“Good,” I said. “Don’t be surprised if the police show up today.”
“We’re ready. Gertie and Harold are taking an exercise stroll up and down Harry’s hallway. We’ll still keep to our surveillance schedule while he’s gone.”
I shook my head in amazement at Captain’s network of spies. His CIA—Corridor Intelligence Agency.
“If I might make a suggestion,” he said. “Drive around to the rear of the building on the left. I’ll wheel Harry out where he can get in your car unobserved.”
“All right.” I turned to Nakayla. “Have you got a notepad in the car?”
“In the glove compartment.”
“Give Captain your cell phone number.”
She went back to the parking space.
“Call us if someone comes looking for Harry. I’d like to know who we’re dealing with.”
“You’ve got it.” He took the number from Nakayla and tucked it in the chest pocket of his shirt. “Give us about ten minutes.” He swung the walker around and headed inside.
To the minute, Harry, Captain, and an elderly couple I assumed to be Harold and Gertie came out the rear door of Harry’s wing. Harold pushed Harry in the wheelchair and Gertie carried his crutches.
We drove from the far corner of the lot and stopped by the access ramp at the curb.
I shook Harry’s hand. “You can sit in the front seat with Nakayla where you’ve got more legroom.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m shorter and I only have one leg.” Harry wore a plaid cotton shirt and beige pants with the right leg tied up below the knee. “I’ll be fine. You sit where you can stretch out that mechanical marvel.”
I’d put on the sports model prosthesis and part of the articulating ankle must have shown as I got out of the car. Like Dr. Anderson had said, the feel was stiffer but the night’s activities promised to be a good test.
Nakayla got Harry settled in the backseat and I thanked Harold and Gertie for their assistance. They wanted to help me fold and load the wheelchair in the trunk, but I didn’t want them seeing the tools. God knows what they might have thought we were going to do with Harry. Nakayla anticipated the problem and asked a brilliant question—“Do you have any grandchildren?” Osama bin Laden could have been in the trunk and they wouldn’t have noticed.
As we pulled away, Harold and Gertie waved. Captain saluted.
“You’ve got some nice friends,” Nakayla said.
“Yes, I do,” Harry laughed. “Nice friends and nice to get out where they’re not watching my every move.”
I passed him the web pictures of the graves.
“That’s them,” he said. “Hard to believe after all these years. What are we going to do when we get there?”
“Have a picnic,” Nakayla said. “It’s a park. People will think I’m your nurse.”
“Then we can check out what we’re dealing with tonight,” I said.
“And your brother?” Harry asked.
“He’s meeting us at the Holiday Inn in Gainesville at eight.”
“Does he know?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Not exactly,” Harry repeated. “Well, I hope he’s more than a brother. I hope he’s a best friend.”
Stanley was definitely not a best friend. “Why’s that?” I asked.
Harry chuckled. “That old saying. A friend helps you move. A best friend helps you move a body. This time tomorrow Lord only knows what we’ll have done.”
***
We stopped at a KFC outside of Gainesville and bought our picnic lunch. The park proved difficult to find, given the way roads wound in and around Lake Lanier’s coves. We missed a few turns and discovered Georgia’s street signage left much to be desired. The prevailing philosophy seemed to be if you don’t know how to get where you’re going, then you have no business being there. I was glad we were making our mistakes in daylight and not after dark. We were out in the country where moonlight and headlights would be our only illumination.
The wide picture Nakayla had downloaded turned out to be the whole park. No ball fields or tennis courts, simply a small boat launch used by fishermen and canoeists. A scattering of picnic tables covered the grassy knoll. Along a far edge near the lake’s shore lay the wrought-iron fence cordoning off the small graveyard.
We claimed a picnic table and passed around a bucket of fried chicken, sides of slaw and hushpuppies, and plastic cups of lemonade. Harry sat in his wheelchair at the head. He lifted a drumstick like a baton.
