by Ann Cook
Suddenly she felt so tired she couldn’t lift her arms. “Don’t think so,” she muttered. He filled the sink with warm water, soaped the wash cloth, and peeled off the shirt and jeans. “You won’t sleep unless you’re cleaned up.” Gently he washed her breasts and stomach, brushed the green slime from her legs and feet, and slipped a fresh nightgown over her head.
“Lucky you’re my husband,” she murmured, even now she felt a warm stirring in her exhausted body.
John only looked grim. “Husband for the time being.” He found an ace bandage in the cupboard, and began methodically wrapping the swollen ankle. Then he carried her into the bedroom and plunked her on down-turned sheets. “I’ll bunk for the rest of the night in the back room. Too bushed to drive back tonight. I’ll be gone in the morning.”
She called after him, “But, John.”.
“I’m old-fashioned,” he said in the doorway. “One man and one woman at a time. Guess you’re a little too independent for me.” He switched off the light and closed the door.
* * * *
When Brandy awoke in the morning, she was startled to find sunlight sliding in through the blinds. She swung her legs out of bed, felt a twinge when she put weight on her ankle, and called out for John. No answer. The weight returned to her chest. The house seemed unnaturally quiet. She peeked out the window and saw Meg lying in the shade of her favorite orange tree, fresh water beside her, and staked on the lawn. Leaning against the wall for support, Brandy wobbled into the kitchen. John’s cereal bowl and coffee cups were rinsed and upturned on the dish drainer, the coffee pot full and set to stay hot. She limped on down the hall into the back bedroom. The only occupant of the neatly made bed stretched, yawned, groomed his gray fur, and gave Brandy a lordly and dismissive glance.
“Forget it, cat,” she said. “I’ve been rejected by the master.”
In the bedroom she fell back on the bed, depressed. John had made his feelings clear. Finally she fished in the closet for a pair of jeans and a clean shirt and struggled to pull the pant leg over her swollen and wrapped ankle. John had placed the first aid box on the dresser. She pulled up the bed covers and slipped it under her pillow. As safe a place as any for the tobacco pouch. She felt muddled. She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t make sense of all that had happened. She did know one thing. This time she did have to get out of Dodge.
In the kitchen she poured a cup of coffee and shuffled into the living room. When she switched on the last of the television news program, Daria’s perky little face glowed back at her, smiling. The first birthday photo again from the Seminole Tribune. The announcer said that the search still went on. Brandy’s eyes filled. She had been no help in the search. She turned off the set and trudged on to the screen porch. The rental boat was no longer in the slip, John’s minivan no longer in the double carport. Brandy sighed and slumped into a chair. No good-bye. No effort to show affection. He simply didn’t believe her. Now her sadness was laced with indignation. She certainly had told him the truth about her own actions, if not Grif s.
Brandy set down her coffee cup, turned the pages of her notebook, and pulled a pen from the binding. While she waited for Strong to phone, she made a few notes about yesterday’s ordeal. In a few lines she summarized her discovery, doodled an elongated tobacco pouch in the margin, laid aside the pen, and sighed. She wouldn’t tell anyone else about the pouch until she gave it to Strong. She might be getting somewhere with the mystery of the artifact. The pouch seemed to prove an artifact had been concealed in the cistern. But what about Hart’s death? And poor little Daria? And certainly her marriage was in deep trouble.
Brandy was lingering over coffee when Grifs van rolled into the carport. She realized she had not put on makeup, had scarcely brushed her hair. Grif stepped out, carrying what looked like sticks under one arm.
“Greetings,” he called. “When I called this morning, I heard you had more tough luck last night. I brought you something. May I come in?”
Why not? John didn’t want to be with her. She nodded. “Word gets around fast,” she said.
Grif pulled a plastic chair up to the table. “Guy at the marina. He told me about your ankle this morning.” John must’ve explained why he needed the rental boat when he returned it. Grif leaned toward her, his bright blue eyes concerned. “Someone left a second-hand crutch at the motel. I thought you might need it.”
She ran a hand through her disheveled hair. “You called? I didn’t hear the phone.”
“Not surprising. Your husband picked it up on the first ring. He said he didn’t want to wake you. He’s gone?”
