Blackman's Coffin (22 page)
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.
She and I scrambled up the muddy sides. The rain now served as a hindrance, pooling in the grave and blocking Stanley’s view. He bent down and shone the flashlight into the opening left by the decomposed coffin.
“Bags,” he said. He reached in and pulled one out. “It feels fragile. I’d better grab it from the bottom.” He lifted out a sack about the size of a ten-pound bag of sugar and set it by the headstone.
Carefully, Nakayla plucked free the drawstring that had fused into the leather. She spread back the folds. In the beam of the flashlight, rich green crystals spread refracted rays in a hundred directions.
“Emeralds,” she said. “You were right, Sam. We’ve found emeralds.” She held one above the grave for Harry to see. His ancient face was pressed against the windshield, grinning from ear to ear.
I fingered the stones, feeling the cool jagged surfaces. “And if we can match these to the Ledbetter mine, we’ll have the Galloway family connection and the geological link.”
“Here’s another bag,” Stanley said. “This one’s heavier.”
The collecting rain was deeper and the old leather was sopping wet. As he handed it to me, one side split and the contents tumbled onto the grass. Instead of emeralds, bars of gold spilled into the light.
“Bring the covered plastic containers,” I told Nakayla. “Let’s start getting these put away.”
Stanley traded the shovel for the pickax and began using it as a hook to snare more sacks out of the small air pocket left by the coffin.
“Careful,” I said. “Don’t rupture them.”
“I know,” Stanley said, as if he’d been a miner all his life. “Instead of two of us digging at this end, we need to drain this water. Can you dig deeper at the foot and create a ditch below this level?”
Stanley’s suggestion made sense. Nakayla and I concentrated on digging down and away. As the water flowed into our little reservoir, Stanley used the flashlight to search for anything left to recover. Then he cautiously dug down through the soil that had collapsed under him.
“Hello,” he said. “This is different.” From the mud he pried loose a square packet. He used the palm of his hand to wipe away the clay. “This is oilskin, not leather. Feels like papers inside.”
“For God’s sake, don’t open it,” I said. “We’ll take it with us.”
We made a final sweep of the grave, pulling the pickax across every square inch. A few times I stared through the glare of the headlights and saw Harry watching us. I wondered what he must think about this conclusion to his grand adventure begun so many years ago. This was just one mystery solved for him. I suspected what really burdened his heart could not be lifted until he learned what had happened to his father.
We spent another hour packing the bags of gold and emeralds into the covered containers and filling in the grave. The rain-swollen dirt nearly made up for the collapsed space of the coffin and when we replaced the sod, the ground was close to level. Of course, in a day or two, the earth would dry and sink, leaving an unmistakable sign of our violation.
“Stanley, would you take the tools and tarp back to Birmingham in your van?” I asked. “I’ll put the evidence in the Hyundai.” Evidence. A bloody fortune was more like it.
The rain slackened as we loaded the vehicles. When we’d finished, Nakayla gave Stanley a mud-smeared hug. He and I shook hands and I slipped him the envelope I’d stashed under the Hyundai’s front seat.
“Here’s a copy of the letter I’m sending to Walt. I’ll call him tomorrow and tell him to act on your behalf, not mine.”
Stanley took it, but instead of rushing to the safety of the van, he held it up to the drizzle, turning it over and over until it was soaked. Then he ripped it in half and gave me the pieces. “We’ll get those Galaxy bastards. If Ashley and I get tossed out in the street in the meantime, we’ll just figure something out.”
I didn’t know what to say. “Thanks,” was all I could manage. “Drive carefully. I’ll let you know what Nakayla and I do next.”
“Take care of yourself.” And to Nakayla he said, “You watch my little brother. He missed out on his share of common sense.”
I got in the backseat of the car despite Harry’s objections. With Stanley driving behind us, we headed out of the park.
Suddenly, Nakayla’s headlights bounced off the side of a black car blocking the exit. She slammed on her brakes, skidding along the wet pavement before stopping only a few feet from it. Before she could shift the transmission into reverse, someone yanked open the rear door and jumped in beside me.
The cold, wet barrel of a pistol pressed hard against my temple.
