Slave Graves (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 1) (32 page)

“I bet this will be seen for miles,” said an excited teenage girl standing next to Maggie.

“It’s my home,” said Maggie.

The teenager looked at her, her face almost angry that Maggie had challenged her.

“I wonder if anything will be saved,” Maggie said to Frank.

“You people are lucky to get out of there alive,” said the fireman. “This place was a real firetrap. I’m surprised it hasn’t gone up before, old as it is and nobody living here much anymore,” said one of the firemen. “Jake Terment offered us this place a few years ago to use in our practice. We were going to burn it down for training.”

Another fireman said, “One of the guys said it was burning in two places when he walked out in back. Both of them up in the roof. A car burning too.”

“Two places. That don’t sound like an electrical fire to me,” said the fireman. “Maybe somebody don’t like you folks.”

The building was engulfed in flames. There were two hoses playing water on the fire but the water was useless against the high flames.

“We just want to stop it from spreading, grassfires, the outbuildings, that’s about all you can do with a building like this,” said the fireman.

“You two must be exhausted,” said a voice from behind Frank and Maggie. Birdey Pond stood there. She reached out to comfort Maggie. Maggie moved toward her. The older woman put her arms around Maggie.

“I know. I know,” said Birdey, comforting Maggie. “We saw the shooting out at the bridge. Jake Terment telephoned me as furious as I’ve ever heard him. Threatening. He claimed it was one of my friends who was shooting at his tenant farmer.”

She paused, “No, I didn’t do it but I wish I’d thought of it.”

She looked at Frank. “Come over to my house at least for the rest of the night. You two need some rest.”

“I’m staying here,” Maggie said, sudden strength in her voice.

“This fire more of Jake’s work?” Birdey asked.

“We think it was set,” said Frank.

“Sorry,” Maggie sobbed. “I just see myself inside that house.”

A crash of the falling roof sent sparks high into the night air, red specks twisting and turning against the blackness, against the gray wisps of acrid smoke. A sigh of excitement rose from the spectators. They spotted the cat. The animal had been trapped in the farmhouse. It came out on a window ledge on the second floor. The flames were behind it, making the animal a blur of black against the rapid light and the red glare of the flames. The cat had only moments to escape. It sat calmly on the ledge, looking from side to side in a trance like manner as if looking for a mouse to chase rather than trying to keep its own self alive.

“Look, he’s going to jump,” screamed a woman in the crowd. Then, as the crowd let out another sigh, more like a communal scream, the cat, its black spots almost glowing against its orange fur, jumped directly towards the ground, the full two stories, legs spread apart as if to help it fly through the air. Then hitting the grassy ground, it bounced upward, mouth open in a hiss which had no sound. Finally the cat tore through the crowd toward the far hedge of honeysuckle and disappeared in the night.

Frank and Maggie turned toward the dig area, the flames behind them casting their shadows far ahead, the shadows dancing with the flames, the smell in the air sharp with smoke. The site had become a spectator bleacher. Its closeness to the road, its relative openness and the pits of the dig allowed the spectators to sit on the edges of the pits with their legs dangling over the sides. All this had made the scholarly dig site into an outdoor party peopled with laughing and carousing guests of all ages.

In the darkness there were many pinpoints of light where the spectators had flashlights. The beams randomly shot rays into the night or against the gray shroud of smoke rising over the house fire, the wall of smoke drifting away but still solid enough to bounce the light back.

There were dozens of men, women, children of all ages, all of them white. Frank looked for any blacks but saw none. Some of the people had brought along folding chairs. The spectators could be heard complaining as their chairs sank sideways and spilled them into the wet soil. Others had brought beer and portable radios. There was the sound of rock songs mixed with country ballads all producing a heavy beat, not a melody just a beat like a huge drum. Children tied each other in the surveyors twine or played swords with the dig stakes. Several men and women had established contests comparing their performances at urinating on the skeletons.

Occasionally the farmhouse would flare up and the intense light would reflect from the upturned faces of the crowd. The faces were hundreds of small white ovals, dull orbs in the black, punctuated by the tiny lights from their flashlights.

