Deep Down (I)

by Karen Harper

  “I like to talk about it with someone who honors it, not someone who does not.”

  “Okay. What can you tell me about skillies?”

  Seth looked even more shocked than when he’d seen his house on fire. His narrow eyes widened; his jaw dropped.

  “What?” Drew asked. “Is it some sacred secret?”

  “No. But from the first time I saw Tyler Finch’s photo, I thought it looked like a skilly.”

  “You believe in them?”

  “My people believed in them years ago, the kecleh-kudleh, the hairy savages who came to snatch souls away and spread fear. Now, I believe in them with my heart but not my head.”

  The nape of Drew’s neck felt as if it had been stroked by an icy hand. No wonder Seth had not brought up skillies before. He was already the hated target of rumors and arson, so why tell anyone that The Thing looked like a Cherokee mythical beast?

  “Anybody else around here ever mention them?” Drew asked. “Or did you mention them? To Vern? Peter Sung? Junior Semple? Tyler Finch? Anyone?”

  “No. Well, maybe I told Mariah, but she didn’t pose for that picture or kill herself.”

  “I just can’t accept—in my head or heart—that we’re dealing with the supernatural. There’s no way that—” He jumped when his two-way buzzed. “Gotta take this. If it’s nothing, I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll see you at Jess’s for supper.”

  He got out, slammed the door and ran to his truck. It was Emmy; he steeled himself for bad news.

  “Drew, Cassie Keenan spotted Junior Semple crossing the highway between Castors’ place and hers. She called me from her house. He was heading east.”

  “Tell her I need more specific directions—where he crossed. I’m heading there now, so call me back.”

  He spun his wheels in the mud to get traction, fishtailed, then tore out of Seth’s lane.

  Jessie was starting to believe that signs from heaven were telling her to search Vern’s storage room and office. He’d just received a call from Widow McGillan up by Crazy Creek, who said that she had a sack of old sang she wanted to sell, but she wanted him to come up and buy it rather than coming in. Peter had driven back to Lexington with boxes of Junior Semple’s ginseng in his trunk. But for an occasional seller coming in, she’d been left alone in the store.

  She wasn’t sure whether Drew would approve of her actually searching Vern’s property, but she couldn’t miss the opportunity to find something to link him to her mother’s stolen sang counts, or something he’d written that might link him to an ongoing disagreement with her mother—anything. Keeping an ear attuned to the front door in case anyone came in, especially since the rain seemed to be letting up, she went down the hall to peek in the storage room and Vern’s office.

  Both were small rooms without windows. First, she opened the heavy door to the storage room; it had a long table and shelves filled with wooden boxes, obviously stuffed with sang. A small, grated vent high on the outside wall let in air and a tiny shaft of light. She sneezed at the dust from the packing Vern and Peter had done. She noted a bolt lock on the outside of the door, but not the inside. Closing the door behind her, she left it as she’d found it.

  She went across the narrow hall to Vern’s office. Unsure if it would be locked, she turned the knob and slowly opened the door. Darkness. She felt along the wall and clicked on the light. A small black safe sat in the corner behind a large, neat oak desk and four beige metal filing cabinets. Two chairs were crammed in, one behind the desk, the other, with her mother’s denim bag on it which Peter had put there for her—near the door. She stepped inside.

  The wall facing the desk was filled with large, framed, black-and-white photos of his parents and grandparents, standing in front of the Trader. A phone sat on the desk, surrounded by tidy stacks of papers. She knew better than to think her mother’s notes might be out in the open, but she quickly rifled through the stacks anyway, then tamped them back into crisp piles. It would take forever to really search here. She’d have to snatch time piecemeal when she got the chance.

  Besides the hall door she’d come through, the office had two other doors side by side, both closed. She opened the first—a bathroom, toilet and washbasin with a mirror. The next opened to a closet with large, shelved boxes, each neatly labeled in big printing SANG #4. The closet didn’t smell like sang. It was more like mothballs, though how could she tell when the entire store was redolent with aromas. After being here awhile, she was probably as nose-dead as someone working in a perfume shop.

