by Connie Lacy
“And we didn’t see who shot me.”
“Right.”
He took another sip as the door opened and in walked two uniformed officers.
“Mr. Murray,” the short one said. “I’m Officer Rodriguez and this is Officer Jackson. We understand you suffered a gunshot wound?”
Eric grimaced before replying. “I’m not sure.”
Officer Jackson took notes while Officer Rodriguez asked questions.
“What do you mean, you’re not sure?”
“We heard a gunshot, then I felt pain in my back, but the doctor says there’s no bullet.”
Rodriguez exchanged a look with his partner as I did my best to act natural.
“Where were you when this happened?”
“We were in the woods along the Broad River,” Eric said.
“What section of the river?”
Eric looked at me, unsure how to answer.
“In Madison County,” I said.
“Can you be more specific?”
“We were in the woods behind my grandmother’s cottage. I can give you her address.”
Officer Jackson held his notepad in front of me and handed me his pen so I could write it down.
“Where were you wounded?” Rodriguez asked.
“In the back.”
“Did you see who shot you?”
“No.”
Rodriguez turned to me. “Did you see who shot him?”
“No.”
“Where were you in relation to Mr. Murray?”
“Pardon?”
“Behind him? Beside him?”
“I was in front of him.”
“Mr. Murray, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Eric replied. “Of course.”
“What time did this occur?”
“Uh…” Eric looked at me.
“I’d guess it was around three,” I said. “But I’m not sure.”
“What were you doing at the time of the shooting?”
“Hiking,” Eric and I both replied in unison.
“Did you notice anyone in the area beforehand?”
Eric paused for a second before responding. “No.”
“You’re not sure?” Officer Rodriguez said.
“My head’s still a little muddled,” Eric said.
Doctor Rao reappeared, greeting the officers as she took Eric’s wrist in her hand, apparently checking his pulse.
“Doctor,” Rodriguez said, “we understand no surgery was needed?”
“Correct,” she replied. “There was no bullet.”
“Did it pass through his body?”
“There’s no exit wound.”
Officer Jackson looked up from taking notes, a puzzled expression on his face.
“There’s an entry wound but no exit wound,” Rodriguez said. “And no bullet in his body?”
“That’s right,” Doctor Rao said.
“Any evidence of drugs?” Rodriguez asked.
“No,” Dr. Rao replied, then turned her attention to Eric. “You can go home in the morning. The nurse will give you care instructions. Take it easy for a week or so, see your regular doctor for a follow-up. And you might want to stay out of those woods.”
She gave a quick wave to the officers as she left.
“All right,” Rodriguez said. “I think we’re done here. We’ll pass our report along to the Madison County Sheriff’s office and the GBI. Don’t know if anyone will contact you or not.”
There was low whispering as soon as they reached the hallway.
~
Eric was tender the next day and had to move slowly, but he could walk without assistance. He was relieved to be home, but we were both still a little shell-shocked.
We sat together in his kitchen booth for coffee and a bagel we picked up on the way.
“I think I figured out the mystery of the bullet hole,” I said, applying a thin scraping of butter to my bagel.
“What’s your theory?”
“Jonah opened the door and fired the gun directly at you, right?”
“Right.”
“The bullet hit you in the back, right?”
“Right.”
“But the bullet struck you just as you were going through the time portal. So, in the split second you were still in 1840, the bullet pierced your skin. But as you fell through the doorway, the bullet no longer existed in our time. It continued on its trajectory in 1840, hurtling through the open door and landing in the woods.” I took a bite of my bagel.
“Excellent deduction, Sherlock.”
It was a light moment that most certainly stemmed from our desire to avoid the seriousness of what we’d experienced. Because there was nothing funny about Jonah stealing the gold, knocking Eric unconscious, threatening to sell me into sexual slavery and shooting to kill as we made our escape. Everything was suddenly more complicated. If that was possible. But neither of us wanted to delve deeper quite yet.
I didn’t stay long, knowing he needed rest. Plus, I had to go by Nana’s house. Jeannette had messaged me they were returning to the city after yesterday’s events, asking if I could come over.
When I arrived, they were all three out of sorts – Nana, Jeannette and Gracie, who wouldn’t stop barking even after I joined them on the screened porch with a glass of tea.
“Gracie, hush up!” Jeannette snapped.
“Come here, sweetie,” Nana cooed, taking the pint-sized dog in her lap. “She doesn’t like it here in the city.”
“I’m sorry, Edie. I’m kind of jumpy today, Jeannette said, turning to me then. “How’s your friend?”
I’d texted her with an update as I was leaving the hospital the night before, not wanting them to worry.
“He’s home. Probably fast asleep by now. Doctor says he’ll be fine.”
“Isn’t that amazing there was no bullet?” Nana said.
“Curious. That’s what it is,” Jeannette said. “Someone else might not be as fortunate. If there’s an armed drug addict close to the cottage, I don’t feel comfortable taking Edie over there.”
“But we can’t abandon Forest Water!” Nana objected.
“Believe I’ll fix some lunch now,” Jeannette said, taking her glass and disappearing into the kitchen, obviously biting her tongue.