“All gone. All we’ve worked for,” said Maggie.

Frank held her close as they walked across the site, not speaking to the people. One very old man, bare-chested, his white chest hair glistening with sweat, complained that Frank was blocking the man’s view of the fire. Frank and Maggie said nothing and kept moving on. The fire was dying, the dry wood almost used up and the flames tearing at a few remnants not yet incinerated. The excitement ebbing, some of the people were starting to move back to their cars.

A cardboard box of empty beer cans was perched on top of the pump which had been overturned. Maggie removed the box. Frank helped her turn the pump upright. In the dark, they could not see the probe pits. Frank felt some of the skeleton bones in the earth under his bare feet. He knew then that the skeletons had been tossed around in a ghoulish game by some of the spectators.

When they reached the gate to the property they could see the extent of the madness. There were cars parked in skewed attitudes along the road, some with headlights still turned on. Even as many of the persons were leaving, along the road there were more spectators approaching the farm. Mothers and fathers with their children looked anxiously for a place along the side of the road to park. Among those walking towards the fire, there was disappointment in their eyes that they were late. Children pulled at their parents’ hands, urging them forward.

Jake was standing in the middle of the road with two of the policemen. As Frank got closer to them, he recognized the chief of police.

“What happened here, Frank?” asked Jake, his southern smile broad on his face.

“We don’t know, Jake. There was some guy running away when the fire started.”

“You two must have left some light on,” said Jake. “The wire in the house was all frayed, worn out. This place really wasn’t livable. I’m glad you folks were not hurt. I tried to get you to stay in at the Chesapeake Hotel. You can’t blame me.”

“That’s where I slept, Jake,” said Maggie, staring at him. “Aren’t you at all concerned that we might have been killed? I was lucky. I was out of the house when it started.”

Jake moved his eyes from her stare.

“Look at what these people have done to our work,” said Frank.

“I’m afraid our local people don’t have much regard for holes in the ground, not when there’s a fire to see,” Jake grinned at the police chief who smiled.

“Our work is ruined,” said Maggie.

“I can’t worry about that, Maggie. I just lost a house. Seems to me someone could think about that. I just lost my tenant farmer house. Besides, this digging here wasn’t supposed to be permanent. I’ve already given the two of you fair warning that my men will begin bulldozing tomorrow morning. “

“We planned to work until your machines start.”

“Well,” said Jake, his voice dictatorial, “I guess your work is really finished.”

“How can you just let all this happen?” said Frank. “You told me the other day you didn’t want a lot of strangers hanging around. How can you let all these people in here?”

“Look here, I’m not letting anything happen,” said Jake. “This is my house that just burned down. Somebody tried to blow up my boat. This is my land that you are digging up. Folks know I’m getting all kinds of trouble. They came here to help. That’s the way we are down here in the country. They found my house was on fire and they came to help. Down here in River Sunday this is the way we do things. I’m not about to tell my friends to leave when they have come to help me. You two get yourselves together, get your stuff packed up, because in a few more hours you two are going to be trespassing on my land. If you are not gone by then, I will have to remove you.”

Jake looked at the chief. “Billy, you see them around here in the morning, you get them off my land. You get something on that old woman too for what she did to my boat.”

“We’ll take care of it, Jake,” said Billy. “Come on, boys,” he waved at the other officers near him. “Let’s get these cars moved so other people can get by.”

Frank stood with Maggie at the edge of the honeysuckle hedge for a long time. They watched as the rest of the farmhouse collapsed inward, sparks twisting upward into the sky in the white smoke of the dying fire. They saw the fire engine blinker lights switched off one by one as the firemen packed up their equipment and left, the drivers gunning the engines with roars of unmuffled exhausts.

Frank awoke just after dawn. Maggie was still asleep, her body against his on the seat of the truck, her breasts flecked with cinders and exposed in his ill-fitting shirt. They had climbed into the truck, exhausted after the last fireman left almost two hours ago. He smiled at her, sensing a closeness with her, as though they were two comrades who had fought an enemy side by side and survived. He moved his fingers softly against the side of her face. Maggie slowly opened her eyes and smiled at him. She turned and moved closer to him, her eyes closing again.