  “Darn!” she muttered, when she heard the front door open and someone come in. She turned out the office light and hurried down the hall to see who it was.

  Despite the fact the rain had stopped and he’d said he had work to do, Ryan Buford was back.

  By the time Drew got near the spot where Cassie had seen Junior, Emmy had called back with better directions. Women and directions, he thought. Did Emmy and Cassie think he could find Junior in this overgrown area if their only direction was a two-mile stretch of road?

  He shook his head to clear it. He was not only exhausted but feeling desperate and angry. He had to calm down. The fact that it had rained actually helped him find tracks this time, whereas the leaf litter up by Bear Creek had obscured footprints. In ten minutes he’d found fresh boot tracks heading from the spot and in the direction Cassie had said—due east. As far as Drew knew, no one lived out this way anymore. Hunters might come through, but there were no access roads in the area.

  With his semiauto pistol in its holster and his 12-gauge shotgun in his hands, he headed deeper into the undergrowth and trees. If Junior was armed—Cassie wasn’t sure—it would probably be with his Remington 12-gauge firearm, the deer-hunting weapon of choice around here for years. Drew was pretty sure that Junior hated being locked up so much that he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. Besides, he was in much more trouble than last time, and if he’d had anything to do with Mariah’s death, he could be desperate if cornered.

  Drew also figured that there could be more between Peter Sung and Junior than a one-time deal for sang and bail money. Such as free varmint sticks to protect the crop. Such as orders and cash to be sure Mariah Lockwood’s ginseng count was good enough to keep the stuff flowing through Peter’s pockets to the Kulong family. Or if this year’s count would be low, Peter would want to somehow stop her reporting it, until they could find someone else to count who could be bribed.

  Occasionally, Drew lost the tracks in leaves or grass, but managed to pick them up again. Where in hell was the guy going? If he’d been hiding out, wouldn’t he have stuck to an area closer to home he knew better and where he could sneak in to see his wife?

  He was careful not just to keep his head down, but to look ahead too, in case Junior had stopped or sensed pursuit. Mountain men had been known to “get the notion” that tipped them off to someone else nearby in the woods.

  Drew wondered again about Jess’s vision of her mother’s death, the old mountain sixth sense. It wasn’t exactly a psychic ability and seemed to come to the person in random fashion, as if they could not control it, but—

  A sharp sound! The crack of a limb? He jumped behind a tree. In a small clearing up ahead, smoke—or was that just a drifting wisp of mountain fog?

  Holding his shotgun ready, he moved closer, going from tree to tree, not coming directly in, but edging around the small clearing. He watched where he stepped, even tried to make his breathing more shallow. Not since basic training had he stalked someone like this. Stalked someone—was that what The Thing was doing in the forest the day Tyler took that picture? And who was it stalking then? Another woman to murder? Even Cassie or Pearl?

  “I saw Vern and Peter leave while I was sitting in the restaurant,” Ryan told Jessie as he came in, closed the door and leaned against it. He looked really nervous. Though her instinct was to retreat, she walked closer to him so they could both be seen through the front windows. She wished she wasn’t so on edge, so paranoid. Had he come to
admit he had fathered Pearl?

  “I just wanted to tell you something,” Ryan said, “without them hearing me. I know you’re close to Sheriff Webb. I don’t want to get in the middle of any of this, but he should know Vern’s been really bad-mouthing Seth, even stirring up feelings against him over your mother’s murder.”

  “I knew it! I got that idea from what you told me about Vern’s sick joke over the fire being a bear to put out.”

  “Yeah. The guy seems prejudiced against Seth.”

  Or jealous of how her mother had admired Seth, she thought. Knowing full well that Seth didn’t like Ryan, she asked, “Have you had the chance to get to know Seth? I appreciate your standing up for him.”

  “Tell you the truth, last time I was here he cussed me out for planning more roads around here, mostly, I think, because it would cause trees to be cut down. Government red tape halted my work then, but I’m back now to pick up the assignment. The old guy should accept that progress is necessary.”

  So, Ryan was an honest man, or at least was willing to admit that Seth didn’t like him. “So why are you standing up for Seth?”

