“I’m sorry,” Uncle Wayne said. “Of course he wouldn’t.” He stared at Archie. “But I’d look twice before crossing the street, if I were you.”
The blood drained from Archie’s face. He’d come for reassurance and received my uncle’s death sentence. Well, if Archie was foolish enough to believe that, I wasn’t going to waste my breath trying to change his mind.
“Think what you like, Archie,” I said. “But don’t go spreading such talk between now and Saturday’s funeral. You’ll only upset Luther and his family.” Then I hit him below the belt. “And you may encourage whatever spirit’s behind this to strike again.”
The next few days passed without incident. The investigation of the Cherokee burial ground in the new section of the cemetery followed the prescribed protocol, and the state archaeologist and tribal representatives worked on site under the watchful eye of a deputy.
Eurleen’s death kept Luther and the mayor occupied with funeral arrangements. Archie took my words to heart. He was neither seen nor heard.
By seven on Friday, the night of the official visitation, the line of visitors stretched out our front door and back to the parking lot. I knew what had been scheduled for two hours would stretch to three. Fortunately, the evening sky was clear and the temperature hovered in the mid-sixties.
My partner, Fletcher Shaw, stayed close to the family’s receiving line, gently nudging people along who tended to talk beyond the appropriate expression of sympathy. Uncle Wayne stood near the casket, prepared to assist anyone who might be overcome with emotion and need an escort to a nearby chair. During his long life, Uncle Wayne had seen women and men collapse at the sight of the deceased, and although my uncle couldn’t move as fast as he once did, he adamantly refused to give up his post.
Our part-time assistant, Freddy Mott, worked the parking lot. He wore a yellow and orange vest and tried to manage the traffic flow as parking spots emptied and filled. I hired Steve Wakefield as an off-duty deputy to insure vehicles didn’t clog Main Street. He also worked the crosswalk for the safety of pedestrians who found side-street parking.
My wife Susan wasn’t on hospital call for the weekend and she helped Mom in the kitchen by providing lemonade and snacks for the family.
I was the floater, the troubleshooter who moved along the human stream from parking lot to viewing room, looking to head off any glitch.
I eased my way through the throng to the thermostat in the front parlor. The body heat generated by the multitude must have raised the temperature at least ten degrees. I lowered the setting to sixty-five, knowing the air conditioning unit was already overtaxed and would probably freeze up before the night was over.
“Barry.” The whispered shout cut through the rumble of unintelligible conversation.
Susan stood in the doorway of the hall to the kitchen. I could tell from her expression something was wrong. She motioned me to join her.
“What is it?”
“Archie.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “He’s on the back porch demanding to see you.”
Susan was the calmest person I knew. As a skilled surgeon, she routinely faced tense, pressure-filled situations with unflappable poise. No one lasts long running an operating room otherwise. But Archie stretched her patience beyond her self-control.
“Well, why didn’t he come around front?”
“How the hell should I know? He’s your friend.” She bit her lower lip, as if to seal her mouth shut.
“OK, OK.”
Susan took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just that he’s upset your mother. He won’t come in, but claims it’s a matter of life and death.”
“With Archie it always is.” I nodded toward the parlor. “Would you keep an eye on things while I sort this out?”
“Yes. And whatever it is, keep your cool.”
“Thanks for the advice. Try it some time.”
She smiled. “Smartass.”
I found Archie pacing a tight circle on the back porch. His head jerked around as I opened the kitchen door.
“Come in, Archie.”
“No. Fetch Luther and the mayor. There are too many people inside.”
I stepped out onto the gray floorboards. The old wood creaked beneath my weight. The porch served primarily as a shelter for Mom’s work sink where she could wash vegetables and her garden utensils. Overhead, several moths fluttered around the yellow light bulb—a bulb advertised not to draw bugs.
“I can’t just yank them out of the receiving line.”
“Even to save their lives? I mean, you don’t even have a metal detector at the door.”
“It’s a damned visitation, not a presidential address.”
Archie thrust his hand inside his sport coat and pulled out a white envelope. “Yeah. And what would the Secret Service do with this?” He shoved it toward my face.
On the front, ARCHIE DONOVAN JR. and his address had been scrawled in block letters by a blunt pencil.
“Go ahead. Open it.”
The back flap had been torn loose. I extracted a single sheet of double-folded white typing paper. A bent, brown feather glided to the floor.
I picked it up. The vanes were still smooth but the shaft had been snapped midway down its length. Unbroken, the feather would have been five or six inches. I unfolded the paper. Five words, one per line, appeared to have been written by the same hand that addressed the envelope. STAY AWAY FROM BELL RIDGE.
“See.” The fear in Archie’s voice turned him into a boy soprano. “A broken eagle feather. You know what that means.”
“No, I don’t. And this is from a turkey.” As an archer I had fletched my own arrows and knew something about feathers.
“Well, it’s clearly a threat,” Archie insisted. “I’ve sent Gloria and the girls to stay with Gloria’s mother in Weaverville.”