Her usual luck. Naturally, Grif would call, get John on the phone, and reinforce John’s suspicions. “He’s driven back to Tampa,” she said. “He thinks something’s going on between us.”
Grif flashed his ultra white smile. “Isn’t there?” He brushed her hand with his. “I wouldn’t have gone off and left you after the night you had.”
Brandy wondered how much Grif knew about last night, how much John had told him. “I’m not good company this morning,” she said, “Nothing’s gone right. I’m waiting for a call from Sergeant Strong. I need to find out if anyone’s found my pontoon. It’s missing.” She settled lower in her chair. “John’s bound to blame me because the boat’s been stolen.”
Grif patted her hand. “You were doing what you thought was right. I want to give you that ride to Gainesville, get you out of danger. You could see the work we do at the museum.”
A ride home was more than John had offered. Brandy looked at Grifs clean, work-toughened hands. “I thought you were taking the Safety Harbor pots there yesterday.”
He drummed his fingers on the table beside her notebook. “I tried to reach you, but I couldn’t get you at the house or on your cell. When I didn’t hear from you, I waited. Anyhow, I needed to make some recommendations about the site in Chassahowitzka. We can’t get in there yet, but I have reports to log.”
“Look,” Brandy said, “I’ll go freshen up. Maybe by then I’ll hear from Strong or from Annie. I want to see her before I leave. I want to ask how the search is going, and I’ll pick up my cell. She won’t need it in Tampa.” Brandy didn’t want to go anywhere again without it. “Tugboat’s been released.”
“Yeah, I heard he’d been arrested. Too bad they’ve let him go,” Grif settled back in his chair. “I’ll take you to Annie’s before we go. We’ll stop and ask the marine patrol about your boat.”
In the bathroom Brandy washed her face, gave her hair a few flips with the curling iron, and applied foundation cream and lipstick. Grif s offer, she told herself, was the only way to get to the Seminole camp now that she didn’t have her own boat. Besides, she wouldn’t go anywhere in Homosassa again alone.
When she lurched back toward the porch, Grif sprang out of his chair, came into the living room, and grasped her arm. “Here, let me help. You need the crutches.”
“My ankle’s just sprained,” Brandy said.
He knelt to inspect the bandage, then ran his hand slowly up her leg, pushed closer, gently forced her against the wall. “You wanted me to do that. I can tell.” For the second time she felt his body against her, strong, urgent. He leaned forward and his lips touched hers, pressed harder. The electric current made her gasp. Her hands went to his shoulders to push him away. He did not remove her arms as John had.
“You’ve been neglected,” he said into her hair. “Let me put things right.” Brandy was shaking her head when the phone rang.
“Let it go,” Grif said, again pulling her toward him. “Let’s get more comfortable.” She felt giddy. He was not like John. John had turned away.
The phone shrilled again. “I told you before, I can’t,” she murmured. “That call could be the Sheriff s Office, or Annie. It’s important.”
His hands tightened on her arms. “So is this.” He tried to turn her toward the bedroom door. His strength surprised her.
For the moment she felt awkward. Her voice rose. “I said, I can’t.” She tried
to raise her hands, to back away. He held her for a few seconds more, in control. Then he stepped aside while she stumbled into the kitchen and picked up the phone. She would have bruises on her arms. She wondered, from passion or temper? Maybe she led him on. She might be the one responsible.
“Brandy?” The low voice on the phone was Annie’s. “Are you all right? We heard you fell into the old Flint cistern.” The marina attendant was still running his mouth. It was understandable. Until now, not much excitement in Homosassa.
“I’m okay now. Any news?”
Daria had been missing a full three days. Annie paused and her voice shook. “No news. I called because I’m leaving the island. I’m going home to Tampa.” She halted again. “Fishhawk has to go tomorrow, too, but he wants to stay tonight. Wherever Daria is, it isn’t here.” Apparently, the Sheriff’s Office had found no clue at the Flint house, at least nothing shared with the parents.
Brandy ached for the sorrow in Annie’s voice. “I’m coming out there in about half an hour,” she said.
