Forbidden Ground (Cold Creek)

by Karen Harper

  She nodded. “‘History is, strictly speaking, the study of questions; the study of answers belongs to anthropology and sociology.’”

  “Right. Top marks for my girl. So be sure you ask the right questions from the right people. Then use your knowledge of anthropology and sociology, not sexology, to get what you want from Grant Mason. Save the latter for me, understand?”

  “I understand a lot more than I used to.”

  “Then put it to good use, and I’ll be in touch. Really in touch, next time.”

  Kate made a show of looking around as if she didn’t want strangers to see them together, see them kissing. She pulled her hands free and walked out.

  * * *

  Kate knew she was taking a big chance by sharing her photograph of the Beastmaster with Grant, but until Carson gave her mask back, it would have to do. Even the mere photo was so stunning, so compelling, that surely he would realize the possibility of the valuable artifacts within Mason Mound. She waited until they’d been home awhile and had enjoyed a glass of wine after dinner. Grant had even told her a bit about his and Brad’s boyhoods. She could tell he was worried about where Brad was tonight, not that he kept tabs on an adult brother, but the Lacey connection was obviously bothering him. Maybe this would take his mind off his worries.

  “I’d like to show you a copy I have of a famous Celtic artifact that’s housed in a museum in Denmark,” she told him as they sat side by side on the couch before the fireplace. The June night was amazingly cool with rain streaking the huge picture window, so he’d built a fire.

  “Not of something you found?” he asked, turning toward her with one bent leg propped on his knee. “I thought you were working in England.”

  “I was, but I made a special trip, a sort of pilgrimage, just to see this in a museum. The Celts were all over northern Europe, too. Let me go get it.”

  She rose from the soft leather cushions—his weight close to hers tipped her toward him, and she was so tempted not to move. She went to her room to get the picture. It always fascinated and chilled her to look at it.

  “See,” she said, sinking down beside him with their shoulders touching again. “This silver bowl, called a cauldron, depicts the so-called Beastmaster. He got his name because he’s surrounded by various beasts or animals and appears to be in command of them. Scholars believe he’s the Celtic horned deity of fertility and nature named Cernunnos. Humans are always depicted as very small compared to him.”

  Grant drew in a sharp breath, so she knew the impact got to him, too. He looked transfixed, his eyes wide, his lips parted. “Beautiful but in a bizarre way,” he whispered. “With his horns and holding a snake, it reminds me of some paintings of Satan.”

  “I’ve thought of that. His cult and significance in the Celtic religion is unknown, but if I could just find anything shown on this cauldron in Adena art—especially depictions of the Beastmaster—it would really help me to prove my theory that their cultures are linked. What? You have the strangest look on your face.”

  “Doesn’t it—he—have a terrible effect on you?” he asked. “So strange with those wide, staring eyes. I’ll bet you could have imagined this face when you saw a deer through a dirty garage window.”

  She sighed in frustration. Did he always have to fight her about this? “Both the Celts and the Adena were larger than average people,” she told him, ignoring his attempt to sidetrack her. “Celtic skeletons have been found that show them almost as giants, some six feet seven, another six feet ten tall. And the Adena were tall, too. Even their skulls—the ones that aren’t smashed—are large. Smashed skulls were used in their burial rites somehow.”

  “Smashed human skulls?” he whispered. “Like human sacrifices with other dead people, maybe the upper class?”

  “Yes, possibly chieftains or shamans. I just want you to know how important more knowledge about these two cultures would be.”

  He tossed the photo on the coffee table, then put his arm around her. “The truth is, Dr. Lockwood, this all kind of creeps me out, maybe partly because of Paul’s crushed skull. So, what’s that around the Beastmaster’s neck that looks like a rope, like he could be strangled?”

  “That’s called a torque. See,” she said, leaning over to retrieve the photograph and pointing at it. “He’s also holding one in his other hand. It’s a rigid neck ring, kind of like a necklace. A sign, I think, of honor, as some have been found around neck bones both on the Celts and the Adena.”

