HOMOSASSA SHADOWS (23 page)

“Yeah, I heard he’d been arrested. Too bad they’ve let him go,” Grif settled back in his chair. “I’ll take you to Annie’s before we go. We’ll stop and ask the marine patrol about your boat.”

In the bathroom Brandy washed her face, gave her hair a few flips with the curling iron, and applied foundation cream and lipstick. Grif s offer, she told herself, was the only way to get to the Seminole camp now that she didn’t have her own boat. Besides, she wouldn’t go anywhere in Homosassa again alone.

When she lurched back toward the porch, Grif sprang out of his chair, came into the living room, and grasped her arm. “Here, let me help. You need the crutches.”

“My ankle’s just sprained,” Brandy said.

He knelt to inspect the bandage, then ran his hand slowly up her leg, pushed closer, gently forced her against the wall. “You wanted me to do that. I can tell.” For the second time she felt his body against her, strong, urgent. He leaned forward and his lips touched hers, pressed harder. The electric current made her gasp. Her hands went to his shoulders to push him away. He did not remove her arms as John had.

“You’ve been neglected,” he said into her hair. “Let me put things right.” Brandy was shaking her head when the phone rang.

“Let it go,” Grif said, again pulling her toward him. “Let’s get more comfortable.” She felt giddy. He was not like John. John had turned away.

The phone shrilled again. “I told you before, I can’t,” she murmured. “That call could be the Sheriff s Office, or Annie. It’s important.”

His hands tightened on her arms. “So is this.” He tried to turn her toward the bedroom door. His strength surprised her.

For the moment she felt awkward. Her voice rose. “I said, I can’t.” She tried to raise her hands, to back away. He held her for a few seconds more, in control. Then he stepped aside while she stumbled into the kitchen and picked up the phone. She would have bruises on her arms. She wondered, from passion or temper? Maybe she led him on. She might be the one responsible.

“Brandy?” The low voice on the phone was Annie’s. “Are you all right? We heard you fell into the old Flint cistern.” The marina attendant was still running his mouth. It was understandable. Until now, not much excitement in Homosassa.

“I’m okay now. Any news?”

Daria had been missing a full three days. Annie paused and her voice shook. “No news. I called because I’m leaving the island. I’m going home to Tampa.” She halted again. “Fishhawk has to go tomorrow, too, but he wants to stay tonight. Wherever Daria is, it isn’t here.” Apparently, the Sheriff’s Office had found no clue at the Flint house, at least nothing shared with the parents.

Brandy ached for the sorrow in Annie’s voice. “I’m coming out there in about half an hour,” she said.

The Seminole mother seemed to rally. “I need to return your cell. Fish-hawk charged it in town this morning. We got your message yesterday. Sorry we missed you.”

Brandy realized she had written down where she was going when she left their camp. She wondered why Fishhawk was intent on staying as long as he could if Daria was not on the island. Was he still searching for something besides his little daughter, or protecting what he had already found? But he had to be in Tampa for the re-burial ceremony. Grif couldn’t continue indefinitely to hold the Safety Harbor girl’s bones.

When she hung up the phone, Grif still lounged in the kitchen doorway. “You’re slippery.” He grinned. “But the time will come.”

She came toward him, braced herself against the door frame, and limped past. “No misunderstandings, my friend. I’ve got to stay focused.” He followed while she moved on to the screen porch, picked up the crutches, and leaned on them as she stepped into the carport. “Besides, I owe John,” she added. “He did come looking for me. He did pull me out of the cistern. I need to talk to him.” She stooped and gave Meg a loving pat, then made her slow way to Grif s van.

When they drove to the marina, the attendant at the pump grinned, waved, and flashed a thumbs up. Brandy gave him a taut smile, climbed aboard Grif s pontoon boat, and found a seat among the boxes, screens, and trowels. Grif gunned the engine and the boat spurted into the river. She’d given the attendant more fodder for gossip.

As they neared Tiger Tail Island they could see Alma May tying her boat to the dock, while Melba, unnaturally stooped, reached for the railing. Grif idled in next to them. Beyond the canal Brandy could see a Sheriff s Office boat drawn up to the bank. Further away an officer stood near the cistern, encircled by yellow crime scene tape.

Alma straightened up and tossed her head in the direction of the officer. “Durn fools, banging on my door at the crack of dawn. Like we knew what was going on over there last night.”

Grif called to her. “Hear a commotion?”

