Footprints of a Dancer (Detective Elliot Mystery)

by Bob Avey

  Elliot called Sergeant Westlake and explained the problem. A few minutes later, Westlake gave him the name of Nathaniel Parker, Laura Bradford’s grandfather. The address was in Spiro, Oklahoma.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The address in Spiro turned out to be an old singlewide on Dogwood Street. A tall Native American with long, grey hair stood on a small wooden deck attached to the mobile home.

  At the foot of the steps leading to the deck Elliot stopped and said, “The name’s Elliot. I called earlier. I’m looking for Nathaniel Parker.”

  He smiled. “It looks like you’ve found him.”

  He invited Elliot inside, and once they were seated, he said, “I spoke with Detective Ryan yesterday. He told me you were the one who found my granddaughter and called the police. It was a good thing you did.”

  Elliot started to speak but nothing seemed appropriate, so he just nodded, a gesture that was also insufficient to express his feelings.

  “I have a question,” Nathaniel Parker said. “You seem like a nice person, but not so much that you would drive to Spiro just to offer your condolences to an old man who you don’t even know. Why are you here, Mr. Elliot?”

  Elliot leaned forward in the chair, a brown leather model with wagon wheels on the sides. “I knew your granddaughter while she was in Stillwater, long enough for us to become friends.”

  Mr. Parker nodded. “She was like that.”

  “Yes. She also gave me the impression she’d come to the school for a reason, something more significant than hanging out with a bunch of college kids. When she stopped coming around, we were all curious as to why she might leave without saying anything, but we didn’t take it any further. I’m sorry. We should have done more.”

  “Did you suspect at the time that she might be in danger?”

  Elliot shook his head. “Although, looking back, it’s difficult to understand why I wasn’t more concerned.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. If what you say is true, you did not know what had befallen Laura.”

  Elliot sat back in the chair. Nathaniel Parker was much like his granddaughter, possessing a mysterious yet kind and respectful nature that gave him the resonance of an old friend. Elliot told him everything, beginning with what happened in Stillwater while Laura was there, and ending with what had transpired since Gerald called him a few days ago. He didn’t skirt the issue of murder, and unlike the abridged version he’d given to Dombrowski, this account held back nothing.

  Mr. Parker’s dark eyes studied Elliot. Later he said, “You should let go of the guilt. You were young and did not know.”

  “That’s good advice. But I’m not very good at letting things go.”

  “Tenacity is a good character trait for a police detective. It’s also part of why you are here.”

  “I checked the records. Laura wasn’t a student. The content of an article published in the school paper concerning the drifters drew her to Stillwater, but she could have known something, picked up on a part of the article the casual reader would not have. Do you know why your granddaughter went to Stillwater, Mr. Parker?”

  Nathaniel Parker leaned over and switched on a lamp, sending a soft glow across the room, not enough to eliminate the darkness created by heavy shaded windows, but sufficient for a commingling, a tolerable dilution, like a campfire in a dark wood. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Elliot?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Good. I’ve been a member of Oakwood Baptist Church here in town for more than twenty years. I also remember and respect the ways of my people. We all have darkness in our hearts, some more than others. I used to wonder if agrarian societies bred superstition, you know, like the book by Stephen King, Children of the Corn, I think it was.”

  Elliot smiled. It was difficult to imagine Mr. Parker kicking back in an easy chair and reading horror novels.

  “But I finally decided it was more a matter of time.”

  “Come again?”

  “I think it’s why my people hold in such high esteem the balance of nature and the sanctity of the hunt. When having to use the bulk of your faculties just for survival, a certain purity of the soul results. It’s when we have the time to sit around and think about what we are doing that we get ourselves into trouble.”

  “I’ve never heard it put that way before,” Elliot said, “but the concept carries a fair amount of logic.”

  “You have a strong spiritual nature, Detective Elliot. This is the impression you give me. But it causes you discomfort because you don’t understand it. You lean toward the pragmatic world in which you live, but your spiritual gift refuses to relinquish its hold. Laura was like that, too, and she cared for our culture, a rare quality for someone as young as she was.”

  “You have a gift as well, Mr. Parker. You look inside people and understand them.”

  Laura’s grandfather smiled. “Let me tell you a story. Long ago, even before the white man, a stranger came to a village of my ancestors. He tricked them by saying he was lost and hungry. In truth, he was an outcast, an evil shape-shifter, driven from his homeland by his own people. This was found out later. As it was, he came to live among the villagers who took him in.

  “As time passed, being clever and deceitful, the stranger convinced many of the villagers he had power and would make a good religious leader. He promised he would bring prosperity and much food. He gained many followers who fell under his spell and were blinded to his true nature. Soon he began to hold ceremonies in secret, where he and his followers would offer blood sacrifices, cutting out the hearts of prisoners from other villages with an obsidian blade. Carved into the handle was the likeness of his god.

  “This angered and troubled the elders, so they held council and decided the visitor should be made to leave the village. Having been around the people, though, the stranger had many followers and he refused.