I looked at the feather and the note a second time. “I think you’re overreacting. If the mayor got one, you know he’d immediately come running to Tommy Lee.”
Archie seemed to consider this. “Maybe he did, but with all the sympathy cards coming in, he hasn’t seen it yet. I found it in my mailbox when I got home from work.”
“There’s no return address.”
“That’s right. Someone doesn’t want to be known.”
I refolded the note around the broken feather and stuffed both back in the envelope. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll hold onto this.”
“Are you going to warn Luther and the mayor?”
I shook my head. “They have enough to worry about. It’s probably a prank played on you by someone here in town. That’s why there’s no return address. And everybody knows about the bones.”
Archie relaxed. “OK, Barry. If you say so.”
“I say so. Now come in and have some of my mom’s lemonade.” I lifted the envelope in front of his eyes. “And not another word about this.”
***
“Will you be driving us?” Luther asked me the question as he watched the pallbearers load the casket of his wife in the hearse.
“Yes. We should go ahead and get in the car.”
“All of us?”
“Just you and your son and daughter.”
I’d gone over everything with Luther earlier before the funeral service, but it was not uncommon for the family of the deceased to be living moment to moment, events unfolding within a blur of disjointed activities.
“OK,” Luther mumbled. Then he looked at me, eyes moist but sharply focused. “Thanks for all you’re doing, Barry. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through these past few days without you.”
“You’re doing as well as can be expected, sir.” I turned to the family limousine directly behind the hearse. “Allow me to get the door.”
Luther took the arm of his daughter, Sandra, and escorted her to the car. His son, Darren,
followed. Both children were grown. Sandra was the older, probably in her early forties and working in Atlanta. Darren was still in his thirties and had a job in DC.
I nodded to Fletcher. He was driving a second limo with the mayor and his family. We could have squeezed them into one, but that would have been the operative word—squeezed. And emotions run high during times of grief. Family rifts can be exacerbated into ugly scenes. I didn’t think such a history existed between Luther and the mayor, but why take a chance?
Attendees got to their vehicles quickly. Uncle Wayne started the hearse. I signaled to Tommy Lee that we were ready. Instead of a deputy, the sheriff was driving the lead patrol car for the procession. Deputy Reece Hutchins would trail, but then he and the sheriff would leapfrog through intersections until we were outside the town limits.
The journey from the First Presbyterian Church of Gainesboro to the cemetery on Bell Ridge was about five miles. Our community was one where oncoming traffic still pulled to the side of the road out of respect. We would keep our speed below thirty-five miles per hour to give time for those maneuvers.
We traveled in silence down Main Street until we reached the outskirts of town.
“It was a lovely service,” Luther said.
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Luther was speaking to his daughter seated beside him.
He put his arm around her. “Your mother would have been very pleased.”
“So many people came,” Sandra said. “Almost the whole town.”
“She had lots of friends,” Luther said, his voice choking.
“Then why would somebody send that note to stay away from the cemetery?” Sandra asked.
“What?” The question popped out of my mouth before I could stop it. A tingle ran down the back of my neck.
“I was going to mention it later,” Luther said. “This morning, we found a plain envelope mixed in with the sympathy cards. There was a broken feather and an order to stay away from Bell Ridge. Must have come yesterday.”
“Was it signed?”
“No. But it had to be that Indian. Can you believe it? My wife’s not even in the ground and he’s making threats. I was going to tell you later. Right now I don’t need the aggravation.”
“Dad, we don’t know who did it,” Darren said. “It’s not worth getting upset.”
“Did one go to the mayor?” I asked.
“Not that I know,” Luther said.
I wondered if that letter had been intercepted by someone in the mayor’s household who would have known the mayor would overreact. I decided not to mention that Archie had received the same message.
“Did you save it?”
“Yes,” Luther said. “It’s at the house.”
“I’ll talk to Tommy Lee. We should look at it.”
“OK. Thanks, Barry.”
We began the climb up Bell Ridge. As we neared the top, the brake lights on the hearse flared. I made a quick stop and skidded a few yards on the gravel.
“Can’t you get us any closer?” Luther asked.
We were a good fifty yards down the hill from the original Heaven’s Gate Gardens. I craned my neck to look beyond the hearse and saw that Tommy Lee’s patrol car had also stopped. He was getting out.
“Maybe something fell across the road,” I said. “Tommy Lee’s checking. I’ll see if he needs help. Stay here.”
I got out. Uncle Wayne was opening his door. I heard drums. And then I saw the picket line.
Six marchers walked counterclockwise in an elliptical pattern over the width of the road. Their steps crunched the stones in time to the beat of two small drums played by two men standing at either side of the formation.
Jimmy Panther held the largest sign, “Respect Our Dead As Well.” Other signs read, “Dignity in Death” and “Cherokee Rites Are Rights.”
I recognized the man and woman who had been with Panther earlier in the week. The others, a mixture of men and women, appeared to range in age from late twenties to mid-thirties.
They walked solemnly without speaking. No chanting. No native garb. No ceremonial paint. The men wore dark suits and the women, dark slacks and white blouses. They could have been attending a funeral themselves. I realized they were making a point of being respectful, drawing a comparison between Eurleen’s interment and the burials that may have occurred here centuries before.
