Stitches In Time (40 page)

"It was the rain," Adam explained, when they finally let him talk. Kara had refused to let him trail mud through
the house, so he had stripped in the pantry and put on the clean clothes Pat hurled at him, along with a few well-chosen adjectives. Kara had added her comments, and even Ruth had said severely, "It was very thoughtless behavior, Adam."

The only one who had not spoken was Rachel, and Adam kept glancing at the sofa where she sat, hands folded, face expressionless.

"I'm really sorry," he said, for the fourth time. "I didn't think you'd even notice I was gone. I expected to be back by midnight, but I had to get right out there, because of the rain."

"Out where?" Pat inquired. His voice was ominously mild.

"The cemetery. Pat, you've got to—"

Rachel was incapable of speech, but Pat seldom suffered from that difficulty, and he was as familiar as she with the literature of the supernatural. His voice rose to a pitch that rattled the windows. "Jesus Christ, Adam! Have you lost your mind? If the newspapers find out about this you'll never get tenure. Desecrating a grave? Tell me that's not what you were doing. Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," Adam said. "Rachel, don't look like that. Did you think ..."

"I'm wrong," Pat repeated.

"Yes. Listen to me, will you, this is important. We've got to stop them. An injunction or a restraining order or something. It's Saturday, but they may—"

"Stop whom from doing what?" Pat took hold of his head with both hands. "No, don't answer that; start at the beginning. Dammit, boy, didn't anybody teach you how to organize a report? God knows I tried!"

"Okay." Adam pondered, his eyes fixed on the cup he held almost hidden in his big hands. "It started the day we went to see Miss Ora's house. The lot next to it was under
construction, or about to be. Mrs. Wilson said it had been sold—the last of the original property to go—and it was a reasonable assumption that the builders were going to put up more little crackerboxes like the other houses on the street."

He stopped to sip his coffee and Pat said impatiently, "You're overdoing the organization. Get to the point."

"Well, I like watching construction crews," Adam said. He sounded meek and looked repentant, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "All those great big machines. So I wandered over to see what they were doing. Had to stretch to look over that high fence. They weren't encouraging rubberneckers.

"Nobody was working that day. The ground was frozen solid, and I suppose the holidays had disrupted the normal work schedule. Something caught my eye, though. They had covered it with a tarp, but there was a strong wind blowing. One corner of the tarp had come loose."

He took a dainty sip of coffee, watching his mentor over the rim of his cup. Pat growled, and Adam continued, "I went back another time for a closer look. What I saw confirmed my hunch, but I didn't have a chance to investigate. The ground was still too hard to dig, and some guy came along and ran me off."

"Dig," Pat repeated. All at once he looked very thoughtful.

Adam put his cup down. There was no sign of suppressed amusement on his face now; it was set and anxious. "It's a cemetery, Pat. An old cemetery. You've got to keep the construction crew away till we can check it out. The State Code says burials must be shown on site plans, but it doesn't demand a preliminary survey. Builders don't like to report finding cemeteries because they know it will halt construction; they have to remove the remains or leave the site undisturbed, and either one could cost them money. There isn't much visible; they could claim they
didn't notice it until afterward, and once it's gone, there's no way—"

"Are you sure?" Pat asked.

The question sounded reasonable to Rachel, but it infuriated Adam. "God damn it, Pat, are you questioning my expertise? I worked at Annapolis and Williamsburg, not to mention Turkey and Guatemala and God knows where else. I know a goddamn cemetery when I see one! I'm an expert on cemeteries!"

"You are," Pat admitted. "I apologize. So you went back last night—I know, I know, it was the rain. Warmer weather, a thaw, the ground softening. If the temperature holds, they could start work next week, after the holidays." He grinned. "So what happened? You got caught?"

"They had a night watchman. Not much of one. He was about this tall." Adam held his flattened palm an improbable three feet above the floor. He went on in an aggrieved voice, "I didn't think he'd come out of his nice comfortable trailer in that filthy weather and in the dark, and I was absorbed in what I was doing, and the rain made so much noise I didn't hear him, and . . . Well, the little son of a gun tackled me."