Nathan Armitage held the Glock automatic rock-solid. From the corner of my eye, I saw rain beaded on his black slicker, its hood drawn tightly around his face.
He reached his open left palm over Nakayla’s shoulder. “Turn off the engine and hand me the keys. Sam, you and I are getting out. You’ll tell your friend in the minivan to step in front of his headlights, his arms out to his side where I can see his empty hands. Otherwise, somebody’s going back in that graveyard as a permanent resident.”
“Then shoot me, you punk.” Harry twisted in his seat. “Killing that innocent girl.”
In the faint glow of the dashboard I saw Harry’s lips convulse. He fired the only weapon he had. He spit in Armitage’s face.
My mind screamed attack. Make a play for the gun before Armitage shot the old man. But the pressure of the muzzle never eased on my temple. Instead, Armitage took a deep breath.
“I haven’t killed anyone,” he said. “But someone murdered my employee and my friend. And someone killed Detective Peters and took my company files—files Peters had questioned me about on Saturday, only hours before he died.” He turned to me. “You hung up on me that night. Then a few hours later you’re discovered by Peters’ body. Why wouldn’t you talk to me?”
“Because we didn’t trust you,” I said. “And it’s hard to trust you now with a gun to my head.”
“The keys,” he ordered.
Nakayla cut the engine and dropped the keys in his hand.
Armitage pulled the pistol back to his waist. “Who’s the guy behind us?”
“My brother from Birmingham. The only illegal act he ever committed before tonight was drinking white wine with steak. He’s unarmed.”
“Let’s go back and talk to him before he does something stupid. You get out first. Keep your hands above your head.”
I stepped into the drizzle. Armitage walked behind, keeping me positioned between him and Stanley’s headlights.
We’d crossed no more than ten of the twenty yards to the van when a blur of motion leapt from the darkness. A loud clang sounded and Armitage toppled forward, the pistol clattering over the pavement. Stanley stood in the headlights, raising the shovel for another blow.
“Stop! Don’t hit him.” I snatched up the Glock and pointed it at Armitage.
He groaned, a good sign that Stanley hadn’t killed him.
“Stay face down,” I ordered. “Spread your arms and legs.”
Nakayla ran up beside me. I handed her the pistol. “I’m going to pat him down.”
I did a thorough search for a second weapon, even checking his socks for a knife or small derringer. In the headlights I saw blood seeping along his cheek from under the hood. I feared he needed medical attention.
“Stanley, put the shovel back in the van, then help me get him to his car. I’ll drive him to the Holiday Inn. We’ve still got our rooms.”
“You know him?” Stanley asked.
“Yes. Tikima’s boss. I think we’re working on the same side.”
Stanley’s face fell. He stood in the rain, covered in mud from head to toe, holding his shovel like a medieval sword. My pudgy brother, who would never be mistaken for a hero, had attacked an armed man when he could have run away.
“I guess I screwed up.”
“Stanley, you’re as brave a combat soldier as I’ve ever known.” And in keeping with the Captain, I saluted.
***
Nathan Armitage sat on the bed propped against four pillows. A plastic trash bag packed with ice from the hotel’s dispenser covered the back of his head. His bloody black slicker had been tossed in the dumpster in the parking lot and his wet socks and shoes lay on the heating and cooling unit under the window.
The temperature in the room rivaled a tropical rainforest. We’d switched off the air conditioning and ran the heat and blower at full blast. Stanley and I sat wrapped in bath towels, the clothes we’d rinsed in the tub drying on the heater’s vents. Dr. Anderson and Kale Hinnant had warned me to keep the prosthesis, sleeves, and socks clean and dry. They were neither. The scarred stump of my leg was red and swollen as a result. Fortunately, I’d brought extra supplies so when we left I could at least attach the leg to a fresh sleeve.
Across the hall, Nakayla waited for her clothes to dry. She’d wanted to join us and talk with Armitage, but even though it was three-thirty in the morning, with our luck, someone would see and remember a towel-clad woman darting from room to room.
I’d persuaded Harry to take advantage of his dry condition and grab a few hours sleep. I didn’t want the responsibility of a hundred-year-old man dropping dead from exhaustion. Nathan Armitage was already one casualty too many. I looked at him.