Alma May shrugged. “Boat or two went by. Not unusual. Night fishermen, I reckon.” She looked Brandy up and down, her smile forced. “We cain’t seem to get shut of them Indians. Reckon we cain’t get shut of reporters, either.”

Brandy said nothing. As Melba stepped out onto the dock, her appearance shocked her. Gone was the imperial set of the shoulders, the regal assurance on the hawk face. Brandy thought she detected a dark bruise on one high cheekbone. She looked drawn, her eyes hollow. She was taking nervous drags on a slender cigarette. For a few seconds she stared at Brandy and Grif. Then she swiveled around, stepped to one side and peered into the back yard before walking, head down, toward the front door after her friend. It was unlike her to be so silent. Brandy wondered where Melba had been the night before. Something or someone had frightened her. Surely she was accustomed to Tugboat.

It was only 9:00 A.M., so the two had been out early. Before she re-joined Melba, Alma May swung around to face them. “Just remember,” she said firmly, “Anything found on my property belongs to me.”

As Grif pushed the throttle forward to start down the creek, Brandy glanced back at the house. Through the thick stands of palmettos and shrub oaks she saw motion, watched as a tall, heavy man’s figure, crouching down, moved toward the back door.

Brandy leaned toward Grif. “I’m glad the law is around. I think Tugboat’s here.”

CHAPTER 15
 

The young deputy standing beside the yellow crime tape looked familiar to Brandy. As she wobbled on her crutches to the bow of Grif s boat, he raised his cap and settled it again on his sandy hair. He was the officer who came when she discovered Hart’s body.

“The reporter lady,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he had anticipated her rising from the creek. “Hear you had a rough night here.”

Brandy flashed back to that black hole, the spiders, her helplessness, and felt a sudden constriction in her throat. “Yes, I did, Deputy.”

“The guys who searched for the little girl say the lid was in place when they were here. Might be prints on the lid. It’s a long shot on wood. Not slick enough.” The deputy suddenly grinned. “Got news for you, though,” he said. “The Marine Patrol located your pontoon boat earlier this morning. Stashed in a dead end creek off the Salt River.”

Grif gave a knowing shake to his head. “It figures. That wouldn’t be far from the Little Homosassa and Tugboat’s shack near the mound.”

“Damaged?” Brandy asked.

“Not that they said. Been drained of gas. The officers towed it up river to the first marina. They’ve got to take it out of the water. Detectives need to check it over for prints or anything else. Maybe they can identify the perp who shut you in the cistern. You can collect it in a few days.”

No reason, she decided, to explain she wouldn’t be in Homosassa then. She’d tell Sergeant Strong when he called back. Brandy thought of the nineteenth century Seminole pouch, stored none-too-safely under her pillow. “If you talk to Sergeant Strong, please say I need to see him.” She waved to the deputy and threaded her way between boxes and screens to the rear bench. As Grif backed around and started up Petty Creek, she said, “Good news, at last, finding my boat. Now, if someone would just find Daria.”

And yet Brandy felt a vague unease. Why wasn’t her boat sunk? Whoever shut her into the cistern to die surely wouldn’t want her deserted boat found already. Everyone in Homosassa knew air boat rides routinely cruised that area. Still, high saw grass blocked a view of the backwater from the Salt River, and a pontoon was hard to scuttle. The perpetrator had been in a great hurry. Plainly, Grif pegged the villain as Tugboat, the monster on the island. Two days ago Tugboat was afraid she’d tell the Sheriff about his cocaine operation, but she had already done that. Why go after her last night? If he did, he must think Brandy could testify against him, or knew something—or had something that she didn’t. The pouch wasn’t the main prize, but its former contents might be worth killing for.

By the time they pulled the boat ashore at the south end of Tiger Tail Island, a cloud bank was rolling in from the Gulf. The Seminole camp seemed dark and silent without little Daria’s piping treble. They slogged up the trail almost to the chickee before Annie spotted them and came listlessly forward. Brandy leaned her crutches against a palmetto, held out her hands, and clasped Annie’s moist palms in hers.

“Still no news,” Annie said. Tears glistened on her brown cheeks. Then she glanced at Brandy’s crutches. “Sure you’re okay?”

Brandy nodded, wondering how much Fishhawk and Annie knew about last night. No one should know about the pouch, unless John had talked and word has spread. He didn’t understand its full significance.