  “So there’s your link. You don’t need to be searching for other horrible Beastmaster images or masks.”

  “But more proof than a style of jewelry is needed. Masks are too common to be another link, unless it’s a particular mask.”

  “You’re really passionate about this,” he said, pulling her closer, turning her head toward him with one big, warm hand. “And,” he said, as his hand drifted lower to cradle her throat, “if a torque was solid metal, it stayed on for life, right?”

  “Right,” she agreed, but with that short response, she knew her voice had gotten softer, breathier. Like a wedding ring for life, she thought. Like one she did not want from Carson, though for several years, she’d thought she did. But this close to Grant, almost in his arms...

  They moved together in a mutual caress and kiss. You are really passionate about this, he’d said. But this sweeping, spinning feeling was a different sort of passion, not of the head but of the heart. She clung for one moment, not only to him, but to sanity, as well, to whatever she had been telling him, trying to get him on her side. But this—was this the way? Then why did she feel she was the one being convinced, converted to something he wanted?

  She half sat, half lay across his lap as their kisses deepened, lengthened, as his hands moved over her. They sank into the couch as if they floated on a bed, pressed together, lying full length now, with his leg atop hers as if to hold her down when she had no intention of going anywhere. She couldn’t breathe—she, her family’s bright student, big achiever, going places—didn’t want to go anywhere but here. But something crazy that Carson had said crept in when they lay, holding tight, pressed together, gasping for breath. You don’t have to do things Grant Mason’s way. She began to tremble.

  “You okay?” Grant whispered. “Didn’t mean to push things—us. I don’t mean to take advantage of your being a guest here.”

  “Or of trying to distract me?” she managed to answer. “But you do.”

  “If we get together—I mean, not only like this—I don’t want it to be because you want to convince me you should explore the mound.”

  That was the splash of cold water she needed. She struggled to sit up, and he helped her. They sat, still facing each other. “Nor do I want you to think my response is any sort of bribery,” she told him.

  They were so close she could see her reflection in the dark depths of his eyes, flickering firelight, too, as if flames danced within. Could it be she’d known this man for less than a week? In a way he was her enemy, but she felt so close to him. She was suddenly afraid of him and herself. He’d come closer to convincing her to want him, even to love him, and wouldn’t that mean putting what he wanted above her own needs?

  * * *

  That night, Kate couldn’t sleep. Her mind raced over things Grant had said and done—Carson’s words, too. For a while she studied the photo of his grandmother Ada. She looked so unique, as if she knew things she couldn’t quite say or was a deep thinker. For some reason, Kate related to her, instinctively liked her. She turned out her lights, then stood at her bedroom window, staring out toward the mound. The slash of moon seemed like a tilted grin, like the one the Beastmaster wore. And she kept thinking of Carson’s silly story about the walking dead coming to get her to make her visit their graves in the mound.

  Paul Kettering’s funeral was tomorrow. He’d be laid to rest not far from here, accor
ding to current customs, embalmed, put in a coffin, then a concrete burial vault six feet under, his grave marked with a stone. The Adena had buried their beloved, too, but according to their ways, under a mound. It was still a mystery how Paul’s skull had been smashed. It was a mystery how the Adena of Mason’s Mound had died, and she yearned to—

  She heard a fierce, single, distant shout. Surely, that hadn’t come from outside—from the mound! No, it was muffled, but definitely Grant, unless Brad had come back, but she hadn’t heard him.

  Could Grant be sick? Calling for her? If Brad was back, was it an argument? An intruder like at Paul and Nadine’s?

  Not waiting to grab her robe or stuff her feet in her slippers, she grabbed a brass bookend from the dresser for a weapon and ran from the guest bedroom into the dark house.

  14

  Kate rushed headlong across the living room with fire embers still glowing in the grate. She had not even been down the hall to Grant’s bedroom. Several doors stood open like dark, yawning mouths, but two of them were closed.

  “Grant? Grant, are you all right?” she called out.

