Burial Ground Page 19

  “No?”

  “No. I think he was out there looking, just like we were. But if he’d found Absalom actually pilfering a grave, then there’d have been no need to keep looking.”

  “Interesting reasoning,” I said, glancing back over my shoulder at the highway. “Anything else, before we get run over?”

  “He didn’t have a killer’s eyes,” she said in a near undertone.

  “Oh.”

  She eased off the brake and we started forward again. I was thinking of the night on the river and the bullets zinging past my head. Was I right in my analysis? Had Ben missed on purpose, or was he just a lousy shot?

  She turned to face me again: “Alan, we can’t just let them murder him.”

  The car edged toward one of the bluffs on the side of the road and I took a deep breath.

  “Oh? What are we going to do?”

  She jerked the wheel just in time to keep from leaving the roadway.

  “All I can think to do,” she said, “is stop them.”

  My turn to look incredulous. “Stop them?”

  “Yes. We’ve got to keep them from getting to him.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, how are we supposed to do that?”

  “It’s simple. We have to find him first. We have to go back to the island.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  This time we went overland, like we had the first time, taking the trail behind Absalom Moon’s house. We’d made a quick run back to Baton Rouge and I’d changed clothes, filled a couple of canteens, and picked up the Blazer. Marilyn and David, feverishly working on a draft report that was due on Monday, were horrified but I told them the search for Ben Picote was concentrated on the other side of the river, because a boat was missing and the law would figure he was headed for Marksville, his home.

  “But you figure he’ll be on the island,” David said.

  “I think there’s a good chance. He figures his people are buried there and he has some romantic notion.”

  “Last of the Mohicans,” Gator said, grinning like a jack o’lantern. “Look, boss, I’d feel better going.”

  “Thanks but no,” I told him. “He at least knows the two of us. I bring a third and he may figure we’ve turned him in.”

  David consulted his watch. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours,” he said. “After that, it’s the hounds.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  I sensed Marilyn’s eyes burning a hole through my back, no doubt willing some misfortune to “that woman.”

  So now “that woman” and I were back where it had all started, only better provisioned, headed into the forest and toward a rendezvous that I hoped would save a life.

  Stupid me.

  It was easy enough to follow our trail to the point where the track led into the gully. After that, it was a matter of sliding down the clay banks again with the eerie memory of how we’d been pursued. I kept looking back over my shoulder, half-expecting to see a shadow on the banks above, but there was nothing. It was far harder just to keep in front and finally I had to agree to let her take point, at the cost of some male pride.

  But twenty minutes after entering the creek bed we came to the place where we’d slithered out before and clambered up onto the banks. A short stint on a west compass bearing brought us to the edge of the ridge and left us looking out over the floodplain below.

  I lowered my pack to the ground and stretched. I was used to carrying equipment in the field, but this time I had more than the usual load: a jungle hammock in case we got stuck overnight, and a battery lantern. I looked over at Pepper, serene under her own knapsack. She was carrying her own hammock, flashlight, and food, but, by God, she was years younger than I was. It was a galling thought.

  As if reading my mind, she gave me a sweet smile and gestured to the jungle below: “Shall we?”

  And so we did.

  I would like to say that I managed the feat upright and saved her a few broken bones, but the facts are otherwise. I did most of the hillside on my seat, and at one point, at least, was in danger of becoming a human landslide. It was, to be honest, the heavier pack, and I reminded myself as I watched her pick her way down like a mountain goat that she was carrying far less than I was.

  Now, on the floor of the forest, with the fresh-ozone smell of the pines replaced by the stink of decayed vegetation, the only thing between us and the island was the swamp.

  I got up, dusted myself off, and reached for my canteen. Then I saw her eyes on me and decided against it: If she didn’t need a damn drink, neither did I.

  “Would you like to go first?” she asked, and I sensed that it was a concession to my male ego.

  “Ladies first,” I insisted and made a Musketeer sweep with my baseball cap. There was still a chance she’d walk into a hole in the swamp and I’d have to pull her out.

  She grinned and stepped out in front. I followed ten steps behind.

  When we reached the edge of the swamp, she pulled out her compass and waited for the needle to stop.

  “That way,” she said finally. “West by northwest”

  I checked my own compass. “I agree.”

  She stepped into the algae-covered water and I waited a few seconds, then followed.

  We’d crossed this stretch before, of course, but it was impossible to say just where. In the dim light, with the leaning cypress and willows, everything looked alike.

  I watched the water go up to her waist.

  “I’d steer right,” I said.

  “I’m okay,” she said back over her shoulder, and then plunged downward. But at the last second she reached out with her left hand, grabbed a nearby tree trunk, and kept her feet.

  “Watch the hole there,” she said coolly.

  “It’s not the hole I’m worried about,” I said. “It’s the snake a couple of inches from your hand.”

  She turned her head slowly to the left and then cautiously drew her hand back. “It’s just a water snake,” she pronounced. “They’re mean but they aren’t poisonous.”

  Another fifty yards of slogging through the swamp and I felt the ground rising. We came out somewhere not far from where we’d been before, but there was no sign of our tracks. We consulted our compasses again.

