“Well, it’s good to see the both of you,” Sheriff Logan said as they both stood to leave. “Mary, you’ve turned out to be as pretty as your mama. I’m glad to see you brought a man up here with you this time.”
Mary tried not to laugh. “Oh, I always try to be prepared, Sheriff.”
“That’s good.” Logan nodded vigorously. “’Specially up in this neck of the woods. And I’ll be waiting to hear from you, son,” he added to Safer. “You can count on me, twenty-four seven.”
Safer nodded. “Thanks, Sheriff. It’s good to know the local law’s behind you.”
* * *
They drove on, heading northwest out of Hartsville. A few miles down the road Safer pulled something from his shirt pocket. “Here’s that cell phone I told you about. If you key in your mother’s birthday, you’ll get me.”
“My mother’s birthday?” Mary frowned. “June eighteenth, 1948?”
“Oh-six, oh-one-eight, forty-eight. It’s a number we figured you’d never forget.”
Mary shrugged. He was right about that. “And I’m to call you when?”
“When you talk the judge into letting us on her property.” Safer looked at her. “Or when she gives you a final and definitive no.”
As they sped deeper into the mountains, rural mailboxes decorated with bright red bows dotted the side of the road, far from the homes for which they collected mail. Finally, as the road forked at the bottom of a creek bed, Safer pulled off the asphalt and stopped.
“Okay,” he said. “Here we are.”
“Can’t you turn up the driveway?” Mary peered up into the trees. The only thing that revealed the location of Upsy Daisy Farm was a small mailbox that had been nailed to a fence post.
“One of Judge Hannah’s cronies on the bench issued an order. We’ve been forbidden access to her property.”
“I see.” They both got out of the truck. Mary watched as Safer pulled out her backpack, feeling as if she were some homely blind date being dumped early back at home.
“I wish I could take you to the front door,” he said as he plunked the little bag at her feet. “But we have to obey the law, too.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Mary shouldered her belongings. “The walk will do me good.”
“Stay in touch!” Safer called sternly. “You’ve got your cell phone . . .”
“Right.” Mary watched as Safer got back into the truck, then she started up the drive, wondering what Irene would say when she found out what Santa Claus had in store for her this year.
CHAPTER 10
The remnants of a light snow still dusted Irene Hannah’s farm. Though most of it had melted, some lay thick along the edge of the slick clay driveway, making the footing treacherous. Mary slipped and slid up the drive, alternately crunching through the icy snow or sliding along the slimy clay soil. With her backpack on her shoulder, she clambered between two rolling pastures of vibrant orange grass. Unlike most mountain farms, Irene’s land lay soft, her acres rolling out almost flat in a little cove tucked between two ridges.
Mary remembered the day she and her mother first visited Upsy Daisy. Irene had been riding in her front fields and had galloped up to the driveway to greet them.
“Hi, Mary!” she’d called, grinning down into the car. “You ever ride a horse before?”
“No,” Mary answered, embarrassed. She and her mother lived in the woods. She’d never even seen a real horse before.
Irene laughed. “Want to learn how?”
Mary glanced at her mother for permission, then nodded.
“Come on, then,” said Irene. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll teach you how to ride if you’ll teach me how to speak Cherokee.”
“Okay.” Mary got out of the car. Irene told her to stand on the hood and she’d pick her up. Mary climbed up on the fender and in an instant Irene had pulled her up on the back of the horse. “Are you okay?” Irene asked as Mary clung to her, terrified to be sitting on such a powerful animal so high off the ground.
“I think so.”
“Good. We’ll go slow this time. But pretty soon, I bet you’ll be beating me out to the mailbox.”
And so Mary had, over that and succeeding summers, learned to ride as Irene had learned Kituwah. Now she smiled as she saw two of the small, elegant Appalachian Single Foot horses nuzzling in the tall grass, looking for the tender buds of clover that lurked close to the ground. What fun she and Irene and her mother had that day. How she treasured the memory of that afternoon!
