HOMOSASSA SHADOWS (8 page)

Brandy smiled and strode down the short passage leading past the kitchen to the bedrooms. Hart’s room looked especially bleak—a twin bed, stripped, a dresser, the drawers pulled out about an inch, a straight chair and a small table, bare. Men’s clothes still hung in the closet, a jacket, jeans, shirts, dress pants. Quickly Brandy felt the pockets, although deputies would have confiscated anything important. The bathroom was equally non-productive—shaving gear, soap, comb, aspirin.

Brandy sighed. What did she expect? A trap door to the basement or attic? Alma May followed her and peered into the room. “Got to bundle up Hart’s things for charity, I reckon. The cops say his sister’s not coming to get them. Pretty heartless woman, if you ask me. She arranged for some dealer here to sell his car. Nothing else’s worth anything, anyway.” Alma May retreated down the hall.

Brandy felt renewed pity for Timothy Hart. Through the back window she stared out at the water oaks, the bristly trunk of a small cabbage palm, and beyond it, circling the end of the island, the black waters of a canal, dug forty years ago by land speculators. Several times Brandy had explored it in her boat. The more canals, the more waterfront. But if any houses had ever been built along it, they were long gone now. Past the bank lay a broad vista of tall grasses, a tall water hickory tree, and a hard wood hammock in the distance. Somewhere to the south lay Fishhawk’s camp.

Brandy focused again on the ground directly behind the house. At the spiky base of the cabbage palm she could see a slight mound. The sandy soil looked uneven. On a hunch, she called out to Alma May in the living room, “I’m leaving now. Thanks. I’ll go out the kitchen door.”

Then she hurried out into the side yard, glad that Alma May and Melba were in the front of the house. Where would a sick man hide something if he didn’t want to leave it in the house, and didn’t feel well enough to venture far? Or where would someone else who found it be likely to hide it in a hurry?

In the back yard Brandy examined a tottering storage shed, the door sagging open, and several garden tools. With a hoe she carefully pulled loose dirt away from the palmetto trunk. After probing for several minutes, she felt the blade touch something solid; her heart thudded. Deputies were still threshing through undergrowth on the other side of the canal. Gently she brushed away the gritty soil. Under it lay a leather briefcase.

For a moment Brandy hesitated. Then taking a tissue from her canvas bag, she pulled back the zipper. Inside she saw a thin, battered notebook. She considered taking it out, but her conscience intervened. Strong was out there among the cedars. Her find might be important evidence. She glanced back at the house. If she left it and went for help, it might be gone when they returned. All was quiet. Again Brandy was tempted and again resisted. Maybe she could strike a bargain with the detective. Using the tissue, she re-zippered the briefcase and picked it up by the handle. Then pushing her way past the saw palmettos and cedars, she followed the voices and footfalls of the officers. When at last she glimpsed the back of a green uniform, she called out. Startled, the man swung around.

“Get Sergeant Strong, quickly,” Brandy said. “Tell him there’s something here he needs to see.” Better not identify herself yet, or he might leave on the next boat. When the puzzled officer raised a cell phone to his lips, Brandy started back the way she had come. Beside the clump of palmettos, she placed the briefcase behind her and sat down on the sandy ground to wait. Her mind swirled with questions. Who planted the briefcase? Three were often in the house besides Hart—Alma May, Melba, Hackett, and maybe even this man Tugboat. Did Mrs. Flint hear her call to the deputies just now? Where was Fishhawk? Was Melba Grapple still in the house?

Within fifteen minutes Sergeant Strong’s head appeared above the wax myrtle and scrub oaks. He took one look at her, paused, shook his head, and muttered, apparently to himself. “If thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is small.”

Brandy pushed herself up and brushed the back of her jeans. “Sounds like a useful proverb.”

“Advice to myself,” he said. “I thought you’d gone out of my life. But show me what you found. We got to go over this whole blessed island.”

Brandy raised an eyebrow. “And you’re looking for what?”

“As curious as ever, aren’t you? Now show me what you’ve got or I’m leaving.”

Brandy hooked her thumbs in her jeans pockets. “Maybe we can make a deal, Sergeant. I want to do the right thing, but if this briefcase holds what I think it does, I want to see the contents myself. I promise I won’t write about anything until you give the okay. I proved last time my word’s good.”

