Disappearance at Hangman's Bluff

by J. E. Thompson

  Dedication

  To Ella, Hadley, Will, and James,

  my next generation of readers

  Contents

  Dedication

  Map

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by J. E. Thompson

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  One

  If you hurt a horse, puppy, dog, or pony, I will hurt you back. I am only a twelve-year-old girl, but I will hurt you really, really bad. That’s a promise.

  Now that we have that straight, I should introduce myself. My name is Abbey Force. My best friend is Bee Force. We share the same last name, but we’re not sisters. We aren’t even cousins, and we certainly don’t act the same. Long story short, I am usually the one who gets us into trouble, and Bee is almost always the one who gets us out of it.

  My real name isn’t Abbey. It’s Abigail, but my teachers and my father are the only ones who can get away with calling me that, and even they do it only when I’m in trouble. Anybody else, if they don’t want a bloody nose, calls me Abbey. In case you don’t get it, I hate the name Abigail.

  Bee is the same. Her name is Beatrice. Call her Bee or get ready to take your medicine.

  Like I said, our last names are the same, but the way in which we are related could only happen in the South, in what used to be called the Confederate States of America before the Late Unpleasantness. The Late Unpleasantness is how some of the really old white people in South Carolina still refer to the Civil War. Either that or they call it the War of Northern Aggression. It’s obvious to me that they have totally forgotten who started the shooting.

  Bee’s family would most definitely not call it the War of Northern Aggression. If they had a name for it that was different from the Civil War, they might more likely call it the War That Got Us Out of Chains. That’s because, way back then, Bee’s family members were slaves on my family’s plantation. The reason our last names are the same is that slaves didn’t have last names, and when they were freed they often took the last names of their ex-owners.

  You’d think a history like ours might have kept Bee and me from being friends, but fortunately a lot of things have changed in the past hundred and fifty years. For example, Reward—the plantation my family owned for three hundred years, ever since my distant ancestors fled from France—now belonged to Bee’s family. How all of that came about is related to a mystery Bee and I solved when we first became friends.

  Anyway, all that badness between our ancestors has actually made Bee and me close. We were so close, we called ourselves histers. It was a word we made up, and it was a combination of history and sisters. It meant that we were related by things that happened many, many years ago that we had nothing to do with, but which had a lot to do with us and who we were. All that past history bonded us together. Almost like blood kin. Adding to that the fact that we were also best friends, we figure that makes us histers.

  Everything I’m about to tell you followed on the heels of the first mystery that Bee and I solved in May of the year we first met. First off, in June Daddy finally opened his eyes and woke up from the coma he’d been in for over nine months. The doctors had told me that waking up from a coma is a lot different than waking from sleep, but I had always dreamed that Daddy would just open his eyes and jump out of bed like he used to when I would wake him up on Saturday or Sunday to go fishing.

  That wasn’t at all how it happened. It actually took about a week for him to get to where he could talk and sit up in bed, and then it took another week for him to get out of bed. When he finally did get up, he had to hobble around all slow and bent over like a very old man. It made me happy, but it also made me afraid, because I wanted my father back and because the person who had opened his eyes seemed almost like a stranger and not at all like the person in my memories.

  But it was Daddy, and after those first two slow weeks, he got to be more like himself almost every single day. He stayed in the hospital most of July in order to do physical therapy and make himself stronger. When he finally came home to Reward Plantation on Leadenwah Island, he and I moved into the old tenant house right next door to Bee in the big house.

  If Daddy hated the fact that we had lost the plantation, or that the tenant house wasn’t as nice as the big house, which is what everybody called the old plantation house, he never complained. I think he agreed with me that if we had to sell Reward, Bee’s family were the perfect new owners.

  That July when Daddy was recovering was also when all the people who had tried to frame Daddy for the theft of Miss Lydia Jenkins’s jewelry stood trial. Fortunately, they were all found guilty of grand larceny and also of the attempted murder of Bee, Daddy, and yours truly. The bad guys were all going to be in prison for a good while, which meant Bee, Daddy, Grandma Em, and I could all sleep better at night.

  As soon as Daddy came home from the hospital, he and I began taking long walks together every single morning as he worked to build up his strength. I had planted the house garden early in the spring, just like Daddy had always done, so we had lots of fresh vegetables to eat, mostly tomatoes because South Carolina’s high summer is too hot for most other things.

  On our walks I would blab my head off like I always had with him, but Daddy didn’t say as much as he had before his coma. Sometimes he would stop and stare off in space and say nothing at all. At those times, whenever I asked him what he was thinking about, he would shake his head, smile, and say, “Nothing.”

  Bee’s grandmother, Grandma Em, asked us to dinner down at the big house almost every night, and she cooked just about the best food in the whole world. I made sure Daddy ate big meals every day, because he needed to put muscles back on his body. I also made sure he got plenty of sleep, even sneaking his cell phone out of his room at night and putting it back before he woke up the next morning so no one would disturb him.

