Grave Heritage

by Blanche Day Manos

  Keeping the light aimed at the floor, I tiptoed deeper into the cavern, holding tightly to Mom’s hand. The floor slanted sharply downward before ending at a dripping wall.

  Again came the muffled noise. I shone the light in an arc and my breath caught in my throat. Propped against the back wall, his hands and feet tied and mouth gagged, lay Trace Hughes. His motorcycle lay on the floor beside him.

  “Pastor Hughes,” whispered my mother..

  Trace squirmed. He mumbled against his gag, twisting his head from side to side.

  “Here, Mom,” I said, thrusting the flashlight into her hands. “I’m going to untie him.”

  Grabbing one end of the gag, I worked at the knot until the dirty piece of cloth finally fell away.

  “Darcy,” he gasped. “Am I glad to see you and who? Miss Flora? How’d you find me?”

  Mom’s voice shook. “The good Lord,” she whispered.

  “Mom, hold that light still. I’ve got to untie his feet.”

  Kneeling in front of him, I attacked the rope which held him prisoner. Perspiration dripped from my upper lip. Tim Johnson had taken no chances his prisoner might escape.

  Feeling my knees growing wet, I glanced down at the cave floor. The flashlight shone on a steady stream of river water flowing down the incline and pooling around us.

  My heart skipped a beat and thudded against my chest.

  “Better hurry, Darcy,” Mom said. “The flood has reached the cave. We’ve got to get out of here or we’ll drown.”

  Our voices disturbed the sleeping bats. They stirred, making soft flutterings and weird noises. Were they getting ready to dive bomb us? I plucked feverishly at the knots that held Trace prisoner.

  “Save yourselves,” he said. “The river is coming in. Go while you’ve got a chance. I couldn’t walk anyway. Too weak.”

  “No way,” I panted. Pulling against the rope’s tautness, I felt the knot give. One more tug and Trace’s feet were free.

  “We’ll untie your hands later,” I said. “Come on, we’ll make it. Try to stand. We’ll help you.”

  With Mom on one side and me on the other, we slid our arms around his waist, and struggled toward the mouth of the cave which was an eerie, gray blob in front of us.

  Trace’s motorcycle stayed in the cave, a victim of the flood.

  We splashed through water rushing down the slanting floor. When at last we staggered into daylight, the swollen river met us. In the short time we had been below ground, it had spread out across the pasture.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. At least the water hadn’t submerged my car, although it was lapping at the tires.

  Trace struggled to put one foot in front of the other. His legs must have been numb from his cramped position but, step by step, he was regaining the use of them.

  We waded through knee-deep water. Twigs carried by the current brushed past us. The force of the river tried to pull us along with the rest of the debris. My car grew ever closer. At last, I was able to touch my mud-spattered, beautiful red Escape, waiting like an ark to take us to safety.

  Opening the back door, Mom and I shoved Trace inside then clambered into the front seat. My arms shook from fatigue. Mom, I was sure, was just as tired. Nobody said a word. I don’t think we had the strength for speech as I backed down the road, bumped across the cattle guard and found a wide spot where I turned around. We were heading back to Levi.

  Chapter 43

  Although Trace objected, I drove him straight to Dr. McCauley’s office where the doctor checked him over thoroughly.

  “Drink plenty of water,” Dr. McCauley prescribed. “Eat a light supper. Take a shower. Go to bed and sleep for the next week.”

  While Trace was getting his checkup, I called Doris Elroy and told her we had found him. She had had no word from Grant for several hours and, like us, did not know where he and Jim were.

  “Don’t worry, Darcy,” she said. “Grant can take care of himself. So can Jim.”

  My common-sense self agreed with Doris, but fear is an unreasonable thing. Had Grant drowned? Had Tim Johnson killed him and Jim? What had happened, and why was he not answering his phone calls?

  I prayed silently as I drove all three of us to the house in Levi.

  Trace laughed at Mom’s footwear.

  “Those boots look better on you than they do on me, Miss Flora,” he said.

  “How did you stay alive, Trace?” I asked. “You were in that cave a long time.”

