by Ann Cook
“I’d like you and Daria to move in with me for a few days,” Brandy said, looping a line around the end cleat. “Let Fishhawk do his thing by himself. You might as well be comfortable.”
At first Annie didn’t answer. Ducking her head against the wind, her oval face solemn, she led the way through the marina lot, past the gas pumps, to a heavy pick-up plastered with “Save the Everglades” stickers—Fishhawk’s truck bought with casino income, Brandy imagined. Too bad the white man’s money couldn’t go to the Seminoles who suffered a century and a half ago. Still, there was ironic justice in the source of the Indians’ income now. She wished those dead tribesmen who’d been hounded into the Everglades could know.
Annie was not considering Seminole income, however, but Brandy’s offer. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “Fishhawk warned me not to come to Tiger Tail Island, but I worry about him. I thought he’d be better off if we were with him. I don’t want him to get too deep into his grandfather’s stuff. He needs to stay in touch with this century. It’s where we live. I’ll tough it out another night. After that, we may take you up on your offer. Or maybe just hang a ride back to Tampa.”
At the supermarket, while waiting for Annie to stock up on staples like bread and grits, Brandy recognized the tall, supple figure of Bibi Brier in the line at the cash register. As soon as the graduate student saw Brandy, her bored stare shifted into a frown. Brandy stepped over to speak. “How’s it going in Chassahowitzka with the whooping cranes?”
Bibi shrugged. “The ground’s too swampy to be good for them. We’re repairing the substation for roosting.” She moved forward to scoot a six pack and chips further down the counter. “The whoopers should begin to fly out sometime this month. I’m observing and helping out until they do.” She tossed back her long brown hair, then peered back at Brandy. “You still hanging out with Dr. Hackett?”
A man like Grif, Brandy knew, must have many female admirers among his students. A jealous one was easy to spot. Maybe Bibi supposed Brandy was the associate professor’s newest conquest. “He’s giving me useful information for an article I’m working on,” Brandy said, and was not surprised to see no change in the sullen expression.
When Annie finished shopping, she drove the pickup to the marina, and together they transferred her grocery bags to Brandy’s boat. They had scarcely pulled away from the pier for the return trip when little Daria leaned out to starboard and pointed into the river, black eyes shining. “Mana,” she squealed.
Brandy’s gaze followed her finger. A circle of ripples danced in the water. Annie smiled. “Manatees. She’s seen them at the Homosassa Springs Wildlife Park.” Quickly Brandy cut the engine.
A broad back the color and texture of an elephant’s but the size of a small walrus rose sedately to the surface. Next to it a small snout poked above water, then a four-foot, rounded body bobbed up beside the first. In a few seconds both sank again beneath the water, cruised under the boat, and swam away side by side. “Mother and calf,” Annie said. “Such gentle creatures. I love to see them. They’re rare because they’re such slow breed-
Brandy nodded. A sighting was always magical. Manatees, at last count about two thousand, were rarer even than Florida Seminoles, who numbered about 2,500, but this mother manatee was doing her bit. So were Fishhawk and Annie with Daria. Ironic, Brandy thought to herself. There were funds to preserve whooping cranes and manatees but none to preserve the endangered Seminole and his culture—unless the United States counted the money lost to them in gambling.
When the boat neared the Flint house, Brandy broached the subject of Timothy Hart. “Did you know the Sheriff s Office thinks a man was murdered last Thursday at this end of the Island? Pokeweed poisoning.”
On the boat’s rear bench Annie lifted Daria into her lap. “Fishhawk told me. You know how he is. He says he can ward off the evil on the island. So he’s purifying everything—including himself. He carries around a deerskin bundle his grandfather got from his great-grandfather. They were all medicine men. It’s a small one, not the big deal they use at the Green Corn Dance. The contents are secret.”
Brandy recalled some references she’d been reading about the Seminole people. “Anthropologists who studied the Seminoles in the past published a few medicine bundle ingredients, like red ocher, crystals, and herbs, but I know bundles vary. Some are supposed to smell of red bay and cedar.”