“You sure you don’t want to go to the emergency room?”
“No,” he said. “They’ll just tell me I have a concussion and not to go to sleep for eight hours. And what am I going to tell them? I got hit in the head with a shovel?”
Stanley shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You did a hell of a job tracking us.”
Armitage shook his head and winced. “I put a locator on Nakayla’s car. We do security work for trucking lines and install GPS devices to make sure the drivers stay on route. We can also quickly find a hijacked truck.”
“When did you do that?” I asked.
“Sunday night. After Peters was killed, I wanted to know where you were going and who you were seeing.”
“You’ve been tailing us ever since?”
“No. I watched your movements on my computer. Nakayla went to work and then to the Kenilworth apartment. But the drive south this morning caught my attention. I saw you stay in Gainesville and then heard the police were looking for you. I wondered if you were hiding or found a clue I’d missed.”
His story sounded plausible. “And then you found us in the graveyard.”
“I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I didn’t know it was a Robertson family cemetery.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“The same reason you didn’t. I don’t know who to trust.”
If Armitage was lying, he was damn good at it. I decided to level with him. I had his Glock and he had a knot on his head the size of a golf ball. He also had resources we might need and I’d rather have him with us than against us.
“We weren’t digging up a grave. We were digging up evidence.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Some gold and emeralds that the great-great grandfather of Tikima and Nakayla buried in 1919. His name was Elijah.”
Armitage whistled. “That’s what this is all about?”
“Yes. We believe Phil Ledbetter and his wife are sitting on the mine Elijah discovered and that Ledbetter’s grandfather killed him. Now we can fingerprint the source of what Elijah buried to match the Ledbetter property.”
“So that’s why Tikima pulled all those files,” Armitage said. “Everything was related to gold or gems.” He thought for a second. “But the Biltmore Estate?”
“Tikima thought the mine was on the estate. It’s where Elijah worked and his body had been discovered in the French Broad. I think Tikima was picking Ledbetter’s brain on possible mineral deposits. She might have told him too much of the story and he panicked. Or maybe she suspected something and went on his property Saturday night. We might be able to match the soil samples on her car. What I don’t understand is why she had the Pisgah Forest file?”
“Easy,” Armitage said. “That whole section used to be part of the Biltmore Estate.”
Of course. I’d heard how Edith Vanderbilt deeded over a hundred thousand acres to the U.S. government. Tikima was investigating all possible sites where Elijah could have prospected.
“That’s interesting background,” Armitage said, “but evidence from 1919 won’t convict anyone of Tikima’s murder. And soil samples on a car aren’t enough.”
“I know. We’ll have to set a trap.”
Armitage nodded. “And the bait?”
The bait. What did we have? Gold and emeralds. Good to catch a thief, maybe. To catch a murderer who’s already on guard, no. We needed something Ledbetter would see as incriminating—something to force his hand. We did have something else. The packet wrapped in oilskin Stanley found in the grave.
I stood, balancing on one leg and leaning against the chair.
“What is it?” Stanley asked.
“That oilskin you said contained papers. I want to see it.”
“You can’t go outside without your leg.”
“You mean I can go out wearing only my leg?”
Armitage laughed in spite of his headache.
“I’ll go,” Stanley said. He pulled his clothes off the heater. “These are getting pretty hot. Another ten minutes on the grill and they’ll be well done.”
He disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes and then came out wearing his shirttail out and his sockless feet stuffed into his unlaced shoes. “Back in a flash.” He picked up Nakayla’s car keys from the table by the TV and closed the door behind him.
“He didn’t take the room key.” I pulled the towel tighter around my waist and hobbled nearer the door where I could let him in.
“How’d your brother get involved?” Armitage asked.
The honest answer, bribery, reflected badly on both of us. “A favor. I neglected to tell him we’d be digging in a graveyard, but he didn’t hesitate. Stanley surprised me.”
“Tell me about it.” Armitage lifted the ice bag from his head. “I think this has done all it’s going to.” He dumped the bag in the wastebasket by the bed.
