Easter Sunday (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 7)

by Thomas Hollyday

  “Well, then, don’t worry about your job,” said Pete.

  Sammy spoke up. “This is a Goddamn emergency, boy, and Jimmy recognizes that.” He spit. “Far as I’m concerned, a swamp like this, it’s God’s mistake. Reverend Blue says that the Lord did it all in six days; damned if I don’t think He took off too early.” He spit again, “I never could understand what Jimmy and the birdwatcher people, any of them, want to save the mound for nohow.”

  Hank grabbed the shovel from Bob Johnny and moved stubbornly forward. He began to dig with the others, as fast as he could, with a special strength, fueled by a father’s love, unreasoning and simple.

  Garth Brook’s song about thunder pounded in his mind as he worked.

  Chapter Two

  Sammy looked out over the swamp and shook his head. Then he leaned over to Hank and said, “Let the others dig for a while. I need you to come along with me. We got to get Will Allingham’s tractor from the other side of the swamp.”

  The ranger glanced up from his work. “Sammy, you ain’t bringing a tractor in here?”

  Sammy turned and answered Bob Johnny, “You got an opinion?”

  “Nossir, no, I don’t.” The ranger shook his head and went back to his shoveling.

  Hank noticed the trees swaying. “Sure. However you can use me.”

  “I’d like you to drive the barge on which Will stores his tractor. I’ll pull it but I want you to steer it behind me all the way back here,” said Sammy.

  “It’s hard for me to leave Bobby,” Hank said.

  “You can be more help to him doing this than standing around worrying.”

  Hank was silent for a few moments and then nodded. He followed Sammy toward the boat.

  “What about more of those trees coming down?” he asked.

  “Forestry team from over to Denton is due out here soon to cut them away,” said Sammy.

  Bob Johnny, standing behind them, said loudly, so Sammy would hear, “We got to be careful with tearing up the mound.”

  Hank turned. “Let’s get going.”

  “Will Allingham don’t like anyone running that tractor without him. Maybe we should wait for him,” suggested Bob Johnny.

  Hank’s face reddened with anger. “Bobby’ll be dead before all that happens.”

  Pete approached them. “Will doesn’t want anyone bothering his fencing out there in the swamp,” he said, holding up some large wire cutters and smiling.

  Sammy looked over. “Pete, I think you might enjoy that job.”

  Pete nodded with a grin.

  Hank talked over his shoulder to Pete as he headed out. “We got less than five hours before this storm flood,” he said. “Five hours.”

  Sammy coughed. “Yessir, that storm surge reach to the mound, old Chief Nanticoke or some of them Nanticoke heroes going to float up from their graves and ride right out to the Bay.”

  Pete, striding fast to keep up, reached out his arm to Hank’s shoulder. “Hank, you going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know.” Hank slowed down and turned his head to Pete. “Do you understand?” Hank asked with his eyes wide open. Hank knew that Pete knew him better than most.

  “It’s going inside the cave bothering you,” answered Pete. “Your father was the same way, never would go inside a closed in place.”

  Hank nodded.

  Pete said, “You must be suffering.”

  Hank looked down. “My kid never asked anything of me and now this.”

  They reached the boat. Hank, the last to get in, pushed off and as he did, he said, “He’s twelve years old today.”

  “He’ll be having his birthday cake up here with all of us in a couple of hours,” said Pete, sitting down in the bow.

  Sammy looked over. “Bobby was talking about getting some money from his grandfather. Told me last week he wants to use it for a boat for the two of you.”

  Hank nodded. “The letter, yes.”

  Pete patted him on the shoulder. “Well, the money will still be there when this is all over.”

  Hank turned to Pete, his face in pain, “I’ve got to do what’s right for him.”

  Pete said, his voice low, his eyes kind and sympathetic, “You’ll do fine.”

  Sammy started the engine. Hank watched truck lights arriving on the mainland, standing out against the distant shape of Pete’s house.

  “That’s the tree men,” Sammy said. “They had a tough time getting through the bad roads.”