  One day toward the end of August, during the last sleepy days of summer vacation, everything suddenly picked up speed. First off, there was a big robbery that got everybody’s attention, when some people stole an armored car full of money. The newspaper had big articles about it because the armored car had supposedly been carrying a lot more money than average—about eight million dollars. The robbers knocked out the guards somehow, and the truck and all its money just flat-out disappeared. Then there was a second robbery just a couple days later, when somebody broke into a gas company and stole one of their trucks. This all went down near our island, which is a place where nothing much unusual ever happens.

  And then there was a third robbery, one that got Bee and me way more involved in all the crazy happenings than two twelve-year-old girls ever should be.

  The very first sign that all these robberies might affect me came in a way I didn’t even recognize when it happened. It was like a line of dark clouds that pop up on the horizon and at first just look like they might bring some rain, but a few hours later, when the wind is snapping trees and the water is rising, it’s obvious that those clouds meant something a whole lot worse than a rainstorm. It happened the Saturday morning Daddy came down to
breakfast all shaved and showered and wearing a business suit. It was the first time he’d put on his old lawyer clothes, and of course the suit looked about two sizes too big, because he still hadn’t gained back his weight. He didn’t even bother to put on a tie, because the collar of his shirt was so huge on his skinny neck.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, almost too amazed to talk.

  “To the office.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at me and gently cleared his throat. “I’m going back to work.”

  “On a Saturday?” I shook my head. “You can’t start on a Saturday.” What I really meant to say was that he couldn’t start at all, not yet.

  Daddy put his hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. “It’s time, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ve taken wonderful care of me ever since I woke up, but it’s time I got back into my life.”

  I felt a big blast of fear, like if he went back to work, something bad was going to happen to him again. I opened my mouth to tell him, but as I did I felt my eyes brimming with tears. I wasn’t one of those girls who liked to cry, not a bit, and I pushed back my chair and whipped out of the room and up the stairs. I slammed my bedroom door and lay down on my bed and bawled like an idiot.

  A couple minutes later, I heard the door open and then felt the mattress sag as Daddy sat on the edge of the bed. He put his hand on my back and rubbed the way I always like it. “Honeybee, this was always going to happen eventually. I wasn’t going to stay home forever. You know?”

  I nodded.

  “Besides, school starts on Tuesday,” he said. “Why don’t you and Bee do something today? You two have hardly had time to hang out since I woke up.”

  “I don’t want to,” I said, my words muffled by the pillow.

  “It’s your call, but if I were you, I’d want to take advantage of the end of summer.” He gave me a gentle pat on the head. “I’ll see you tonight. I’m going to be just fine.”

  I heard him walk out of the room and go down the stairs, and a moment later Rufus barked as Daddy’s law partner, Custis Pettigrew, drove up to the house. The front door slammed, and then Custis’s car door slammed, and then they drove away. I lay there for a long time feeling so afraid, I almost couldn’t stand it. I’d had him back for such a short time, and I knew the only way I could make sure nothing bad ever happened to him again was by keeping him right here with me—and now he had gone.

  Two

  I don’t know how long I lay there before the phone started to ring, and I made myself get up and answer it. “Abbey?” a familiar voice said.

  I recognized the deep, reedy voice of our neighbor, Judge Gator. Judge wasn’t his real first name, and Gator wasn’t his real last name. But he was a retired federal judge, and he’d gotten the nickname Gator when he was still the district attorney. Back then the local newspaper had written an article saying Poindexter DeSaussure (that’s his real name) was so tough on criminals that a bad guy might just as well put his leg in a big old gator’s mouth as to try and get away from him. He had a voice that always reminded me of pipe smoke and cool evenings and the stories he would tell as we sat together on the joggling board on the front porch of his house. Hearing him on the phone partly snapped me out of my funk.

  “Are you in Michigan?” I asked, because it was August and Judge Gator always went up north in early May and didn’t come back until October.

  “No, I came back early because Yemassee is going to have puppies and I wanted them born here on Leadenwah.”

  I’m no fool. I was pretty sure Daddy had asked the judge to call me. But I didn’t care, because hearing the word puppies grabbed my attention. The judge went on to tell me that he’d driven into Charleston that morning for a meeting that looked like it was going to run a lot longer than he’d expected. Since it was a very hot day, he asked if I might be willing to go over to his place and check on Yemassee and make sure she had plenty of water.

  I said of course I would, and as soon as I hung up I called Bee. She had never met Judge Gator, as he had already gone up north for the summer by the time she moved to Reward, but she lit up right away when I told her about the puppies. We met at the barn ten minutes later, and we saddled our ponies and headed over to the judge’s place.