“Are those the Indians?” Uncle Wayne caught my arm to steady himself on the slope.
“Yes. The tallest is Jimmy Panther. The Cherokee who scared Archie.”
“Well, we’ve got a burial to tend to. Eurleen can’t stay in the hearse all day.”
I wanted to say Eurleen could stay in the hearse for eternity, but instead I said, “You’re right. Stand guard. I’ll help Tommy Lee.”
I quickly walked away before my uncle could object.
“I’m asking you to stand aside.” Tommy Lee spoke in a calm voice, loud enough to be heard above the drums without becoming a shout.
I stopped a yard behind him. The protesters kept marching. Panther let his gaze linger on me long enough to show he recognized me out of my deputy’s uniform.
“You are on private property,” Tommy Lee said. “If you don’t stand aside, I’ll arrest you for trespassing.”
Panther shifted his gaze behind me. His thin lips hinted at a smile. I heard the sound of feet running up the gravel road. Then a familiar whir. Melissa Bigham was beside me, her breath coming in gasps almost as rapid as her camera shutter.
Panther raised his sign high over his head. Drums and marchers halted.
“Who is trespassing?” he shouted. “Those who disturb the dead.”
“We’re headed to the original cemetery,” Tommy Lee said. “Not the site of the remains. Remains that the tribal representatives have successfully and respectfully reinterred on the reservation. Nothing and no one will be disturbed.”
“We are disturbed. What guarantees are there that sacred ground stops where you say it does?”
I thought of ME Howard Tuppler’s comment that the beautiful ridge was probably the site of multiple Cherokee burials.
Tommy Lee gestured back to the hearse. “This woman’s grave has been carefully dug. There was no evidence of any Cherokee remains. I made sure.”
“And if there had been, you would have boxed them up and shipped them off to the reservation. No preservation, just the termination of an inconvenient problem.”
I heard car doors slamming behind me. People were getting out to see what was happening.
Tommy Lee took a step closer to the protesters. “You’ve made your point.” He nodded to Melissa. “And it will be duly reported. But you’ll lose any sympathy for your cause if you keep a grieving family from burying their loved one.”
Panther stared at the sheriff, stretching out the tension of the moment. His followers looked at their leader for a signal of what to do next.
“What the hell!” Luther Cransford rushed by me like a linebacker pursuing a quarterback. He lunged at Panther before either the sheriff or I could stop him.
The Cherokee brought his sign down as a shield. Luther punched through it with a roundhouse swing aimed at Panther’s face. The blow missed, but the sheer force of Luther’s assault knocked Panther to the ground. Luther drew back his right leg, preparing to kick the man.
Tommy Lee hurled himself through the air and drove his shoulder into Luther’s side. Both men tumbled in a melee of flailing arms and legs. I rushed to assist.
“Sit on him,” Tommy Lee ordered as he rolled off Luther.
I straddled the big man. He was sobbing and made no effort to get up.
Jimmy Panther rose and brushed off his suit. Then the Cherokees split into two groups lining the edge of the road. They bowed their heads. The drums started a slow rhythm. Two beats and a pause. Thump thump. Thump thump. I recognized th
e sound of a human heartbeat.
Tommy Lee brought Luther’s son and daughter over. We helped their father to his feet and I guided him to the family car.
The funeral procession resumed up the ridge, each vehicle passing between the silent protesters, each mourner hearing the ancient sound that had once echoed through these hills while their own European ancestors lived and died an ocean away.
Chapter Four
“He’s back.” Fear vibrated in Archie’s voice.
I’d answered the call without looking at my cell phone because I assumed it was Susan. She’d left fifteen minutes earlier to perform a Monday morning surgery and she often phoned en route to the hospital with some “Honey, please do this” item she’d forgotten to mention.
So, ignorance was bliss as I enjoyed a second cup of coffee on my deck. The mist was lifting from the valley below, cardinals hovered around the sunflower feeder, the debacle at the cemetery lay two days in the past, and all was right with the world. My yellow lab, Democrat, and I were lords of the manor, five acres of hardwoods surrounding a home reconstructed with the logs of four Blue Ridge cabins that once housed mountaineers in the eighteen hundreds.
Now, I had inadvertently let Archie invade my sanctuary.
“Who’s back?”
“The Panther.” Archie spoke the Cherokee’s surname as he might have that of the assassin Carlos the Jackal.
I checked my watch. Seven thirty. “Are you at the cemetery?”
“Yes.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I promised Luther I’d come up and make sure the grave had been covered and seeded properly.”
“And Panther’s there already?”
No answer.
“Archie?”
“Sorry, I was nodding my head.”
“Well, the connection’s not strong enough for me to hear the rattle. What are they doing?”
“I don’t see anyone. His truck’s parked on the road. You know, where they had the protest.”
I stood and walked into the cabin. “Don’t look for them. They’re probably down at the site where we found the remains.”
Risky Undertaking Page 3