  Pete aimed his flashlight toward the darkness of the swamp. Brief interludes came between the gusts, when the air would get warmer, almost stifling and full of marsh fog and stink that competed against the men’s own sweat. Then the chill came back with the wind noise and splashed up spray, like winter flailing the hope of spring.

  As Sammy backed his boat from shore, a rowboat with a small engine was coming in. In it was Cathy Allingham, Will’s twelve-year-old daughter from his first marriage, her mother long gone from River Sunday. In front sat Richard, Bobby’s other friend. Hank caught the gunwale of the craft as it slowed and nosed close.

  Cathy leaned forward, buried in the blue slicker that Hank recognized as one of Pete’s old farm coats. She stuck her free hand tight in a large side pocket. A bit of her brown hair could be seen strutting from under the plastic hood. Her eyes told Hank she was scared.

  “Just tell us what happened, Cathy,” said Hank, trying to put her at ease.

  She spoke quickly, getting all her story out fast, almost yelling, the wind tearing away parts of her words. “We thought it would not rain until later and we wanted to get up to the swamp and look around. We went ahead and took this outboard at the landing. Pete told us plenty of times we could use it if we tied it back up right.”

  She caught her breath. “Bobby was insisting we visit the burial mound so we stopped there first. Then we were going out to some of the other islands. Richard and I wanted to find the P47 for the reward.”

  Sammy spat. “Damn him. Allingham’s been offering a hundred dollars to anybody finding his aunt’s airplane that went down out here in the War,” he said. “He’s a damn fool for a teacher. Ought to be ashamed getting them all worked up. Nobody’s ever going to find it. Not here anyway.”

  Hank shook his head.

  She went on, “When we came up on the bank, I pointed out a cave that had been opened up. I found one thing on the ground. Then Bobby got excited and wanted to go in and look around.”

  Hank asked, “He wanted to climb into the hole?”

  Cathy nodded. “Yessir, he did,” she continued. “I told him the mound was real soft, but he went anyway. Richard and I just watched. Then we heard him yelling about fresh air blowing against his face. He went on about the ceiling of the cave was dripping and some dirt was coming loose. I called to him again to come on out right away.

  “About then, Richard and me, we heard the tree falling, a big cracking sound, one of the tall ones behind the mound. We managed to jump back. Its trunk hit and pushed the earth down. We heard Bobby screaming. That’s when we tried to get the opening cleared but the tree and the branches were all over the place. The ooze was coming up to our knees and we were afraid the mound would cave in. We called but Bobby didn’t answer. That’s when we decided to go to Pete’s for help. That’s the truth, Mr. Green.”

  Pete motioned to her. “Show them what you found.”

  She reached in her pocket. “This was near the mouth of the cave. I just hope the firemen can get Bobby out.” She pulled her right hand out of the large raincoat pocket and held it forward, trembling, like she was making an offering.

  “We’re going to get him out,” Sammy said, his face kinder than his usual roughness, and showing that he sensed her worry.

  “Me and Richard are sorry about Bobby,” she said.

  Richard nodded. “I feel real bad, Mr. Green.”

  Sammy took the object from Cathy. “It’s gray and shaped like a triangle,” he said.

  Pete glanced over Hank’s shoulder.
“Might be a religious object left with those buried Nanticoke chiefs.” He thought for a moment then said, “No, that’s no relic from Jimmy’s people. Their stuff was iron and iron doesn’t get gray.”

  Sammy put it in his pocket. “Holy or not, I got somebody to show it to.”

  Hank pushed the boat away from Cathy’s craft. They heard a horn blaring again and again from the mainland. This time, a car’s headlights approached the boat dock, their beams rising and falling from the ruts like flailing white swipes.

  “That’s Will,” said Hank.

  “That’s my father,” said Cathy. “He always honks like that.”

  “We ought to wait,” said Sammy, looking at Hank.

  “Like hell,” said Hank. “Here, you can blame it on me. Say I was running the damn boat and would not turn around.” He started to move toward the engine controls.

