Ten Thousand Islands (11 page)

“That’s what politicians do. Or so I hear.”

Parrish was nodding. “I know, I know, but I got the feeling this one, he might be different. Seems to care about people, not just the ones with money. See that man with him? That’s B. J. Buster; played linebacker for the Bucs but kept endin’ up in jail, till Bauerstock hired him as his bodyguard.”

“A politician with a heart of gold.”

“Oh man, you wouldn’t believe the people Mr. Bauerstock’s hired to take care of his future President son. Just the way he sees it, too. Teddy, they say he’s got that glow, the one you can’t see till he’s on the television screen. Excuse me, I mean
Theodore
. That the name they using now.
He got the glow
.”

I wondered vaguely and bitterly if the linebacker knew the steroid freak who was in Mexico with Kathleen.

“So now Mr. Buster is a model citizen. All thanks to the man running for office.”

Parrish chuckled. “I wouldn’t trust B. J. Buster far as I could throw him. Once a con, always a con. Which Teddy Bauerstock can’t see and why the fool won’t be getting my vote.”

Nope, this was not a weak link. I said, “In that case, I’d like to start fresh. Here’s what we do: first I apologize, then I explain why I’m here. I’m the friend of a friend. The little girl’s mother needs some outside help. Which is why I pissed you off making suggestions.”

Parrish’s voice returned to normal as he said, “I feel bad for the woman, don’t get me wrong. It was a hell of a nasty thing to do, dig her little girl up. But it’s not a top priority. There’s lots more serious crap goin’ on out there. But know what?” He allowed me the slightest of smiles. “A couple of your ideas, they weren’t that bad. You got pretty good instincts.”

I said, “If you want any help, the private citizen type, contact Della. She’ll know how to get in touch.”

Caldwell had been listening, keeping up. “One thing Mr. Ford suggested, I can talk to our receptionist, see if anyone was asking about Miss Copeland.”

“There you go,” said Parrish. He turned to me. “You want to check out the casket, see what’s missing? I don’t think they got in there. I think our man scared ’em off. But you take a look and keep the mamma happy. Then we put that little girl back in the ground again.”

I
opened the top half of the coffin lid by myself, pressing its weight with both hands, while Tomlinson stood beside me, whispering some kind of rhythmic chant.

I’d removed my sports coat. We were both wearing white gauze masks.

There was an odor, not strong or offensive. It was as if an old trunk had been opened. Caldwell had already told me what to expect, explaining that the child had received a superb job of embalming. The casket was vault-dry, he said, and promised that I would be shocked at how little change there’d been in the body since burial.

“People not in the industry,” he said, “don’t realize how good we are at what we do. We’re the best in the world, the best of all time. I guess the reason people don’t know is obvious.”

Yet, despite the briefing, I was not prepared for how near to life the girl appeared. Time had stopped for her. It was an unexpected and moving realization.

I’m not a demonstrative person. Tomlinson reminds me of that almost daily. I have spent enough time among the dead and dying to view both clinically. Yet, when I lifted the lid and looked down through glittering columns of dust and sunlight, I felt a jolt of emotion that caused my breathing to spasm.

I was looking into the face of a sleeping child. Dorothy Copeland didn’t look like a teenager. Innocence dissipates years. She looked younger, ageless, without fear or flaw.

She wore a yellow dress with a collar of white lace. There was a thread of gold chain around her neck and a locket in the shape of a smiling full moon. Her hair was the color of Kansas wheat. It was fanned out halolike on the crepe pillow beneath her head. She wore white gloves with fingers interlaced, long and delicate as JoAnn had described them. It was as if the girl had dressed for church, but, instead, found a cozy meadow place to doze.

There was something about the delicate facial structure that was heart-wrenching. Our bodies are composed mostly of water. The water was gone from hers. The soft angularity of nose and chin was emphasized beneath skin that was white and fragile as parchment, yet her cheeks were blushed with embalmer’s makeup like some China doll. The color added definition to lashes resting long over eyes that, it seemed, might flutter open in reaction to the offending sunlight. From what I heard, this was a tomboy girl who liked to explore and dig in the dirt. She’d been described as having an “extraordinary gift” for finding things. She’d been described as an old soul.