  “Soon the skies dried up and the crops began to wither. The elders knew it was because of the stranger and the bad things he did. Again they held council, and this time they prayed to the spirits of their ancestors so they might help them.

  “The next day, a princess came to the village and said she would help the elders with their problem if they would promise to leave food for her on occasion in the forest where she lived. The elders agreed they would do this.

  “When night came, the princess caught the eye of the stranger and she lay with him. When he was asleep, she took the knife with the blade of obsidian and killed him with it.

  “Early the next morning, the princess was gone, and before anyone else awoke, the elders took the body of the stranger and sealed it along with the knife in a tomb on which they put a curse so no one would open it.”

  A knot formed in Elliot’s stomach as he thought of Gerald and his obsession with Native American artifacts. “Would the tomb happen to be what is now called the Spiro Mounds?”

  “Yes, that is the story as it has come down to me.”

  “The mounds were reopened in the 1930’s.”

  “Yes. By the white man.”

  “What does any of this have to do with Laura, Mr. Parker?”

  Nathaniel Parker’s eyes looked as distant as the time period of which he spoke. “Do you believe in genetic memory, Detective?”

  “I never gave it much thought.”

  “Even as a child, Laura would ask me about the legend. I would say it was an obsession, but it goes deeper than that. Laura knew the desire of our ancestors to put an end to the curse. She was wise,” he said, “and knew things her years should not support. She told me of a vision she had, and its meaning was clear to her. The visitor, who had long ago brought trouble to our people, had been possessed by a darkness that did not die with him. It had been imprisoned in the tomb, but was set free when the tomb was breached.

  “The next morning, I found her room cleaned and her bed nicely made, but Laura was gone. The note she left said only that it was time for her to be on her own, and that I should respect her wishes
and not try to follow her. She said she loved me and she would be back some day. It wasn’t until yesterday that I learned what had happened to her. I always knew, though. I think I knew.”

  Elliot took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The rhythm and cadence of Nathaniel Parker’s words had him mesmerized. “Thank you,” he said, “for sharing the story with me. I know it must be hard for you.”

  “The job you keep carries honor, though many in such positions are not honorable people. With this case, you lack the support of your superiors and even, or so it sounds, those close to you, and yet you sacrifice your time and the respect of those who do not understand in order to continue your mission. Simply having the ability and the strength to impose your will does not make you a warrior. There are those who stand tall among their nations because they refuse to lose dignity and humanity for the sake of vague ideals. These are the true warriors of the world. You and I, Detective Elliot, we are warriors.

  “Laura brought hope and filled this old trailer house with happiness. For an old man who had looked forward to only alcohol and sin, she was a savior. Let me show you something.”

  Nathaniel Parker led Elliot through the back door and down a set of steps to a small backyard where an old swing set occupied an area sectioned off and filled with sand. The grass, though cut and trimmed, had for the most part reclaimed the play area.

  “I come here when I want to remember how it was when Laura played in this yard. She liked to dance and she was good at it, practicing almost daily the meaningful movements of our ancestors. They have been covered over by the seasons, but if you look closely you can still see her footprints in the sand, footprints of a dancer.

  “Laura did not explain to me the complete meaning of her vision because she was trying to protect me, but now I understand. She believed she could stop the darkness. I think she is still trying, Detective, and she brought you here, to her grandfather, so I could tell you that she needs your help.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Elliot’s visit with Nathaniel Parker, Laura’s grandfather, changed forever the way he would think about the Spiro Mounds Archaeological Park. It would be closing in less than an hour, and he had no idea of what he hoped to accomplish there.

  Elliot passed a couple of tourists who were on their way out, and a portion of their conversation drifted his way.

  “Well they’re not very big, are they?”

  The tourists were talking about the mounds. The grassy hills that now rose up from the earth were reproductions. The original mounds constructed by Native Americans had been torn down in the 1930’s, tunneled into and blasted by a venture known as the Pocola Mining Company, and later completely leveled by State Archaeologists. It wasn’t until the 1970’s that the mounds were reconstructed, using, in all probability, some of the same dirt, but the fact remained they were not the real deal. The knowledge of this weighed heavily on Elliot’s mind.

  A rustling sound like dried leaves scraping across a hard surface filled the air, and just at the boundaries of his vision Elliot caught a suggestion of movement, a subtle blurring of the landscape as something traced across it.

  Elliot studied the mounds, the area from where the disturbance had come. He forced his attention away from the distraction only to confront another problem. He was not alone. He stared into the lovely eyes of Cyndi Bannister.

  Cyndi wrapped her arms around Elliot, and while her breath fell warm against his face and the scent of candied grapes clung to her hair and filled his senses, she pressed her lips against his.

  It did not seem like fantasy, though Elliot knew it must be since Cyndi now resided in prison. At the moment, though, his thoughts stemmed not from a place of logic but from desire, and he longed to again experience the heat of Cyndi’s passion. He ran his hand down the small of her back, pulling her closer and straying even further, caressing the softness of her buttocks before regaining a portion of his senses.

  Elliot brought her hair to his face to again relish her sweet scent. He had to remind himself she was an evil killer, capable of atrocities without remorse, had in fact taken the lives of her parents. He closed his eyes and when he reopened them Cyndi was gone.