Annie’s face grew solemn. “All have power. It’s true. I couldn’t tell you any real details, even if I knew more about them.” She smiled suddenly. “Fishhawk collects ginseng roots. Old-time Seminoles used them as medicine. Now they’re in all the health food stores. So much for dumb Indians.” She shook her head. “But people today don’t use ginseng to keep away ghosts. And have you heard the chanting?” She rolled her eyes to the sky. “One chant was supposed to paralyze your enemies, at least for a while. He’s using that one.” She shook her dark head. “Didn’t do a lot of good during the wars.”
Brandy was watching the pontoon boat’s depth finder. The east wind had increased. The water was one foot to one and a half as she turned into Petty Creek. Pretty shallow. She pressed the electric tilt switch to lift the engine as far as possible out of the creek. Nearer the camp, the water would be even shallower. No need to worry Annie. She glanced back and changed the subject. “Doesn’t Fishhawk wonder about who killed Timothy Hart?”
Annie rubbed her full lips and thought a moment. “I guess he figures that’s the Sheriff s business. He doesn’t expect to stay on the island much longer. He thinks we’re safe. He says we don’t have anything anybody wants.” Brandy wondered if that were really true. What if he had found the thing everyone who’d read the journal wanted?
“Fishhawk says he’s got a chore to do for Mr. Hackett,” Annie added. The child bundle burial, Brandy thought.
“Is it hard, I mean, living with all the Seminole lore and not really accepting it yourself?” she asked.
Brandy knew immediately she’d overstepped. Annie bristled. “Franklin Pine is a good man,” she said. “Seminole culture needs to be preserved. I believe in a lot of the same things. Christians teach about upper and lower worlds, like Seminoles do, and a God that creates everything. Seminoles call that being Breath Maker. All tribes say you should be respectful to all living things, that all living things should be in harmony. That doesn’t sound too kooky to me. We have our powerful symbols and you have yours, like the Cross or the Rosary.”
Chastised, Brandy recanted “I see your point.”
When they beached the boat where the path began, Brandy again accessed the water depth. Farther south, parts of the stony bottom lay exposed, and over the creek hung the sour smell of wet mud. Once more she checked the tide chart. The tide was low now, which increased the effect of the easterly. Next she studied the chart of the river and its tributaries. The only other exits led through even shallower water around the southern tip of the island, or even farther south, where a waterway wound past Mason Creek to the Chassahowitzka River and its Wildlife Preserve. The wind might shift, of course, which would help. At high tide in another three hours her boat should be able to creep out. But Brandy knew she could never make it back until the water rose.
CHAPTER 9
Fishhawk emerged from the hammock to carry the grocery bags up the incline. From the distasteful twist of his lips, Brandy supposed he would rather eat gopher turtles and possum with a dash of coontie root instead of Annie’s choices, but he helped stack the cans and packages on the chickee platform. Then he turned a rigid back to Brandy. Obviously he didn’t want her here. Still, the low water wouldn’t yet allow her to leave and besides, she reminded herself, a journalist had to be aggressive with interviews.
From a pot over a low fire, Annie ladled three bowls of the rich-scented sofki, then spread Daria a peanut butter sandwich and handed her half a banana. When the toddler had finished—about as much peanut butter outside her brown cheeks as inside—Annie gave her a hug and laid her on
a chickee pad for her nap. Daria would not have it. She squirmed and rolled, whined, and held up tiny arms to Brandy, eyes pleading for rescue. “Go, go,” she said.
After setting aside her empty bowl, Brandy couldn’t resist pulling the little girl into her lap and stroking the thick black hair. “Any idea if there’s a spring on this island, maybe near the north end?” she asked Fishhawk.
He studied her, scowling, then shook his head. “Never seen one,” he said.
“But there is a path through the hammock, isn’t there? One that connects the two ends of the island?” She could see a dim trail curving among the turkey oaks, cabbage palms, and red cedars.
Fishhawk’s frown deepened. “The big detective gives good advice,” he said. “You ought to stop asking questions and leave things to the Sheriff.”
Brandy had heard the same opinion from John, too. But she couldn’t stop wondering about footpaths through the thicket of trees. “Let me take Daria for a short walk. It’ll tire her out for her nap, and I need to stretch my legs. I can’t get out with the boat until the tide comes in.”
