitalizing on that ever since.”

“The senator seems to have fallen a long way from the tree.”

“I heard he’s pretty good.”

“As a lady’s man,” Marti agreed. “He has quite a reputation. And as a legislator if you lean to the far right. Ultraconservative—anti abortion, pro death penalty, nothing like his great-grandmother Rachel at all.”

“Sounds like you were on the Internet half the night, MacAlister.”

“No way,” Marti said. She didn’t want to admit how much time she had spent researching the Smith family. Finding so many listings that included them had amazed her.

*   *   *

While they waited for Caleb in the shade of one of the oak trees, Marti downed her fourth cup of coffee and ate another doughnut. She needed the caffeine and sugar jump-start. She and Vik were both so tired that she had requested a driver.

Caleb was fifteen minutes late. His formerly royal-blue hair was now a brilliant crimson.

“I’m not an archaeologist,” Caleb told them as he stood at the edge of one of the holes. “I don’t see how I can help you with this.”

“It’ll be sometime tomorrow before we can get anyone else,” Vik said. “We need to get on this now so we can keep a guard out here. Just tell us anything you can.”

“I’m not sure I should disturb anything.”

“Was it dug up before or after it rained?”

“Before.”

Marti turned to Vik. “More soil samples.”

“What else can you tell us by looking at it?” Vik asked.

“The soil is evenly distributed for about two feet.

“Yeah,” Vik said. “Good soil.”

“Loam. Good for growing things. And no stones or rocks. This dirt was put here on purpose. It wasn’t deposited by a retreating glacier. See the dirt beneath it? See the difference? That’s from the glacier.”

“So there might have been a farm here,” Vik suggested.

“I don’t see any evidence of that.”

Vik didn’t speak for a few seconds, then he said, “That’s it? Nothing else?”

“Nothing that I can think of. I am going to take some pictures.”

Marti and Vik retreated to the shade of a tree.

“I need about fifteen hours of sleep,” Marti said.

“I didn’t even bother going to bed.”

“Geez, Vik, even a couple hours is better than nothing.”

When Caleb came over he sat with his back against the tree and stretched out his legs. “Well, there are backhoe tracks, and footprints in the holes and places were the dirt is disturbed. There are also four places where the grass is tamped down, like something heavy was there for a while. This happened very recently. Nothing is there now.”

“It couldn’t have been the backhoe?”

“No way.”

When Caleb advised them that the apple orchard site had not been disturbed, they decided to leave it alone and call in an archaeologist. After he left, Marti said, “How many ways out of here are there? Whatever those four things were, they could have gotten rid of them.”

“There are only two ways out, the main gate and a place out back for deliveries. Everything else is fenced in. High fences, twelve feet.”

“Electrified in places,” Marti added.

“It might not be too hard to get two more uniforms out here.”

“We can ask.”

*   *   *

Lieutenant Dirkowitz met with them as soon as they returned to the precinct. He offered them a diet pop. Marti didn’t like diet anything but this did have caffeine. She accepted.

“You two need more than this. You need some sleep. Long night?”

“We found more holes at the Smith place,” Vik told him.

“So,” the lieutenant said, “what do you think that means?” He picked up the defused hand grenade.

“We’re not sure, sir,” Marti said. “But there was another accident out there Sunday night and their groundskeeper is dead.”

“So I hear.”

“Have there been more phone calls, sir?” Vik asked.

“A few.”

Marti didn’t say anything. Neither did Vik.

“Anne Devney called from Springfield. She was a little upset that you couldn’t drive down there today. I suggested that it might not be the smartest thing to do on three hours’ sleep. Went right by her.” He finished off his can of pop. “Oh, and then there are the Smiths. They are concerned that you are not spending enough time on the Linski case. Think it should be closed by now. They suggested that we might find someone who has the time to conduct a proper investigation.” He thought for a moment. “‘Proper.’ That was the word that was used.” He shook his head. “Makes you wonder what a proper homicide is. Bring me up to speed on what was presented at the Linski and the Buckner inquests and what’s happening now.”

After they had done so, he said, “None of the Smiths has mentioned this ‘toy’ you found, or the possibility that it exists?”

“No, sir,” Vik said.

“But we see them under controlled circumstances,” Marti added. “Always as a group. Always with Josiah Smith present. I think the oldest son, Paul, might be quite talkative if we spoke with him alone.”

“Keep that in mind,” Dirkowitz said. “But don’t bring anyone in without clearing it with me first. And have a damned good reason.”

“Sir,” Marti said, “I thought we might take a look at some of the other accidents that happened there.”

“Sounds reasonable,” the lieutenant agreed.

Vik gave her a look that suggested she might have mentioned that to him first. She turned one hand palm-up. She had just thought of it.

“Any theories?” Dirkowitz asked.

“Nothing that justifies killing anyone,” Vik said. “It must have something to do with the fact that they’re selling the land. But what?”

“We have uniformed men posted at the two entrances to the property,” Marti said. “We want to keep them there.”

“You think someone will try to move something?”

Dirkowitz opened another can of diet pop and offered them one. This time they both shook their heads. Marti could still taste the last one.

