Blood Ties (29 page)

It would have been far easier to reach the burial
ground by boat, but Matthew had never been at ease
on the water and was unfamiliar with the maze of
muddy channels that threaded through the swamp to
the site. Every year the bay devoured more of the island, and it was easy to become lost in the morass of
overgrown creeks, mud flats, and expanses of reeds.

If dear Grace were alive, or even Creed Somers, either of them could have navigated the marsh. Grace
had always been handy with boats and motors, and
she'd known every inch of Tawes, forest and mash.
He'd never set foot on their Boston whaler since she'd
died, and he wasn't certain that the boat would even
start. Besides, it would have been impossible to pass
Emma's dock without any of the wedding guests seeing hire and wondering where he was going. And traveling the other way around the island took too long.

Matthew had ridden Grace's old bike on the dirt
road out of town and left it in the weeds at the edge of
Elizabeth's farm. It was a long walk from there to the
beach, several miles at least, because the path twisted
and turned. Matthew had been forced to climb over
logs, wiggle through wild rose patches, slog through
puddles, and duck under wild grapevines. He hoped
he wouldn't be exhausted by the time he reached the
site.

Once he'd set his mind on a task, it was his way to
finish it. His father had always praised him for that
quality. "You're not a particularly bright boy,
Matthew," he'd say, "and there's nothing remarkable
about you, but you are dependable. I always know
what to expect of you." He'd had no such good words
for Daniel. It seemed Father and Daniel had been at
odds since Daniel had been old enough to talk and question his parents' orders. Their father had been
sparse with compliments, so any Matthew got, he cherished and remembered, word for word.

He knew his father would approve of his leaving the
wedding party to search for proof that his theory
about the Bronze Age Irish in America was correct.
Matthew would have liked to remain long enough to
share supper with them. Doubtless the celebration
would go on until after midnight, and he knew there'd
be kettles of clam chowder and oyster stew served later
in the evening.

He regretted not sampling Aunt Birdy's cherry cordial. Not that he was a drinking man, but one glass of
spirits to toast the bride and groom could hardly be
considered a major sin. Aunt Birdy's cordials were always a temptation, even for a man of God.

Thinking of Aunt Birdy made him remember the
story she'd told. Tidewater summer days were long,
and dusk wouldn't descend over the marsh for hours,
but shadows lay heavily across the narrow pathway, and
the tall reeds rustled ominously in the wind.

Matthew didn't like to think of the massacred Indians or the bodies lying on the blood-soaked beach
with crows picking out their eyes and chewing at their
exposed sexual parts. He could picture the barebreasted women, long dark hair stained red with gore,
and tender nipples and privates torn and desecrated
by the teeth of foxes and the cruel talons and sharp
beaks of stinking buzzards.

Not even the women's lovely high-arched feet would
have been spared by the scavengers. Images of slender,
honey-colored feet and tender, plump toes gnawed to
the bone by rats and weasels filled Matthew's head
and made him nauseous. Surely some of the Indians
had fled into the marsh, to be hunted down and shot
or clubbed to death. Their bloated bodies must have washed up on the shores of Tawes for weeks afterwards.

Matthew shuddered. He didn't want such thoughts
in his head, but they returned over and over. The
marsh was a lonely place with far too many spooky
tales told about it. He didn't like to think of the
drowned midshipman or the waterman found on his
boat with his skull crushed in ... the poor man who'd
come to this spot to dig and never reached his home
alive. It was all too easy for Matthew to imagine he
could hear the long-dead shaman shaking his turtleshell rattle just off the trail to the right, or see his ominous shadow elongated and distorted by the waving
phragmites.

With audible relief, Matthew finally reached the clearing where Abbie Night Horse's tent stood. He saw, to his
surprise, that a second tent had been erected since he'd
left the afternoon before. It was obvious that no was
here, so he felt free to remove his jacket, tie, and longsleeved shirt. Underneath, he wore a white tee, the type
that Grace jokingly had always referred to as a wife-beater.
It was cooler here in the open, out of the thick marsh
grass, and the breeze felt wonderful on his bare arms.
Spraying himself liberally with insect repellent, he approached the slope where Abbie had been working.