"A little son of a gun three feet tall overpowered you?" Pat inquired.

"I didn't want to hurt him."

"Oh."

"Anyhow, he had a gun. And as luck would have it, a police cruiser came along while we were arguing. They took me in to the station."

Pat's grin faded. "And you sat there in the slammer all night? Why, for God's sake? Even if they wouldn't release you on your own recognizance you could have called me or Kara, or mentioned Tony, or demanded to see Tom, or—"

"It was late. I didn't want to bother anybody."

I couldn't find a phone, 1 didn't have a quarter, I didn't
want to bother anybody. Rachel wondered if Adam realized how pathetic that excuse sounded: I didn't think anybody would care enough to worry about me. She got up, crossed the room, and slapped Adam resoundingly on the cheek.

"Don't ever do that again!" she shouted.

Adam's face lit up.

"This is stupid," Pat grumbled, resisting Ruth's efforts to help him into his coat. "Everything is closed, it's not only Saturday, it's a holiday weekend. The builders won't be able to start work before Monday, if then."

"It has to be done." Adam's voice was as inflexible as steel. "Five minutes' worth of action from a backhoe or bulldozer and there won't be anything left except rusty nails and rotted scraps of wood."

"And splintered bones," Pat murmured.

"If that. They disintegrate quickly in that kind of soil."

"Oh, all right. I'll give it my best shot. But I'm damned if I'm going to waste the whole day on this. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Don't do anything till I get back! Is that clear?"

"Loud and clear," said Adam.

After he had gone the others sat in silence for a time. Kara was the first to speak.

"Why is this so urgent, Adam? Do you think that old cemetery has some connection with our problem?"

Adam looked at her in surprise. "I'd have done my best to halt construction anyhow, on general principles. But— well, yes, I do think there may be a connection. Remember what Pat said when we were talking about why Rachel should have been affected just now—that there might be another factor we knew nothing about? Work began in that vacant lot a few weeks ago. It disturbed graves that
had been untouched, forgotten, for over a century. No—" he held up his hand, stilling Kara's incipient objection— "let me finish. The connection is unproven, I admit. But that property has been in the same family for three generations or more, and that takes it back a long way. Miss Ora was almost ninety. Her grandfather, who built the house, could have been bo
rn
as early as 1850. The quilts date from approximately the same time, if we can believe Miss Ora's account of their origin."

"Grandpa didn't build the house until about 1890," Kara objected. "Surely the cemetery is older."

"Not only older—abandoned, overgrown, and forgotten by that time. There was a war, remember? I assure you," Adam said soberly, "the Southerners I know remember. A lot of men died in that war, a lot of things were destroyed. But the land itself endured. There must have been an older house on that property. After it had been destroyed, by the ever-popular damn yankees or by natural causes, Grandpa built himself a new house in a new location, but on land that had been part of the original grant—as was the cemetery."

"Wait a minute," Kara said. "There's a gap in your reasoning. What makes you think that land was part of the property that had belonged to Mary Elizabeth's husband? We don't know where the King plantation was located. Gerhardt wasn't related to the Kings, he came from out of state. He needn't have bought the land from them."

"There's a gap," Adam admitted. "But it's not as wide as you think. I can bridge it logically, and if we search in the right places we can probably find the proof."

"Gerhardt was related to the Kings," Rachel said. "Is that it?"

"Foiled again." Adam clapped a dramatic hand to his brow. "
I
keep trying to impress you and you keep anticipating my brilliant deductions."

"Stop being cute," Kara snapped. "The names aren't the same. How could Gerhardt be—"

"By marriage," Rachel said. "It's difficult to free ourselves from traditional patrilineal thinking, isn't it? The quilts came down from mother to daughter. Why not the land, or part of it? In many cases it would pass directly from their fathers to their husbands as part of their dowry, so the deeds wouldn't list their names."