  “Sit down,” Sammy said. “I’ll do it.” He reversed the engine out into the swamp. When he was out about a hundred feet, Sammy shifted to forward, and then with some blue oil smoke, the engine ran up. He headed the boat in a slow arc out into the Wilderness, running along the reeds at the side of the island.

  They went by the firemen digging at the cave entrance and the pile of sandbags holding up the walls of the growing trench. Sammy had left his deputy in charge. Above the men Hank could see the branches and heavy trunk of the fallen tree with men still cutting away the branches. Not far behind were the remaining loblollies, waving with the gale.

  Then the island was out of sight and the swamp stretched far ahead into the darkness. Pete moved a large flashlight back and forth but the light extended only twenty feet. “We’ll pick up the first of Will’s fence in about a mile if we can stay on course,” he said.

  They knew that the closest path to the tractor was through water acreage planted by Will Allingham. The water was stocked with grasses, wild rice and other crops to entice wildfowl into his profitable rental hunting sites. Hank and the others also knew that Will was the type who, given a little bit of power over others around him, liked to exercise that by refusing to cooperate on even the simplest requests. Unfortunately, “One Shot Will” was a person whose meager properties and powers seemed to be in great need by others at significant times. This gave Will a presence above what he deserved. Will himself had been adamant about any of the trappers using his land. He was known for making sure watermen were fined for trespassing by the local judges Will knew. No watermen ever went near his land for fear of the fines.

  “Pete, you see any sign of the property yet?” asked Sammy.

  “I’ll tell you when,” said Pete. Then they were quiet, listening to the engine and staring ahead.

  As the boat progressed, the flashlight picked up many animals. Some, like deer and squirrels, rested stranded on the small floating tufts of reeds that were being broken loose by the growing swells. Others, the muskrats and raccoons and turtles, some with babies carried above the water by their mouths, were swimming toward higher land. Water snakes, some of them poisonous, curled past the sides of the boat.

  “Wildlife sense the storm is coming,” said Pete. “They know the surge will bring in all that ocean water and the salt will kill them.”

  They reached the Allingham fence and the old man raised his hand. “This is the best place to cut the fence,” he said.

  Heavy overhanging vines obscured Will’s fencing. To get to the wire, Hank and Pete had to cut the vines, which were as tough as the steel links. The wood was wet and slippery and they found it difficult to get the blades to grab. Sammy struggled to keep the boat close in to the fence area so that they could work. The current and wind kept moving them into a lopsided position and the craft began taking spray.

  Finally Hank said, “I’ve got steel links in sight. Pete can start cutting.” The job was facilitated by the fact that they were between two of the posts and the fence only had to be cut through in the center, in one place. They planned to peel the fence back on both sides toward the poles. Hank went overboard to cut below the surface. The current pushed his arm hard against the fence. The work took several minutes.

  “We may have to open the fence more when we see the width of the barge,” said Pete.

  Sammy said, “I just hope it’s still floating. Will didn’t lose any money when he got that old barge, that’s for sure.”

  When Hank was back aboard, Pete pushed back one curl of fencing with an oar and Hank held the other. Hank was cold and could feel a throbbing in his shoulder from hitting steel links. The boat squealed as the sharp edges of the cut fence scraped pieces of fiberglass from the sides of Sammy’s boat. Then they were through and the fence sections collapsed behind them.

  Sammy speeded the outboard as they moved out into the clear. The flashlight did not pick up any brush or small islands on either side of what was a much wider channel.

  “We’re inside Will’s hunting preserve,” said Pete.

  A marker pole came up on the right side of the boat.

  “We’ll go a little bit to port,” called Pete as he spotted it. “Here’s one of his channel markers.”

  The red metal sign rushed by the starboard side of the boat about six feet away. “No trespassing. By order of William Allingham,” Pete read with a chuckle.

  The radio sputtered into life. “Chief, come on back.”

  Sammy reached into his pocket and pulled out the handset. “Sammy here.”

  “One of my firemen, Charlie, thinks he heard the boy.”

  Sammy turned up the volume. “Hank, get this,” he said. Then he spoke into the radio, saying, “Go ahead.”