“I don’t understand it,” Nana said. “Jeannette’s concerned about us but why isn’t she worried about Forest Water? She’s the one in danger. You did talk with the police last night, didn’t you?”
“Yes, they came to Eric’s room and asked some questions.”
“Good. They need to arrest that terrible man.”
“In the meantime, you and Jeannette can stay here in Athens.”
“Now that the police have been notified, I’m sure everything will be cleared up soon. Isn’t that right, Gracie?” she said, giving the little dog an affectionate hug.
~
As I climbed into bed that night, my phone dinged. It was an email from Eric with a few more pages. I was surprised he had the strength to tackle it. But he said when he woke up from a long nap, he felt an urge to find out more about our Cherokee friend. He said this latest entry was about events in May of 1840, several weeks before any of our visits to the past.
I trotted downstairs to read it on my laptop, sitting in my usual spot on the couch. Pixie plopped down on the keyboard but I gently moved her to the cushion beside me and opened the file.
Amadahy’s Journal – Part 4 Planting Month (May) 1840
Sorrow lived inside me after Degataga departed, like a sickness with no cure. He promised to return soon and asked me to ponder his offer of marriage, saying I would be like a slave owned by a cruel master if I stayed with Bad Brother.
The next day Jonah rode into town. I wished it to be a long absence, but he returned after only two days. When he dismounted, shouting for me to prepare a meal for him, I thought of Degataga’s words. And when Bad Brother demanded I lay next to his unwashed body, Degataga’s words filled my mind once again.
&
nbsp; But he brought with him good news. He defeated Ginny’s owner, Silas Wheeler, in a game he called Poker. Because Mr. Wheeler did not have money to pay the debt, Jonah agreed for Ginny to help me on the farm two days each week until the debt was paid.
She arrived on foot the next morning one hour after sunrise, telling me she would rather work alongside me than by herself at the Wheeler farm.
She helped me plant pumpkin seeds, watermelons and potatoes. She also helped with Betsey, making her laugh and singing her songs I did not know. We talked as sisters do, sharing stories and speaking of family.
“I ain’t seen you since your first husband died,” she said. “I sure am sorry. I liked Mister Isham better than Mister Jonah. Master says they brothers, but they don’t seem like it to me.”
I continued working, deciding it was best to remain silent. When she spoke again, it was about her family.
“I dream of seeing Mama again someday. My brothers, Lonnie and Nate, too. They grown men now.”
Her eyes betrayed the same sorrow I felt when I thought of my own family.
“I been worried lately that Master gonna sell me away,” she said. “He ain’t got money like he used to. Nowadays, my supper is leftovers from their supper. And then he go gambling and drinking and spending money he ain’t got. The missus, she right angry.”
“We have food. You must eat before you return home.”
“Tell you what – I’ll cook supper for you. I’m a good cook. Wish I could stay here with you. I’d work hard and help with the baby. Master says you gonna be having more babies soon.”
“I do not want to own you.”
“I hope Master don’t sell me to no plantation. I like to cook and sew and help with the babies. Don’t wanna work the fields like Mama done.”
“We have no money.”
“I don’t like when Master has his way with me, but I hear tell it’s worse on the plantation. At least Master ain’t mean and rough. He don’t hit me and I ain’t never had a lashing. Mama’s back was striped something fierce.”
My hands stilled.
“Course, what I really want…” she lowered her voice, looking around to be certain we were alone, “…is freedom.”
“Yes,” I said, understanding more than she knew.
Late in the afternoon, Jonah called out to me that he had catfish, fresh from the river, and wanted them fried for supper.
“I can fry catfish real good,” Ginny said.
We washed up in the river and went inside. She wished to show us her skill. I changed Betsey and nursed her while Ginny worked. When it was ready, she proved her words were not false boasting. Crispy catfish were piled on a big plate in the center of the table with fried potatoes.
I noticed the look in Jonah’s eyes. That is when I saw what he saw – a young woman with a pleasing face and body that men would admire. But when I moved to the table and signaled for her to sit with us, he objected.
“Slaves don’t sit with white folk,” he said.
Ginny’s smile faded away.
“I am not white,” I said.
“But I am.”
“I gotta go now so I be home before dark,” Ginny said.
Wrapping three pieces of fish in a clean rag, I followed her outside, forcing the food into her hands.
12
It was gridlock on the roads Monday morning, which was unfortunate since I was running late. When I hurried into the office without my morning cup of coffee, it was stress, not caffeine, that flowed through my veins. My plan was to check in, then run to the break room and get a mug of coffee from the Keurig machine. But the atmosphere in our workroom was like a powder keg with a lighted fuse.
“Last week it was a man’s handprint on your face,” Mallory said. “This week your boyfriend is shot in the back under, shall we say, suspicious circumstances? And you were there! Tell me again you’re not in an abusive relationship.”
I was blindsided. No other way to put it.
“Not that phony innocent face again,” she said, clicking her pen over and over as she sat at her computer.
A part of me wanted to turn around and make tracks. Another part of me wanted to tell her to mind her own business. Then there was yet another part of me that wanted to know how she knew about the shooting. She read me like I had a flashing sign on my forehead.