Strong passed one large hand over his close-cropped hair. Sweat dripped from his glistening forehead. He’s exasperated, all right. Brandy hid a smile. Maybe he’s also intrigued. “You know the law can confiscate anything related to this investigation,” he said. “But let’s see what it is.”

Brandy stood, lifted the case a few inches, careful not to touch any part except the protected handle, and set it down again. “Your guys didn’t spot this. I did.”

“You know better than to tamper with evidence.”

Brandy shrugged. “I didn’t leave fingerprints. I was afraid the briefcase would grow legs.”

The detective stalked back toward the patrol craft and signaled to the officer on board. In a few minutes a stubby crime technician came hurrying around the house, nodded to Strong, and knelt by the briefcase. After he made a note of its original position, he took a snapshot, then pulled on a pair of gloves from his kit, and carefully picked up the case. “If it belonged to Hart, we need to get it to the lab,” Strong said. “Somebody buried it for a reason. Might be fingerprints inside.”

Brandy gave him a beguiling smile. “I didn’t touch anything but the zipper, but I did take a peek. The case holds some kind of a book. It might be an old journal of Hart’s. His sister said he had one. I could’ve looked through it first, but I didn’t. See how good I can be?” She squinted up at him. “How long will it take the lab?”

“Depends. May take a couple of weeks at least.”

Brandy dared to put a tentative hand on his arm. “You’re not going to look at it until then? Why not take a peek now? You don’t have to smudge any prints.”

For a few seconds Strong stood silent, his dark face a study in concentration. “You have a point,” he said. “I’m going to take it to the boat. There’s a table there.”

As they walked down the dock, Brandy glanced over her shoulder. A living room curtain rose and fell back into place. Alma May Flint’s boat still lay moored to the pier. Apparently she had not yet taken Melba home. The technician laid the briefcase on the table, unzipped it, and with expert care, slipped out the long, narrow book. The detective glanced at the technician. “I need gloves.” The tech handed Strong another pair, then moved to the bow, sat down, and began filling out a series of cards.

Brandy’s gaze fixed on the tattered volume. The binding was loose, the gray, hard cover pock marked. “Everyone claims they don’t know about this journal,” she said, her heart racing. “I wonder if Hart buried it, or someone else?”

Strong’s lips contracted in a grim line. “We know someone else is involved. Someone searched the body.”

Brandy nodded. “I heard the M. E. say Hart’s pockets were pulled inside out.”

Strong positioned himself squarely at the table. “Hart’s body was turned over, that’s clear. When someone found the victim, why didn’t they call for help?” The detective’s gloved fingers touched the edge of the first page and flipped it. “There is nothing hid that shall not be manifested,” he said.

A hopeful Biblical quote. Brandy hovered at his shoulder, then pulled her notebook and pencil from her bag and began to take notes. The journal had no preamble. At the top of the page in faded ink she read aloud Lieutenant Henry Hart, United States Army, Third Infantry—In the Year of Our Lord 1840.

The first entry was dated that December.

I’ve been stationed at Fort Brooke on the Gulf Coast since September. Constant drilling. Continuous forays into the field hunting stray Indians and bringing them in. Burning their crops. Last month we had several war chiefs in camp for a parley. They were supposed to agree to be deported to the west. But they drew rations and liquor for weeks, and never made up their minds. At last the rascals left and General Armistead declared hostilities resumed. More monotonous scouting. Word came yesterday that a Mikasukee Seminole war chief named Halleck
Tustenuggee
—that last word means he is a great war chief——and his band attacked an escort party near Micanopy, killed an officer’s wife, a lieutenant, and three enlisted men. Must catch Halleck

January, 1841.
To date General Armistead has shipped out 450 Indians. He has captured 236 more and has them ready to leave. Only about 300 savages remain in the whole miserable territory, but still Congress says we must fight until every single Indian is sent west. A settler family was murdered this month with arrow and hatchets. Shows the savages are running low on ammunition.

April 1840: I came down with the sickness that has put a lot of the men in bed with a fever. I’ve been getting better for the past 3 months at Fort Brooke.

I’ve picked up a lot of Indian lingo from the Seminoles held here. I can translate if I need to, but it’s more useful to listen and not show I understand. I don’t know both Indian languages. I understand the one called Maskoki.

