Wolfwraith (7 page)

These graves were the resting places of white men, women and children, though, and he got the impression they had nothing to do with the aura of malice.

A faint whooshing noise penetrated the silence beneath the trees, interrupting his thoughts. He stood quietly and listened. The sound grew louder, and then stopped with a scraping hiss. He recognized the scraping of tires sliding to a stop on a sandy surface. A bicycle. Someone was coming.

Shadow stepped back over the brick foundation, the sensation of evil fading as he cleared the wall. He walked in the other direction as quietly as possible. Twenty yards away, he stepped behind some bushes and crouched down to observe.

A tall man appeared, walking down the trail toward the graveyard. He looked old, his leathery face creased, his hair and beard white. His quick pace and straight back belied the appearance of age, however. Shadow was unsure if he was viewing an old man or a younger individual whose face and hair had been treated harshly by the outdoors. His scarecrow-skinny frame was clad in a long-sleeved red shirt and too-short khaki pants, revealing scrawny lower legs. Hiking boots covered his feet, a floppy olive-drab hat perched on his head, and he carried a pack on his back.

This must be ‘False Cape Frank,’ a regular in the park. Shadow had seen him occasionally at a distance, looking like an ungainly, stilt-legged heron riding a bicycle. Jonesy had mentioned Frank once or twice, saying he was probably an ardent naturalist. Frank would go on at length about the state of the cape’s ecology and how the park was destroying it. This old man looked the part, with a small binocular case and a sheathed knife on his belt. None of the rangers knew much about him, not even if Frank was his real name, but rumor had it that he had lived on the cape in the days before the park.

The newcomer walked directly to the bricks surrounding the church steeple, as though he would step over the wall. Suddenly, he stopped and scanned the surrounding woods with his deep brown eyes. Shadow crouched lower. The old man’s gaze passed over him, apparently without noticing anything.

The oldster turned and stepped away from the old church site. He walked to the irregular cluster of tombstones nearby and Shadow thought the man would stop there but he went on. Twenty yards further on, outside the graveyard proper, sat an old, pitted tombstone Shadow hadn’t noticed before. There, False Cape Frank dropped to his knees, removed his pack and rummaged inside. He removed several rounded white objects from the bag and put them at the base of the grave marker. The old-timer’s hands concealed the items from Shadow’s view. Animal skulls perhaps? Did this old man have something to do with those grisly ornaments on the wall?

Frank carefully arranged the objects in front of the tombstone, then stood. He bowed his head and apparently spent a minute in prayer. Abruptly, he raised his head and looked directly at Shadow, crouching behind the bushes.

“You going to skulk there all day, youngster?” he called. “People don’t generally hide in the woods when they meet other people around here. Sort of makes the party of the second part distrustful of the party of the first part, if you get my drift.”

Abashed, Shadow emerged from cover and walked toward the old man. He was uneasy—embarrassed, actually—realizing he had acted like a fool. Rangers didn’t lurk in the bushes and spy on park visitors.

“Sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t know who was coming and I wanted to find out who has been putting those skulls on the foundation.”

“You’re the new ranger,” the old man said, as though it was a secret they shared. “I’ve seen you around.”

“Shadow Fletcher.” Shadow extended his right hand.

The man ignored it, looking at him closely. “You some sort of Pakistani or something? It’d be just like the damned gub’mint to send in a foreigner.” He turned his head aside and spat.

Shadow ignored the gibe. He wasn’t about to explain who he was to this old geezer. Besides, he was a little taken aback by the odor propelled into his face by the snort—oily and somewhat like the fishy smell of really cheap paint. Sardines!

One of Shadow’s aunts had loved eating them. He had dreaded sitting near her in church, knowing he would have to endure her breath later, when she kissed his cheek in goodbye. How had her husband been able to stand it? Even her farts had smelled like sardines, as he had discovered by standing behind her at an outdoor service for well over an hour. Shadow hated sardines.