Annie sighed and said, “Sure. Take her for a walk. Just stay on the trail. Maybe I can get a few things done while you’re gone.”
Brandy slid from the chickee, lifted Daria down beside her, and picked up a handy four-foot long stick lying on the ground. “To scare off snakes,” she said. Annie helped tuck the little girl’s overalls into a pair of sturdy little boots. She seemed to understand she was going on an adventure and wiggled with excitement.
“Don’t go far,” Fishhawk said. He crossed over to the half-finished sweat lodge, gathered up the cord and again began weaving it between saplings, his eyes on Brandy.
At first Daria was content to patter along beside her new friend, one hand in Brandy’s, with the other pointing out the “birdies,” on a barren limb, black vultures that made Brandy shudder. Suddenly, with a jerk of her arm, the little girl twisted her fingers loose and trotted unsteadily on ahead, eyes on some slight movement in a clump of ferns—maybe a gopher turtle or a squirrel—then squealed with delight at the ghostly white spurge nettles that grew in clusters beside the path.
“Don’t touch,” Brandy said, catching up with her. “Bristles bite.” With a yelp Daria drew back her hand, already stung, and scooted on ahead. While Daria toddled underneath a huge spider web between cedars, Brandy batted her way through it, an eye on the yellow and black golden silk spider in the center, its fat body more than an inch long. The thunk-thunk of a woodpecker high in the shadowy leaves of a cabbage palm startled her. Dim bands of sunlight filtered to the hammock floor. Several yards ahead a brownish snake slithered across the path. Brandy inhaled sharply as she recognized the water moccasin’s triangular head. She hurried to take the child’s hand, but the snake vanished among a pile of dank leaves, rank with the odor of decay. Again Daria wrenched her sweaty little fingers free and her chubby legs waddled on ahead.
They wouldn’t walk far, of course. Brandy rushed again after the child. But she might yet see the lay of the land and how she could search for the original cabin site from the south, away from Alma May’s fiercely protective gaze. Above Brandy, a strangler fig coiled around the trunk of a slender oak. Eventually the thick vine would kill its host.
And then the woods quieted. Birds grew silent. The squirrels vanished into tree tops. An uneasy stillness fell over the entire hammock. For a moment Brandy halted, mouth tense, eyes searching the brush, puzzled and wary.
In the next instant she heard a rustle in the grasses behind her. She spun around to see Fishhawk beside a large red cedar, standing with legs and body stiff, a rifle butt raised against his shoulder, his finger on the trigger, and the barrel pointed at her. Sudden fear exploded in her mind. Did he mean to end her meddling and her own search? With Daria safely out of the way, did he plan to scoop up Brandy’s dead body and drag it into the creek for alligators?
She heard a click. Then Fishhawk spoke, his voice urgent and low. “Get Daria. Quick!”
Brandy swiveled around, sprinted a few paces down the path, and snatched up the child. The little girl gave a startled gasp.
Fishhawk spoke again, his voice still anxious. “Back up. Slowly. Don’t run.
Brandy’s knees went liquid. She clasped Daria to her breast and felt the small heart throb, the warm breath on her cheek. Brandy wobbled backwards, paused, inched a few more steps.
Then she glanced again behind her at the clump of cedars. Was she still a target? Her eyes followed the rifle barrel to a fallen palm trunk among scrub palmettos. In a shaft of light crouched a length of creamy fur. She could see the slight twitch of the long tail curled up at the end, and then the panther’s head, ears back, held low in line with its back. Then the head lifted, the jaws opened, the white canines gleamed. The panther’s face seemed to grow larger. Fur bristled around its gaping mouth, the ears flattened, and she heard a snarl, then a loud hiss. While she cowered on the path, arms wrapped around Daria, the huge cat hesitated, then in one fluid motion slid down from the log on the other side; the tawny back rippled beneath palm leaves and disappeared among the palmettos. In its wake, Brandy heard the nervous chittering of birds.
She dropped to her knees and sank down where she stood. “My God!” She stared at Fishhawk.
He moved soundlessly to Daria, bent down, and lifted her into his own arms. She clung to him, not sure what had happened but forehead creased with worry. “Go, go,” she whimpered.
