by Karen Harper
“Dr. Lockwood,” came a smooth voice behind her that made her jump. She gasped and turned. She had not heard a car, but one sat in front of the house. The black Cadillac must have arrived before she stepped outside. Much closer to her, as if he’d approached on silent feet, stood the Chinese ginseng agent, Peter Sung, with a huge bouquet of white chrysanthemums in his hands.
The roughly hewn tree trunk chair he sat in hurt Drew’s butt and back, though Seth Bearclaws seemed quite at ease in an identical one. They faced each other across a plank table that had carved faces of deer and bear staring up at him from under a thick slab of glass. Jess was right; this place gave him the creeps with its snakeskins and array of skulls displayed on plank shelves or nailed to the walls. Worse, on the wall behind him, Seth displayed his various knives, chisels and hatchets, which, depending on how the conversation continued, Drew intended to have confiscated and checked for blood and DNA.
“Say it, then, Sheriff,” the old man told him, frowning so his bronze forehead wrinkled in sharp furrows. “I told you, I was carving that whole day she disappeared—carving the tree trunk for Mariah you have seen. Yet you keep asking me questions. I am cut deep for her loss, but I did not cause that loss. But if you do not believe me, say so.”
Drew shifted uneasily. It was strange that he said he was “cut deep,” but that just sounded like Seth. He would hardly have worded it that way if he’d been the one who cut her, would he? Drew wished he didn’t admire this man. He hadn’t hesitated to go for Vern Tarver’s jugular in an interrogation, but he was wavering on this. Seth—who had seemed as ancient as the hills, even when he was growing up—had been a fascinating character to him and his brothers. Never once had they pulled a prank on Seth or Anna Bearclaws.
“Mr. Bearclaws, in three patches surrounding Mariah’s body, sang berries were laid out in the shape of arrows, pointing toward where we found her.”
“And the arrows link to me because I am Indian? I used to hunt with bow and arrow, but not for years.”
“No, it’s not the arrows that point to you, Mr. Bearcl—”
“Call me Seth. You are not a bad boy anymore but a good man. So you will believe what I tell you.”
Their eyes met and held. The old man’s were deepest mahogany, as if carved from that hardwood and polished to a high sheen.
“I want to,” Drew said, “but sang berries outlining a bear head were found at one of the sites. That’s not all. I’m going to show you photos of Mariah’s face after someone left his marks on her.”
As he’d told Jess, he wasn’t sure he’d share these, but he’d talked himself into a corner. Despite how nervous the guy made him feel, for the past fifteen minutes he’d been here, Drew had the gut feeling he was telling the truth.
He pulled the four photos out and slid them silently across the table. Seth stared at them, picked them up to look closer, frowning and shaking his head. Below, where he’d rolled up his flannel shirt, the muscles in his lower arms seemed to contract and bulge, making the bear tattoos there move. The stoic old man blinked back tears, before lifting his gaze to stare at Drew again.
“I did not do this, would not. You think these are bear claw marks I put on her?”
Drew shrugged. Wouldn’t Seth have pretended he didn’t get the connection if he had anything to do with this?
“Take me out to the forest where someone killed her,” Seth said. “Let my eyes look with yours to see what we can find from who did this. And,” he said, rising and pulling his bear claw necklace over his head and tossing it on the table where it clattered to a stop, almost touching Drew’s hands, “tell the coroner to try to match these to her marks, because they will not fit.”
“But other bear claws could have been used, not necessarily that neckl—”
“No,” he said, dropping the pictures on the table, then thumping them with his index finger. “Those are claw marks of a badger, not a bear. I will prove it to you,” he said, walking toward the wall where his knives glistened, even in the dim light.
Drew put his hand to his pistol, but Seth reached for a leather thong of claws hanging over a nail and tossed them on the table, too. “Badger claws from a dead body in the woods—a badger body.” As Drew slid the bear claw necklace and the badger claws into the envelope without handling them, he watched closely as the man started back toward his weapons.