He kissed her lips. He wiped a smudge of the soot from the fire that had landed on her nose. Her eyes opened. “Do that again.” This time their lips touched with a passion that surprised them both. When they drew apart, he said, “We’ll have to explore that when this is all over.”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things,” he said. It wasn’t just the kiss. He knew that Mello was out of his life forever.

She touched his lips with her finger. “I know.” Then she said, “You have a little mole on your forehead, right with the freckles.”

“My Mom used to say it gave me wisdom.”

“She was right, your Mom. I wish I could have known her.” She smiled as she pulled up the neck of the tee shirt and then looked inside. “There’s room for both of us in here.” She looked around, holding her head just above the steel dashboard. The truck still had its military panel of switches and dials, the stark faces and numbers contrasting with the softness of her hair and face.

Frank sat up.” We need to get out on the site and see what we can preserve.” He looked through the windshield at the desolation of the burned house.

“My God,” he said. “Just like Tet was. Everything busted up.”

She touched his arm.

“There’s no doubt in my mind that Jake did not care whether he killed us last night,” Frank said slowly. “He wanted to get rid of the artifacts and he didn’t care who got hurt.”

She looked at him, her eyes asking him what to do.

“The Pastor’s got the right idea. Only trouble is he’s not here yet. I’ve tried not to take sides but Jake’s forced me. I’ll stand in front of the bulldozer myself. Jake’ll have to run that yellow bulldozer right over me,” said Frank. He climbed down from the truck, his skin and cutoffs coated with sticky bits of black ash.

Maggie climbed out of the truck. “I’m going to stand there with you,” she said. He took her hand and they walked toward the house. The sky was clear blue, with a hot orange red sun rising big above the tree line and cornfields. Insects buzzed in the morning dew. There was, however, the unpleasant smell of smoke and steam from the wet charred stud wood. Scorched tarpaper hung in long sheets from the exposed frame members of the house. Windows had fallen out on the ground and timbers, bricks and pipes hung without order and with no resemblance to the once weathertight construction.

Frank’s skin itched from the embedded soil and cinders. His left foot still ached from slipping off the underwater limb last night on the way to the bridge and his side felt bruised where the briars had shredded his underwear. His toes felt the damp soil and the grass that was smashed down from the heavy tires of the fire trucks. Some of the boxwoods had been broken in half by the trucks. The fire engines had left great tracks in the grass where only a few hours ago people had stood with cocktails at Jake’s party.

He looked toward the site, beyond the remains of the boxwoods. He could see the top of the bulldozer. The crowd had pulled the canopy from the machine. It was upright on the ground, its mounting poles up thrust like a great dead beetle.

As they got closer to the house, Frank noted the muck that was splattered on what little grass was left, the soil that the heavy tires had brought from the lane with its new ruts and deep potholes full of black water and broken charred timbers. The house itself had fallen inward for the most part, the remains of the roof collapsing with the layers of asphalt shingles spilling into the first floor. Large sections of sodden plaster bent forward from sections of walls, the plaster still held together by fragile electrical wiring and water pipes.

Maggie’s car was a blackened ruin. Its cloth upholstery still steamed. Broken glass was sprinkled on the ground, tires were flat, and a pair of her shorts and various of her digging tools were scattered on the ground outside the wreck. The grass under the car’s gasoline tank was blackened in a large circle.

They circled back to the front of the house and started toward the site. Much of the honeysuckle had been torn out of the hedges by catching against the fenders of the fire trucks. The broken vines were dying quickly in the morning sunlight but even with the dank odor of the wet burned wood of the house, there was still a faint smell of the sugar of the honeysuckle.

Suddenly Frank smelled burning tobacco and looked behind him expecting to see someone standing there with a pipe or cigar. There was no one. Maggie stopped and looked at him. The smell was overpowering. He felt like he was choking on the fumes. He reached for his throat. He began to cough. Then the odor disappeared. He looked around again, remembering what the Pastor had said about the tobacco legend.