  “North by northwest?” she asked. I nodded and we started into the foliage that covered most of the island.

  Was he watching us now?

  Then I told myself I was being histrionic, because, after all, our coming to the island was just a stab in the dark. The sheriff may have been right: Ben Picote might just as well have decided to run for home.

  For that matter, he could have overturned in the river and drowned like the convicts. The convicts … They’d never been found. I was turning the thought over in my mind when Pepper, ahead of me, hacked a final vine with her machete and uttered a sigh of satisfaction.

  I saw the river through the trees.

  Still brown and menacing, with monsters in its depths.

  We came out just below the spot where we’d found Absalom’s body. Tracks showed where the posse had come with its ATVs and there was a muddle of boot prints in the sand. We walked north, up the bank, toward where we’d camped. A bed of charred wood marked where our fire had been and I saw where Ben had run down to the water’s edge, after us.

  I turned to Pepper.

  “So where do we start?”

  “I don’t know. But he’s here, I can feel it.”

  “Good for you. I hope he’s on the same wavelength.”

  Something moved in the corner of my eye, far out on the river. It was a tug pushing a row of barges, and I turned to watch. Was she right? Was Ben really here? Or was he miles away? Even worse, was he somewhere out there, twisting in the muddy depths?

  I started toward the head of the island, where we’d found our own boat. Pepper Courtney wasn’t the only one with feelings: I’d had an odd sensation ever since we crossed the swamp. A feeling that told me we were very close to death.

  The waves created
by the passing barges rippled in and slopped against the sand. I saw the fallen tree ahead and willed myself to keep walking, because the feeling was stronger now and I didn’t know if I was prepared for what I might find.

  A wave lapped over the tree and something rose and fell on the other side. My heart stopped, but I made my feet keep going.

  It had been something brown, like the tree itself, and when I got there I saw what it was: A flat bottomed boat, with a motor lashed firmly to the tree.

  The boat Ben Picote had stolen.

  When I turned to tell Pepper I saw that she had halted twenty feet behind me, rooted in her tracks.

  Because there, between us, a crude spear in one hand, was Ben.

  “What do you want?” he rasped. Mud streaked his orange prison jumpsuit, and his underwear showed white through rips in the fabric. Alone, dirty and hungry, without the rifle, he appeared smaller than I remembered.

  “You look like hell,” I said. “Here, have some water.”

  I reached for my belt to get my canteen, and the homemade spear lowered, toward my gut, but when he saw me unhooking the bottle, he relaxed the weapon. I tossed him the canteen and he caught it with one hand. Eyes going from one of us to the other, he unscrewed the cap and then, as if he couldn’t help himself, raised the canteen and greedily drank.

  Pepper glanced at me and gave a little nod. Ben lowered the canteen and wiped his mouth on a sleeve.

  “Why did you come here?” he asked. “Are you with the law?”

  “We came here to help you,” Pepper said with all the guilelessness of a social worker, and I wondered how many times he’d heard that on the reservation.

  But instead of a riposte, he just stared at her. Finally he said, “Thanks.”

  “The law isn’t far behind, though,” I broke in, letting my pack slide to the ground. “They’ll work their way in this direction without our help. And they’re not likely to read you your rights.”

  “He’s right,” Pepper agreed. “They’ll shoot first and ask questions later. You’ve really got to give yourself up.”

  “Is that why you came here?” he asked, taking another sip. “To get me to go back?”

  “To get you to keep from being killed,” I said. “She’s right, you know: They won’t ask you nicely. They’ll fill you full of holes and drag you back to town by the heels.”

  He sat down suddenly, as if his legs had gone out from under him, and closed his eyes for a long second.

  “Why do you care?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “Because you’re innocent,” Pepper said. “We know you didn’t kill anybody.”

  “No? Maybe I did. Maybe I found that old man digging up one of the graves. I’d kill anybody for that.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I don’t think you did find him doing that. I think you’re as much in the dark as we are about where he was getting those artifacts.”

  “But I can say I killed him for disturbing the graves,” he persisted. “I can say that. And if they killed me then, it would mean something. It would mean I died with honor.”

  “Honor, huh?” I shook my head. “How many people you seen die violently, Ben? Any at all? I saw a lot of men die in Nam. They all had honor. And they’re still dead. Believe me, there’s no honor in death. Just death in death. You want that?”

  He frowned, as if having trouble absorbing my words.

  “It’s better than letting them lock me up in a white man’s prison and then stick a needle in me, like I’m some dog, being put to sleep.”

  “Oh, Christ, cut the drama,” I said. “There aren’t aggravating circumstances, so it wouldn’t ever come to that even if you were convicted, which is damn unlikely. Even a blind lawyer could get you off unless they’ve got a hell of a lot more evidence than I’ve heard about. Just being on the same island as the dead man isn’t proof you killed him.” It sounded good as I said it, but I knew even as the words left my mouth that people had been convicted on less.

  “I still don’t know why you care,” he said. “I shot at you. I tried to kill you when you left.”