  “Charlie rigged a radio microphone on the end of a pole and put it into some of the muskrat holes. He wanted to see if he could hear Bobby breathing or moving around. All he was getting was animal noises, but he heard a definite thump from one hole.”

  “A thump?” asked Hank.

  Sammy listened as the static drowned out the report. “From what I could get, that’s what he said, like something falling,” said Sammy. “Only one time. He hasn’t heard it again but Charlie’s sure it’s the boy. He says it was too much noise for any muskrat.”

  “Does he know how far into the mound it came from?” asked Hank.

  “He couldn’t tell,” said Sammy.

  Hank looked ahead for the tractor. Pete saw it first, ahead of them, its metal bobbing with the barge it was on.

  Sammy slowed the engine. Coming into sight was a small steel flat-decked craft, rocking and pulling on its lines, its sides not more than two feet above the water. It was anchored and also tied to a wharf. In the center of its deck, lashed down, was the front-end loader tractor. At the stern, built out on a platform, was a large outboard.

  “We’ll put a line on her bow to tow her, but, Hank, you’ll have to get that barge engine running to keep her behind us,” said Sammy.

  “She’s going to be hard to keep from going aground,” said Pete.

  Hank reached out to catch the barge as they came alongside. His hands found the middle rung of a steel ladder, and as he climbed rust flaked to his touch. The side of the barge was higher than Sammy’s boat by a foot and Hank had to grab and throw himself up and off. All the time he was doing this, swells drove the smaller boat against the barge with crashing impacts.

  Hank started and idled the barge engine to let it warm up. Then he moved to the front of the square bow area on the barge. “I’m going for a bow line for you,” Hank shouted.

  “Hook close to the water line,” said Pete, standing in the bow as Sammy worked the smaller boat back close to the barge.

  Hank grabbed one of the larger lines coiled on the barge deck and bent over the bow, feeling in the darkness for an eyebolt. One hand remained on the edge of the deck to keep his balance and his other reached down into the swamp as the swells kept drenching him. His fingers found purchase and he slipped the end of the tow rope through it. Then he snagged the line and stood up on the deck. Hank threw the coil to Pete who caught it and secured it t
o a stern cleat in Sammy’s boat.

  “She’ll pull out my transom unless you keep that big engine pushing her forward, Hank,” shouted Sammy.

  “Let me bring up the line first,” yelled Sammy. He put his boat in gear and pulled the towline taut. “Now, let your first anchor go.”

  As Hank released the anchors holding the barge, the heavy craft slammed hard into the wharf. Pieces of wooden piling and planks crunched and split. Sammy revved his engine and the barge pulled out a few feet into the channel.

  “I’m releasing the other anchor,” yelled Hank. He dropped the line and ran back to his engine station.

  The wharf lines were let go. As Sammy towed the barge into the marsh channel, it slowly tipped to port. Hank steered to counterbalance to the right, but it tipped the other way. He knew what the matter was.

  So did Sammy. “She’s got a lot of water moving from side to side in her, Hank.”

  They headed toward the cut in the fence. On the way the craft swung hard into two of Will’s hunting blinds which were placed near the channel. Their pine needles and simple construction proved no match for the deadweight of the barge. The small stilt houses built for hiding hunters crumpled. Several dozen decoys linked together with anchor lines tumbled out of storage baskets from the blind into the marsh. They tangled and dragged noisily on the side of the barge for several hundred feet until they pulled underwater and bobbed up loose in the wake.

  When they reached the opening in Will’s fence, Sammy signaled that he was not going to slow down. Instead his boat pushed back the fence sections. The barge followed and crashed through, pulling down two more post lengths of fence with its momentum and weight.

  Hank’s shoulders began to ache from holding the steering lever. He prayed that the engine would last. It was coughing already and throwing out smoke. He doubted that Will had spent any money on maintaining it. He looked ahead into the darkness. The island was out in the night far in front of Sammy’s boat. Sammy’s craft plowed to maintain headway, ugly with its bow high in the air, the weight of the towed barge pulling down its stern. The darkness and rain surrounded the two boats. The weakening flashlight worked back and forth to try to light ahead.