She trudged on. The driveway ended at a narrow suspension bridge that spanned a broad, shallow creek. Across the stream sat Irene’s bungalow, looking like an illustration on a calendar. Cheery and well kept, it had white clapboards that sparkled in the sun while brightly colored winter pansies poked their fierce little faces up from two long boxes that edged the porch. Smoke curled from the chimney, a big wreath of holly graced the front door, and a substantial brood of small chickens scratched in the grass.
It looked just as it had when she’d come as a kid to ride; just as it had that awful afternoon when she was eighteen. In all the world it was the one single physical place she allowed herself to rely upon. Whatever might befall her beyond these thirty acres, she knew she could always walk up this drive and over this bridge and return to this safe harbor.
Mary smiled as the chill fear in her stomach that had been there since Safer entered her life warmed. By all indications, Upsy Daisy Farm looked fine. Now she had to cross the bridge and find out if Irene Hannah was equally well.
“Okay,” she said aloud. “Here goes nothing.” Switching her backpack to her left shoulder, she grasped the thick wire railing of the bridge and took a deep breath. She didn’t mind heights, but this suspension bridge had always presented a challenge. Not only did it sway, but whenever she walked it, she started a syncopated jounce that made it increasingly hard to navigate. Unless she waded the creek, though, there was no other way to get to Irene’s house. Stepping as gently as she could, Mary put one foot forward and started across. The rushing water tumbled over the creek rocks below, and chilly, coppery-smelling spray dampened the hem of her jeans. She had gotten just three steps along when the bridge began its dance. Last time she’d been here she’d figured out to step forward only on the rising motion, but after eighteen months, she was out of practice. As she walked along, the bucking grew worse, and soon she had to clutch the rail and bend her knees to keep from falling. She tried going faster, then slower, but nothing helped. The bridge rumbled on, sounding like fifty men stomping across it all at once.
The guineas, alarmed by any commotion, flapped their stubby wings and started to squawk. Holding tightly to the railing, Mary had to laugh. Between the shrieking chickens and the bouncing bridge, Irene might be better guarded than Agent Safer could have dreamed.
Finally she reached the other side of the creek, and the tumult ended. She paused, fully expecting Irene to burst out onto the porch to see who was making such a racket, but nobody beyond the guineas seemed to take note of her arrival. Walking up on the porch, she knocked once, then pressed her face to the window and looked inside. Irene’s living room looked just as always. A gleaming grand piano commanded most of it, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed to overflowing. The portrait of Phoebe, Irene’s long-dead daughter, still hung over the fireplace, and in one corner stood a Christmas tree, covered with tiny, dazzling lights. Mary smiled. She loved this farmhouse better than her grandmother’s mansion, better even than her mother’s old cabin on Otter Creek. Every time she came here, she felt as if she’d come home.
She knocked again on the door, but still no one answered. She had just lifted her hand to knock a third time when a loud hoonnkk came from behind her.
She turned. Not a foot away from her stood a huge white goose.
“Hoonnkk!” The bird eyed Mary with a bright, malicious gaze. “Hoonnkk!”
“Hi, there, fella.” Mary gave a nervous grin. Except for its bright orange beak and st
eel-blue eyes, the bird looked as if it had been carved from snow. It kept its neck stuck out and its beak parted, revealing the tiny, ratchet-like teeth. Though she had no memory of Irene ever owning anything like a goose, this creature acted as if it belonged here.
“Do you know where Irene is?” Mary adopted her grandmother Bennefield’s habit of talking to who- or whatever was available. “Is she out feeding the horses?”
Though the goose kept its beady blue gaze on her, it did not move to attack. Mary decided to leave her pack on the porch and tiptoe around to the back of the house. The goose sentry notwithstanding, a silence had suddenly fallen on Upsy Daisy. Mary shivered. Surely she hadn’t gotten here too late.
With the goose waddling behind her, she circled the house, hoping to see some kind of activity. A new brick patio spread out from the rear of the house; more winter pansies bloomed in flower boxes along one end. Just beneath the back door, a big German shepherd lay dozing in the sun. The dog leaped to its feet, lips curling in a growl as Mary approached, but when it caught sight of the goose, it hunkered back down and peered up meekly with worried brown eyes.