“I remember Elijah telling me about fried chicken. Black folk cooked it as traveling food for trains or long car rides. When you couldn’t stop to eat at restaurants, you had to fix something that would keep. Frying the chicken sealed it so it stayed fresh longer.”
“Now I can eat anywhere I want,” Nakayla said, “and what do I buy? Chicken.”
But Colonel Sanders’ secret herbs and spices tasted pretty good. Maybe the bright sunshine and cool breeze coming off the sparkling water had something to do with it. We took our time. Harry had to cut his chicken away from the bone and almost mince it before swallowing. Evidently more than cold liquids gave him problems.
For a Saturday afternoon, the park was sparsely populated. A few families with small children sat on blankets, preferring to let toddlers roam on the ground rather than imprison them in a car seat on a picnic bench.
We dumped our trash in a wastebasket and went over to the boat launch. Nakayla pushed Harry in his wheelchair on the concrete approach to the ramp. I stayed on the grass where I could practice walking with the new leg.
We watched a middle-aged couple unload matching yellow kayaks off the roof of a Saturn station wagon, the red-haired woman giving instructions, the curly gray-haired man ignoring them. Both seemed perfectly happy in their roles and I saw the marital wisdom of the two boats.
A gravel path looped from the ramp to the cemetery. The packed pebbles made pushing Harry’s wheelchair difficult, and Nakayla veered onto the grass where the ride was bumpier but faster.
The pickets were about four feet high. A padlock clasped the gate shut. A bronze plaque beside the gate read—“Robertson Family Plot, Descendants Unknown.”
Harry wiggled in his chair. “I’d like to stand. I want to see.”
Nakayla pushed him closer to the gate. He grabbed the black iron bars with his bony gnarled hands and pulled himself up on his one leg. Nakayla and I stood beside him, ready to assist if he wavered.
“The last time I was here was with my father.” Harry’s words were barely audible.
Nakayla took his arm. “If we find Elijah deceived your father about the coffin, I hope you can find room in your heart to forgive him.”
Harry turned and hopped closer to the fence where he could lean against it. “My dear. The gratitude Elijah and his kin showed my father and me wasn’t deceit. We just didn’t understand the full extent of our service.” Harry smiled. “It will give me comfort to know we made a difference in the lives of Bessie and her family.”
“And you’re making a difference in my life too,” Nakayla said.
The three of us stood in silence. Nakayla and Harry were probably lost in memories of family members gone forever. I was thinking how we would need to scale the fence. A six-foot stepladder could straddle the pickets and let Nakayla, Stanley, and me climb up and then use the support side of the ladder as a makeshift way down. Stanley had purchased a minivan when the twins were born. I’d find a Wal-Mart or Lowe’s open late enough to pick up the ladder tonight in his vehicle. Maybe call Stanley’s cell phone and ask him to come at seven.
Deceit. The conversation between Nakayla and Harry hit home. I was tricking Stanley into helping me, but I didn’t care if he forgave me or not. He wasn’t being altruistic like Harry’s father, helping Elijah simply because he needed help. No, that wasn’t quite true. Elijah had rescued Harry from the bear. A debt had been incurred. Stanley and I owed each other nothing. And yet guilt weighed on me. Is that what it meant to be
family? To be in debt to each other? Or to recognize a shared debt to your parents? What does an orphan at any age owe his parents? But wasn’t that the reason I’d given for making Galaxy Movers and its insurance company pay more money? Punishment for my parents’ deaths, even at the cost of whatever fragile ties I had with my brother? The argument was circular. What would happen would happen. I was helping Harry and Nakayla. Their sense of family would be all the justification I needed.
“I wonder what the designs mean on the headstones.” Nakayla leaned across the fence and pointed to the markings chiseled in the smooth space by the names. For the oldest monuments of Malachi and his wife Annabelle, the lines, curves, and circles weren’t as eradicated as the names.
“All the designs share the same degree of erosion,” I said.
“Maybe Elijah added them later,” Harry said. “When his father died. They were here when I came the first time. They look like patterns to frame the names.”
