The Rosewood Casket (37 page)

He lowered the light and sat back against the wall for a moment, trying to decide what to do next. Maybe he should have let Knoxville send the Special Operation Squad, but he didn’t think they’d have had any better luck getting her to surrender. It was up to him now, and he had to find out if she was in the back cavern—and if she was still alive.

He motioned for the young cop to come forward. “I’m going in there. There’s a pit in the center of the chamber, and she may have fallen down there. Keep your light in readiness, but don’t turn it on unless you have to. And cover me.”

“You’re going into that hole?”

“Not unless I have to. I have to check it out, though.”

He edged forward. Still keeping the light to one side, but he thought that was a futile gesture. In the confined space of the cave, the three-cell light gave off enough of a glow to reveal his position. He might as well shine it on his face. Why pretend that he had the advantage of surprise. “Are you in here, Dovey?” he asked in a conversational tone. “You’ve got a lot of heart if you are. ’Cause I sure as hell hate this place.”

“We always did, too.”

Her voice was calm, as casual as his. There was a slight echo in the cavern, but he could tell that the sound came from behind the rocks at the far end of the chamber. She sounded weary. “We found this cave when we were kids. We played pioneer out in these woods, looking for the Boone tree, and we came in here a time or two, but there was always something about the place that made us uneasy. We never saw any snakes, but it felt like … like a snake crawling across your foot, just being here.”

“Tell me about it,” muttered LeDonne. He had reached the edge of the pit, braced himself against a rock, and directed the light down into the darkness below. He saw an old wooden ladder propped up against the side of the hole, which looked no more than eight or nine feet deep. There was no shine of water reflected in the beam of light: dry, then. He saw what looked like a clump of rags near some rocks in the pit, and a scattering of small bones, too small to be human. The remains of a bear’s dinner, perhaps? An old Indian campsite? He called out to Dovey, “Where’d you get the ladder?”

“It was here. We never went in this part of the cave when we were kids. It was blocked up. I didn’t go down there. Looks like a snake pit to me.”

“Too deep for that.” LeDonne marveled that they were talking like two hikers meeting on a trail. Dovey Stallard was hidden by darkness and by the boulders at the far end of the cavern, but he was conversing with her in something approaching a normal tone of voice. They were talking about childhood memories—not the phony dialogue of negotiator and fugitive, but real talk. He tried not to think about the fact that she probably had a gun aimed at his head.

“There’s something down in this hole,” he said, peering over the side of the pit. “I’d like to check it out sometime. But right now what I’d really like is to get out of here. I don’t care for small dark places. You want to come out now so we can leave?”

“You’re scared?” She sounded amused.

“Caves bring back bad memories for me,” he said. “And futility makes me antsy. Look, there’s no back way out of this place, is there? No—’cause you’re still here. So why are we postponing the inevitable, Dovey? Why can’t we just walk out of here?”

“Because if I walk out of here, we lose. My father and I. We lose the land. And we don’t deserve to have that happen. My father has worked hard all his life on that farm. We never took charity from anybody. It shouldn’t end like this.”

“Maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe you should come out so that you can keep fighting.”

There was a long pause before she said, “I’m tired.”

“So am I,” said LeDonne. “Let’s go home. Please.”

“Two against one?” She was wary now.

It’s supposed to be a lot more than that, LeDonne thought, but he could sense her weakening. She wanted to trust him, to let it be over. The two of them were communicating. They could work it out. Perhaps one more small show of faith was all it would take. “You can go, Officer,” he said to his backup, loudly, so that she could hear him.

In the darkness he heard the kid gasp. “Sir, we’re not supposed to—”

“On my authority. Go out now. Tell them everything is all right.”

Another long pause. Then the young officer muttered, “Whatever you say, sir.” He scrambled for the opening that led to the outer chamber, dislodging rocks, and cursing softly as he went.

When his footsteps had died away, LeDonne said, “All right. Now it’s you and me.”

Dovey Stallard said, “Dwayne Stargill was a lot like you. He didn’t play by the rules either.”

“Dwayne?”