“If there was something in any of the holes, it might be the smart thing to do,” Marti said.

“We can’t keep them from leaving the premises or search their vehicles when they do. They could put whatever it is in a car trunk or SUV. We’d be none the wiser.”

“I know, sir,” Marti agreed. “And I know this might not be the most effective use of manpower. But we don’t have enough to get a search warrant for the house. We were lucky to get one for the property.”

“The earliest we can get an archaeologist to look at the new sites is tomorrow afternoon. Maybe not until Friday,” Vik said.

“Who did we ask?”

“The Archaeology Department at Northwestern.”

The lieutenant picked up the phone and put in a call to Northwestern University. When he hung up he said, “She’ll be out this afternoon.”

Vik frowned. “Don’t men do this kind of work anymore? I hope she doesn’t talk as much as Dr. Altenberg.”

“We’ll keep those two officers guarding the areas until the archaeologist clears the sites. And since the Smiths have questioned our ability to be effective, we’ll keep the men at the entrances, ineffective as that might be.” The lieutenant paused long enough to finish his can of diet pop. “Now, a couple of things. I don’t want you to have any contact with the media. The Smiths have a lot of control there. And technically, the Smiths get no special treatment from us. The specifics on how we handle them may differ, but we will follow procedure. Don’t do anything other than talking with them without letting me know first. And…” He checked his watch. “You two are going to go home and get about four hours sleep. Dr. Gabi Kirkemo will be on site at three o’clock.”

*   *   *

Dr. Kirkemo arrived with one assistant and four students. She checked out both sites where holes had been dug and decided to work on the one that was undisturbed despite Vik’s protests.

“Whatever was here is probably gone,” she said. “There has not been any excavation at the other site. I begin there.”

Dr. Kirkemo assigned her assistant and two of the students to the disturbed site among the apple trees. Vik stayed with them. Marti tagged along to the second site, located among the oak trees. As far as she could tell, they did nothing for two hours but draw lines, confer, and take measurements. She wanted to ask what that had to do with anything and urge them to dig but did not. If that’s what the other team was doing, it had to be driving Vik crazy. Or worse, he was driving them crazy.

By the time they set up their equipment, which consisted of different-sized screens which they called sieves, got out spades and trowels and began removing small amounts of dirt in a pattern based on the grids, Marti was almost asleep. Dr. Kirkemo and her teams worked until it was beginning to get dark.

“Find anything?” Marti asked the doctor, although she knew they hadn’t.

“I don’t think we are deep enough yet.”

Marti had expected them to dig, find something, or not, and return to Evanston.

“How long will this take?”

“It is hard to say. Hopefully, not more than a week.”

“That long?”

“It depends. There is one thing that might be interesting. The trees where the earth is disturbed are quite a few years younger than the trees that surround it.”

“Which means?”

“That a circular area here was cleared, then replanted. This hole is close to the center of that clearing. The circular pattern of planting is not typical. The trees surrounding these are planted in rows.”

“How long ago are we talking about?” Marti asked.

“Oh, a rough guess, based on the size of the younger tree trunks, maybe a hundred and fifty to a hundred and seventy-five years. We will have to take cuttings from each to know for certain.”

Marti went to the tree nearest the hole, then walked away from it in one direction until she could see what Dr. Kirkemo meant. She reached a stand of trees that had trunks nearly twice the circumference of the trees where the dig was.

When she returned, Dr. Kirkemo said, “There is another thing. The trees in the area surrounding this circle of oaks are much more diverse. Maple, elm, cedar, birch.”

“What do you think that means?” Marti asked.

“Potawatomi. Syrup and sugar from the maple trees, saplings and birch bark for tepees, cedar to scatter on the floor to control odors, elm and hickory bark for storage containers. However, I must advise you that the presence of this variety of trees and their possible uses does not mean that we will find artifacts.”

“But we could,” Marti said.

“Yes.”

“Then don’t rush it. I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”

When Marti told Vik how long it could take, he shrugged.

“So? A few days? A week? What’s the big deal about that?”

That was the crux of it. What was the big deal? Whether Potawatomi had lived here or escaped slaves had hidden in the root cellar, they still didn’t know what was important enough to kill for.

“Do we know what’s supposed to happen to this land?” Marti asked. Vik had consulted the maps.

“All of this will be sold.” He waved his arms in the direction of the trees. “The orchard, too. The trees, especially the oak, will bring damned good money. Shame to cut them down, though.”

“Finding artifacts of any kind will bring everything to a halt.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Vik said. “They can’t build here until everything is recovered, but they still might be able to sell.”

“There is so damned much that we don’t know.”

“Because we’re cops,” Vik said. “We solve murders. We don’t go on digs. We don’t sell real estate. And we’re damned sure not rich.” He shook his head. “I was wondering if maybe the old man doesn’t really want to sell and is trying to hold things up. Maybe it’s the sons who want the money.”

Marti felt a headache coming on. “We need a decent night’s sleep,” she said. “I can’t even think straight right now. We’ve got to talk to the guard again. The one who found Buckner.”