  “Johnson brought food and water now and then,” Trace answered. “You said you found Melanie. I want to hear more. Tell me all about it. When can I see her?”

  So we recounted the story of Melanie and Jasper and the Jenkins basement. We told Trace he could see his sister first thing in the morning.

  “Thank God she’s safe,” Trace said. “I can never repay you or those two Jenkins ladies. Or Jasper. Without Jasper, what would she have done? Melanie should never have run away, but Dad could be harsh. He was wrong.”

  “Why did Johnson kidnap you?” I asked. “Did you know that he was a murderer?”

  “During my talk with Mort, he mentioned Johnson. Mort said he not only knew my past, he knew Johnson’s too. I didn’t know what he meant, but I followed Johnson and saw him doing something to that porch banister at the Jenkinses’ house. When he went back to his truck, I asked him what he was doing. Next thing I knew, he had me tied up and I was in his truck. Preachers talk too much.”

  “But, you’re not a real…” I began.

  Trace grinned. “Maybe, but I was beginning to get the feel of being a preacher, and I guess I thought I could talk Johnson into confessing.”

  Mom shook her head and I went to the kitchen. Homey chores didn’t require much thought, and I had no answer for Trace’s reasoning.

  After a supper of canned tomato soup, Trace pulled himself up the stairs for a shower and bed. Mom and I settled down on the two recliners with cups of hot chocolate.

  In spite of my worry about Grant, I dozed. A dream of lawn mowers attacking the house with loud, banging motors woke me as I drifted between wakefulness and sleep. My eyes flew open. Everything looked peaceful. Mom snoozed in her chair. The banging came again and I struggled out of the recliner.

  “The door,” I mumbled. “Somebody is at the door.”

  Stumbling to the front, I flicked on the outside light. Grant stood on the porch, lifting his hand to knock again.

  I pulled open the door and he stepped inside, wrapping his arms around me. All was right with my world. Grant was safe. Tears of relief filled my eyes.

  “Darcy, I stopped by the office and Doris told me that you found Trace Hughes. In our cave? Wasn’t it under water? What happened?”

  I linked my arm in his and we walked to the living room.

  “Grant, I tried to call you,” Mom said. “What was wrong with your phone?”

  “My phone was a victim of the flood,” he said. “It’s somewhere in the Ventris River. I want to know everything. Got any coffee? I’m about dead on my feet.”

  “Coffee coming up,” Mom said.

  Going to the cabinet, I took out three of Trace’s mugs and set them on the table. “Grant, I’ve got to know. Did you find Tim Johnson? Did you lock him up? What happened when you got to our house?”

  Grant sat down at the dining table and dropped his hat on the floor. Running his hands through his hair, he drew a deep breath.

  “I didn’t ever get to your house. Lee Creek was over the bridge. Way over. It’ll run down pretty quick, but nobody could have gotten across that bridge. The water won’t reach your house, but it’s a good thing you built on that little knoll.”

  “But, what about Johnson? Did you see him?”

  “Not until later, Darcy. I don’t know how you and Miss Flora got safely across Lee Creek. It must have been the good Lord sent an angel. Anyway, Jim and I had to stop when we got to the bridge. There was no sign of Johnson. Then, we got stuck; took us a while to get back on the road and when we
did, Doris was calling with reports of people being stranded and needing help to get out of the way of the flood. Amy’s husband almost lost a mare who is about to foal. The poor little mare was stuck in some brush that had been swept down the river. She couldn’t get free. Jack had waded out there and was holding her head up out of the water, but he couldn’t get her loose. She was scared and Jack needed help bad. Amy was there on the bank, had the twins in the car, but all she could do was call for help. Thank the Lord I hadn’t lost my cell phone yet. I tied a rope around my waist and waded out to the mare and Jack while Jim anchored the rope around the truck’s bumper. I think it was during that rescue my phone fell into the river.”

  “And the little mare? And Jack and Amy? Are they all right?” I visualized the scene at the river, muddy water roaring, the mare’s scared eyes, and three men determined to save her and her baby.

  “Everyone is fine. I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if that foal arrives a little early. The mare was pretty stressed.”