But this was also a child; a child who’d sometimes worn lace and crinoline. This was a child who, playing
dress-up, had been forever frozen, as if caught asleep on a frosted field.

Seeing her produced in me sadness and a sense of loss far out of proportion to what I’d expected. I had not known this child. I’d never heard her voice. Now, though, I felt as if there were some inexplicable connection. She was here, right in front of me, yet she wasn’t. It touched me in a way that squeezed the heart.

On Dorothy’s right cheek was a splotch of pollen-colored mold. I was tempted to brush it away. Instead, I touched a gloved index finger to the collar of her dress. The lace disintegrated at my touch, revealing the area of skin beneath her chin. The scar there was a band of discoloration, gray on white.

Yes, there had been a rope. It had been knotted tightly enough around her neck to leave the skin forever marked. The scar was the residue of an unthinkable act, violence that was incongruous with the peaceful scene and angelic child before me.

Something horrible had imposed itself on this young life.

Why else would Dorothy Copeland hang herself?

I’d been so intent on visual data that all sound vanished. Now, though, I became aware of a distant sobbing. I stepped back for a moment, listening.

“It’s Della,” Tomlinson said gently. “She’s worried about what they’ve done to her little girl.”

I looked into his face. The paranoid druggie had vanished, purged not by coffee, but out of regard for the circumstances. Here was the man I liked and respected. His expression was one of haunted sadness.

I indicated the necklace. “There’s the locket, just like
Della told us. I don’t think they got the coffin open. They probably would’ve taken it.”

“Perhaps. But that’s not what they were after.”

I said, “Then let’s find out.”

I lifted Dorothy’s hands very gently. They had the weight of air. Beneath her white gloves was a flat wooden carving that was as large as both her palms together. There was also a small Bible, white cover, Dorothy’s name imprinted in gold.

Della had told Tomlinson that she’d slipped the Bible and the carving into her daughter’s casket just before they’d buried her. Said she did it privately, when no one was looking, because the Bible and the wooden carving were the only things that had given Dorothy comfort during the nightmares that preceded her suicide.

During the worst of it, Dorothy had slept with both, clutching them to her chest.

She slept with them still.

Without disturbing the Bible, I removed the carving with my left hand and held it up to the light. It was heavy for its size, black as oiled mahogany or iron wood. It had the shape of certain badges. At what seemed to be the top of the carving was a cross. Centered on the cross were concentric circles. At the middle, there were square holes. Beneath the holes were inverted droplet shapes. Teardrops? At the bottom were half rectangles within progressively larger half rectangles.

“These designs are similar to the ones you drew for JoAnn. Was it from photographs or were you just guessing?”

Tomlinson hesitated for a moment, his blue eyes locked on the carving. “I’ve seen photos. The designs are
the same as on the gold medallion. They’re symbols, very powerful symbols. Take a look at the back. There should be two crescent moons.”

I turned and studied the back of the carving, saying, “They didn’t get to her.” Meaning the grave robbers.

“That’ll make Della feel better. A little, anyway.”

“We need a small sack or a cloth. I want it wrapped.”

“You’re going to leave the Bible?”

“The people who did this have no interest in stealing a Bible.”

“We walk out of here with a sack, they’ll know we found something. The fact that it’s wrapped will tell them it’s personal or valuable.” Tomlinson leaned a little closer to me before he added, “They’re here, you know. The ones who dug her up.”

I said, “I know.”

I looked at the girl once more, her pale face in repose. The moon-shaped locket drew my attention. I took it between thumb and forefinger, touched the clasp and the locket opened. Staring out at me was an older Dorothy Copeland, this one with blue eyes and very much alive. There was a strange intensity to those eyes. They did not seem to stare into a camera, they seemed to look directly into me. Her expression was confident, knowing, yet touchingly wistful, as if she longed for something.

What?

There are certain adolescents, usually female, who possess wisdom far in advance of age or explanation. That wisdom fades quickly when reproductive hormones kick in, but it is there for a while and the few who possess it seem to carry it like a weight.

That wisdom and the weight of it were in the face of
the girl who looked out from the locket. Her eyes were in mine, sharing both with me.

“Keep it, Marion. She’d like you to have it.”

