There was something else Belton wanted to show me. “I probably wouldn’t have noticed if the sun was up. The flashlight found it, happened to catch the edge of a brick-you’ll see. The difference in color jumps out at you.”
We were approaching a strangler fig, a tree that attaches itself to objects or other trees with a constrictor’s grip and over decades gradually consumes them or appears to. It was a spiraling umbrella of branches that parachuted air roots to the ground. Even when Belton pointed at the trunk and used the light, I didn’t understand until he dug the leaves away. “A gravestone,” he said. “Underneath could be a little crypt made of bricks, although I’m guessing. But the shape-doesn’t it look familiar? These bricks were part of the arch, I think.”
There was no shape, only roots and leaves, but I knew what he wanted me to see. “Similar to the water cistern,” I said. “Could be the same brick mason.”
“Can you read the inscription on the stone? Even with my glasses, I couldn’t make it out.” He handed me the light.
I knelt by a marker made of rough cement and shells that was no bigger than a writing tablet. It lay half buried, covered with moss and lichens. I cleaned the surface, but only the top line was visible. It had been written in an elegant, feminine hand with a stylus or a stick before the cement had hardened. A name I read aloud:
Irene Jameson Cadence
Surprised, I got down on my knees. “But why… why was she buried here?” I began to dig at the base of the stone, eager to see if there was more writing underneath.
“It’s what homesteaders did, buried their family on family land.” Belton sounded puzzled by the question or my sudden interest, then realized there was more to it. “Yeah… the name’s familiar. Cadence… probably related to the family that built the mansion. I don’t find that unusual.”
“I do, but we’ll figure it out another day,” I said. “We don’t have time now.” Yet I continued digging. “Get the iodine tablets. Oh-and fill the jug with water. Please. It’ll be half an hour before it’s safe to drink and by then I might have the propeller fixed. It’s a small bottle, dark glass, near the top.”
“The top of your backpack?”
“Of course.”
I had snapped at him. “Hannah… you definitely need some rest-”
“Not until police know what they did to Krissie.” I motioned him away without looking up. “I’ll meet you at the boat in a minute.” It was true I was determined to get moving, but in a secret part of me I wanted to be alone while I learned more about a woman with whom, in my imagination at least, I shared a family connection.
Belton left muttering about my stubbornness, which to some men is a substitute for the word strength. Seconds later, though, my strength vanished and I had to wipe away a single streaming tear.
The stone when fully exposed read:
Irene Jameson Cadence
Widow & Childless & Homeless
At Peace With the Lord
Born 3 June 1876 Died 19-
The blank date of her death hinted at what I suspected from the elegant penmanship: the woman on the balcony, Irene Cadence, had made her own gravestone and written her own epitaph. Perhaps had even taken her own life. No… that was an unfair guess. It was sad enough that she had recorded her loneliness in stone for eternity. A hint of self-pity, too, although I didn’t allow myself to linger on a flaw so painfully familiar.
I got to my feet, switched off the light, and brushed leaves from my jeans while my eyes adjusted. I had just picked up the pistol when I heard a smack-smack sound like a fist hitting flesh. Then a man who wasn’t Belton hollered from the river, “Girl!… Hey, girl! I’ll shoot this old bastard. Show yourself.”
Carmelo-he had found our boat.
I started to run away, but caught myself after only a few steps. I couldn’t let him hurt Belton. Nor would I endure a moment as his prisoner. I was faster than Carmelo, I was smarter. But what if Theo had returned, too? He might be circling toward me from another direction. I couldn’t just stand there and let it happen. I had to think.
My mind went to work while Belton yelled I should save myself, then Carmelo added more threats. “The old man says you got a flashlight. What you’re gonna do is put that gun of yours in a place I can see it. Then back away ten or fifteen steps and use the light. When I get to the top of that bank, I’d best see that damn gun. I’m talking first thing. And you nowhere close. And I want your hands in the air.” An impatient silence lapsed before he swore and yelled, “Better answer me, girl!”
Only one flimsy option came to mind. I hollered, “My ankle, I think I broke my ankle. You have to promise not to hurt us.”
Belton, voice muffled, said something that was drowned out by Carmelo’s laughter. “Bullshit. She’s lying.” Then called to me, “You’re the only ones who can prove I never touched that young teenybopper. Or Lucia either-and good riddance, if you’re the one what killed her. You can burn Theo, for all I care. All I want is for you to come back and tell the cops the truth.”
Belton tried to yell He’s lying but was punched or clubbed-something caused him to cry out-before Carmelo continued talking. “Oh, and one other little thing. Part of our deal is, you forget about finding that canoe. Ain’t too much to ask, is it? Do what I say, I’ll take you and the old man to a doctor. Anything you want. Hell”-more laughter-“why would I hurt a girl pretty as you?” Bushes rustled, a spotlight sought the top of the riverbank. “Have you put down that gun?”
I hollered, “No! I can barely crawl.”
Carmelo wasn’t taking chances. He had yet to poke his head above the embankment. “Do it now, damn you. I’ll give you one minute, no more.”
In a rush, I switched on the flashlight and painted a few circles on the sky to confirm my intentions. Then balanced the light atop the gravestone and left it there, beam pointed at a chunk of wood that didn’t resemble a pistol but would have to do. Nearby was an oak grove. I ran to it. Oak limbs were stouter, lower, less chaotic than the strangler fig. As I scouted, I thought about Capt. Ben Summerlin’s ambush plans and recalled a passage from his journaclass="underline" Lure the enemy so close it’s up to God to decide who lives or dies.
Bait the trap… lay in wait… shoot to kill.
But did I have the courage? No… not courage-something darker was required. An absence of conscience; the unleashing of a quality so foreign I felt hollow. Self-doubt seemed to shut off my air-a haunting return of my old fears-yet I continued to search for a suitable spot.
Think, Hannah. Don’t stand here shaking. Was it smarter to climb a tree and wait? Or surprise him near the river?
While I battled indecision, wind punched through the tree canopy. The gust tumbled limbs from oak to oak in synch with high, churning leaves, their sparks muted by the moon.
22
I circled downwind to a willow thicket, where I hid myself and watched from one knee. The beam from the flashlight I’d left was a dazzling tube that linked the riverbank with a chunk of wood and Irene Cadence’s grave. I was midway between the grave and the river with a clear view of what lay between.
Carmelo was closer, easier to hear. He continued to call threats, saying I was almost out of time, he’d shoot Belton-just wound him, of course-or we could have some fun together. Nauseating, the oily way he phrased it. The man was drunk and talkative. On and on he went yet was afraid to poke his head above the embankment. Carmelo was, indeed, a coward… or buying time until Theo was in position.