Like the ridges on the bracelet, I thought. A family marking. Maybe some alphabet born in the slave days when reading and writing were forbidden.
“We’d better go,” I said. “There are a few more things we need. Then I want to get rooms at the Holiday Inn. A rest will do us good. We’ve got a long night ahead.”
***
“Nakayla’s sister was the woman who was murdered. The victim the detective told you about at the hospital.”
I’d just introduced Stanley to Nakayla and Harry after the two of us returned from Lowe’s with the ladder and some plastic containers to hold whatever we found in the grave. We sat in my hotel room and I could tell Stanley was anxious. The contrast of the old one-legged white man and young black woman was strange enough, but the vague information I’d given him must have set his imagination running wild.
On the way to the store, I’d told Stanley that Nakayla’s and Harry’s families had known each other for over a hundred years. Harry knew of some family heirlooms stored in Gainesville that Nakayla should have. We needed to retrieve them from the property and that’s why we bought the ladder and storage containers.
“Is no one living in the house now?” Stanley asked Nakayla.
She looked at me, wondering how to answer.
“There is no house,” I said. “The items were actually buried on the property for safekeeping. Now that Nakayla is the sole survivor, Harry encouraged her to claim what is rightfully hers. Harry knows the spot.”
Stanley looked from Harry to Nakayla. “Why would your family bury their own things?”
“Fear,” I said before Nakayla could speak. “The KKK terrorized African-Americans who showed any hint of being successful. Harry helped Nakayla’s great-great grandfather bury them years ago.”
“Is this like silverware?” Stanley asked.
“Yes,” Nakayla said. “I know it sounds strange, but Harry heard about my sister’s death and got in touch with me. I’d prefer not to risk having someone see us dig it up, so Sam agreed to help me tonight. Thank you for helping us, Stanley.”
Outside, a crack of thunder covered Stanley’s “It’s no trouble.”
“Damn,” I said. “We don’t need a storm.”
“It’ll make sure no one’s in the park,” Harry said.
“We’re going to a park?” Stanley asked.
Nakayla’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me.” She stepped out in the hall. A few seconds later, she returned. “Sam, it’s for you.”
Nakayla stayed with me as we walked across the hall to her room.
“Sam. This is Captain.”
“What’s up? Is someone looking for Harry?”
“No. The police are looking for you.”
“They came to Golden Oaks?” I was baffled as to why Detective Newland would think I’d be at the retirement center. Had one of Captain’s legions betrayed us?
“We saw it on the TV. The report said in light of new evidence the police want to re-question you and Nakayla. They put your pictures on the screen.”
“Thanks, Captain. I’ll deal with it in the morning.” My mind raced. I didn’t want us tied to a disturbed grave in Gainesville. I’d paid cash for the rooms and we’d registered in Harry’s name. But I’d had to put the ladder and storage containers on my credit card. With the speed data can be collected, law enforcement agencies could be checking my bank transactions and placing me in Gainesville. “Captain, if we had to crash late tonight, is there a place at Golden Oaks we could stay?”
“The guest suite. Visiting families rent it. Tuesday night I doubt if it’s occupied. I’ll check and get the key.”
“We might show up in the middle of the night.”
“Don’t worry about it. I get up to pee every thirty minutes.”
I flipped the phone closed. “Do the police have this number?”
Nakayla nodded. “I gave it to Detective Peters. When I was in the interrogation room with Newland, I just gave my work and home numbers.”
“Good. Turn off the phone and take out the battery. I don’t want anyone to get a GPS fix on it.”
“What’s wrong?”
I gave her a summary of Captain’s information.
“What do you think the new evidence could be?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But they wouldn’t go public with our pictures unless we were incriminated. Someone might be setting up a frame.”
“If whoever killed Peters has his file, then he has my cell number.”
“Yeah. We’ve got to move fast.”