  Grant paused and looked hopefully toward the coffee pot.

  “About Johnson—we found his truck where the creek empties into the river. Tim Johnson was still in it. Drowned. He must have tried to follow you over your bridge and didn’t make it.” Grant shook his head. “You won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

  Mom gasped. “Oh, what a terrible way to die,” she whispered.

  Turning to the kitchen window, I gazed out at a scene I had known since childhood. Moonlight lit the back yard. Mom’s rose bush under the window swayed in a small breeze. Such a peaceful picture, completely removed from the violence of this amazing day. Tim Johnson, dead. Trace Hughes, found. Grant, Mom and I were safe. Truly, an unforgettable day.

  The coffee pot signaled it had finished its brewing. I filled our cups and sat down at the kitchen table.

  Mom broke the silence. “I guess I feel sort of numb. We didn’t even know Tim Johnson was the killer until this morning. And now tonight, he’s dead. I’m afraid that he wasn’t ready to meet God. I wonder, if his life had been different…”

  I wondered too, but I confess at the moment I felt more relief than sadness.

  “Mom, that man took the lives of two people. When he died, he was trying to add two more victims to his list—us.”

  Grant shook his head. “She’s right, Miss Flora.”

  “Yes, but still…” Mom began.

  Patting her hand, I smiled and said, “Tomorrow, Mom. If you want to get philosophical and try to figure out just where Tim Johnson went wrong, you are going to have to wait until tomorrow. Right now, I don’t want to think of anything stronger than this cup of coffee.”

  “Wait a minute, Darcy,” Grant said. “Before you do anything else, I want to know about how you got Hughes out of that cave. You went in, bats and all? I would have thought it was completely under water.”

  So Mom and I told the story of searching for Trace at Old String’s place and then taking a chance that he might be in Grant’s cave. As I re-told the rescue, the fatigue I had been fighting all day caught up with me. My eyelids felt as if they had rocks on them. And I didn’t protest when Grant said he would go, and that Mom and I should get some sleep.

  Chapter 44

  The next afternoon, my mother and I decided we would try to go home. Hopefully, Lee Creek had returned to its banks or at least had run down enough so we could cross the bridge.

  Trace was with Melanie at the Jenkins home. Grant and Jim were aiding flood victims. Mom and I were pacing the floor.

  “Darcy, there’s Jethro to think about. Did we leave enough food for him? And that old hen! I’ll bet all her eggs have hatched. Did she have enough sense to stay in the chicken house or did she get outside with those babies and let them drown in a puddle? We’ve just got to go home!”

  “You’re right. I’ve been worried about Jethro too. Are you going to wear Trace’s boots home?”

  “I’ve pretty well ruined them. Yes, they’re all the footwear I have, and I sure don’t want to take time to go to a shoe store. I’ll buy him another pair to replace these. Let’s go.”

  So we went. I drove a lot more sanely going back to our house than when we had left it. The sun shone, birds sang, and an innocent blue sky arched over the trees. This was a July day at its finest.

  As we neared our house, my muscles tensed. Lee Creek still roared and foamed but it no longer covered the bridge. I drove across, trying not to look at the water swirling below me or think of the trauma of yesterday morning. The feeling of terror was too recent, the remembrance of it too fresh.

  Driving around the house, I parked in the driveway and glanced at the back porch. The kitchen door stood wide open. Lights shone from door and windows just as they had when we left. What would we find inside?

  After being so eager to return home, neither Mom nor I were in a hurry to leave the car.

  “Oh, I hope he didn’t kill Jethro,” Mom whispered, looking toward the back porch.

  “That cat is pretty smart,” I said. “He hid when Johnson came, and I doubt that he came out of hiding until he knew it was safe.”

  We slid out of the car and squished through the wet grass. I stepped up on the porch, calling for Jethro.

  He did not appear, and he did not answer with his soft meow as he usually did when I called.

  The kitchen was empty. An overturned chair, a few spatters of blood, and the splintered sewing machine cabinet were the only signs of our brush with death.