  Wearing only black boxer shorts, he opened his door and leaned against the frame. He looked frazzled and disheveled. She wanted to comfort him. Though his bedroom was dark and the hall was dim, she could feel his eyes on her body. She crossed her arms over her breasts, surprised she still held the heavy bookend in one hand.

  “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Nightmare. So real. I must have yelled. You got me thinking too much about what could be inside the mound—ghosts or something.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for that. Welcome to my world,” she said to try to lighten the mood, but she could tell he was embarrassed.

  “Ever see one of those old mummy movies—Boris Karloff, I think?” he asked. “It’s your fault, sweetheart, for hauling out that picture.”

  Sweetheart?

  “Grant, I’m sorry. How about we form a team with Carson Cantrell and his staff and excavate the mound, even if it’s just to prove there’s nothing of interest or value there? You know—debunk any strange thoughts we might have about it. Since many of the mounds were entered and pillaged by pioneers years ago, maybe there is nothing left, but don’t you feel curious?”

  “Isn’t curiosity what killed the cat? But yeah, I’m curious about you, at least.”

  Despite priding herself on being rational and careful, she walked closer. Talk about that mound being a magnet—this man enticed her as much...more.

  A voice cut in so close she jumped. “Din’t mean to ter’rupt your foreplay or afterglow,” Brad said. “Or,” he said, staring at the brass bookend she held, “a lover’s quarrel. I’m goin’ to the room you two ’signed to me. ’Scuse me, please.”

  Now Kate felt really undressed. “Grant had a bad dream and called out,” she said as Brad propped himself against the wall, not moving despite what he’d said.

  “No need to ’xplain. I swear you two are fated to be mated, so full steam ahead.”

  “You weren’t driving in that condition, I hope,” Grant said, putting Kate gently behind him. “I thought we were agreed on that.”

  “Nope. Had a lady friend. Don’t we all? She dropped me off—not dropped me.” He snickered at his own stupid joke.

  “Lacey?” Grant demanded.

  Behind him, Kate grimaced and shook her head. Brad might guess she’d spied on him now.

  “Word sure travels fast in these parts,” Brad said. “Yeah, Lacey, just for old times’ sake, man. Sometimes I think ‘Bad Brad’ was better for her’n you were.”

  “Kate,” Grant said, his voice hard. “Head to your room, please. Brad and I need a discussion that’s been coming for a while, and not just about Lacey.”

  Kate was only too glad to scurry away. She went into her room and closed her door but could hear an occasional shouted word—mostly Brad’s slurred ones, because Grant pretty much kept his voice down. She heard Lacey’s name, but they were also arguing about Todd remaining foreman at the mill. She tiptoed to her door and opened it a crack.

  “Didn’t blood used to be thicker’n water?” Brad demanded.

  Grant finally started shouting, too. Somehow they’d gotten on the fact that “Tarzan Todd” had invited Kate to climb trees to spy on Bright Star.

  “Yeah, well, I’ll go ’long, too!” Brad insisted. “And I’ll lay off the booze before I do, so hope that suits you. Course, you’d prob’ly rather have me just fall out of a tree and out of your hair for good! And don’t start in with me ’gain about whether I’m bugging you by planting metal stars on the Adena mounds round here! If Mason Mound was mine, I’d let Kate and her college cronies dig stuff up in a second if it meant I could get some funding from what’s there to restart my mill and get the hell out of here!”

  “Would you keep your voice down? It’s not your call! And you’d damn well better sober up before you drop Paul’s coffin at the funeral in the morning. It’s only a few hours away, so go sleep it off!”

  That was the last thing she heard before two doors slammed.

  * * *

  The day of Paul’s funeral had beautiful weather, although Grant felt a storm would have been more appropriate. In the church, he sat between Brad and Todd in the second row behind Nadine, her sister and Paul’s relatives, a couple of whom were also pallbearers. Of course, it was a closed casket. No way could the funeral director have made Paul’s head presentable. He still couldn’t understand what had happened. Grant had learned from Jace that Paul’s wallet was on his dresser, untouched with money and credit cards in it. Paul’s guns weren’t taken, and there had never been any hint of drugs in the house.