“Hold it, Seth,” Drew said, standing with his hand on his pistol. “Here’s the deal. I take you out in the woods with me, but not with your knives.”
“Weapons, Sheriff?” he challenged, turning to stare at Drew.
“I’ll level with you. I may need to confiscate those, but let’s leave them where they are right now. Just from looking at the pictures you can tell it was done with badger claws? But a badger attack—or someone running around with its claws, other than you—doesn’t make sense.”
“Nor does blaming me for killing a fine woman I would never harm, even if she counts the sang for a government that thinks it can control everything.” His voice was bitter, but it was not news to Drew that Seth, maybe more than most around here, hated any sort of government control.
As if he had accepted the bargain, Seth moved into his open kitchen area and, evidently, prepared for their excursion. Drew moved closer to be sure he wasn’t pocketing a kitchen knife. Though it was risky to go with Seth into the woods, Drew planned to be heavily armed. He could use the old man’s sharp eyes and woods wisdom out there. Besides, the cunning Cherokee could help him with one other thing.
“Seth, a photographer friend of Cassie Keenan’s took a picture of what may be some sort of strange creature in the woods yesterday, not far from where we found Mariah. I’m going to have him send the photo to my laptop, and I’ll enlarge it as best I can. Maybe we can find that spot and look around there while we’re in the area.”
Seth nodded. Drew was surprised he did not react further, but then the man had always been stoic. Maybe the old Indian just figured Drew was too ignorant to recognize a particular animal from a distance. He watched Seth carefully as he took from his refrigerator what appeared to be beef jerky; he filled a canteen with tap water. “Got sick drinking from Bear Creek last year,” he muttered as if to himself. “Used to be pure as the land, but now it’s polluted, just like everything else.”
“I’ll drive us up to where we can hike in, but I’ve got to phone the photographer first, then my office and Jessie. You haven’t asked how she is.”
“I know how she is. Strong, like her mother. And not going to sit still for this outrage.”
Here Jessie was wondering, Drew thought, if she’d inherited the mountain women’s sixth sense, when Seth seemed to have it in spades. Drew called Cassie on Seth’s phone to see if she knew where Tyler was. She did—and handed the phone to him, so Drew asked if he could e-mail the photo.
“I’ve got my laptop with me today,” Tyler said. “I’ve enhanced the photo a bit, but it’s still not definitive.”
“I’m taking Seth Bearclaws into the woods to find the spot and look around, so I need it ASAP.”
“Cassie told me about him. How about if I bring you the one I’ve printed out? It’s a lot clearer. Then I can go along with you. The three of us can surely locate the spot, and I’ll take photos again if you find anything.”
When Drew hesitated, he added, “I’ll just consider that payment for the photos I took last night.”
“If I take you along, I’ll expect that any crime scene area photos—last night or today—become my property, not yours, in writing. I don’t need those falling into the hands of the newspapers, which have been calling.”
“Sure. I understand and agree.”
“And, Tyler,” he added, speaking low so the waiting Seth wouldn’t hear, “I appreciated your help, but don’t even point a camera in Seth’s direction, at least not now.”
“I think we understand each other. When will you be at the old logging road?”
“As soon as I make two more phone calls.”
&n
bsp; He called Emmy at the office to tell her where he was going, then called Jessie’s number. She didn’t answer, but then she’d said she was going into Highboro. Just as well. If he had driven by, he might have ended up with her along, too, and he didn’t want that. He’d been nuts to let her walk out of the woods last night, but he’d seen no other way.
As Seth got in the Cherokee—which he’d refused to ride in before—Drew wondered if he’d made a mess of this in terrogation. New information, at least, but no confession, no arrest. Rather, two new deputies of sorts, the one sitting next to him, whom he wasn’t certain he could trust, and then Jess, who he was getting emotionally involved with, which was not only tricky but taboo on such a case. Now he’d have Tyler tagging along with a photo that might just as well be of an alien from Mars. But what he couldn’t get out of his head was that his boyhood buddies used to claim that Seth Bearclaws, a full-blooded Cherokee, could call up huge, half human, half animal beings to do his bidding.