“The wild one. Younger than Robert and Charlie, older than Garrett and Clayt. I married him—a long time ago. He’s dead now.” She sounded weary. “I never did have a lick of sense. Clayt was worth ten of him.”

“It’s not too late,” said LeDonne. “Come out, and we’ll go find Clayt. He’s worried about you.”

“I think you’re more my type.” There was bitter amusement in her voice. “I think you understand me better than Clayt ever would.”

“I’ve done some fool things in my time,” said LeDonne. “I try to put them right, though. It’s all we can do, isn’t it?”

Silence.

“I could help you put things right again, Dovey.”

He heard a slow, deep sigh.

“All right. I’m coming out.” She stood up then, a long shadow against the wall of the cave. LeDonne was still kneeling at the edge of the pit, holding the flashlight at his side, careful not to shine it in her face. He watched her emerge from the darkness, hands at her sides, and in that split second he saw the pistol in her hand, as she leveled it at him. He froze, caught in the light, knowing that he did not have time to fire first.

Two snapping sounds, like firecrackers. LeDonne threw the flashlight away from him, and rolled sideways on the dirt floor, feeling sharp bits of rock cutting into his flesh. He waited for the searing pain to tell him where he was hit, but there was no sensation except coldness and the spurt of fear. Then the adrenaline kicked in, and his body went into the old familiar combat high, with no sensation of danger to himself.

The light had fallen into the pit, but in its glow he could see her outline against the rocks.

It was happening in slow motion for him, the way a firefight always had—in the seconds that it had taken for him to drop the light and fall, to pull his pistol from his holster and point it in her direction. No time to aim—just squeeze off round after round until the shadow falls.

All in slow motion.

He felt that he had all the time in the world—to tell her that he was sorry, that if it had been his farm, maybe he would have done just what she did. He thought about the shots ricocheting off the rock and coming back at him. He wished he could see Dovey Stallard’s face, but then maybe it was better that he hadn’t. He wondered how you could hate somebody and love them at the same time.
You understand me better than Clayt ever would.
Hell, yes, he understood her. And if she hadn’t shot Spencer, he would have let her get away. Whatever that was worth. For an instant he could even see himself taking off with her. If only she hadn’t shot Spencer.… All these thoughts in a jumble of seconds between the snapping sounds from his pistol. Maybe five heartbeats.

It took five heartbeats more for him to realize that the only sound in the cavern was the discharge of his weapon, and the echoes.

Dovey Stallard was falling forward, the gun tumbling from her hand.

He lay there, motionless and staring, with his weapon pointed at the bare rock. He waited for some sound, some movement. But all was still.

Finally he struggled upright, and edged along the floor toward Dovey Stallard’s body. He couldn’t see plainly enough to tell where she was hit, but he touched her neck for a pulse and found none.

LeDonne holstered his weapon and sat there for what seemed like a long time, absently stroking her hair. But he didn’t say he was sorry.

After what seemed like minutes in slow motion, LeDonne felt a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right, sir?”

The kid. LeDonne had forgotten all about him. He must have come back in after he heard the shots. Now he skirted the edge of the pit, and kicked the gun away from Dovey Stallard’s outstretched hand.

LeDonne stood up, taking stock of himself. “I’m okay,” he muttered. “Just bruised some. We need an ambulance. I think she’s dead, though.”

“You got her.” The young officer was kneeling beside the body, checking for vital signs. He shrugged. “Suicide by cop. I guess she wanted it this way.” He sounded shaken. “You okay with this, sir?”

“Yeah.” LeDonne didn’t seem particularly upset by the chain of events. Philosophical, perhaps; detached—as if the past few minutes had happened on a television show he was watching. Or perhaps it hadn’t sunk in yet, and his emotions would catch up with him later.

“Well,” the young officer said. “At least it’s over.”

LeDonne was silent.
Had
she wanted it this way? Or had she intended to kill him and try to escape outside? Perhaps in her weariness she had even forgotten when she came toward him that the pistol was in her hand, and he had killed her for nothing. He would never know.

LeDonne stood up, and stumbled toward the opening of the passage. He had to get out of here now. He could feel his throat tighten, and his stomach begin to heave. It wasn’t over. He knew that it would be happening again often enough. Every time he closed his eyes for a long, long time.