The Seminole mother seemed to rally. “I need to return your cell. Fish-hawk charged it in town this morning. We got your message yesterday. Sorry we missed you.”
Brandy realized she had written down where she was going when she left their camp. She wondered why Fishhawk was intent on staying as long as he could if Daria was not on the island. Was he still searching for something besides his little daughter, or protecting what he had already found? But he had to be in Tampa for the re-burial ceremony. Grif couldn’t continue indefinitely to hold the Safety Harbor girl’s bones.
When she hung up the phone, Grif still lounged in the kitchen doorway. “You’re slippery.” He grinned. “But the time will come.”
She came toward him, braced herself against the door frame, and limped past. “No misunderstandings, my friend. I’ve got to stay focused.” He followed while she moved on to the screen porch, picked up the crutches, and leaned on them as she stepped into the carport. “Besides, I owe John,” she added. “He did come looking for me. He did pull me out of the cistern. I need to talk to him.” She stooped and gave Meg a loving pat, then made her slow way to Grif s van.
When they drove to the marina, the attendant at the pump grinned, waved, and flashed a thumbs up. Brandy gave him a taut smile, climbed aboard Grif s pontoon boat, and found a seat among the boxes, screens, and trowels. Grif gunned the engine and the boat spurted into the river. She’d given the attendant more fodder for gossip.
As they neared Tiger Tail Island they could see Alma May tying her boat to the dock, while Melba, unnaturally stooped, reached for the railing. Grif idled in next to them. Beyond the canal Brandy could see a Sheriff s Office boat drawn up to the bank. Further away an officer stood near the cistern, encircled by yellow crime scene tape.
Alma straightened up and tossed her head in the direction of the officer. “Durn fools, banging on my door at the crack of dawn. Like we knew what was going on over there last night.”
Grif called to her. “Hear a commotion?”
Alma May shrugged. “Boat or two went by. Not unusual. Night fishermen, I reckon.” She looked Brandy up and down, her smile forced. “We cain’t seem to get shut of them Indians. Reckon we cain’t get shut of reporters, either.”
Brandy said nothing. As Melba stepped out onto the dock, her appearance shocked her. Gone was the imperial set of the shoulders, the regal assurance on the hawk face. Brandy thought she detected a dark bruise on one high cheekbone. She looked drawn, her eyes hollow. She was taking nervous drags on a slender cigarette. For a few seconds she stared at Brandy and Grif. Then she swiveled around, stepped to one side and peered into the back yard before walking, head down, toward the front door after her friend. It was unlike her to be so silent. Brandy wondered where Melba had been the night before. Something or someone had frightened her. Surely she was accustomed to Tugboat.
It was only 9:00 A.M., so the two had been out early. Before she re-joined Melba, Alma May swung around to face them. “Just remember,” she said firmly, “Anything found on my property belongs to me.”
As Grif pushed the throttle forward to start down the creek, Brandy glanced back at the house. Through the thick stands of palmettos and shrub oaks she saw motion, watched as a tall, heavy man’s figure, crouching down, moved toward the back door.
Brandy leaned toward Grif. “I’m glad the law is around. I think Tugboat’s here.”
CHAPTER 15
The young deputy standing beside the yellow crime tape looked familiar to Brandy. As she wobbled on her crutches to the bow of Grif s boat, he raised his cap and settled it again on his sandy hair. He was the officer who came when she discovered Hart’s body.
“The reporter lady,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he had anticipated her rising from the creek. “Hear you had a rough night here.”
Brandy flashed back to that black hole, the spiders, her helplessness, and felt a sudden constriction in her throat. “Yes, I did, Deputy.”
“The guys who searched for the little girl say the lid was in place when they were here. Might be prints on the lid. It’s a long shot on wood. Not slick enough.” The deputy suddenly grinned. “Got news for you, though,” he said. “The Marine Patrol located your pontoon boat earlier this morning. Stashed in a dead end creek off the Salt River.”
Grif gave a knowing shake to his head. “It figures. That wouldn’t be far from the Little Homosassa and Tugboat’s shack near the mound.”
“Damaged?” Brandy asked.
