Blood Ties (15 page)

"A boy. About two and a half years old. It's all the information I have. All I can tell you."

Moonlight played over the narrow strip of beach, turning the grass to silver, casting long shadows into the
open pits. The solitary figure moved from the trees
down toward the sand. There were no deer tonight,
no human intruders. He liked it when he heard nothing but the marsh sounds: the crickets, the frogs, the
rasping bark of a Virginia rail, the rustle of the wind
through the reeds.

He crouched in the tall grass and rubbed a small
piece of weathered bone between his thumb and forefinger. The familiar sensation calmed his soul and
helped him to draw strength from the blood that had
soaked into this ground long ago. He closed his eyes
and sucked in the raw scent of anguish. He could
sense the spirits around him ... taste their presence ... feel the throb of drums echoing through his
flesh. The uneasy ghosts accepted him and knew he
was watching over them.

They understood him and knew he was guarding
the old ways. They never judged him. And he had kept
the old ways, honoring them by hunting as they did,
never wasting game, and living close to the land. If anybody was blood brother to these ghosts, it was him. He
was never lonely or afraid when he was here with them.

He'd protected these graves for so many years, and he was good at what he did. Anyone fool enough to
dig here would pay the price, and he would extract it,
drop by drop. If enough blood flowed, maybe they'd
learn that the curse was all too real.

Abbie had flown from Oklahoma to Philadelphia and
spent two days in the city attempting to extricate information from the detectives assigned to her mother's
case. She'd hoped that they would have made progress
in the time she was away, but basically, they had nothing new to share with her. Disappointed, she'd hired a
helicopter to bring her back to Tawes early this morning. The trip was uneventful, and the pilot touched
down in Birdy Parks's cow pasture where she'd left her
little Robinson.

Abbie hadn't talked to Buck since before the funeral, but she'd gone over and over in her head what
she could possibly say to convince him that she was
right-that the excavation on Tawes was the cause of
her mother's murder.

Emma was up and rattling pans and dishes in the
kitchen when Abbie entered the B&B, and Emma met
her at the door with a hug. "Well, aren't you a sight for
sore eyes, girl? You're just in time for breakfast. Biscuits will be out of the oven in ten minutes."

Abbie had smelled the baking bread, the frying bacon, and the coffee when she'd pushed open the
gate, but she wasn't in the mood for eating. What she
wanted most was to talk to Buck, without Emma's
interference-however well-meaning. She made appropriate responses to the older woman's condolences
and accepted the steaming cup of coffee that Emma
pushed into her hands.

"Is Buck up?"

"I heard the shower running earlier. He should be
down those stairs any minute. One thing you can say
about the Davis boys, they're never late for a meal."

Abbie set the cup on the table. "I don't mean to be
rude, but there's something I need to discuss with
him. Privately."

"You go right ahead. Won't hurt my feelings."
Emma sniffed. "Lord a'mighty, something's burning."
She rushed back into the kitchen just as Abbie heard
Buck's footsteps on the steps.

"Abbie!" he called as he caught sight of her. "When
did you get back?"

"Just now." She hurried to meet him, put both
hands on his chest, and literally shoved him onto the
side porch. "We need to talk, Buck. What are you going to do about finding my mother's killer?"

"Whoa, whoa," he said. "Babe. Peace." He raised
both hands. "Take it easy. I'm not the enemy here."

"I never said you were." She forced herself to speak
slowly, calmly. "But the police don't understand. The
detectives insist on treating this as a simple robbery.
Assault and murder by some teenage thugs or druggies. That isn't what happened."

"And you know that for certain?"

She knew it. What she couldn't explain to him was
how she knew. It was more than a hunch-it was a certainty. "It's the only thing that makes sense. Anati had her gun with her, and she was a crack shot. The thief
didn't even take her pistol. He didn't take her
turquoise ring. It was still on her finger."

"The detective told me about the gun."

"You talked to them again-since the day you took
me to Philly?"

"Last Tuesday. While you were in Oklahoma."

"And?" Why was it that whenever she came face to
face with him, his hair was always damp and curling
around his face? A tiny dot of dried shaving cream
clung to his throat. She found that oddly endearing.
Was he living in the last century? Did men still shave
with a straight razor on this island? "The cops didn't
think it strange that this crazed junkie wouldn't steal a
pistol after he'd just bludgeoned her to death? Or a
valuable ring?"

Buck's features tightened. She didn't budge an
inch. If he thought he could intimidate her with his
stony cop face, he'd better think again. Her ancestors
had invented the inscrutable stare.

"Sit down, Abbie. You asked me a question. Now listen." He pointed to the porch swing. "I'll tell you
everything I've been able to find out about the investigation, which isn't much more than you already
know."

"I don't want to sit down. I want to-"

"Sit! "

She did.

When she started to get up again, he put a firm
hand on her shoulder. "Calm." His expression softened. "First, let me tell you how sorry-"

"No, you've already said that. I know you're sorry."
She wanted to slap away his hand, but he wasn't to
blame. Whoever had turned her wonderful, wise Anati
into that wax mannequin in the pine box was the en emy, not Buck. "Everyone's sorry," she managed, "but
that doesn't find her murderer."

"The pistol was still in your mother's jacket
pocket apparently tangled in the torn lining. She
never got it out."

"My mother would never have let a stranger get that
close. She might have come out of the Oklahoma hills,
but she was streetwise."

His expression hardened. "So are the detectives
working the case. I talked to them. I questioned the
medical examiner. I went to the crime scene. They
could be right. The simplest answer is that some
hopped-up punk or junkie in need of a fix tried to rob
her, and it went bad."

"Bludgeoning is messy."