***
The rain came down like a waterfall. Stanley’s windshield wipers struggled against the deluge. We crept along staying as close to Nakayla’s taillights as we dared. I kept glancing over my shoulder to see if we were being followed, but the double-back maneuvers we’d planned coming out of Gainesville seemed to have thwarted any surveillance. One thing I’d learned in Iraq: when you stop feeling paranoid, you’d better get the hell out.
“This is nuts,” Stanley said.
“Yeah, I know. It’s also important.”
“Are you sleeping with that black chick?”
“Jesus Christ, no! I’m trying to find whoever killed her sister. Is that too difficult to understand?”
“No. Not when you tell me instead of weaving some fairy tale about buried silverware that we have to get to in a raging thunderstorm. But the most unbelievable thing is you giving up your dream of a big settlement from the lawsuit in exchange for transporting a ladder.”
“Okay. Here it is. Harry’s a hundred years old.”
“That I believe.”
“He knew Nakayla’s great-great grandfather, Elijah, a man who was murdered just like Nakayla’s sister. The killings are linked and what we’re about to dig up could prove it and identify the murderer. I believe we might find gold or emeralds that Elijah hid. He was a miner.”
Even in the dark I could see Stanley’s eyes widen.
“A buried treasure?”
“Maybe. But it’s Nakayla’s and it’s evidence. We have no claim on it.”
Stanley slapped the steering wheel. “You’re telling me you’re chasing a hundred-year-old serial killer?”
“No. A family protecting a secret.”
Nakayla turned left and I knew we were nearing the park.
“Why didn’t you go to the police?” Stanley asked.
“Because the killers probably are the police. And if that’s too much for you to handle, then you can turn around and leave.”
“And the lawsuit?”
“Do what you want. I understand you’ve been stepped on as much as I have. But I’ve got one more fight before I go quietly.”
Nakayla swung her car around and headed over the grass toward the graveyard. The stones behind the wrought-iron fence stood out in the rain like squat gray mushrooms frozen in time.
Stanley stopped short of the grass. “We’re digging up a grave?”
“A fake grave. At least I think it’s a fake grave.”
“My God, Sam. You can’t be
serious.”
“Solving a murder is serious business.”
Nakayla stopped, her headlights focused on the gate. It was nearly eleven o’clock and I felt confident the storm would shield us for the rest of the night. A flash of lightning revealed the pale, sweaty side of Stanley’s face. His mouth hung open as he stared at the graveyard.
“I’m a banker,” he said, mystified that he’d somehow crossed into a parallel universe.
“And a damn good one.” I unfastened my seatbelt. “If you don’t want to drive the van on the grass, I’ll need to get the ladder and the containers.”
“I’m sick of being a banker.” Stanley pressed the accelerator and the van lunged off the pavement. I bounced sideways on the seat, kicking myself in the shin with my prosthetic leg.
Harry stayed in the Hyundai, keeping the motor running to charge the battery and listening to the radio for any news about us. Stanley killed the van’s lights and helped me position the ladder over the fence. We’d bought one with steps on either side so even I was able to make it over.
Stanley didn’t hesitate. He dug the first spade of earth from Hannable’s grave. I had to stop him until we could lay down the tarp alongside to hold the dirt. Then we cut away the sod first so when we refilled the grave, the grass could be laid back on top.
The storm proved to be a blessing in two ways: the rain softened the Georgia clay as we dug deeper, and the downpour masked us from the lake, a potential problem had anyone been taking a midnight cruise.
Harry had told us the grave had been dug less than six feet and when we got to four, we should be careful. Stanley was digging close to the headstone, Nakayla in the middle, and I worked near the foot. I was slower than the others, having some difficulty with balance. But the deeper I went, the more adept I got at using the shovel. The weather was so miserable that we spent more time laughing at our predicament than complaining.
We must have been going for over an hour when Stanley let out a sharp short scream.
“I fell in,” he said. “The ground just dropped out from under me.”
“Stop digging,” I said. “Grab the flashlight. If the coffin rotted away, a space might have been left. Maybe we can lift the dirt up from beneath. Two of us can work side by side. Climb out,” I told Nakayla.
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