Peter Sung’s arrival surprised and scared Jessie. He was one of Drew’s so-called persons of interest. He’d told her not to talk to him, but she was caught now—besides, she didn’t intend to pass up this chance to find out where he’d been lately. She recalled Cassie’s suggestion, You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
“These flowers are to honor the memory of your mother,” Peter said, extending the large bouquet to her with a stiff, quick nod. “In my culture, white is not the color for brides, but for the dead.”
“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful. I hope they last so I can use them at the funeral.”
“I believe you will find them quite hardy. When will the funeral be, if I may ask?”
“When the coroner releases the body—soon. My mother had a sitting up—a kind of wake—for my father. I’ll have one for her, the night before the funeral at the Baptist church.”
“If I am welcome at the funeral, I would be honored to attend.”
Peter Sung was the most serious she had ever seen him, though she’d only talked to him once in the four years he’d been representing the Kulong family, which bought so much Deep Down ginseng. She noted again his slight accent, British, like those she’d heard in Hong Kong, she thought. He was tall for an Asian, with sleekly arched eyebrows, sharply slanted cheeks and thin lips, which were often smiling. But he looked genuinely grieved, almost pained. As usual, he was dressed impeccably, today in dove-gray slacks and a matching long-sleeved knit pullover sweater. He was thin and moved gracefully. His good humor—her mother had said he joked about buying “Sung’s Sang”—and generosity always surprised people who expected him to be quiet and even shy.
She knew she should ask him in, but she hesitated to. She wasn’t sure whom to trust anymore, and the man was on Drew’s “hit list.” But now, she wondered how to get something useful out of him.
“I was just taking a little stroll,” she said, gesturing toward the creek with one hand. “If you wouldn’t mind…”
“Of course not. I can always use the exercise. It’s been a while since I’ve been out running with my hounds. Dr. Lockwood, I deeply admired your mother, and she provided an invaluable service in this area and for my clients. Will you be taking her place with the ginseng counts?”
She was going to deny that possibility, but perhaps being noncommittal would get her some admission from him. “I’m not sure,” she told him.
“I realize this is too early for you to make such decisions, but please be assured that I and the concerned clients I represent will do all we can to help you in any way, whether you remain in Deep Down or not.”
“When did you last see my mother? I understand you are only here from time to time.”
“Ah, I think it was last June, mid-June. I’d actually have to consult my daybook. I stayed with Vern Tarver, and I sometimes saw Mariah with him, so he might recall, if you must know specifics. Yes, I believe it was when Mariah was in and out of the Fur and Sang Trader in mid-June.”
So Vern and her mother had probably been more than friends for at least most of the summer, Jessie thought. Why hadn’t she known? Surely, her mother didn’t think that, after being true to Jessie’s father for all these years, she would resent a romance? Or had it only been a friendship to Mariah and that had caused the friction with Vern—and perhaps more?
“So you weren’t around since June,” she said, hoping that sounded like a comment and not a challenge. “If you’d only been here when she went missing—and if you’d had some of your tracker dogs with you.”
“Yes, that would have been of help. I’ve run them in this area before, so that might have given them a head start over the usual breed of hounds around here,” he said, with a hint of scorn creeping into his voice. “But I regret I was called away from Lexington. I also represent the Kulong family interests in Wisconsin, where we buy cultivated ginseng—hardly of the quality of the wild roots here, of course.”
So did that mean he had been in Wisconsin, or he merely wanted her to make that connection? He was lying, wasn’t he? He’d been in Highboro at least during the time he claimed to have been “called away.” Or could his timeline fit with his claim? She had to talk to Drew and let him pursue it.
“I do understand and sympathize with the grief you must feel,” he was saying, perhaps a ploy to shift the subject. “Losing a parent—an elder—that is serious indeed.”
“You sound as if you have been through this,” she said as they walked slowly along the creek. Like a bride walking down the aisle, she held the flowers before her; he walked with his hands clasped behind his back.