Annie reached for the crutches and handed them to her. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure you were looking for Daria, but the Sheriff s men already combed the island.” She glanced for a painful moment at the empty brush pen. “We’re packing up. Fishhawk’s taking me into Homosassa. Some friends will drive me home this afternoon. I can’t stay here another night. The Sheriff s Office said they’d be in constant touch. The divers and the helicopter didn’t find a trace. Officers and volunteers tramped all over the island and up and down the river. Not a sign of her.”

Annie wore a soiled white shirt and her jeans were grass stained. Brandy knew they had no way on the island to keep themselves or their things clean.

Annie stared back at the hammock. “She just vanished. Maybe Fish-hawk’s right. Maybe there is a witch.”

The shadows of clouds crept over the camp site. Brandy glanced at the deserted sweat lodge across from Daria’s little corral and at the trail leading through the cabbage palms and cedars. She did not see the other Seminole. “When is Fishhawk leaving?”

Then, he was there—emerged, she supposed, from behind the chickee. He stood tall, knees braced, hands quiet at his sides, expression hard to read—grief mixed with some other emotion, Brandy couldn’t decide what. From a small cloth bag tied around his neck came the spicy scent of herbs. Ever the medicine man, Brandy thought. He did not look at her, but faced Grif who lingered in the trail behind her.

Brandy turned again to Annie. “You haven’t heard from Sergeant Strong today?”

Her sad eyes looked into Brandy’s. “He’ll call if they find.” she paused, choking on the words—”anything at all.” Then, as if to hide tears, she turned, reached into a basket on the chickee platform, and handed Brandy her cell phone. “Thanks. I did use it.”

“You’re welcome,” Brandy said. “I’m sorry I can’t leave it with you, but the Sheriff s Office might call.”

A sudden scowl darkened Fishhawk’s square face. “I wish you’d tell the big detective to back off,” he said, his lips scarcely moving. “The law’s scaring away the witch who has her. If the deputies left us alone, I could get Daria back. I don’t need their help.”

Annie’s eyes filled again. With trembling fingers, she pushed lank, black hair from her forehead. “I think we need the law’s help,” she said softly.

Grif eased closer. Brandy thought he meant to lay a sympathetic hand on Fishhawk’s arm, but he seemed to think better of it and put his hand in his pocket. “She’s all right somewhere,” he said, “or they’d have found her.

Sorry, pal, but I need to pull you away, too, at least for now. You’ve got that burial in Tampa. I can’t keep holding those bones. I’ll be in trouble with the state and the Graves and Repatriation Act. You know that better than anyone.”

The muscles in Fishhawk’s face tensed. “I’m ready. I’m driving the pickup back tomorrow. We’ll do the ceremony the next day, Sunday morning. I’m going to wait here through tonight. I need to clean up.”

Clean up the area, Brandy wondered, or search for something besides Daria when Annie wasn’t around?

“We’ll meet at the Seminole Cultural Center. I’ll call and tell them to prepare,” Fishhawk was saying, his voice flat. “The cemetery’s only a few miles from there.” Something strange played across his features, dragged down his lips, gleamed in his black eyes, maybe anger. From a scrub oak beside the creek Brandy heard the shrill cry of a heron. Above the jagged cedars and palms an osprey sailed on the hunt. The male of the pair Brandy had watched had proved a better guardian of his young than Fish-hawk. She wondered if he had used the medicine bag, and if Fishhawk would bring it to the ceremony. One thing she knew; she would never be told what role it played when the bones were finally buried.

“No problem,” Grif said. “This afternoon I’m going to Gainesville. I’ve got to drop off the pottery the anthropology division wants to see. The registrar’s arranged for it to be fumigated today.” He looked down toward the creek. Brandy knew they must leave if he had to keep an afternoon appointment. It would take an hour and a half to drive to Gainesville. Grif turned to Fishhawk, his voice now insistent. “Tomorrow I’ll bring the skeleton to Tampa in the van, maybe late afternoon. It’s stowed in an airtight container. Nobody will see it, let alone touch it, until you do your thing the next morning. You can bury it in the same plastic container, as is, if you like. Before the ceremony, I’ll help.”

Brandy knew the ritual would be private. Whites could not be witnesses. Fishhawk’s dark eyes swept over them both. “I’m coming back here,” he said, his voice tight, “just as soon as I’ve done my part.”

Brandy felt daring. “And what happens to the witch on the island?” she asked.