“It was stalking Daria,” Fishhawk said. To his daughter he added softly, “Coo-wah-chokee, panther.”
“I never knew you were there.”
“Takes practice.” Brandy remembered a passage in Lieutenant Hart’s journal. Seminoles could stalk the troops, unseen, for miles, or vanish right under the their noses.
“Panthers attack from the rear,” Fishhawk said. “You’d never have seen it. You were too big a victim. Daria wasn’t.”
“But how could it be here?” With slow steps, Brandy began following him toward the camp.
“Low water made a dry land bridge. Probably the cat came from further south, from the Wildlife Preserve. Followed a raccoon or something over here. It will leave now. This isn’t its territory. Too many people. Usually panthers are very hard to find.”
“You didn’t shoot.”
“We don’t kill unless we need to. I distracted it. Big cats are cautious. It won’t come near our fire.” He gave a curious twist to his lips. “You wouldn’t want to anger the animals, now would you? Or the evil on the island?”
Meaning the witch, Brandy thought. In a sense, he was right. Someone evil did prowl the island, but how could she know that it wasn’t Fishhawk himself? Perhaps, he had planned to dispose of her until the panther appeared, and then he was forced to protect Daria instead. His little daughter’s life would mean more to him than Brandy’s disappearance.
For the second time she began to think Strong could be right. She would be safer not to “take the dog by the ears,” to drop out, to sit on the sidelines, to wait for the Sergeant to find the answers.
* * * *
At 8:00 A.M. the morning after the panther scare, Brandy walked to the nearby convenience store and bought a Chronicle to check the wind and tide. The wind had switched to the southwest. The tide would be high at Tiger Tail in about two hours. Sunlight made bright, inviting paths in the water. She must honor her promise to bring Annie and Daria, if they would come, to her place in Homosassa. Then she could back away from the Hart case, take Strong’s advice, leave the solution to the professionals.
By the time she cranked up the engine and moved down the canal, a fine mist blew in her face. The sky now was overcast. At about ten she passed the Flint house. All was quiet. The shades were drawn and Alma May’s jon boat lay in its slip. After the quarrel the landlady had with Melba the day before, Brandy wondered if the Realtor had relinquished her exploration of the island, although Melba seemed exceedingly determined.
On the other side of the canal
behind the Flint house, something stirred the wax myrtles. It could be a person; it could be a raccoon or an armadillo, anything. Was there another entry to the old Flint homestead site? Petty Creek was the obvious one, but a more narrow creek looped around the other shoreline, and the opposite end of the canal offered still another. Would Melba continue her search of the plantation ruins alone? Was she looking for artifacts of the Civil War era mansion, or that earlier treasure? Her husband had a fine boat, if she ever had the chance to use it.
As Brandy steered into Petty Creek, she was startled by Fishhawk’s canoe spurting past her out into the bay. He bent to his task with fury, looking neither to left nor right, his long strokes shooting the slim craft forward, his dark hair flying. Brandy called out, but he did not hear.
Alarmed, she shoved the throttle as far forward as she dared and weaved past an oyster bar, eyeing the depth finder and then scanning ahead for fallen limbs or rocks. As soon as she reached the trail up the creek bank, she heard a heart squeezing sound—great, shuddering sobs. She had read that a female panther in heat sounded like a woman screaming, but these were not screams. Hands trembling, she tugged the boat’s pontoons onto the riverbank and dashed toward the camp.
Annie met her, eyes wild, leaves in her uncombed hair, jeans and shirt torn and stained. “It’s Daria,” she cried, throwing her hands up. “Daria’s gone!”
At first Brandy stared at Annie, paralyzed, then rushed forward and threw her arms around her. “I saw Fishhawk,” Brandy said, “going for help.”
Annie sagged in her arms. “I put Daria in her pen early, about seven. It’s hard for any of us to sleep here—and started breakfast. God, it takes so long! When I went to get her, she was gone.”
“Where was Fishhawk?”
Annie’s face contorted into a crazed look Brandy could not interpret. “In his damned sweat lodge. We’ve searched everywhere.”
Brandy spun around. “What am I thinking of? My cell’s in the boat. You can probably reach the Sheriff s Office quicker than Fishhawk can get there. They’ll send men to search.”