“Commonwealth keeps sending them in here what don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.” The white-beard continued his rant. “Never saw one hide in the bushes like a nosy blue jay before, though, and I’ve been traipsin’ these parts since I was a boy.”

“I said I’m sorry, sir.” Shadow was unsure how to address the man, since he hadn’t introduced himself. “There’ve been some odd things happening in the park lately and I had no idea who was coming down the path. I’m looking for a woman. Young. Blonde. Have you seen anyone like that?”

“There’s a girl missing, hah? You’re damned right there’s been some strange things happening,” Frank said. “Those two girls being killed and now you’re looking for another one.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Just what my eyes have told me, Blue Jay. You’re sneaking around in the bushes; the other rangers are searchin’ all over the park. Police helicopter been flying over all day and there’s been something skulking around the park the last few weeks. Vile, it is—up to no good. Add it together and you’re not going to find that girl, not alive anyways. All part of the same skullduggery. Something is out for blood at False Cape.”

“So, what’s up with this mysterious evil presence, in your humble opinion?” Shadow regretted his flippant tone the moment he uttered the words.

False Cape Frank’s eyes flashed. “What’s going on, Mister Blue Jay, is that this land and the spirits of the folks what used to live here are fed up with the way you rangers are bringing city-folk in here to spoil nature. I saw you headed this way and followed you here to talk to you. Thought you might be different since you seem to be at peace with the land, but maybe I was wrong.” He hocked loudly and spat into the bushes. “Doesn’t it bother you the tourists not only come in over the trails, you park people bring them in on a tram—them and their candy wrappers and film boxes? Now you’ve got some infernal contraption to haul them over the beach in the winter, when the land and the animals have a right to rest.”

“You mean the Terra-Gator?” Shadow asked, puzzled. The Terra-Gator was a large, all-terrain vehicle the park had recently acquired to bring in groups of people along the beach or take eco-groups on tours of the park. Why was Frank upset about it?

“Yeah.” Frank spat again. “Saw an article in the paper about it. Might as well build a highway into the cape, and don’t you think they won’t. Pretty soon they’ll be building mansions and golf courses here, if somebody don’t stop them.”

Shadow ignored the ludicrous remark about mansions. He noticed the man avoided spitting toward the steeple or the gravesites. It was obvious Frank considered the cemetery to be hallowed ground. Reminded of the mysterious white articles that appeared to be offerings, Shadow glanced over at the skulls around the churchyard and then looked down toward the grave. Not skulls, but a simple arrangement of seashells. He recognized conch, whelk and sand dollars among others, bleached white by sun and salt. His eyes traveled up the rough, eroded surface of the grave marker and read the name, the edges of the letters softened by the years. Mamie Bunch.

“Not many flowers around here this time of year,” Frank answered the question posed by Shadow’s observation. “Shells are just as pretty and last a hell of a lot longer.”

“Why this grave?”

“Ain’t none of your business, Mister Blue Jay.” Frank shook his fist in the air. “As a matter of fact, ain’t nothin’ happens here in Wash Woods any of your business but I’m gonna tell you something, for your own good. The bedamned tourists need to stop coming here. They’re making the land angry. It’s the spirits of False Cape that done in them three girls. You mark my words on that.”

Shadow was not surprised at the talk of spirits inhabiting the land, he’d vaguely felt them himself. He had always been aware of the ghosts of the past, no matter where he was in the world. People left an ephemeral trace of themselves behind, no matter where they lived. Even when sleeping in a barracks, he had sensed those who had manned the bunks before him. They weren’t “his” spirits, since they were not of Native American origin, but he could still faintly pick them up and they were not threatening. The spirits Shadow had perceived here, in False Cape, had also manifested a benign attitude, at least until he’d found the dead girl.

“What do you mean ‘three girls?’” he asked. “How can you know anything about this latest one? She’s just gone missing.”

“She’s dead all right. Don’t you doubt it,” Frank answered. “And there’ll be more killings if you rangers don’t stop treating this land like a tourist attraction. You and your bedamned tram and Terra-Whatever.”

