Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp (32 page)

Winnifred rushed into the
bedroom, crying, “What have you done? Ezekiel Bradley, you’re a
bad, bad man.”

Police whistles were heard
and the sound of running feet. The lights went out once
more.

Everyone waited patiently
for the next scene, but the lights did not come up.

Chapter 51

Mick’s voice boomed from
the balcony, “I think we’ve tripped the breaker again.”

Whispering began to swell
throughout the room.

“I got it,” someone yelled.
I was pretty sure it was Todd Ringman. This was followed by the
sound of heavy footfalls descending steps. I assumed this was on
the backstage flight that led directly to the basement.

There was a banging and
clanging, as of a heavy chain hitting metal, followed by thumping.
Someone had fallen down the stairs. “Oof. Ouch!”

“Uh. Damn! Who’s
there?”

At this, someone began to
giggle, and then ripples of laughter and guffaws could be heard.
People were hoping this was part of the show.

The chains, and the person
connected to them, must have recovered, because the clanking slowly
began to rise to stage level.

I sensed everyone around me
becoming still. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a dark figure making its
way across the stage, holding a thick threatening bar. A beam of
light flashed upward from the end of the bar, onto the haggard face
of a man in prison stripes, wrapped in chains. Blood flowed from a
gash on his forehead.

“It’s Zeke’s ghost!” a
child’s voice wavered fearfully. There were screams from many young
girls, and even the adults seemed unsure if this was supposed to be
part of the play. The blood looked all too real, not overly bright
and sticky as we’d seen on the judge’s hand.

The flashlight clicked off,
and after a moment of silence, someone began to clap. Others
assumed this signaled the end of the play and the applause grew in
volume.

Just as people began to
stir restlessly, wondering why the lights’ still hadn’t come on,
there was a low rumbling sound that reverberated underneath the
clapping, and the whole building shook. Not a massive shifting, but
just enough that everyone noticed. There was another shock and
something hard clattered to the floor. Immediately, everyone went
dead silent.

“What was that?” a woman
asked, her voice tentative, but clearly audible in the
hush.

“It’s an earthquake!”
another woman screeched.

“Could be a cryoseism. A
frost quake.” A man’s voice this time.

Another man answered, “For
Pete’s sake, Willard, it’s not cold enough for one of those, even
though it’s freezing out. That was an explosion.”

Then a third woman
demanded, “Where are the lights? It’s time to stop fooling around.
You’re scaring the children.”

The flashlight beam
appeared on stage once again, but this time it was held high and
aimed out into the audience. Todd Ringman said, “The power’s off
now, folks. This is mor’n a tripped breaker. Stay calm ‘n’ we’ll
figger ‘er out.”

His intentions were good,
but shining the light into people’s eyes only made them flinch. As
the light played across faces my eyes caught snapshots of surprise,
annoyance, and even fear.

Jerry wasn’t about to let
the Harvest Ball end in a panic. In the spill from the flashlight,
I saw him step to the stage. His voice boomed without
amplification. “Now, Todd, just stop swinging that light around and
lift it up and point it at me. Yes, that way. All right, Adele,
come up here and bring your bag of prizes. We can surely overcome
this slight inconvenience. Meanwhile, let’s give these young people
some genuine applause for their great performance.”

A few small flashlights and
some cell phones were produced by people around the room, and they
all aimed them at the stage. Chad, Brittney, Audra, and Ryan, with
a towel held to his head, stepped into the light and took a bow.
Jerry shook their hands. “Are you all right, son?” he asked
Ryan.

“I’m fine,” Ryan must have
answered. He was grinning and nodding.

Adele took a child by the
hand and led him to the stage. I saw that it was the energetic
Cody.

“I’ll just try to find out
what’s happened,” Jerry continued soothingly. “Perhaps the band can
play some songs acoustically. Maybe some that everyone can sing.
Would that be possible?”

“Sure thing,” one of The
Blue Grass answered.

“Geronimo,” Cody
yelled.

Jerry left the stage and
Adele took over. I was near the entrance doors, which were fastened
open, at the back of the room. He made his way toward me, pausing
to speak to Cora, who came with him.

Another beam of light
flashed from behind me, someone placed a hand on my shoulder and I
heard Tracy Jarvi’s voice. She sounded all business. “Excuse me,
Ana. I need to talk to Jerry.”

I sidled left, and in the
strong beam of her battery powered lantern I saw Jerry’s facial
expression sober. “What’s the problem, Tracy?” he asked.

“You need to come with me,”
she said. “Maybe Ana and Cora too. I think we’re about to get some
answers, but there might not be much time.”

Chapter 52

Tracy hustled the three of
us into the back seat of the patrol car. She let us get our coats,
said we’d need them, but told us not to waste any time.

The Sorenson’s Percherons
were covered with blankets, tethered to a utility pole, but the
street light was out. They were munching on flakes of hay, and
their warm breath fogged the frigid air. Enclosed in the car, we
could hear no outside noises—ordinary enough—but it seemed oddly
ominous. The streets were deserted and dark, and there was no need
for flashing lights or the siren to clear our way as Tracy spun the
car around and drove the few blocks into the center of
town.

Had there been an
explosion? Was Jerry’s house or the newspaper office on fire? I
didn’t see flames leaping into the sky. No sirens had shattered the
silent darkness since the earth had quaked, but every building was
dark. The power outage covered at least the north end of town,
although I saw lights far ahead of us.

She sped directly down Mill
Street and stopped in front of the real estate office, not even
pulling to the curb. The buildings on the block were standing, but
something had to be wrong. Immediately to the south, several police
cars filled the street, red and blue lights flashing. As Tracy
hurried us out of the vehicle, I could hear the distant wail of an
ambulance from the east, on its way from Emily City.