“My father, just last year,” he told her. “Though I am sure our funeral customs would seem, well, foreign to you. Now, for example,” he said, “this little stream. Should a Chinese funeral procession cross water, the procession must be halted, for the soul of the dead cannot cross water unless the deceased is informed.”
Strange, but what came to her mind was that the recovery team last night had carried her mother’s body across Bear Creek. So to the Chinese, would that mean her soul remained on the other side, near where she had been killed?
“What else is different?” she asked. “What about the burial? After the funeral, my mother will be buried next to my father up on Cemetery Hill.”
“Ah, a hill is good,” he told her with a nod. “The higher up, the better feng shui. People today think that means arranging their furniture for best effect, but it is so much more. Then,” he went on, stopping and turning back to look at the clapboard house, “the deceased elders will be worshipped by the family at their home, once the spirit of the deceased returns.”
“Returns to the home?” she asked, turning also and clasping the fragrant flowers to her.
“Our custom and belief,” he said with a slight shrug as if to dismiss his words. She sensed he was sharing the belief of others, not himself. Or were these subtle words of warning for her? She would definitely have Drew question this man. Had he really come to comfort and console, or was he trying to frustrate and frighten her?
“Seven days after the death,” he continued, gesturing toward her house, “the departed returns to the home. The family remain in their rooms that day so as not to interfere, but they often sprinkle flour or talcum powder at the front door, so they know.”
“Know what?”
“The footsteps of the souls of the dead blur the flour or powder on their way inside to the altar where they will reside.”
“To be worshipped?”
“Yes. A far cry from Baptist beliefs, of course, but my condolences are sincere. If you need anything I might be able to provide, do not hesitate to call me, Dr. Lockwood.”
He did that stiff little nod again, extended a calling card to her, backed a few steps away, and left her standing by the creek. She glanced at it: his address, cell phone number, fax, e-mail and the Kulong Imports Company Web site. So he certainly wasn’t avoiding being contacted by her or by Drew. He had offered unlimited help and support, so wh
y had he unsettled her so much? Just because he was sharing the Chinese customs of death?
When she went inside and put the flowers in a vase on top of Seth’s carved tree trunk, she realized she’d made a sort of ancestors’ shrine. This might be the heart of Appalachia, but the monument to her mother was now part Cherokee and part Chinese.
Chapter 14
14
D rew swore under his breath. Not only was Tyler standing outside his vehicle on the old logging road, but another man with a truck was there, hauling out some kind of gear. If Tyler had brought someone else, that was it—he wasn’t going with them. On the seat next to him, Seth squinted through the truck windshield and grunted.
“I can tell which one is your photographer,” he muttered. “The other one is Ryan Buford, a surveyor of roads. I said good riddance when he left a couple years ago, but I see he’s back. Now, there’s a killer—of trees.”
“Don’t make waves just because he’s with the government, okay? Besides, my office manager Emmy Enloe’s evidently sweet on him.”
“Buford is not to be trusted near virgin forests or virgins.”
Drew almost choked at that. “So, when was he around these parts before?”
“I’ve said enough.”
Drew didn’t press Seth since he seemed to be cooperating. Could he be implying that when Buford was through here before, he was womanizing? His thoughts circled back to Cassie, but that was the least of his worries right now. He bit his lower lip and forced himself to deal with the here and now.
It looked like Tyler Finch already had his gear in a big backpack, except for a camera he held in one hand; he had a manila folder in the other, which Drew assumed held the photo he’d asked to see. He hoped he didn’t flash it in front of Buford. Rumors of some strange creature loose in the woods, near a cut or clawed corpse, would turn the area into chaos, even around here where most folks were content to mind their own business.
Drew got out and walked over toward the two men while the stubborn Seth stayed in the Cherokee. If the old man went back on his word to help in the forest, he would arrest him. If he stayed put right now, so much the better, so he didn’t have a shouting match or worse on his hands. Still, it would be just like Seth to disappear into the trees—or thin air.