“Are you suggesting those first two girls were murdered? And that the other one is dead, too? What do you know about it?”

“I don’t
know
anything about it. I just feel it, that’s all. And I’ve said all I’m gonna say to you, Blue Jay.” The man turned as if to leave, but then spun back. “But I’ll tell you one other thing, just so you don’t feel like you have to keep sneaking around here. It was me what put those skulls on the wall.”

“Why?”

False Cape Frank glared. “To keep folks away. To protect this place from developers and such.”

Shadow started to reply but the man had again turned and was walking away, moving like an animated science-class skeleton in clothing. Shadow stepped forward a bit to get a better view between the trees and watched the old man pluck a bicycle from behind some bushes and carry it out of the grove.

Strange. Why would the man hide a bike in the bushes instead of parking it near the road? Perhaps he was afraid it would be stolen? No, thievery had never been a problem in the park.

Just another sign he’d been talking to a crazy old coot, Shadow decided. Then again, what made False Cape Frank sure the latest missing girl was dead? Looney or not, was the old man able to feel the presence of something not natural to the cape, as Shadow did?

Then, from beyond the grove, he heard Frank begin to sing in a scratchy, falsetto voice, “Feelings! Nothing more than feelings...”

As the poorly-rendered song faded into the distance, Shadow became even more certain the old man was a certifiable nutcase.

Chapter Five

Frank been telling you ghost stories?

The search for Amanda Gordon went no further, since they found no evidence she’d ever reached the park. The police learned she occasionally went away for a few days without telling anyone and there was a good chance she was doing so again. The rangers at False Cape were merely asked to watch for any sign of her that might turn up.

Shadow could not easily let it go. His conversation with False Cape Frank still haunted him. How had the old man known there was a girl missing? Was he really intuitive, or was it only that he had seen the helicopter patrolling and noticed the rangers on the move more than usual? Maybe he’d just been trying to get a rise out of the new ranger, but he’d seemed to know too much.

Shadow continued to search the more remote areas when he could to get away from his normal duties. He called the local police precinct and talked to the officer who had taken the missing person report and even phoned Amanda Gordon’s boyfriend, asking if she normally ran the same route. She did, twelve miles down the beach to North Carolina and back—a long distance, but not abnormal for a marathon runner.

Three days later, Shadow got the job of driving a group of tourists into the park aboard the Terra-Gator. It would be only his third time driving the huge vehicle. The rangers assigned to False Cape were required to operate the tractor-truck in rotation to become familiar with it. It made him feel like a heavy equipment operator in training. Besides, like False Cape Frank, he felt such a noisy behemoth to be an intrusion on the beauty of the cape. His only consolation was Jonesy would be going along to give the group a dose of Southern hospitality.

The two men left Wash Woods a little after seven a.m. and went north along the beach in Shadow’s four-wheel-drive truck. He mentioned his encounter with False Cape Frank and asked Jonesy for his opinion.

“He’s an odd old bird,” Jonesy said. “Frank Waterfield is his real name. He’s from the cape; a whole lot of Waterfields used to live here. He’s been traipsin’ around here so long, the rangers started calling him False Cape Frank.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Not much, though I’ve talked to him dozens of times in the last few years. Hmm...” Jonesy tugged at his ear, thinking. “He used to be an engineer or surveyor, maybe, though I’m guessing he’s retired. I saw him a couple of times recently when he was carrying a surveyors’ telescope—a transit, I guess you call it—on his bike. Maybe I’m wrong; it could have been a scope for bird watching. Sometimes he’s pretty sharp. Other times, you’d think he lives in the Land of Oz. He acts like he’d rather be living in the nineteenth century.”

“Has he ever mentioned closing the park to you?”

“Oh, yeah.” Clucking his tongue, Jonesy shook his head. “He hates tourists and wants the park to be shut down so it can go back to a totally natural state. I always figured he likes animals more than people. He tried to talk me out of volunteering for the park. ‘Aiding and abetting the enemy,’ he called it.”