  Before Elliot could recover from the vision, or mental lapse, or whatever he’d just been through, someone spoke.

  “You all right, sir?”

  It was one of the park rangers.

  “I’m fine,” Elliot said. “The lady I was with, did you happen to see where she went?”

  “No, sir. But you’ve been standing in the same spot for a few minutes, so I thought I’d better check. You never know how these old mounds are going to affect people. Anything I can do for you?”

  Elliot gathered his senses. “I’m interested in the history of the mounds. I’ve read a few books, looked over most of what’s on the internet, but I’ve yet to find exactly what I’m looking for. Would you know where I might get some information that’s not so well known, maybe even a little offbeat?”

  The ranger stifled a laugh. “I knew there was something different about you, more than the average tourist, I mean. You’re one of those tabloid writers, aren’t you, looking for spooks and curses, that sort of thing?”

  “Not exactly. I’m…”

  The ranger waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. If you promise not to mention me or any of the other park employees, I’ve got a lead for you, one that’ll probably give you what you’re after.”

  * * *

  The sign painted across the window read Spiro Research Center.

  Inside the shop, a small man with black, oily hair sat behind the counter, flipping through the pages of a book. The front entrance had been equipped with a bell, but he gave no indication he’d heard the warning.

  Books lined the walls, and thousands more occupied inner shelves, creating dark hallways through the store. The silence was broken only by a slow turning ceiling fan that was slightly out of balance, its long chain knocking against the motor housing in a rhythmic clicking.

  “Excuse me,” Elliot said.

  He looked up from his study. “Hey there. Sorry. Didn’t hear you come in. Must have been caught up in my reading. Happens all the time.”

  “I’m looking for information concerning the mounds. I was told you might be able to help.”

  The bookstore owner glanced at a wall clock. “Oh, well I’m afraid the park would be closed now. You could try tomorrow. Directions, is that what you need?”

  “I know where the park is. What I’m after is history, something a little more in depth than what’s readily available.”

  He stood and touched his forehead with his fingertips, as if he were trying to extract something. “In depth?”

  Elliot followed the man as he left the counter and started down one of the narrow, isles. “Got a few books,” he said, “should be something here. Are you looking for dates, when and how the mounds were constructed, time periods, who occupied the area?”

  “Do you have anything concerning the destruction of the mounds in the 1930’s, and what was found, specific artifacts, that sort of thing?”

  “Specific artifacts?”

  “One of the park rangers thought I might find what I’m looking for here.”

  “A ranger?”

  “He thought I wrote for the tabloids. I don’t, by the way.”

  “Why would he do that?” Answering his own question, the man said, “Questions. The questions you asked. Tall lanky guy, smiles a lot?”

  “That’s the one.”

  He nodded, incorporating both his head and his shoulders. “Okay, who are you for real?”

  Elliot extended his hand. “Name’s Elliot.”

  “McKenzie, Doctor McKenzie.”

  “I’m an investigator, Doctor McKenzie. But the unusual nature of the case I’m working suggests I play things a little differently. I’m unofficial, on my own time.”

  “Unofficial?”

  “I’m in the process of compiling evidence.”

&nbs
p; A tentative grin spread across McKenzie’s face. “Investigating the paranormal would be my guess. Are you a ghost hunter, Mr. Elliot?”

  Elliot’s stomach tightened. In a very real sense, that’s exactly what he was. “The information I need could stray in such a direction.”

  “Well, Mr. Unofficial Investigator, the generally accepted theory is that the mound area was inhabited by people of Caddo influence, a pre-Columbian, Mississippian culture that occupied the site from roughly 850 A.D. to 1450.

  “What Pre-Columbian really means is before the occurrence of significant European influence. The Vikings reached Newfoundland about 500 years before Columbus stumbled upon the islands he called the Indies, and it’s been suggested the Irish might have landed in North America 400 years before that. In addition, there’s the Chinese, Polynesians, Greeks, yadda, yadda. I guess you could say Columbus rediscovered the new world, but he wasn’t the first and neither were any of the other groups I rattled off.”

  “Interesting,” Elliot said. “But what does any of that have to do with Spiro?”

  “The mounds… right. It all relates. But I can see where you might think I lost focus. You wouldn’t believe what goes on. Anyone who attempts to go against the popular theories is literally attacked by the archaeological establishment. Unless they have something to hide, why would they do such a thing?”

  “It’s all very interesting,” Elliot said. “But I don’t think we’re on the same page here.”

  McKenzie touched his forehead. “Wait. What exactly are you looking for?”

  Elliot pulled the photocopy of the obsidian knife from his pocket and held it out.

  McKenzie studied the photo briefly. The expression on his face said it all. “What does this have to do with the mounds?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  McKenzie blinked several times. “Most archaeologists don’t believe there was significant interaction between Mississippian and Mesoamerican cultures. Some say none at all. That’s ridiculous. Trade goods from all over the country, including Mexico, have been found at the mounds. Of course there was contact.”