"You're right. Usually, it's more a crime of passion
than an impersonal assault."

"Exactly. Why would some punk-" Abbie broke off
as Emma pushed open the screen door.

"Eggs are ready. Why don't you two come in, sit
down and eat, and argue afterwards?"

"We aren't arguing." Abbie noticed that Emma's
usually tidy bun had come partially undone this morning. Short, stiff spikes of graying hair stood out at the
back of her head, and she looked as though she hadn't
slept well.

Emma sniffed. "Sounds like arguing to me."

"Breakfast. Good idea," Buck agreed. "I'm ready to
run up the white flag. Why don't we eat first and then
fight?"

"I'm not hungry." Maybe she wasn't that far away from
her warrior ancestors. If it took her the rest of her life,
she'd find her mother's murderer and see that he paid
in full measure for his crime. She'd strangle the bastard
with her own two hands if she got the opportunity.

"You may not be hungry, but I'm starving," Buck
said with false heartiness. "And since our Miss Emma
has gone to all the trouble to cook breakfast, I think
we should do it justice."

"At least have some more coffee," Emma urged. She
opened the screen door wider. "Lord knows your
mother liked my coffee."

Outnumbered, Abbie followed the two of them inside. Buck held out a chair and she sat down at the
table. Emma refilled her coffee cup. The serving platter of bacon, sausage, and scrapple looked large
enough to feed half the island, but it smelled heavenly.
Abbie's stomach growled. She couldn't remember
when she'd eaten last.

"Have some scrambled eggs," Emma said. "They're
fresh. I got them out of the henhouse an hour ago."

"No, thank you," Abbie protested. She couldn't be
hungry. Her mother hadn't been buried a week. How
could she possibly be hungry? It was disloyal. Didn't
she have enough on her conscience? If she hadn't
been in such a hurry to get back to the dig, if she'd
stayed in Philly with her mother, she might still be
alive. What were the chances the killer would have attacked if Anati hadn't been alone on the street?"

Emma slid a portion of fluffy eggs onto Abbie's
plate. "A few bites of egg. A biscuit and jam. Peach.
Made yesterday. You need to keep up your strength.
Especially if you're going back out to that burial
ground."

"Are you certain you're up to it?" Buck offered her
the plate of breakfast meats.

"I tried to talk her out of it originally," Emma said,
"but she's as stubborn as Will Tawes. The burial
ground is cursed. I told her it was too dangerous for
her to be alone out there."

"Do you think I won't finish what my mother
started? I don't know what's buried there, but I'm going to keep looking. And you don't need to worry
about me. My mother didn't insist on piano lessons
when I was eight like my friends' moms-she sent me
for instructions in Lenape knife throwing."

"Did you learn enough to hit anything?" Buck asked.

"I've been proficient enough to give demonstrations at powwows since I was ten." She flushed and
averted her gaze. Grandmother Willow would have
scolded her for bragging, but he'd asked. And she was
good with a knife and proud of her skill.

"Still, it's a lonely place," Emma said. "You shouldn't
go alone."

"I won't be. Matthew Catlin and Bailey have offered
to help."

"And if you don't find anything?" Emma lifted the
lid of a crystal bowl of glistening jam. "Try some of
this." She looked at Buck. "Talk some sense into her.
There's something evil out there. It's not right, disturbing the dead. Matthew's always had the brains of
an onion, but Bailey should know better. And her expecting."

Her mother's friend was expecting? Abbie hadn't
guessed that. She wondered if her mother had known.
"I'm an archaeologist. It's what I do. It's what you and
half the people on this island asked us to do."

Abbie took a biscuit. It was so light, it almost
floated out of her hand. Emma Parks was one of the
least attractive women she'd ever met, but certainly
one of the best cooks. Abbie's stomach rumbled
loudly again.

"And you said you weren't hungry," Emma chided.
"Lord knows you've got reason to shed a bucket of
tears, child. But if your mother could talk to its, she'd tell you to take care-to stay strong. She'd want you to
go on living every day the best you could. She'd want
you to be happy."

"I've got to go back. Either I find something of archaeological significance that will make the State of
Maryland stop the project, or I prove there isn't anything there to be found."

"I figured that was the way you'd feel," Buck said.
"My younger brothers, Harry and Bowman, have been
taking turns watching the site for you every day. Nothing has been disturbed."

Surprised, she looked at him. "Your brothers?"

He shrugged. "Keeps them off the street. Harry
should be there this morning."

"Why ask them to guard the site if there's nothing to
worry about?"

Buck gave her a rueful look. "I told you that there's
something about that marsh I don't like. Besides, I've
learned never to discount a woman's intuition."

"I've never met any of your brothers. What does
Harry look like?"

"A lot like me." Buck grinned. "Younger. Not as
handsome."

"Right." Emma helped herself to another biscuit.
"Nothing modest about you Davis boys, is there?"

"Thank you for taking my concerns seriously." Abbie nibbled at her upper lip. "I didn't think-"

"Harry and Bowman owe me plenty of favors. I just
wanted you to know they were around, in case you go
armed."

She was in no mood for his backwoods humor. "I
don't carry a handgun, but I have my own methods of
self-protection."

"You might think about a gun," Emma put in. "Guns
are great equalizers."

"I told you, my father taught me some useful things
about self-defense, and I know karate, too."

Emma screwed up her mouth. "Karate? Give me a
twelve-gauge any day."

"I don't like guns."

"So you said," Emma retorted. "But sometimes
they come in handy. You might be too educated to
believe in curses, but if you live as long as I have,
you'll know there's things that can't be explained."
She glanced at Buck. "You see that piece on TV last
night about that waterman from Deal who George
Williams found dead in the marsh twenty-odd years
ago "