Suddenly, the decision was easy. I was alone in a lonely place. Theo Ivanhoff was somewhere nearby. I had a right to defend myself… And yes, by god, I would.
A magazine loaded with seven bullets was also in the box. Federal Power-Shoks. Birdy had said they were best man-stoppers made and had given me a box. I inserted the magazine with care, then held the pistol away to catch the sunlight. On the handgrips, in red, an archaic Scottish word was stamped: DEVEL. That had taken some time to research, too. The word meant to smite or knock asunder. It could be pronounced DEAH-vil, but I preferred dah-VEL, which was acceptable according to the Oxford English Dictionary.
As I studied the pistol, I realized I should have also taken it to the gun range and practiced. Birdy had invited me often enough. Three times I’d joined her, wearing safety glasses and earplugs. We had taken turns firing her Glock, which was lighter and, in appearance, as utilitarian as a cookie punch. There’s nothing elegant about plastic. But the Glock held eighteen bullets, not seven like mine. And it was foolproof enough that I had outscored Birdy on our first trip to the range-a mistake on my part because it put her in such a foul mood. After that, missing the center ring had taken more effort than hitting it. But I’d managed.
The fact was, my Uncle Jake hadn’t just taught me to shoot, he had made me practice until my hands and eyes automatically knew what to do. Hundreds of rounds through a little.22 caliber revolver, then hundreds more with a variety of guns. Same with using a fly rod and an axe-an approach that worked equally well with the clarinet. Jake had been very proud when I was named first chair as a junior.
“Women learn faster than men because they have to,” he had said. Which, to a girl of twelve, had seemed a frivolous compliment, but now, standing outside the gate to the Cadence mansion, assumed an unsettling new meaning.
I did a quick review of the pistol’s mechanics: on the left, beneath my thumb, was a de-cocking lever. The weapon had no safety or other frills. The front sight was iridescent red. Shuck the slide, point, and pull. Simple enough. Unless that red sight was centered on an attacker’s chest-or his genitals, as I knew too well.
Enough! Let it go.
I did.
I stowed the pistol in my camera bag and said aloud, “You’re a fool if you try.” A warning that was also a plea, both of them directed at Theo as if he were listening.
Had Birdy’s words about fortune-tellers and electronics come to mind, I might have realized Maybe he is.
14
I was done with photos, putting gear away, when I heard a shriek that had an animal quality. Not human-or so I believed. I figured a hawk had snatched something warm and furry that, in its death throes, was alerting its kindred to hide. Rabbits can rival operatic sopranos in volume. I had heard them often enough with Jake, who liked hunting in the Everglades.
I looked up, thinking I might find the hawk. No… only vultures adrift on a molten sunset. The lighting feathered trees with lace while the sky descended, joining clouds with mist and smoke from distant fires. Daytime vanished in a gray haze. My eyes were still in photographer mode. Had I looked an instant later, I would have missed the abrupt transition from daylight to dusk. I also wouldn’t have seen dust from a vehicle that was leaving or approaching the house. Driving fast, too, on the gravel road.
That gave me a start because I was standing between two fresh dig sites where signs warned Federal Antiquities Site. Access Prohibited.
I grabbed my bag, bundled the tripod under my arm, and ducked beneath the rope in a hurry. When I’d put some distance between myself and an arrest citation, I stopped to reorganize. As I did, it dawned on me to hide the camera’s memory card. If police had arrived, I didn’t want to provide them with easy proof I had been trespassing. I also didn’t want to lose the hour’s work I’d just finished. Work I had enjoyed, true, but still intense and draining because of the subject matter.
I had been photographing mass graves.
I ejected the memory card with care. It contained more than two hundred images of the dig site we’d seen earlier, plus another site that Dr. Babbs had claimed he was too busy to visit. By carefully placing the tripod inside the excavations, I’d been able to shoot close-ups without risk of damaging artifacts that lay exposed or just beneath the surface.
I felt good about that. Further penance was the opportunity to whisper a prayer for those whose lives had ended here in violence. No fewer than ten human skulls lay exposed, maybe more. Most had been shattered and burned, so it was difficult to be sure. Three had been pierced by bullet holes.
According to Capt. Summerlin’s journal, five men had been guilty of attacking the Brazilian’s wife. But twice that number of bodies had been tumbled into these holes. Members of the Cow Cavalry would not have treated their own with such disrespect, so I knew these were the remains of their enemy.
The bones told a story: what had started as a quest for revenge had turned into a bloodbath. The question nagging at me was answered when I understood that. Yes, the shallow graves were haphazard and chaotic. Yes, they contained the remains of Union soldiers. But, in fact, these were not Civil War graves. What the archaeologist was actually excavating was a crime scene-victims whom killers had tried to cover in haste.
I had dozens of photos of other artifacts that, to me, proved the theory was valid: two rusty cannon with four-inch bores, two bayonets with Union markings, a gold pocket watch with a Masonic emblem on it. Soldiers would have taken these valuable spoils of war. Only murderers would have buried them.
A second prayer was offered on behalf of Capt. Ben Summerlin, a solid man who had given in to his darkest instincts-if I was right. And feared I was. Once again, understanding such brutality failed me. What had driven my great-uncle to cross the line?
The Gerillas has been loosed & hells flames is ready. His words, written a century and a half earlier, hinted at an explanation. Guerrilla warfare was unconventional. Jungle tactics had no rules or moral boundaries. Survival demanded that the beast within a man be unleashed. Once victory was secured, the beast could be returned to its cage. But only then.
The beast within. Better than any other, the term fit. It could be blamed for every savagery and sin I could think of-a disturbing concept to linger on, so I shoved it aside.
It was a little after seven. I ejected the memory card, which I slipped into a change pocket. I was going through the camera bag, looking for a card to substitute, when I heard a second shriek-but this was no rabbit. It was a response to terror. And unmistakably female.
Instantly, my brain associated the sound with dust rising from the gravel road. What if Birdy, in her BMW, had returned and surprised the occupants of another car? Theo and Lucia, possibly. That’s what I feared.
I dropped the tripod but hung on to the camera bag and ran toward the trees, the old house hidden just beyond. A sustained scream caused me to slow, but only long enough to dial 911.
The dispatcher who answered was dubious. After I had repeated my name, repeated the address, and twice explained why I was breathing so heavily, she said, “This is the third call we’ve gotten, ma’am, and the officers didn’t find anything earlier. Are you sure it’s not just kids having fun?”