“Hi, boy,” Mary said, again taken aback. When she’d been here two summers ago, Irene had nothing but her horses, the guineas, and a tiny, nearly toothless Chihuahua named Chico that someone had dumped outside her office in Richmond. Now she had an attack goose and a German shepherd who had a full set of fangs and was ten times the size of Chico. Again it occurred to Mary that Irene might have no need of the FBI.
Moving cautiously toward the dog, she crossed the patio and peered through the glass-paned door. She could see one large room—a kitchen at one end, the other end a den dominated by a fieldstone hearth, where a small, banked fire flickered. Irene had lit a fire, Mary thought. But where had she gone? Once more she lifted her hand and was just about to knock when she became aware of motion in the room. On the floor, in front of the fireplace, two blanket-clad figures were moving close together, in tandem. The figure on top had short, steely gray hair, and was thrusting back and forth over a tangled mass of longer hair the color of a cloud. Mary’s heart started to hammer as she peered hard through the thick glass, terrified she’d stumbled upon the very attack the FBI feared. Then she realized what she was seeing.
Mortified, she pivoted and turned her back instantly to the door. Judge Irene Hannah, one of the most prominent jurists in the nation, was boffing someone in front of her fireplace. No wonder the place had been quiet! She smothered the laugh that bubbled up as she wondered what she should do next. She couldn’t knock on the door now and pretend she hadn’t seen anything; neither could she just casually sit there with the dog and the goose and wait for the couple inside to finish. Quickly, with both animals trotting behind her, she tiptoed off the patio and back to the porch. She would pretend to have seen nothing and just start all over again. This time she would bang on the front door as hard as she could. Maybe the dog would bark. Maybe the goose would honk louder. Surely between them and the guineas, she could rouse someone’s attention.
She sat down on the front steps. The dog and goose watched her quizzically, as if intrigued to see what this strange human would do next. She waited there a few moments, giving the embarrassment time to drain from her face, then she got up and knocked on the door again. This time she pounded hard, like cops on a drug bust. A cacophony erupted in the front yard. The dog barked, the guineas shrieked, and the goose made a noise that sounded like a broken saxophone. She waited, without peeking in the windows, a full minute, then pounded again. Suddenly the lock turned, the knob twisted, and the door opened with a jerk. A broad-shouldered man with tousled gray hair stood there bare-chested, red suspenders holding up a pair of canvas work pants.
“Aye?” he demanded gruffly, his blue eyes blazing.
Mary met his withering gaze evenly. “I’d like to see Judge Hannah, please.”
“Is it business you’ve got with her on Christmas Eve?” He scowled. His speech sounded musical and strange.
“My name is Mary Crow. I’m an old friend of hers.”
The man peered at her, his expression softening only slightly. “Hang on, then.”
He closed the door, but did not relock it. Mary heard his footsteps echoing through the house, then in a moment, other, swifter footsteps approached.
“Mary?” This time Irene appeared, fully dressed in a white blouse and faded jeans. Her silver hair floated like an aura around her head, and she looked radiant, with high color on both cheeks, her brown eyes sparkling like sherry.
“I can’t believe this!” she cried as she swung open the door, her still-rosy lips breaking into a smile. “You are the last person in the world I expected to see!”
“No kidding.” Mary chuckled as she stepped into Irene’s warm embrace. The women hugged for a long moment while the goose flapped around them, honking like something gone mad. Finally Irene stepped back and studied her.
“I figured you’d bug out of Atlanta for the holidays. I was picturing you sunning on some beach in the Caribbean.”
“Surprise!” said Mary. “This year I decided to drop in on you.”
“But how did you get here?” Irene’s shrewd gaze darted to the backpack at Mary’s feet, then to the goose, who stood eyeing them both. “How did you get past Lucy?”
“It wasn’t easy,” admitted Mary, laughing at the creature, who was now rubbing her feathered head up and down Irene’s leg.
Irene held the door open wide. “This is wonderful!” She pointed to the back of the house, toward the kitchen. “You’re just in time for Christmas dinner!”