"And," Adam added triumphantly, "don't forget that Mary Elizabeth had only one child—a daughter. Her husband couldn't have married again, he died before she did."

"Died in battle," Ruth murmured.

"Or of dysentery, disease, or unskilled surgery. It wasn't a romantic war for the men who fought it," Adam said soberly. "Point is, if he didn't survive long enough to take a second wife, his only heir would be Mary Elizabeth's daughter. She had to marry somebody; why not a man named Gerhardt?"

"It's logical, but unproven," Kara said stubbornly.

"I don't have to prove it." Adam glowered at her. "I'm not trying to get Mrs. Wilson admitted to the Daughters of the Confederacy, for God's sake. The quilts prove that Miss Ora was descended from Mary Elizabeth. Logic suggests that the house and the cemetery were on part of the King estate. That's enough of a reason why it must be investigated."

"I agree," Ruth said firmly. "Is it possible that Mary Elizabeth herself is buried there?"

"I hardly think so." There was a note in Adam's voice that made Rachel look sharply at him. He shifted uncomfortably. "Do we have to wait for Pat?" he demanded. "We could at least get things set up."

"If there's something you want to do, go ahead," Ruth said placidly. "He'll yell, but you're used to that."

Adam's gloomy face brightened. "I have a few ideas. I'll go get my notes."

"I may as well attend to Alexander before we get started." Kara went out with him.

Despite Ruth's apparent friendliness, Rachel felt a
little
uncomfortable with her. Murmuring an apology, she was about to follow the others when Ruth said, "
I
want to talk to you, Rachel. Do you mind?"

"
I
was just going to finish dressing. I haven't braided my hair—"

"I don't blame you for resenting me."

"I don't," Rachel said. "I understand how you feel."

"Then you are a remarkably forgiving young woman." Ruth smiled wryly. "I've been reluctant to come here because I was ashamed of myself. My reaction was stupid and unthinking. This isn't the same sort of thing we encountered before, I should have known that. We aren't part of this pattern; our involvement is only peripheral and my worries about Pat were absurd."

Rachel wondered what Ruth would say if she knew about the incident Pat had preferred not to describe to his wife. Pat had been right; it had been she, not he, who had reacted abnormally. But an observer, especially a biased observer, might well have interpreted his abrupt movement and her frantic struggles quite differently, and Ruth had good reason to be biased.

Ruth went on. "Distancing myself from the situation for a while may have been a good idea, though. The rest of you are too involved; I think you may have overlooked some of the practical aspects. You're behaving as if the world were coming to an end on Monday afternoon—as if you must resolve the situation by then or give up. That's foolish, you know."

"I must be out of this house before they come back," Rachel said flatly.

"That would probably be best. But you don't have to jump off the edge of the world. Pat will keep digging at
this, I know him, and Adam won't quit either. I suggest you come to us on Monday."

Rachel started to expostulate, but Ruth stopped her with a raised hand. "Hear me out. We can easily think of an excuse that will satisfy Cheryl—Pat needs a knowledgeable assistant to help with his book, you've fallen behind on your work and he's offered to help—something like that. Adam can come too. He usually stays with us during the holidays."

"Holidays?" That word opened up another subject, one that hadn't occurred to Rachel. "But he has a job, hasn't he? He'll have to go back to it."

"Didn't he tell you what he does?"

"I ... never asked." Rachel's eyes fell. "I never even bothered to ask."

"The answer would take some time." Ruth sounded amused. "Adam gets around, as Pat says. He's teaching next semester, but classes don't start till the third week in January. You don't have to decide immediately, Rachel, but think seriously about my suggestion. Whatever you decide, we're not going to let you walk out of our lives."

The last sentence—affectionate, unmistakably sincere— was almost too much for Rachel. Fortunately Kara came back with Alexander in time to keep her from breaking down. It was impossible to be sentimental around Alexander.

She made her escape, leaving Ruth and Kara to bicker amiably about the dog.