*   *   *

Clayt Stargill’s arms ached, and the cold mountain air chilled his lungs, but he had made it. He could see the lights of the farmhouse in the distance. He straightened his shoulders. Kayla was still sleeping, mostly from exhaustion, he’d decided. He could feel her warm breath on his neck, and every now and again she’d give a little moan that might have meant a bad dream. “It’s over now, honey,” he murmured, trudging on toward the lights. “I got you home.”

Kelley Johnson opened the door herself. He wondered if she had been staring out the kitchen window, waiting for some sign of her daughter’s fate. Her cheeks glistened with tears, and she held out her arms without a word.

“She’s heavy,” whispered Clayt. “I’ll take her up to bed.”

“No. Not yet. Can you put her on the sofa. I—I want to look at her.”

He smiled. “Sure.”

She followed him, taking a lap rug from the armchair, and spreading it over the sleeping child. “Should we call a doctor?”

“Nothing wrong with her that a bath won’t fix, but it can wait. I’d let her sleep now.” He looked around. The house was quieter than it had been in days. “Where is everybody?”

“Gone,” she told him. “Lilah came in and made some cocoa—it’s on the stove if you want some—and then she went back out in the barn with Robert Lee. Charles Martin took Debba to the bus station. She’s going home, and then he was going to—oh!” Her eyes widened, and she looked up at him with fresh tears. “You don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“He was going to the hospital. Your father passed away.”

Clayt sat down on the sofa beside the sleeping child. He took a deep breath, and straightened the comforter around Kayla’s shoulders with exaggerated care. At last he said, “Well, I guess he’s at peace now.”

Without replying, Kelley went into the kitchen and poured him a cup of cocoa. She handed it to him, and sat in the armchair beside the sofa. “What happened out there?”

He shrugged. “It isn’t over yet. Or it wasn’t, when I started back. She’s hiding in a cave where we used to play as kids. I found her, and she sent Kayla back with me. Maybe she can get away when it’s morning.”

She could tell from the way he said it that it wasn’t going to happen that way. “You didn’t tell them where she was?”

“No. I kept thinking I’d bring Kayla back and then go out again and try to talk her into coming out, but it wouldn’t be any use. I said all there was to say, and she wouldn’t listen. She never would.”

Kelley nodded. “At least you tried.”

“Yes. I tried for a long time.”

“I know how that is,” said Kelley. The silence went on for a while. “Thank you for getting my baby back, Clayt.”

He smiled and touched the child’s tangled hair. “She’s a great kid. Smart as all get-out.”

“She likes you, too.”

“Yeah, she’s got a real feel for the woods, you know. Like she belongs here. She’s learning her bird species faster than I did. I wish—”

Kelley waited for him to finish the sentence, but he never did. Just sat there looking down at the sleeping Kayla, as if he had forgotten she was there.

*   *   *

Nora Bonesteel had not been five years old in more than seventy years.

Tonight she was alone in her house on the mountain. It was past midnight, and she had been awakened by the familiar sound that she had grown to dread. The knocking. She stood still in the dim light of the front hall, with her hands pressed against the lock of the front door.

The knocking began again.

“You can’t come in, Fayre,” she said softly. “I know you’re lonesome out there, but—it won’t be long now.” She sighed, picturing the tiny fair-haired girl she had once befriended, and said, as she had said so often over the years, “I can’t play with you anymore.”

Grandma Flossie had told her that if she left Fayre alone, the dead child might find the way to wherever she was meant to go, but it had not happened. Every now and again—Nora could never find a pattern in it—the child would come back, wanting little Nora to come out and play.

“I did the best I could for you,” Nora whispered. “When I knew that Randall was dying, I even took a ladder and went to the cave to get you, so that you and Randall could rest together.”

The knocking came again. “Nora! Are you there? It’s Jane Arrowood. Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

“Well,” said Nora Bonesteel. She opened the door and saw her friend standing on the porch, shivering in her rumpled black coat. “Jane! What are you doing on the mountain at this time of an evening?”

“I didn’t want to go home to an empty house,” said Jane. “I’ve just come from the hospital. Spencer has been shot.”