  The funeral service, led by Pastor Snell, was emotional but blessedly brief. Still, Grant’s eyes burned with unshed tears, especially when he saw the tree trunk Paul had been working on for the church. It depicted angels with swirling robes flying toward heaven. It must be incomplete since the angels’ faces were blank, and Paul always did great, detailed faces. Or could he have meant to leave them that way? But what really bothered Grant was that he kept imagining the terrible Beastmaster face on the angel that had arms stretched upward, because that reminded him of antlers.

  What else had Paul been working on besides this angel carving and the one of the Adena shaman? Where had he secreted his eagle pendant—the symbol of Adena spiritual power, as Kate had put it? Maybe Paul saw that beautifully carved artifact as inspiration for his artistic talents. That would make it logical that he’d hide the pendant inside one of his carved tree trunks—inside that one with the angels or even the Adena carving Kate wanted. Maybe during the lunch here later, he’d slip away to come back into the sanctuary and take a close look at this carving, at least.

  At the end of the service, the six pallbearers rose and carried the coffin out. Grant saw Kate sitting partway back in a pew with Amber, her sons and Amber’s parents. Kate had said at breakfast she was going to watch Todd climb his favorite tree tomorrow after he got off from the mill and maybe go up with him in a tree overlooking the Hear Ye compound. Brad still said he’d go, too, so Grant would reluctantly join them, just to observe, at least.

  Lacey was here, with her elderly parents. He’d seen her talking to Brad outside the church. Both Lacey and Kate got under his skin, but in very different ways.

  Above all, Grant scanned the rows of faces for a stranger. He and Jace had talked about the fact that some murderers were drawn to attend their victim’s funeral, even to visit the grave. Could such a person have dared to come here? Worse, was it not some stranger, but someone Paul—and Grant—knew?

  The coffin was heavy, his thoughts, too, as they approached the waiting hearse, which would lead the funeral procession the short distance to the cemetery. After they slid the coffin into the hearse, Grant went to his car and got in line with others, al
l sporting magnetic blue and white funeral flags. He drove with Kate beside him and Brad in the backseat.

  The cemetery staff had erected a green canvas tent to shade the grave, though the sun felt warm and the breeze gentle. He pictured the dusty, log-lined and covered roof over the interior of the Adena tomb, dank with earth smells and dark but for his and his friends’ darting flashlight beams.

  It had been this kind of weather the day the four of them had dug their way into the mound. Gabe—who always did things on the up-and-up—was away that week, and Grant and Brad’s dad and grandfather had gone to a lumberman’s association meeting in Cincinnati. The boys would probably not have dared to check out the mound otherwise.

  The horizontal entry shaft had been mostly cleared decades before when Grandpa had gone in for a look. According to what Grant had overheard, he’d really had to dig his way in. He hadn’t refilled the narrow passageway when he’d backed out and resealed the tomb. A pile of dirt and stones had been outside the mound for years, until it had been carried away for various uses. In front of the entrance, he’d planted prickly hawthorn trees. The four of them had belly-crawled under the reach of the lower limbs.

  Grant realized now that the old pile of rubble was probably where Brad got the stones he’d put back in the woods. He’d told Grant once he was just marking his favorite spot—the place he’d told Kate he’d buried his nonexistent pet. He’d even made up a name for the dog. That well might be where Brad had hidden his Adena arrowhead, so he hadn’t told Kate that Brad was lying about burying a dog there. But now—unbelievable—they were burying his dear friend Paul.

  They slid the coffin atop the frame that would lower it into the ground. The funeral director placed an arrangement of foliage and roses on it that read Husband, Friend. Grant scanned the cluster of people again, then gazed at the coffin. He’d have to make up with Brad somehow. Life was too short—too unpredictable—to be arguing with someone close. Even if people couldn’t forget, maybe they could forgive. If he got a chance, he’d try to get Kate to reconcile with her father, too.