“Thanks.” With a final triumphant glance at Lucy, Mary picked up her pack and walked into Irene Hannah’s home.
CHAPTER 11
“Don’t get your hopes up, Cabe. It ain’t gonna happen!”
Tommy Cabe glanced over at Willett, who stood in line next to him. Though Willett was speaking through the badly split lip that Tallent had gifted him with, his words were clear. He still did not believe that Sergeant Wurth would award Cabe a phone call for a week of no demerits.
“I’m still gonna ask,” whispered Cabe.
“You’d better watch out, Tommy-boy,” Willett warned. “He’s been in a piss-poor mood ever since he got back from wherever he went!”
Tommy Cabe held his breath as Sergeant Wurth made his way down the inspection line. The boys stood lined up in front of the castle, the Troopers toasty warm in leather flight jackets while the Grunts shivered in whatever clothes FaithAmerica had donated. For half an hour Wurth delivered some Christmas harangue about how richly blessed they were to have a roof over their heads and food on their table. Now, with his clipboard out in front of him, he worked his way down the line, reading each boy’s report.
They always held this formation on Sunday. Everyone called it “Judgment Day” because various forms of “corrections” were doled out to the boys, depending on the number and nature of demerits they’d collected during the week. The Troopers always got off light. The Grunts soon learned that their Sundays were expendable: an untucked shirttail might condemn a boy to spend a sunny afternoon in the dark library, copying Bible verses; an unmade bed could send him high up in the hills to chop kudzu. Insubordination garnered the worst correction. For that, Wurth sent them to the basement of the old castle for “Attitude Realignment.” In six months, Tommy had chopped a mountain of kudzu and copied Ecclesiastes three times over, but his attitude had never once had to be realigned. He’d heard from Willett what went on down in the basement.
Today, though, was different. For the first time since he’d come here, Tommy Cabe was about to stand before Sergeant Wurth demerit-free. He gave his shoes a final swipe against his pants legs as Wurth drew near. If David Forrester had told him the truth, Tommy would soon be talking to his grandfather. Maybe together they could figure out a way to get him out of here. Maybe they could even figure out a way to get Willett out, too.
“Mr. Cabe!”
Tommy jumped as Wurth
towered in front of him. Despite all his efforts to “stand like a man,” his knees began to quiver.
“Sir?”
“This says you’ve not had one demerit all week.” From over his clipboard, Wurth eyed Tommy suspiciously. “How can that be, Mr. Cabe?”
“I j-j-just tried real hard, sir.” Someone down the line snickered. Only Willett never laughed when Tommy talked.
Wurth made a mark beside his name. “Well, Mr. Cabe. That’s good news. Maybe you should try-try-try real hard more often.”
Tommy nodded, his cheeks on fire.
“Congratulations, son,” Wurth told him. “You’re finally beginning to catch on.”
With a gulp, Tommy waited for Wurth to award him his phone call, but instead the sergeant moved on down the line, questioning Willett about his split lip. Why hadn’t Wurth said anything? Surely he hadn’t forgotten.
“Uh, sir?” Tommy asked, sweat beginning to trickle down his armpits, despite the freezing temperature.
Wurth glared at him as the hiss of twenty-six breaths being simultaneously held rose from the line. No one had ever called Sergeant Wurth back to stand in front of them a second time. “Mr. Cabe?”
Tommy swallowed hard. “C-c-can I make my phone call now?”
“Your phone call?” Wurth frowned.
Out of the corner of his eye Tommy saw Tallent and Grice growing red-faced as they struggled to suppress their laughter.
“What phone call would that be, Cabe?”
He realized then that it had been a lie. David Forrester had been no better than the others, setting him up for the unlikely day when he stood here, demerit-free. But there was nothing he could do now. He could not call back his request for a phone call; the whole camp was waiting to hear what he was going to say. He heard Willett groan beside him.
“I thought that if you had a perfect week on Judgment Day you got to m-make a phone call, sir.”
Wurth took a step back; his bulging eyes narrowed. “Just who is it that you want to call, Mr. Cabe?”
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