I was so captivated by the photograph, I’d momentarily forgotten that Tomlinson was still beside me. His voice was a startling intrusion.

I said, “Keep what?”

“The locket. Dorothy would be pleased if you took it and kept it near. Della won’t mind.”

I turned to him. “What’re you talking about? You didn’t know this girl, let alone what would please her.”

He was looking down into the casket. Very softly, he said, “No. But maybe you did. Maybe you knew her. I sensed the possibility. It didn’t become real until just now. Seeing her, seeing your reaction.”

“My reaction—? I have no idea … look, I never met this child.”

“Maybe not. But I think you have.”

“Impossible. Fifteen years ago, I was …” I had to think for a moment. “Fifteen years ago, I was in Central America. Nicaragua, Panama, all around. There was a war going on. Far away from Marco Island.”

“Not in this lifetime. I didn’t mean that.”

Finally, I understood. I said, “Oh, please. Don’t start.”

“You two … the energy is unmistakable. That’s what I meant. Different
samsaras
. Different incarnations. You don’t feel it?”

I hesitated for a moment before I answered, “No. No, I don’t. I don’t feel anything.”

“Are you certain? It’s …
there
. The connective energy, like a switch being thrown. Or a circuit that’s just been completed.” After a few seconds, both of us looking
at her, he added, “It must have been very, very powerful. You two as a couple, I mean. To have lasted through this many transitions.”

The man was maddening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Knock it off.”

“Look at her, Marion. Look at her and tell me you can’t feel it. You and Dorothy. This time around, you only missed by a decade or so. You both keep trying to find each other and you’re getting closer.”

Ridiculous. Even so, I concentrated on the child’s sleeping face and then the photograph, those wistful eyes staring out. Was there something familiar? Something far away, on the distant fringe of memory, but always and forever important?

No … of course not. Yet, it was difficult to explain my feelings of loss and the powerful sadness that was now in me.

“Let her be, Tomlinson. Enough of your talk.”

“Had she lived, it would have been the ideal time. The perfect age for you to meet. Again. Someone took her from you, Marion. Took her too soon.”

My head snapped around, and he saw in my eyes that he’d gone too far. “Go find something to wrap the carving,” I said. “A shirt, a shopping bag, I don’t care. Let people see what you’re doing. Make a show of it. Act secretive, that’ll be sure to get their attention. And tell Della that no one’s bothered her child.”

“You’re not going to even consider what I’m saying.”

“When you stop talking nonsense, I’ll give consideration.”

“I’ve never had such a strong sense of the inevitable. Now it’s up to you.” He was chewing at one of his Rasta braids, an old nervous habit. “I have a feeling they keep
hurting her over and over. For how many lifetimes? This may be your only chance, Doc. Out of all the incarnations, it may be the only time you can stop them.”

“No more! Get moving!”

As he left, he said, “The locket. You should keep the locket.”

When he was gone, I touched Dorothy’s folded hands lightly, a farewell gesture.

I looked at her sleeping face one last time. Then I closed and bolted the heavy lid.

Tomlinson was standing at the head of the casket, people gathered in a semicircle before him, heads bowed slightly. Della was seated next to Betty Lynn, leaning her weight against JoAnn, who had an arm around her, all three of them weeping but listening as Tomlinson spoke articulately and with sincerity. The man had a genius for knowing what gave people comfort and peace of mind.

I stood behind him and slightly to his right, memorizing the faces of those in attendance. Ivan Bauerstock stood at the front, bracketed by his men. Silver-haired, aloof, hands folded, long fingers moving as if attempting to scurry away on their own. He had an air of impatience and superiority, gray suit cut perfectly, face angular, square-jawed like a model for expensive clothing.

To his right was Teddy, the son running for the state senate—my guess, anyway. Similar genetics. Well over six feet tall but broader in the shoulders, a linebacker size to him, but a quarterback’s cleft chin. A more expressive face, listening to Tomlinson’s words, showing pain, nodding his understanding and interest. Black hair combed back TV anchorman-style, razor-cut, blow-dried to form, flawless. His face reminded me of someone, some actor,
or maybe a politician who was often on television. The nose was distinctive, but I couldn’t match the face with the name. Not surprising. I don’t own a television.