He hoped last night's heavy rains might have
washed away enough of the hard-packed soil to reveal
a treasure. He inspected the muddy tree roots and
scraped at the cut in the earth with the side of his
trowel, turning up a few chips and a broken arrowhead, but nothing of greater interest.

The ground here was still black, filled with vegetable matter, not as promising as he'd expected. But
he was positive he'd been drawn here today by divine
providence, and he had no intention of leaving without finding what he'd come for.

Minutes became hours. Glancing at his watch, he
wiped away the mud, and saw that it was nearly five. He
didn't need to leave yet, but he wanted to allow himself plenty of time to hike out of the swamp to his bike.
Overhead, a crow cawed to a companion, and off to
the west, he saw a flock of seagulls heading for the bay.

Sunlight gleamed through the leafy canopy, painting
the thick foliage in Lincoln and apple green, turning
fallen leaves to autumn gold and rust, and revealing
tiny insects scurrying through the grass. Matthew
paused, took a sip of warm water from his canteen, and
used a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. His back
ached, and several mosquito bites on the backs of his
knees itched mercilessly. He removed his sunglasses,
rubbed them clean on a corner of his shirt, and put
them on again.

His eye caught a gleam of gold through the trees, a
metallic glitter that seemed too bright to be a leaf.
Like a plucked guitar string, excitement thrummed
through him. His eyes widened. This was no illusion!
He scrambled over the rim and clawed his way
through the greenbriers. "Grace! Grace," he cried.
"Whatever is-"

One moment he was plunging-heart in his
throat through the weeds and undergrowth toward
the golden torque, and the next instant something
snagged his ankle. Matthew screamed as he wasjerked
upside down into the air. His glasses fell off. He
screamed as his head slammed against a tree and he
spun helplessly, his missing torque whirling in front of
his eyes. His cries became a gagging croak as he finally
stopped moving and hung suspended over his missing
torque. The precious treasure lay on a bed of green
moss only a few feet from his grasp, but impossible to
reach.

"Help! Help me!"

Matthew tried to think what had happened, how
this could be. Without warning, he was suddenly ill.
Vomit spewed from his throat, spraying the precious
artifact. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but he
threw up and threw up until nothing came out but a
thin stream of acrid bile.

He moaned. "Help me, somebody. Please ... help
me."

Twigs snapped.

"Hello! Is someone there? I'm trapped."

Brush rustled.

Matthew twisted, trying to make out the figure clad
in fringed buckskin and carrying what looked like a
bow and arrow. The movement sent him twirling
again, so that he could catch only distorted glimpses
of the war-painted savage that approached. Without
his glasses, it was impossible to see well enough to ...

His mind seized on a thought, then rejected it. An
Indian on Tawes? No! It was bizarre. Impossible. The
painted face was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't focus on it.

"Please ..."

Matthew heard the whoosh of the feathered arrow
as it left the bow, and he screamed again and again
and again.

Rafi's head hurt. He held Bun-nee tight and sucked
his thumb. He curled into a ball. He felt hot all over.
He didn't think about nan and cheese anymore. He
didn't even think about the hot dog or the sweet kok
the Big Papa Man had given him. He tried to keep his
eyes open, because when he closed them he saw bad
pictures that frightened him.

He thought the Big Papa Man had come back when
it was dark. He wasn't sure if that was real or if it was
the pictures behind his eyes. Rafi thought he remem bered the man opening the door and making sounds
he didn't understand. He hadn't brought hot dog or
kok in the dark. He had something in his hand, something Rafi had never seen before. It was pretty. Colors
and colors.

Rafi was big enough to know his colors. He knew
brown like the goat and blue like the sky. He knew
red. He liked red. Not when he cut his knee. That was
bad red. But he liked the red color on the papa
chicken's head. Clouds were white. White like curds.
Curds were good to eat. So he knew all the colors,
brown, blue, red, and white. He knew his numbers
too. One, two, four.

He tried to sing but his throat hurt. He sounded
funny. No "Moon, moon, moon."Just "Maa, maa, maa,"
like the goat. He rubbed his eyes with his fists. His eyes
hurt. He didn't cry. No more tears. No more fuss.