  Judge Gator lived on the neighboring plantation, Belle Vista, which his family had owned for hundreds of years, ever since his ancestors fled France and came to South Carolina. He lived there all by himself ever since his wife had died a couple years earlier. Even though we were neighbors, it still took ten minutes of riding down several dusty trails with the sun beating down on our heads just to get to his fence line, and then another ten minutes once we were through the gate. In case you’ve never been to South Carolina in late August, we’re talking hot. Like fry-an-egg-on-a-stone-you-set-out-in-the-sun hot, so by the time we got to Judge Gator’s house, Bee and I were both sweating hard, right along with our ponies.

  I had known Judge Gator ever since I was a little girl, and I had known his dog, Yemassee, ever since she was a puppy, and now I was excited to think that she was going to have puppies of her own. Daddy used to say that Judge Gator had become a lonely man since his wife died, and I thought it might make him feel better to have a bunch of little animals to care for.

  Yemassee was a Boykin spaniel, which happens to be the state dog of South Carolina. Boykins are celebrated for their loyalty; wonderful personalities; beautiful brown, curly coats; and brilliant gold-and-amber eyes. They are even more prized for being amazing bird dogs. Boykins aren’t exactly rare, but just like beautiful pianos or fancy cars, they are valued by their owners. And just like any other special thing, the good ones are worth a whole bunch of money.

  Yemassee was more than prized; she was adored. Judge Gator liked to say that she was “the best of the best.” Sometimes, after Daddy and I had eaten one of his famous fried-chicken dinners, the judge would tell stories of hunting with Yemassee—doves, wild turkeys, and ducks in South Carolina; ruffed grouse in North Carolina and Pennsylvania; pheasants in North Dakota; and chukar partridge in Idaho. In other words, Yemassee was a dog that could pretty much do it all. My father agreed, and he had been bird hunting all his life. He said a dog that could hunt like Yemassee was as rare as hen’s teeth, and if you know anything about hens, you know they don’t have teeth.

  When Bee and I got to the house, we tied our ponies by the back door, where the judge kept a big water trough in the shade of a huge live oak. We let the horses drink and went into the kitchen to find Yemassee, but strangely she didn’t bark or come to see who was there.

  “Yemassee,” I called.

  “You think she could be having her puppies already?” Bee asked, when she still didn’t come.

  A shot of excitement ran up my back as we started to search from room to room. The judge’s house was old, and there were lots of creaky floorboards. Everywhere we looked we saw shelves full of books and more books stacked on tables. The air smelled like a combination of musky old stuff, damp dog, pipe tobacco, and gun oil.

  “Check the closets and under the beds,” Bee said. “Maybe she made a nest.”

  We looked everywhere, but no dog. Finally we had only one more room to check, the big sunroom at the far end of the house. When I looked in there, I noticed one of the sliding glass doors standing open a few inches, and I had my answer.

  “Where do you think she is?” Bee asked.

  “She’s gone hunting,” I said.

  Bee screwed up her face and looked at me. “Huh?”

  Sometimes I forget that Bee moved here just a couple months ago from the Atlanta suburbs. She doesn’t know much about dogs or hunting.

  “Dogs never understand when they get left home for their own good. Sure as anything, she watched Judge Gator get dressed to go into town this morning, and the moment he drove away, she ran around the house until she found a door that wasn’t shut tight enough.”

  “How do you know?”

  I laughed. “Because she’s done it before,
and Boykins have heads like rocks.”

  “Meaning they’re stubborn?” Bee asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

  “Aren’t you the comedian.”

  “Truth hurts, girl.”

  I looked at Bee and tried to think up some smart comment, but then I gave up and laughed. She was totally right. The fact was, Yemassee would do whatever Judge Gator asked, but if anybody but Judge Gator called her and expected her to come, they’d best have a big piece of steak in their hand. That’s just the kind of dog she was, and I guessed Bee was saying that was the kind of girl I was, too. I would do pretty much anything to make Daddy or Bee or Grandma Em happy, but other people—like my teachers—would say I was as hardheaded as a piece of wood and usually did exactly as I pleased. Maybe it did take one to know one.

  Bee and I walked out the sliding glass door and looked toward the shadiest parts of the yard, but we didn’t see a dog. I called Yemassee’s name several times.

  “You think she went far?” Bee asked.

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. Girl dogs don’t usually wander, but Yemassee’s different. The judge says she brings home souvenirs from all over Leadenwah.”

  “What kind of souvenirs?”

  “Bones, mainly, but one time she brought home a bridle. Another time some people must have been skinny-dipping in the creek because she brought home somebody’s boxer shorts.”

  Bee laughed. “I’d like to have seen that.”

  “We need a treat,” I said, walking back inside and getting some bacon from the fridge.

  Outside again I shouted Yemassee’s name and this time called out, “Treat!” just to make sure she knew there would be a reward. After another minute we went back through the house and out onto the front porch. I called out, “Treat,” in that direction, and a minute later Bee pointed down the drive. “Look.”

  I saw something in the distance coming slowly up the allée of live oaks. For a second I wasn’t certain it was even a dog, but as the shape drew closer I could make out Yemassee’s dusty brown fur.