“Athens Observer. A headshot of your esteemed college prof.” Her voice oozed sarcasm. “And a quote with your grandmother.”
“What?”
“I sent you the link for your convenience. And you better read it quick, because the boss is expecting you in his office pronto.”
Turning on my heel, I threaded my way across the newsroom to the big shot’s office, wishing I’d had my morning caffeine fix.
When he was asleep, Ray Powell probably didn’t look the least bit imposing. But I’m not sure he ever slept. He was the watchdog of watchdogs, the control freak of control freaks, with a booming voice and a quick mind.
Because his door was open, I tapped on the doorframe instead. He motioned me to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.
He was the first black news director at our TV station and proud of his achievements – the highest ratings for the six and eleven p.m. newscasts, second place and gaining on the competition with our revamped morning show. Plus, an investigative news team that won lots of awards. He was a pro. And he liked to surround himself with pros.
“All right, Kathryn, let’s cut to the chase. Mallory thinks you’re hiding some kind of violent relationship. She sent me a link to the Athens story this morning, which, I have to admit, sounds kind of dicey. She also filled me in on the slap mark on your face last week. And while I don’t like poking my nose into my employees’ private lives, if you’re involved in domestic abuse, physical fights, drugs, or anything that reflects badly on our news department…”
“She’s got it all wrong. I’m definitely not in a violent relationship. Definitely not doing any drugs or hanging out with anyone who does drugs.”
“She also told me you talked with that psychologist you interviewed about a friend who’s in an abusive relationship.” He used air quotes around the word friend. “Which, I’m told, is often the way a victim reaches out for help.”
“I’m not a victim, Ray. I’m not reaching out for help. Not for myself, anyway. Eric Murray would never hurt me. He wouldn’t hurt a fire ant. We’re not doing drugs. It’s possible the woods behind my grandmother’s cottage may not be safe anymore. That’s why I’m insisting she stay at her Athens home for the time being. While I appreciate Mallory’s concern, there’s nothing to worry about.”
His eyes bored into me.
“I’m telling the truth,” I added. “I would never tolerate someone who hit me. Never!”
“I’ll tell Mallory to cool it. But, hear me good – if there are any more unsavory reports, I may have to intervene. Bad PR doesn’t help my news department. You follow me?”
He turned his attention to his phone before I finished nodding.
I read the story in the Athens paper while waiting for my K-cup to brew. Leaning on the counter in the break room, I scrolled on my phone, stunned the paper made such a big deal out of it. But then, it was a UGA associate professor who was shot in the back, and a producer for one of Atlanta’s premiere investigative reporting teams was involved. Plus, they had Officer Rodriguez saying no bullet was found in Eric’s body. Then there was the quote with Nana.
“I’ve been trying to get the police to do something about that bad man who lives down by the river behind my house for some time,” Edie Crawford said.
Mrs. Crawford owns the wooded property where the alleged shooting took place. She called police Sunday afternoon to file a report after Dr. Murray was rushed to the Athens hospital.
Calls for comment to Dr. Murray and Mrs. Crawford’s granddaughter, Kathryn Spears, were not returned.
Yeah, I had a couple of missed calls from
numbers I didn’t recognize. One of them left a message, which I never listened to, figuring it was one of those stupid recordings threatening me about a credit card or something. I was actually glad I hadn’t been given the opportunity to comment. What would I have said?
Coffee in hand, I returned to the Watchdog Team office for a little tête-à-tête with Mallory. She was prickly as a rose bush. But we managed to call a truce after I tactfully reassured her she was dead wrong. Still, the comradery we’d shared in the past had washed away like a sandcastle overrun by the surf.
To punish me, I suspect, she sent me to federal court where I had to pore over a zillion files searching for a tidbit of information on a local politician we were investigating.
When the long, tedious day was over at last, my body wanted badly to soak in the tub, then relax on the couch, my feet on the coffee table while I ate a frozen dinner with a glass of wine, my kitty on my lap, watching an old movie. But I needed to thank Eric and see how he was doing. I also needed to talk with Jeannette and Nana about her interview with the local paper. I stopped by my apartment long enough to feed Pixie, then drove to Athens. It was heavy rain the whole way, my windshield wipers working overtime.
I called Eric to let him know I was coming. He seemed underwhelmed at the prospect. I chalked it up to fatigue and discomfort. He greeted me with a tepid hello at the door.
“Are you hurting?” I asked.
“Tired.” He walked gingerly into the living room, flinching as he stretched out on the couch.
“Probably from working on that translation. It was awfully good of you, considering all that happened.”
He rubbed his hand over his face like he hadn’t had much sleep.
“That was my last translation, Kathryn.”
Which was so totally out of left field, I didn’t know what to say.
He laced his fingers together, resting his hands on his chest. “My boss stopped by today. I thought he came to see how I was doing. But he’d seen the newspaper article this morning.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah, he was pissed. He told me the department doesn’t want its reputation sullied by that type of negative publicity.”
“Yeah, my boss talked with me too.”