"Wake up!"

Rafi moaned.

"I said wake up!"

Rafi opened his eyes.

"Here. I brought you something to eat."

Rafi shook his head. His belly hurt. He tried to say
"no," but the word wouldn't come. He squeaked like a
mouse.

"Are you sick? Don't go getting sick on me. I don't
have time for it."

It was the Big Papa Man. Rafi thought he should be
afraid. Maybe the man would shake him. But he was
tired. He closed his eyes again.

"Here. I brought you some juice. You like grape
juice?"

Rafi nodded, but when the Big Papa Man held the
bottle to his mouth, he choked and some ran down
his chin.

"Drink it," the man said.

He said more, but Rafi couldn't understand the
sounds he made. Like on the big plane. Everybody
made sounds on the plane he didn't know. It had
made him afraid.

"I brought you a banana. Kids like bananas." The
Big Papa Man held something to Rafi's lips.

Banna. What was bannar Rafi didn't know, but he
was too sleepy to care. He hugged Bun-nee and turned
his head away.

"Eat it, damn it. Eat the banana."

The Big Papa Man put his hand on Rafi's head.

"You're burning up."

Rafi tried to tell him that he wasn't. He had not
gone near the fire. It was bad to go near the fire. The
fire bit you. But he didn't have the words. He was so
sleepy.

The man held the juice to his mouth again. Some
ran down Rafi's throat and choked him. Some ran out
his nose and choked him. The Big Papa Man hit him
on the back. Rafi fussed. He knew it was bad to fuss,
but he didn't want the juice. He was so tired. The man
picked him up and carried him outside. Rafi knew it
was outside because the sun shone in his eyes and
hurt him.

He closed his eyes. The dark came.

Daniel dropped anchor in a sheltered cove on the far
side of Tawes. The breeze was off the water, and the
crescent moon rose, brilliant against a velvet sky studded with stars. He and Bailey had accepted the loan of
Forest's Grady White for their honeymoon hideaway.
Several hundred yards away, Buck anchored his
brother Nate's less elegant but roomy 23-foot skiff.

"I can't believe we did it," Bailey pronounced as she
hugged Daniel.

"Me either." Daniel tilted her head up to kiss her lips.

"Sorry?"

"Hell, no, you know better than that."

Something was wrong. She felt it. It was more than
Lucas and the blackmail and Daniel's fears for the little boy.

She stepped back and gripped his hands. "Whatever's troubling you, it's my problem too. You're my
husband now. You have to share."

"Nothing's wrong. Everything's right-at least between us."

"Liar." She touched his bottom lip with two fingers.
His muscles were tense, the ridges of his face hard in
the moonlight. "Is it Mallalai? Are you sorry it wasn't
her there at the altar with you this morning?"

"God, no, Bailey. Get that out of your head, once
and for all. That's over and done with. Mallalai's gone,
and she's never coming back-not unless you keep
dragging her up and throwing her in my face."

Hurt flashed through her. When she answered him,
her tone was thick, close to tears. "I need you to be
honest with me. You promised-no more secrets. If it's
your child, I told you that I-"

Daniel rubbed his eyes. "You're making mountains
out of molehills. Nothing's wrong. I'm tired, that's all."

"Everything's peachy between us?"

"Everything."

She glanced over at the lights on the other boat.
"When we have to have an armed escort? When we
need to have a chief of police guarding us on our
honeymoon?"

"It was Buck's idea, not mine. He said we should be
able to forget Lucas for one night, that once this night
was over, we couldn't get it back, no matter how much
we might want to."

"He's right," she agreed. "And I don't mind Buck.
Not really."

"And he's not suffering. Abbie's with him. He tried
to leave her at Emma's, but she threatened to take
Emma's boat and follow him. So I doubt he really expects Lucas to come after us. Remember, I offered to
take you to a nice hotel in Annapolis."

Bailey shook her head. "No. Elliott and I spent our
wedding night in Vegas. A very nice hotel. I'd rather
be here, on this boat with you, close to home."

"Good. Buck's going to back me when I make the
exchange with Lucas."

"Will you have to give him cash?"