Blood Ties (13 page)

"I did. Two days after ..." His thin lips firmed. "You
have so much of your mother in you. You fit in out
there, more than I ever could. But don't forget who
you are. Don't forget what people you come from."

"Republicans?"

He frowned, squelching her pitiful attempt at humor.

"Dad. I can't be what you want."

He glanced at his watch. "Make that twenty-three
minutes."

It had been longer than half a day; it had been hours
and hours. Abbie didn't know what time it was. She
didn't have a stitch on. And there were more Lenape
women packed inside the log sweat lodge on Grandmother Willow's back forty acres than she could have
thought possible. Abbie had had nothing to eat
since the bite of pie she'd snatched before jumping
in the shower and nothing to drink but warm spring
water.

She felt empty, light, as though the natural laws of
gravity had temporarily ceased to exist. She hung suspended, somewhere between grief and acceptance.

Someone threw water on the heated rocks and
steam swirled up, filling the lodge, making it harder to
breathe. Chanting filled Abbie's head. Her Aunt Nettie began to play her flute; high, haunting, primeval
notes seeped into her blood and bones. Drums and
rattles joined in-rattles made from the shells of turtles, painted gourd rattles, and rattles fashioned from
deer hooves. Naked bodies pressed close around her.
Once, Abbie was certain she felt the brush of wings
against her bare skin and heard an owl hoot.

Her Aunt Kate knew only a few words of the old
language, but she had a voice as sweet and pure as
wild honey. The singing embraced Abbie and lifted
her to another place, dulling the knife-edge of raw
aching, filling her with strength and resolution. And
when Grandmother Willow took her hand and led
her outside into the starlit night, Abbie made no
protest.

The elderly woman's words were barely whispers as she touched Abbie from the crown of her head to her
naked feet with a bundle of herbs and painted her face
with ocher made from crushed rock. Younger hands
turned her round and round, and two of her cousins
linked hands with hers and they waded together into a
swift-running creek.

"You have to duck under," Diana urged.

Hannah, younger, shivered. "It's really cold."

The water felt freezing to Abbie, and she had to remind herself that it was July, not November. She felt
the cold more due to the sudden change in temperature from the heated interior of the sweat lodge.

"All the way," Diana said.

Abbie plunged in. The next thing she realized, she
was standing on the bank again. She must have waded
out of the creek, but she didn't remember it. Someone
tucked a wool blanket around her shoulders. It was
warm and scratchy and felt like a grandmother's hug.
The drums and voices faded, and she was alone, sitting
on the grass watching the stars. Had they ever been so
close before? So bright?

A calf bawled in the distance. She heard the rustle
of the wind through the branches of the trees. She
heard the rush of the water. And suddenly she felt the
presence of her mother. For the first time, tears welled
in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

"Anati?"

No answer. No sound but a cricket's piercing chirp.

Emotion filled her. She reached out. "Anati? Are
you there?"

And then, as quickly as she had come, she was gone.

"You cannot follow her," Grandmother Willow said.

Abbie wondered where the old woman had come
from.

"Some day, but not now. It is not your time."

"It isn't fair!" Abbie cried. "She was young. She
never hurt anybody."

"What is fair?" Grandmother Willow gasped, began
to tremble, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
"Blood." Her voice deepened to that of ayoung man's,
sending an icy chill down Abbie's spine. "The
earth ... is soaked with blood."

"The street where my mother was murdered?"

"Ku."

No. The Algonquian word rang into the night.
"Grandmother..."

The old woman moaned, began to rock back and
forth. "I feel a twisted spirit ... powerful ... evil. He
hunts the night."

Abbie's eyes widened. In the dark, Grandmother
Willow's features seemed distorted-harsher, younger,
almost masculine.

"The marsh where we've been digging? Is that what
you see? They say it's cursed."

"Evil," willow repeated. "His bones are dust ... yet
he walks ... seeking strength from the living. Take
care."

"Stop it!" Abbie cried. "Stop." She gripped Grandmother Willow's bony arm.

"I hear weeping. Three. Three more..." The
strength seemed to go out of her and she went limp,
collapsing like a puppet with cut strings.

"Grandmother!" Abbie caught her frail body and
lowered her to the ground. Her eyes were wide
open-shell eyes, white and glazed in the moonlight.
"Grandmother!"

Her wrinkled lips moved, and Abbie leaned close to
hear her whisper, no longer that of a strong man but
that of an old, old woman. "Three more will die."

"Who? Who will die?"

"Take ..." She was shivering now, her skin cold to
the touch. "Take ... care ..."

As she lifted Grandmother Willow's head into her
lap and wrapped the blanket around her, Abbie remembered Buck saying exactly those words. "Don't
die," she begged her. "Please don't die." She sat, holding her for what seemed an eternity, and just when Abbie thought she would have to leave her and run for
help, the elderly woman stirred in her arms and sat up.

"Kesa tamzve," she muttered.

"What? I don't understand."

"Nothing." She spat. "A bad taste in my mouth." She
wriggled out of Abbie's grasp. "Just don't sit there.
Help me up."

"Are you all right? I thought-"

Grandmother Willow shook her head. "I saw ... Yes,
I saw a place of water. No houses. No roads. Water,
trees. A river?"

"You talked about a night hunter."

"In the voice?"

"It didn't sound like you," Abbie admitted.

"I am sorry, child. I did not mean to frighten you.
Paah!" She spat again. "I have a bad taste in my
mouth." She shook her head. "Evil. I smell evil."

"Can you walk as far as your house? Do you want me
to get help?"

Grandmother Willow snorted. "I'm not senile. I
have visions. Since I was a girl. And I'm not crazy."

"I didn't say you were."

"But you were frightened."