It was a dark night with no
moon, but the police flashers revealed a landscape defined by
pulsing purple shadows. A broken power line sparked and jumped,
turning the scene into an eerie parody of a Fourth of July
celebration.

As soon as we reached the
sidewalk, we could see that most of the vacant lot flanked by the
newspaper office, Jerry’s house and the realtor’s, had caved in.
There was a gaping hole with several strangely straight valleys
leading off the main depression.

Men and women in uniform
swarmed around the edges setting up equipment. A second or two
later, a bank of Klieg lights flared brilliantly, casting hard
shadows from a different direction, giving the illusion that the
whole scene had just leaped several feet to the south.

“Down here,” Tracy urged,
leading us to a ladder that disappeared into the gloom.

“Jerry, what’s down there?”
Cora asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” he
responded.

Tracy descended the ladder,
and Cora followed her. I knew I wasn’t thrilled to be wearing a
dress for this activity, and I knew Cora liked them even less than
I did. Nevertheless, down we went. Jerry climbed down
last.

“Over here,” Tracy
directed, leading us to one of the open arms of the pit.

It was hard for my brain to
process what I was seeing. There was half a person lying on the
ground, covered with a blanket. A shovel handle protruded from the
blanket edge. I could see a bald head, the shapes of covered arms
and part of a flat torso. Where an abdomen should be, a heavy beam
angled across a pile of dirt and stones. But the face was that of
Virginia Holiday, her makeup smudged and smeared with
dirt.

When she saw Jerry, she
growled, deep in her throat, coughed and said, “I asked them to
send for you. You should be the one dying here in the cold with no
friends.” The voice was not Virginia’s gravely yet feminine tone,
but that of a man. I was totally confused.

Jerry looked appalled. “Who
are you?” he demanded. “You don’t seem to be Virginia
Holiday.”

“My name is Greg Halloway.
Does that mean anything to you?” the woman-man asked, glaring
fiercely at Jerry.

“Halloway?” Jerry rolled
the name around in his mouth. “No, I don’t think so.”

I shivered, and Cora pulled
her coat tighter around herself. The siren had been gaining in
volume, and then it ceased abruptly, just above our heads. Doors
slammed and footsteps pounded.

“Down here,” someone
yelled, and there was a clattering of feet on the ladder. An EMT
with reflective stripes on his coat appeared, carrying a large case
in his left hand. “Stand aside.”

He quickly stuffed another
blanket beneath Virginia/Greg’s head, and began unrolling a blood
pressure cuff. “Where does it hurt,” he asked

“Can’t feel my legs. Can’t
feel anything really,” Greg said. “Don’t waste your time. I need to
talk to this scumbag.”

People have no
intermediate feelings about Jerry
, I
thought.
They either love him or hate
him
.

“What have I done that
distresses you so?” Jerry asked. “The only Halloway I can recall
was a friend of my great-grandfather. Charles Sr. and Stonewall
Halloway were very close, so I’ve been told.” Suddenly a light
dawned. I could see it in his eyes. “Stonewall Halloway bought the
corner lot. You must be related.”

“My
great-great-grandfather,” Greg rasped. “His real name was
Stuart.” The EMT was working around the shivering man, but let him
talk. Tracy stood nearby, and Detective Milford had arrived on the
scene but stood behind the man’s head, out of his sight. Milford
held a small digital recorder, its red eye blinking.

“Ah, but legend has it that
he drove such hard bargains and was so stubborn that he earned his
nickname many times over.” Jerry wasn’t giving ground, even to a
dying cross-dresser.

“I had to find it before
the time ran out and you bought the property back,” Greg continued,
ignoring Jerry’s comments.

“What were you looking
for?” Jerry asked.

“As if you don’t
know.”

“I really don’t,” Jerry
said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Stonewall was a very poor man,
an immigrant, I believe.”

“That’s the only reason you
wanted the corner back, so you’d have access to the old
basement.”

I realized that must be
where we stood. There were remnants of walls and doorways. A main
beam had cracked and fallen on Greg in his unsupported
tunnels.

“But it’s been filled in
for years. Before I was born, I believe. The shoe shop did have a
frame section in this lot, but it burned.”

Greg coughed again and
blood trickled from his nose.

“He’s got internal
injuries. We need to get a crane in here to lift that beam,
stabilize and transport him,” the EMT insisted.

“You shut up,” Greg
ordered. “Nobody’s moving me anywhere. I finally found it and I’ll
die with it.”

“What did you find, Mr.
Halloway?” Cora knelt beside the dying man, taking his cold hand
between her pink ones and holding it.

“The necklace. In my pants
pocket.” Greg’s voice was weakening.

“You dug tunnels to find a
necklace?” Cora pressed. “It must be very special.”

“His wife’s. From Europe.
Gold and diamonds. Rubies, too. Stonewall hid it in a basement
wall. The story came down though the family.”

“But why didn’t you tell
me?” Jerry objected. “If you could have proven you were a
descendant, you would have had a right to search for your
property.”

Greg mustered some strength
and tried to rise on an elbow, but he couldn’t manage it. He
directed the energy into his voice. “You Caulfields are all so
high-and-mighty. Stonewall’s son came home from a trip and found
the store burned and the basement filled. Your grandfather wouldn’t
give him the time of day. Told him it wasn’t safe to go poking
around.”

“I’ve been told they moved
away after that,” Jerry admitted.

“Damn straight. Your family
never treated anyone... he knew...” he broke off with more
coughing. The EMT wiped blood from his face.

Detective Milford wasn’t
about to let Greg Halloway die without some definitive answers. He
stepped into the man’s line of vision. “Do you know who I am?” he
asked.

“I do,” Greg said.
“Sheriff’s Department. I know what you want.”