A knock sounded. I opened the door and Nakayla stepped in. Her damp shirt and jeans clung to her like a second skin. The provocative shape of her body paralyzed me. I stood helpless, leaning against the wall with the irritated remnant of my leg dangling below the towel. I was embarrassed, and though nurses and even Tikima had seen what the rocket grenade had left of me, Nakayla sparked a different reaction—one that caught me off guard.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I heard someone leave.”
“Stanley’s gone to the car. Come in.”
She brushed by me, trailing the sweet scent of fresh shampoo.
“We need a plan before we leave,” I said. “Whatever’s wrapped in that oilskin might give us something to work with.”
She looked at Armitage.
“I told Sam we need more evidence tied directly to Tikima’s murder. If it’s a property deed or claim to mineral rights, then maybe we can force Ledbetter into overplaying his hand.”
There was a second knock and Stanley returned. He set the packet on the table. Armitage slid to the foot of the bed. Nakayla took my arm and helped me stand beside Stanley.
“Go ahead,” I told my brother. “Open it carefully.”
The oilskin had been tucked into itself. If twine or leather thongs had once bound it, they had rotted away over the years. Stanley turned the packet over at least four times slowly unraveling the oilskin. As each layer became exposed, the surface grew cleaner, raising our expectations that the contents would be well preserved.
Stanley lifted a square of yellowed parchment roughly six inches by six inches. “I think it’s a single sheet that’s been double folded.”
“The creases will be weakest,” I said. “Don’t let them tear.”
He laid the parchment in the center of the oilskin and opened it like a book. Then he unfolded it vertically and we stared at a one-foot-square document.
“A map,” Nakayla whispered.
The creases divided the square into four quadrants and at the center where the creases intersected like crosshairs in a rifle scope, an ellipse was roughly drawn with the initials BFS written inside. The lower right-hand corner contained a compass legend with north designated toward the upper right. Lines that could be roads or streams had been drawn freehand and a smaller circle in the upper half had the initials PB beside it.
Nothing looked to scale, especially a shaded rectangle with a few bushes drawn beneath it. Bluff was written above it. An X had been circled on the base line. We all knew what an X meant on a map.
“Elijah recorded the location of his mine,” Nakayla said.
Armitage smiled. “I don’t think he was marking a good fishing hole.”
A few sentences were written in the lower left quadrant: 1200 paces NNE from PB. Behind rhododendron. Left of spring.
“Do you know where this is?” I asked Nakayla.
“No.” She turned to Armitage.
“Nothing looks familiar,” he said. “We could look at maps from 1919 for points of similarity. I don’t know what BFS means.”
“Biltmore Farms something?” I guessed.
“Maybe stable,” Nakayla suggested.
“We don’t need an old map,” I said. “We’ve got Harry. The summer of 1919 he and his pony were all over those woods.”
Stanley headed for the door. “I’ll get him up.”
While my brother woke Harry, Nakayla gathered my clothes and helped me into the bathroom.
“Thanks. I can take it from here.”
“You got that right.” She closed the door.
I put on a fresh sleeve and a reduced ply sock to adjust for the slight swelling the digging had caused in my stump. The warm clothes felt good and a glance in the mirror showed I wasn’t a complete wreck. The discovery of the map invigorated me.
Stanley wheeled Harry to the table. The old man stared at the map, and then rubbed his fingertips over the surface. “Mr. Elijah still talking to me over all these years. I read these sentences and I hear his voice just like I hear Tom’s in the journal.”
“Is he telling you where he found his gold?” Stanley asked, cutting straight to what we all wanted to know.
“Biltmore Farms stable?” Nakayla prompted.
“No.” Harry tapped the three letters in the ellipse. “Biltmore Forestry School.” He moved his finger up to PB. “Pink Beds. We called it that because of the color of the blooms that grow, mostly on the rhododendron and laurel.”
Nakayla and I had been there. Now I recognized one of the lines as the Davidson River that ran along the entrance highway.
“The Biltmore School of Forestry closed in 1913,” Harry said, “but Elijah used to deliver supplies there from the village.”
“When did that land go to the federal government?” I asked.
“Mrs. Vanderbilt sold it in 1915 or 1916. It wasn’t till the 1920s that they took full control.”
“And Elijah could have been working his mine for almost twenty-five years,” I said.