  He stood up straighter, not leaning against the door. “Basic human decency. Down where I’ve lived for years, the Seminole tribe interests me, too. They’ve got big casinos raking in a fortune and a couple of reservations, but years ago they were driven off their land, just like the Cherokees up here. It just wasn’t fair, and still isn’t.”

  “I’ll let the sheriff know what you said. You should tell Seth you admire the Seminoles and Cherokees.”

  “I hate to admit it, but I’m a little afraid of him. He has a terrible temper he hides under that supposedly stoic nature. One other thing.” He shifted his feet as if he needed to get going. “I don’t want to get Emmy in trouble, either, but I told her she needs to let the sheriff know she did tell me about that weird photo the New York photographer took—just today at lunch. She was worried about me since I need to go back into the general area where she thought it was taken.”

  “I wanted to tell you about that, especially when you mentioned all those Bigfoot-type-legends, but we don’t want rumors getting out.”

  “Mum’s the word with me. I don’t really believe in the Florida Swamp Ape, either, or we’d have photos or bones. The thing is, I think I have proof Vern could be behind that photo—be in that photo. Have you taken a look at his upstairs museum recently?” he asked, with a roll of his eyes.

  “No, but I’m supposed to help get it ready for Tyler Finch to take pictures there.”

  “I know it’s kind of a joke around here, but just for the heck of it, I went through it last time I was here. He’s got a mannequin wearing a costume from some kind of Siberian ginseng hunter. It looks a lot like what Emmy described in the photo. It’s a big, fierce-looking thing.”

  “A Siberian ginseng hunter?” Hadn’t Peter mentioned something about that yesterday, she thought.

  “I know it sounds far-fetched, but maybe there’s some connection, like Vern wore the costume to scare off poachers or got caught by your mother in it—I don’t know. Listen, I got to get back to work.”

  “Ryan, thanks.”

  “Sure. But I’d appreciate it if you don’t get me in trouble with Vern. He’s big man about town around here, so I hesitated to say anything. Got to go.”

  The minute the door closed, Jessie decided to go see that display in the museum. How could a man who had deserted his daughter be as decent as Ryan Buford seemed? She’d outright ask him next time, but her mother’s murder investigation took precedence over Pearl’s paternity right now.

  Jessie wasn’t sure whether to lock the front door or not. She could always tell Vern that business was slow and she decided to take a look at the museum.

  But the door opened again, and two of Emmy Enloe’s brothers came in, though she wasn’t certain of their first names. Taking a look at something as far out as a Siberian ginseng hunter costume would have to wait.

  Chapter 24

  24

  D rew surveyed the irregularly shaped clearing that was obviously Junior’s hideout. No wonder he’d bivouacked here. Not only was there a fairly heavy tree canopy for protection from the elements, but a deer hunter’s blind huddled in some berry bushes, making an even better shelter from the wind, rain or cold.

  But on second glance, it was obvious from Junior’s wet sleeping bag that he was not using the small, square, roofed canvas shelter. Sheriff Akers had said Junior had almost gone nuts when they put him in his cell. If he was claustrophobic, was it so bad that he’d choose to stay out in the open despite all the rain they’d had?

  And where was he?

  His skin crawled as if he were being watched. Slowly, carefully, looking all around, his shotgun cocked and locked, Drew held his ground. Junior’s rifle leaned against the hunter’s blind. Had he heard him coming and laid a trap, so that if Drew went into the clearing to get the gun, Junior would shoot him with another?

  But, no, Junior walked out from behind the trees, hiking up and zipping his jeans. Nature’s call, that’s all. But before Junior got to that gun, it was now or never.

  About thirty feet away, Drew stepped into full view, racked his shotgun and commanded, “Police! Don’t move!”

  Mouth and eyes wide, Junior raised his hands as if to give up, then shouted, “You’re gonna have to shoot me in the back, boy. Then you just explain that, ’cause I ain’t goin’ in again, no way.”

  “Don’t move!” Drew repeated, keeping the shotgun trained on him and coming closer.

  Damn the man, he spun away and ran.