"Yes."

She sighed and took Abbie's arm. "It is a burden to
be blessed with visions."

"You said something I didn't understand ... in the
old language. Kesa ... kesa tam-"

The old woman chirped amusement. "That you should know. Kesa tamwe!" She shrugged. "In English ... maybe ..." She chuckled. "Holy shit!"

"Uh-huh, OK." Abbie hesitated. "Do you rememberwhat you told me?"

"No. The visions come and they go. Sometimes the
seeing comes to pass and sometimes it doesn't." She
squeezed Abbie's hand. "But I take them as a warning
of what could be. You must be careful, child, that you
do not go to an early grave."

"Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. I couldn't help
wondering, why my mother, why her instead of me?"

Grandmother Willow's gnarled fingers were soft
and warm as she touched Abbie's cheek. "Each must
walk her own path."

"And mine? What's my path? What am I supposed
to do?"

"Who killed your mother, Abigail Chingwe Night
Horse?"

"I don't know." She drew in a ragged breath. "I don't
know, but I'll find out." Where had that come from?

"And then what? What will you do, child?"

The words rose up unbidden. "I'll give her justice."

"I think there is more you must do. I think you must
put to rest this evil that haunts you."

"That makes no sense."

Grandmother Willow made a sound that might have
been agreement ... or might have been doubt. "Maybe
I am a foolish old woman whose time has passed."

"I think you're a very wise person."

"Do you?" She sighed again. "Wise or foolish, I see
great danger for you, and for another you care about.
I cannot see his face, but I see a pale horse."

Abbie shivered. Buck's horse? But she couldn't
think of him now, couldn't let herself be distracted
from what was important. "I will avenge my mother's
death."

"Easy to make an oath. Not so easy to fulfill."

"I will. I swear it." Her voice came out a croak.

"The white world may not understand. If you do
this, there may be a terrible price to pay."

"Then I'll pay it. Whatever it costs, I'll pay it."

"Sounds to me as though you're in deep, Daniel. A
wonder she didn't pitch your ring in the bay and send
you home with buckshot in your ass." Brush in hand,
Will stepped away from his worktable and studied the
figure of the yellow-crowned night heron that he'd
been painting.

"I didn't-"

"Quiet!" Will scowled. "Can't you see I'm thinkin'?"

Daniel bit back a terse retort and forced himself to
hold his temper. Bailey's great-uncle was the closest
thing he had to a real father. Daniel had always supposed that he'd come along too late in the marriage for
either of his parents to be thrilled with his arrival, and
his childhood would have been a lonely one if it weren't
for Will Tawes. He owed Will more than he could ever
repay. A little patience wasn't too much to ask.

Artist, woodsman, and extreme individualist, Will
Tawes was one of the old breed of Chesapeake Bay watermen who lived by the code of earlier times. Will had seen his share of trouble, and if anyone could help
Daniel out of this mess, he would be the man.

Will cleaned the brush, laid it aside, and reached for
another. His mouth tightened into a hard line as he
completed the feathering on the bird's crest with a few
deft strokes.

"It looks real enough to fly," Daniel observed.

"If it don't, I've no business charging as much as I
do for it. Serve me right if I was arrested for highway
robbery."

Will's wildlife carvings were sought after by collectors as far away as Japan and New Zealand. Bailey had
told him that one of her uncle's waterbirds had recently sold at auction for over thirty thousand dollars.
Not bad for a self-educated Tawes islander who'd once
served hard time in the Maryland state penitentiary
for a crime he didn't commit.

Daniel took a sip of the tea Will had brewed earlier.
"This is good tea."

"Thought you'd like it. A Yunnan." The older man
picked up his own John Deere mug and led the way
out of his studio onto the porch that overlooked the
dock and bay. Hundred-year-old pin oaks shaded the
two cane rockers. Will took one seat and waved Daniel
to the other. Will's three dogs, a pair of big Chesapeake Bay retrievers and a tricolored mongrel, settled
around them. "So, Lucas claims he'll sell the boy for
three hundred thousand dollars. How far can you
trust him?"

"About as far as you'd trust a mainland lawyer. Lucas
is a bottom-feeding lowlife ... but deadly."

"A hired killer."

"The worst kind. One that enjoys his work."

Will's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Or you might call him a patriot." Daniel added.

"Same as you."

Daniel shook his head. "Lucas and I were both with
the agency, but I didn't do wet work. I was nothing
more than a pencil pusher. I gathered information."

"Yeah." Will folded his arms over his chest. "And I'm
an Eagle Scout."

"You warned me not to sign up with them." Disillusioned by corruption in the American government
and rocked by personal tragedy, he'd walked away
from his career with the C.I.A. and returned to the island over two years ago. Unfortunately, resigning from
the agency was more complicated than joining. He
knew too much, and that knowledge was dangerous to
people in high places.

"You gave Bailey your word that you were through
with all that."

He had quit the agency before he'd met her, but his
past had complicated their relationship and made it
hard for him to trust anyone. Will, Bailey, and Emma
were exceptions to the rule. Them, he would trust
with his life ... and had. His only brother, Matthew,
hadn't made the cut. "So far, I've been able to keep my
promise."

Will reached down to stroke the big Chesapeake
that nudged up against his legs. The dog, Raven,
closed his eyes in bliss. "You think maybe Lucas's talk
about a child is a smoke screen-that it's the agency
trying to suck you back into their net?"

"There's always that possibility. I trust them about as
far as I trust Lucas. Christmas Eve they called me in for
questioning. I was told that Lucas had dropped out of
sight in the middle of an operation and they wanted to
know if I'd been in contact with him. I told them I
hadn't heard from him since last summer."

"You ought to be the last person who'd know where
he is," Will observed.