  Rolling off a length of paper towel, I dropped it over the blood. Later I would clean it up later.

  Mom sank into a chair, put her hands over her face, and started to cry.

  With tears burning my eyes, I patted her shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Mom. That awful man is gone. We’re home. We’re safe and I’m going to plug in your coffee pot.”

  Mom lifted her head. “I feel like we need a prayer or something to make this kitchen clean again. Such evil and violence were here in our pretty new home. How dare that awful man do that to us? It leaves me with a bad feeling.”

  I measured coffee and water into the pot. Its cheerful perking helped dispel the gloom.

  “I agree; we need something to make this room clean again. We’re Baptists so we don’t have a priest to do a cleansing ceremony and, although Trace would do his best, he isn’t a preacher so I guess that leaves us,” I said. “Wait! I think I know just the verse.”

  Trotting to the living room, I picked up a Bible from the book shelf and returned to the kitchen. Sitting down at the table, I opened to the twenty-third chapter of Deuteronomy and read, “‘For the Lord thy God walketh in the midst of thy camp.’ This is our camp, Mom. It’s where we live and God is with us.”

  “You’re right, Darcy. The Lord is in this house, in this kitchen. I’m proud of you for finding that verse.”

  “And I’m surprised,” I said. “Wonder how I knew that? Usually, you are the Scripture expert.”

  The coffee pot gurgled and burped, signaling that it had finished its job. I poured two cupsful, carried my cup to the sink, and gazed out of the kitchen window.

  “Mom, come here! Look at the chicken yard!”

  “What is it?” Mom asked, hurrying to stand beside me. “Why, it’s Jethro! He’s out in the chicken yard with the old settin’ hen and look! Those baby chicks are climbing all over him.”

  I laughed. “And their mama doesn’t mind a bit. He must have seen that she needed a little help with that big brood.”

  Mom shook her head. “Oh, Darcy! It’s good to be home.”

  Chapter 45

  Jethro was like any proud parent, loathe to leave his babies, but when I called, he finally meandered into the house. He had not eaten all the food in his dish, but I emptied it and filled it with fresh kibbles. His water dish was still full, but I emptied it too and refilled it at the sink.

  Mom had gone upstairs to bathe and find more comfortable shoes. While she was gone, I cleaned up the blood spatters then scrubbed my
hands until they were raw.

  “I feel like a new woman, Darcy,” Mom said, coming into the kitchen. Dressed in blue cotton slacks and a blue plaid blouse with her hair neatly combed, she looked as if she had stepped out of a fashion magazine.

  “Well, look at you!” I said, grinning. “Are you, by chance, expecting a certain handsome lawyer to drop in?”

  She winked and fluffed her hair. “One never knows. I’m ready to tackle that sewing machine, Darcy. It makes me heartsick to think it was ruined after lasting all these years, but I want to take a closer look and see if it might be repaired.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed.

  The lawn mower blade had broken through the top right side of the sewing machine cabinet, cleaving it and two drawers completely off. They lay on the floor by the dining table. The rest of the machine was intact.

  Mom smiled and picked up one of the drawers.

  “You know, I believe this can be fixed. It isn’t splintered, just broken off from the rest of the machine. “Oh, look, Darcy, here are some old spools of thread.”

  A small cotton pouch lay on the floor, evidently unseated from the drawer when it connected with the floor. From it spilled spools of red, yellow, and blue thread.

  I squatted beside Mom and picked up the spool pouch.

  “You’re right. The thread may be rotten now, or perhaps it isn’t; the colors are still bright. The drawers shouldn’t be hard to put back and nail or glue in place. I wonder whose hands last used this thread, and how long ago?”

  Mom shook her head. “No telling. This sewing machine was certainly well built. It must have been a family heirloom and Jeff intended to give it to his bride.”

  Picking up the drawer, she slid it back into its opening on the machine.

  “Wait! What’s wrong?” she asked. Frowning, she bent over to look inside the opening. “The drawer doesn’t want to slide all the way in. I think something is stuck between it and the back of the machine.”

  “Pull the drawer out again,” I said. “I’m going to feel behind it.”