“Not that they said. Been drained of gas. The officers towed it up river to the first marina. They’ve got to take it out of the water. Detectives need to check it over for prints or anything else. Maybe they can identify the perp who shut you in the cistern. You can collect it in a few days.”
No reason, she decided, to explain she wouldn’t be in Homosassa then. She’d tell Sergeant Strong when he called back. Brandy thought of the nineteenth century Seminole pouch, stored none-too-safely under her pillow. “If you talk to Sergeant Strong, please say I need to see him.” She waved to the deputy and threaded her way between boxes and screens to the rear bench. As Grif backed around and started up Petty Creek, she said, “Good news, at last, finding my boat. Now, if someone would just find Daria.”
And yet Brandy felt a vague unease. Why wasn’t her boat sunk? Whoever shut her into the cistern to die surely wouldn’t want her deserted boat found already. Everyone in Homosassa knew air boat rides routinely cruised that area. Still, high saw grass blocked a view of the backwater from the Salt River, and a pontoon was hard to scuttle. The perpetrator had been in a great hurry. Plainly, Grif pegged the villain as Tugboat, the monster on the island. Two days ago Tugboat was afraid she’d tell the Sheriff about his cocaine operation, but she had already done that. Why go after her last night? If he did, he must think Brandy could testify against him, or knew something—or had something that she didn’t. The pouch wasn’t the main prize, but its former contents might be worth killing for.
By the time they pulled the boat ashore at the south end of Tiger Tail Island, a cloud bank was rolling in from the Gulf. The Seminole camp seemed dark and silent without little Daria’s piping treble. They slogged up the trail almost to the chickee before Annie spotted them and came listlessly forward. Brandy leaned her crutches against a palmetto, held out her hands, and clasped Annie’s moist palms in hers.
“Still no news,” Annie said. Tears glistened on her brown cheeks. Then she glanced at Brandy’s crutches. “Sure you’re okay?”
Brandy nodded, wondering how much Fishhawk and Annie knew about last night. No one should know about the pouch, unless John had talked and word has spread. He didn’t understand its full significance.
Annie reached for the crutches and handed them to her. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure you were looking for Daria, but the Sheriff s men already combed the island.” She glanced for a painful moment at the empty brush pen. “We’re packing up. Fishhawk’s taking me into Homosas
sa. Some friends will drive me home this afternoon. I can’t stay here another night. The Sheriff s Office said they’d be in constant touch. The divers and the helicopter didn’t find a trace. Officers and volunteers tramped all over the island and up and down the river. Not a sign of her.”
Annie wore a soiled white shirt and her jeans were grass stained. Brandy knew they had no way on the island to keep themselves or their things clean.
Annie stared back at the hammock. “She just vanished. Maybe Fish-hawk’s right. Maybe there is a witch.”
The shadows of clouds crept over the camp site. Brandy glanced at the deserted sweat lodge across from Daria’s little corral and at the trail leading through the cabbage palms and cedars. She did not see the other Seminole. “When is Fishhawk leaving?”
Then, he was there—emerged, she supposed, from behind the chickee. He stood tall, knees braced, hands quiet at his sides, expression hard to read—grief mixed with some other emotion, Brandy couldn’t decide what. From a small cloth bag tied around his neck came the spicy scent of herbs. Ever the medicine man, Brandy thought. He did not look at her, but faced Grif who lingered in the trail behind her.
Brandy turned again to Annie. “You haven’t heard from Sergeant Strong today?”
Her sad eyes looked into Brandy’s. “He’ll call if they find.” she paused, choking on the words—”anything at all.” Then, as if to hide tears, she turned, reached into a basket on the chickee platform, and handed Brandy her cell phone. “Thanks. I did use it.”
“You’re welcome,” Brandy said. “I’m sorry I can’t leave it with you, but the Sheriff s Office might call.”
A sudden scowl darkened Fishhawk’s square face. “I wish you’d tell the big detective to back off,” he said, his lips scarcely moving. “The law’s scaring away the witch who has her. If the deputies left us alone, I could get Daria back. I don’t need their help.”
Annie’s eyes filled again. With trembling fingers, she pushed lank, black hair from her forehead. “I think we need the law’s help,” she said softly.