  I sighed. “If you’d tried to kill us we’d be dead. We’re here because we’re crazy. How’s that for an excuse? We don’t want to see some kid playing Geronimo find out too late that it’s not a game.”

  “I’m not a kid,” he protested. “At my age, in the old days, a boy was considered a man.”

  “Right. But that was then and this is now. Oh, goddamn it, Ben, stop being obstinate. You made your point. Now let’s get you out of this mess.”

  Ben looked over at Pepper.

  “He’s right,” she said. “We’ll do everything we can to help you. We’ll talk to the sheriff. We’ll hire a lawyer …”

  I flinched as I visualized some shyster attaching my house as payment for defending his client on death row.

  But for a second I thought she’d scored. Then he shook his head.

  “No. I’ll stay here.”

  “Mind telling us why?” I asked.

  “You wouldn’t understand. It’s just that here I can feel them all around, the ones who used to walk this land, the old ones, my ancestors. They’ve been talking to me all along. Do you think that’s crazy?”

  “I’ve got no problem with a vision quest. But the quest is over.”

  He shook his head again. “No. It goes on. The voices tell me what to do, and they’re telling me to stay here, with them. If I die here, then I’ll join them. This is our land, not that reservation across the river. This is where we belong. This is where I mean to stay.”

  I took a step toward him. “Ben …”

  The spear came down, the point inches from my midsection.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, “but I will if you don’t go.”

  Pepper’s hands balled into fists and I could sense her frustration.

  “Get into the boat,” Ben ordered. “I don’t need it anymore. Get in the boat and leave this place. Leave me with the ancestors.”

  “Well, shit,” I said. “Come on, Pepper.”

  “You’re leaving?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Got a better idea?”

  I saw her expression twist into a mask of disgust.

  “How about my canteen?” I asked him. “Mind giving it back?”

  He reached down and handed it toward me. As his hand came forward I drew my own back slightly, making him extend himself, and then, without warning, I reached out, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him forward. He dropped the spear and lashed out with his other hand, catching me a glancing blow to the head, but I managed to twist his arm behind him, and then we toppled forward onto the sand.

  He thrashed under me but I outweighed him and kept my body against his.

  “My pack,” I yelled to Pepper. “There’s a rope in it.”

  She hesitated a second, then made her decision. She reached into my knapsack and came out with a length of nylon cord.

  “Here,” I called and grabbed it with one hand.

  “Goddamn it, let me go,” Ben shouted.

  “Here,” I yelled to Pepper. “He’s too lively for me. You’ll have to tie him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Can you think of any other way to get him back to town without killing him?”

  She looped the rope around one of Ben’s wrists.

  “I’ll kill you,” Ben promised.

  “No, you won’t,” I said. “Tie it, quick.”

  She drew the loop tight and then slipped another length around the other wrist.

  She pulled and all of a sudden, as if sensing the effort was no longer worth it, he gave up. I rolled off him and saw him turn his head away, and I realized he must be crying. I took the rope and made a few more loops around his arms and then dragged him to a sitting position. He buried his head in his chest.

  “You’ll have to carry me,” he threatened. “I won’t walk.”

  I looked over at the little boat. If we could make it upstream to the fe
rry landing at St. Francisville there would be people there to help.

  “Have it your way,” I said. I knotted the rope and then hoisted him half-upright. “Give me a hand,” I told Pepper. “We’ll load him in the boat.”

  She helped me drag him to the vessel. I pulled it up onto the sand and then wrestled him inside, to the center, and motioned for Pepper to help me push it back into the water and maneuver it around parallel to shore.

  All the while he lay unmoving in the bottom and I thought I understood now what was going on: He didn’t really want to die, just to be able to tell himself he’d done all he could. Well, we’d made it possible for him to feel good about himself, but now I was feeling very old and tired.

  I stepped into the stern and Pepper handed me my pack. The outboard was an old Evinrude 25 and I didn’t know how much gas it had left.

  The boat rocked as Pepper got in. I pulled the cord. The engine sputtered, but on the third pull it caught and I nosed the craft out into the stream.

  The first twenty minutes were uneventful. The wind whipped my face, a hot breath filled with the smell of oil and mud. The shore passed agonizingly slowly and I tried to calculate our progress: By my reckoning we hadn’t gone more than a half-mile, staying between the powerful current on the left and the snags and shoals of the shore on our right. The engine probably hadn’t been full when Ben had stolen the boat. He hadn’t used much fuel coming downstream, but there still couldn’t be much left in the tank.

  I cast a leery eye at the woods and swamps on our right and saw the little trail where we’d put in a few days ago. It would be a long walk out with a captive but it was better than drifting… All of a sudden my idea of going upstream to St. Francisville didn’t seem like a very good one at all.

  I looked down at Ben. He lay motionless in the center of the hull, his eyes on my face. He mouthed something but it was lost in the noise of the motor. Pepper pointed at something ahead and I saw that we were coming up on a high bluff, the first of the hills that marked the end of the floodplain. The river made a slight curve here, cutting into the side of the promontory and I felt the increased velocity as the little boat fought the current, coming almost to a halt.