May 1841
:
General Armistead relieved. Col. Worth now in command. Coacoochee—we call Wildcat—-finally captured. That should help. He was a fighter. Col. Worth and his men rounded up the Seminoles hiding out near the Crystal and Homosassa Rivers.

December
:
War Chief Halleck killed a group of settlers near Mandarin. January 1842: We’ve been holding old Thlocko Tustenuggee, the trickiest war chief of them all, here at Fort Brooke for months. Everyone calls him ‘Tiger Tail.’ He’s been living off the fat of the land. Yesterday he escaped at night under the guards’ noses.

April 29, 1842. That Indian devil Halleck came in to Fort King and was trapped. Now he’ll go west at last Wretched, unclean water, eaten up by bugs and mosquitoes, suffering now from unbearable heat, no fresh meat. We’re treated worse than the savages. Rations now are parched corn ground with sugar. When we do stumble on a few chickees, the savages disappear. They make no sound. They crawl through the wild grasses and hide in trees. We struggle on through terrible swamps searching for a few pitiful renegades.

July 14, 1842:, After Halleck emigrated today, we found his band had hidden their goods in hollow trees and palmetto sheds in the swamps, burying such stuff as cotton cloth, blankets, calico, even canisters of powder. Looks like they think they will come back, but 40 warriors and 89 women left on a steamer for New Orleans. They had to be issued clothes. Many of the women were wearing flour sacks. At Fort Brooke I saw squaws collect corn dropped from the horses’ mouths. They used it to make a kind of gruel they call ‘softi.’ We can’t help but pity them.

August 1842: Third Infantry is in Cedar Key. Conferences with the last of the war chiefs going on. Much celebrating. Whiskey and corn and beef handed out to the savages. Tiger Tail is still the trickiest, though he’s old. The old war chief has escaped three times but promises now to emigrate. Settlers still being murdered in the middle part of the territory. The chiefs say they cannot control the young warriors. The young men have never known anything but war. That may be so, but does not improve the mood of the settlers.

October 4, 1842: “ Terrible storm hit Cedar Key. Water 27feet high, blew the hospital from its foundation. Two steam ships and a sloop broke loose and wrecked. Indians all fled.’”

December 1842. Tiger Tail hiding out near Cedar Key. Sends word that the storm was a message from the Great Spirit. He says his people are not to go again to Cedar Key, so the army will not send Tiger Tail any more rations. With the help of a squaw, a surgeon and Lieutenant Spague finally found the old rascal nine miles from Cedar Key. The officers came back and said the chief was in bad shape and drinking heavily. Dec. 20, 1842. Sprague is sending Lieutenant Jordan and myself with twenty men to bring them in. We don’t expect any trouble. Sprague says the band only has six men, eight women, and several half-starved children. Dec. 29, 1842: The last of the Seminole war chiefs has finally been sent west. Taking old Tiger Tail was an experience. The chief was scratched up, bleeding, and seemed drunk. Sprague thought he had probably been fighting with someone in his own band. Personally, I think Tiger Tail was sick. We had to make a litter to carry him to Cedar Key. On the trip back to camp I overheard a comment from one of the Indians that considerably aroused my curiosity. The Seminole warrior said ‘I hid something the white men want. This is a thing the white men always want. They will kill for it. We found it digging for clams near the great water. Near our old camp on the river, I helped make a kill. Burned a house and took some food.

I did not want to bring this thing with me for the white men to steal. It is powerful medicine. A medicine man needs it for his medicine bundle. It did not help our people. Maybe it will kill the soldiers. It is very frightening. ‘

I listened, pretending not to understand, while the warrior’s friend asked the warrior where he hid the powerful medicine. I have written the translation as well as I can, but I did not know all the words. I am writing them as they sounded to me. The warrior said he put it in a
sugeha hoo chek—
I think that means a tobacco pouch—and then hid it in
we enkokee,
near the burned house. He said it will be safe there.

He fears all his people will be thrown off the big boat as soon as they cannot see land, but if he lives and can come back from the far away place, he will recover this thing and take it south to a medicine man. Of course, these Indians will never come back. When I get out of the army I plan to see if I can find what the Indian hid. I think it must be very valuable, and in a safe place. It shouldn’t be hard to locate the massacred settler’s land. Several months ago we heard about an attack on a lone family near the Homosassa River.