  Pointing his shotgun up instead of at Junior, Drew vaulted into the clearing and pursued. Once they were past the hunting blind, the terrain got rough and uneven, and the wily bastard obviously knew it better than he did. But he was in much better shape than the older guy, and maybe just as desperate. Something had to break to lead him to Mariah and Beth Brazzo’s killer.

  As Junior darted down a small incline toward where Drew could hear a stream, he dropped his shotgun and leaped off the elevated terrain. He hit hard into Junior. They went down, rolled, clipped one tree—Junior took the brunt of that—then slid into a thicket.

  The thorns scratched and dropped rainwater so thick at first Drew almost couldn’t see. Junior flailed away, landed one good blow on his jaw, but he had him now. Amazed at Junior’s strength, Drew straddled him, pinned him and flipped him facedown, as he had the last time they’d fought. Would the guy never learn? Damn, Junior was desperate. Drew yanked his prisoner’s hands behind his back and cuffed him.

  Drew crawled out of the thicket backward, scratched and snagged, dragging Junior behind him. Ignoring the babbling and curses, he patted him down and relieved him of a jack knife, a cigarette lighter, a can opener and set of keys. As Drew stuffed the items in his own jacket pockets, he gasped in deep breaths while Junior whined and hyperventilated.

  “Just let me drown in that stream, Sheriff—don’t take me back, don’t lock me up.”

  “Then tell me what I need to know.” Drew stood, retrieved his shotgun, hauled Junior to his feet and shoved him up the incline toward his camp. He held on to Junior with one hand and his shotgun with the other. “For starters, where did you get those varmint sticks you had around your sang patch?”

  “Bought them from a cat’logue.”

  “Looks like I’m gonna have to question your wife to back that up. Besides, you’ve obviously had an accomplice to stay on the run like this.”

  “Leave her be!”

  “Let’s try this question before I haul you into my nice little jail in Deep Down—smaller jail, smaller cells than Highboro. Is Peter Sung paying you for more than just sang? You two have some other deal going?”

  “Leave me be. Can’t you just leave me be?”

  “Get real, Junior. At the least, you’ve endangered lives, including mine. You’ve jumped bail. Now we’ve got two unsolved homicides and an arson in town, and you could have committed all thr
ee.”

  “What? Who else but Mariah’s dead? I ain’t got nothing to do with murders or arson!”

  “Then we can make some sort of deal, reduced cell time for information. What’s the name of the company you bought the varmint sticks from? I’ll check on that, for starters, then trace—”

  To Drew’s surprise, Junior dropped to his knees, pulling him off balance. Though his hands were tied behind his back, he rolled toward his hunting rifle still on the ground.

  “Just let me shoot myself!” he shouted as Drew stepped on the rifle and dragged him away from it. “Rolled me in a rug till I couldn’t breathe! Can’t do that no more!”

  “Who did that?” Drew gritted out as he hauled him to his feet again.

  “My brothers, when I was little. Over and over when Ma wasn’t looking. I can’t—can’t—breathe!”

  Once he assured himself that Junior wasn’t having a heart attack, and half hating himself for what he was about to do, Drew shoved the berserk man toward the small, enclosed canvas blind. “I’m in a big hurry to get back to town, but I think you’re almost in the mood to answer my questions.”

  “Don’t put me in there!” he shouted, bucking backward.

  “We’ll just call this our little interrogation room,” Drew said, yanking open the back flap and shoving the cuffed man into the small space. He saw a pile of dry clothes and some cans of food and soda pop inside, a storage room that could have made a cozy bedroom in the wilds. He pushed Junior to his knees, then tied his ankles together with the sleeves of a sweatshirt. Drew kicked the cans and piles of clothes outside, then tied Junior’s hands and feet to the opposite poles that held the canvas sides erect. He’d blindfold him if he had to, but he didn’t think it would be necessary to get the guy to talk.

  “I’ve got things to do in town, Junior, so I’m only going to be outside here for a few minutes before I leave you. You answer my questions, I drive you into Highboro, get you help in dealing with your problems—both the legal ones and the claustrophobia. You don’t answer my questions, I’ll be back to get you tomorrow, or whenever. Nice of you to pick a place so deserted.”