“That can keep until tomorrow,” Vik said. “They’ve got him rehearsed by now anyway.”

*   *   *

Ben was there when Marti got home. Everyone else had gone to Joanna’s night game. He gave her a quizzical look. “Headache?”

She nodded. “What are you doing here?”

“I dropped off Momma Lydia and the kids, told them what time I’d pick them up. I was sort of hoping a very tired lady cop would show up while they were gone.” He took her in his arms. “The hot tub awaits you, and then one of my famous omelets and a total body massage.”

As tired as she was, she managed to stay awake for it all.

*   *   *

When Vik got home, Helen and Krista were waiting for him. He went to Krista. “Is your mother all right?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Bad day?”

“She fell but she didn’t hurt herself. She was just upset, that’s all.”

“You’re sure she’s all right? Did you call the doctor?”

“We took her to the emergency room. They said she might be a little sore and have a few bruises. But nothing is broken. She’ll be okay.”

He went into the room that had once been his den but had been converted into a bedroom because it was too difficult for Mildred to go upstairs. He sat beside her. Her breathing was slow and even but her face looked flushed against the pale blue pillowcase. He touched her forehead. She didn’t feel warm. She was okay. Today she was okay. It had just been a fall. But she became upset when the muscles in her arms or legs became weak, and he hadn’t been here to comfort her.

He had planned to take a long, hot shower. Instead he put on his pajamas and slipped into bed beside her.

“Matthew,” she said, her voice heavy with sleep.

“I’m here now,” he said in Polish. He gathered her into his arms. “Moje serce.” My heart.

He felt the warmth of her tears on his shoulder and held her close and cried, too.

*   *   *

Josiah stood by the window. Where was she? He had not seen her since the other night when she came into the house. Why had she come inside? Why was she crying? Until then, she had always walked toward the apple orchard. A guard was stationed there now. Did that upset her? Was that why she didn’t come now? Or was she in the house somewhere, waiting? That thought made him nervous, but he told himself that he was too old to be frightened by anything.

Idbash had spoken of her a number of times. “The woman comes in the night. I watch her from my window as she wanders among the trees. Who does she seek?” Idbash did not fear her either, nor did he know why she came. Still, seeing her sitting on the steps had been unnerving. Since then, Josiah had not been able to sleep at night. He lay awake until dawn, waiting, listening for the sound of her weeping. And he had another lock put on his bedroom door. Now he closed the draperies and turned away.

There were a number of Idbash’s documents that he needed to look at again. He picked up the agreement signed by Idbash as a superintendent of government agents in 1822. “The tracts of land here stipulated to be granted to Idbash Smith shall never be leased or conveyed by the grantees, or their heirs, to any persons whatever, without the permission of the President of the United States.”

These tracts were Smith land now. At least he thought so. Or did this agreement still apply? So much time had passed, and so many treaties had been signed. He could not risk drawing attention to this by making any inquiries that might help him find out. The grantees were the Potawatomi. Could this land still belong to them? There always seemed to be some dispute in some state over who owned land that had once belonged to Indian tribes.

He did not understand the last paragraph at all. “The United States, at the request of the Indians aforesaid, further agrees to pay to the persons named in the schedule annexed to this agreement the sum of seven thousand, two hundred and five dollars, which sum is in full satisfaction of the claims brought by said persons against said Indians, and by them acknowledged to be justly due.”

There was no attached schedule. Josiah had tried to work his way through this sentence by sentence, but the meaning was still unclear. He thought it meant that Idbash had received the money as the government’s agent because legally Idbash could not have owned the property in his own right until the Indians left in 1836.

He pulled out a Xeroxed copy of the government act establishing trading houses with the Indians in 1806; he reread the portions of the articles that he had highlighted.

“Every agent … will not directly or indirectly be concerned in any trade, commerce or barter … interested in carrying out the business of trade or commerce, on their own, or any other than the public account, or take or apply to their own use any emolument or gain for transacting any business or trade…”

Josiah didn’t know if that applied to land. He didn’t know how long this act had been in effect. He wasn’t sure if, legally, Idbash had actually come into possession of the land or if indeed the family did now own it. He knew that the documents he had now were sufficient to establish ownership and enable him to sell, but if anyone was to look beyond that … if anything was found that raised any questions about what had happened here when Idbash took possession of this land … even if they did prove ownership, the process could take years.

He opened the journal again, although he didn’t need to. He went to one of Idbash’s last entries. “I will leave much to my children. Enough for their children as well. All I have done, I did for myself and my own comfort, but I considered them at all times. My father came to this country impoverished and died soon after, leaving me nothing more than his good name. I lived like an Indian until I came here, with little shelter and eating from the land. I stayed in this place because here I could exceed my father’s ambitions. I have lived so long and seen and done so much that I wake from nightmares when I sleep, but my children and their children shall sleep undisturbed by my dreams.”

Josiah closed the book and turned off the light. He returned to the window and pulled the curtain aside just enough to peek outside. Had Idbash’s nightmares included the woman? She was there, in his dreams now, when he slept.