Randy White - Haunted

“It’s what homesteaders did, buried their family on family land.” Belton sounded puzzled by the question or my sudden interest, then realized there was more to it. “Yeah… the name’s familiar. Cadence … probably related to the family that built the mansion. I don’t find that unusual.”

“I do, but we’ll figure it out another day,” I said. “We don’t have time now.” Yet I continued digging. “Get the iodine tablets. Oh-and fill the jug with water. Please. It’ll be half an hour before it’s safe to drink and by then I might have the propeller fixed. It’s a small bottle, dark glass, near the top.”

“The top of your backpack?”

“Of course.”

I had snapped at him. “Hannah… you definitely need some rest-”

“Not until police know what they did to Krissie.” I motioned him away without looking up. “I’ll meet you at the boat in a minute.” It was true I was determined to get moving, but in a secret part of me I wanted to be alone while I learned more about a woman with whom, in my imagination at least, I shared a family connection.

Belton left muttering about my stubbornness, which to some men is a substitute for the word strength . Seconds later, though, my strength vanished and I had to wipe away a single streaming tear.

The stone when fully exposed read:

Irene Jameson Cadence

Widow & Childless & Homeless

At Peace With the Lord

Born 3 June 1876 Died 19-

The blank date of her death hinted at what I suspected from the elegant penmanship: the woman on the balcony, Irene Cadence, had made her own gravestone and written her own epitaph. Perhaps had even taken her own life. No… that was an unfair guess. It was sad enough that she had recorded her loneliness in stone for eternity. A hint of self-pity, too, although I didn’t allow myself to linger on a flaw so painfully familiar.

I got to my feet, switched off the light, and brushed leaves from my jeans while my eyes adjusted. I had just picked up the pistol when I heard a smack-smack sound like a fist hitting flesh. Then a man who wasn’t Belton hollered from the river, “Girl!… Hey, girl ! I’ll shoot this old bastard. Show yourself.”

Carmelo- he had found our boat.

I started to run away, but caught myself after only a few steps. I couldn’t let him hurt Belton. Nor would I endure a moment as his prisoner. I was faster than Carmelo, I was smarter. But what if Theo had returned, too? He might be circling toward me from another direction. I couldn’t just stand there and let it happen. I had to think .

My mind went to work while Belton yelled I should save myself, then Carmelo added more threats. “The old man says you got a flashlight. What you’re gonna do is put that gun of yours in a place I can see it. Then back away ten or fifteen steps and use the light. When I get to the top of that bank, I’d best see that damn gun. I’m talking first thing . And you nowhere close. And I want your hands in the air.” An impatient silence lapsed before he swore and yelled, “Better answer me, girl!”

Only one flimsy option came to mind. I hollered, “My ankle, I think I broke my ankle. You have to promise not to hurt us.”

Belton, voice muffled, said something that was drowned out by Carmelo’s laughter. “Bullshit. She’s lying.” Then called to me, “You’re the only ones who can prove I never touched that young teenybopper. Or Lucia either-and good riddance, if you’re the one what killed her. You can burn Theo, for all I care. All I want is for you to come back and tell the cops the truth.”

Belton tried to yell He’s lying but was punched or clubbed-something caused him to cry out-before Carmelo continued talking. “Oh, and one other little thing. Part of our deal is, you forget about finding that canoe. Ain’t too much to ask, is it? Do what I say, I’ll take you and the old man to a doctor. Anything you want. Hell”-more laughter-“why would I hurt a girl pretty as you?” Bushes rustled, a spotlight sought the top of the riverbank. “Have you put down that gun?”

I hollered, “No! I can barely crawl.”

Carmelo wasn’t taking chances. He had yet to poke his head above the embankment. “Do it now, damn you. I’ll give you one minute, no more.”

In a rush, I switched on the flashlight and painted a few circles on the sky to confirm my intentions. Then balanced the light atop the gravestone and left it there, beam pointed at a chunk of wood that didn’t resemble a pistol but would have to do. Nearby was an oak grove. I ran to it. Oak limbs were stouter, lower, less chaotic than the strangler fig. As I scouted, I thought about Capt. Ben Summerlin’s ambush plans and recalled a passage from his journal: Lure the enemy so close it’s up to God to decide who lives or dies.

Bait the trap… lay in wait… shoot to kill.

But did I have the courage? No… not courage-something darker was required. An absence of conscience; the unleashing of a quality so foreign I felt hollow. Self-doubt seemed to shut off my air-a haunting return of my old fears-yet I continued to search for a suitable spot.

Think, Hannah. Don’t stand here shaking. Was it smarter to climb a tree and wait? Or surprise him near the river?

While I battled indecision, wind punched through the tree canopy. The gust tumbled limbs from oak to oak in synch with high, churning leaves, their sparks muted by the moon.

I circled downwind to a willow thicket, where I hid myself and watched from one knee. The beam from the flashlight I’d left was a dazzling tube that linked the riverbank with a chunk of wood and Irene Cadence’s grave. I was midway between the grave and the river with a clear view of what lay between.

Carmelo was closer, easier to hear. He continued to call threats, saying I was almost out of time, he’d shoot Belton-just wound him, of course-or we could have some fun together. Nauseating, the oily way he phrased it. The man was drunk and talkative. On and on he went yet was afraid to poke his head above the embankment. Carmelo was, indeed, a coward… or buying time until Theo was in position.

Either way, I could do nothing but wait. Mosquitoes tracked my rapid breathing. They began to swarm. I shifted the Devel pistol from one hand to the other, staying loose. In an attempt to still my brain, I focused my senses outward: Carmelo’s voice, Belton’s voice, their words often indecipherable. The scream of insects, bushes alive with foraging rodents, and a squall breeze that went suddenly still, then freshened, puffed and gusted from a northern quarter of the sky.

The wind had shifted. Spend your childhood on the water, you are aware of such things. The gusts fragmented, filtered down through the leaves, and explored my face. It was warm, tropic air befouled by something that fired a chill through the pores of my skin, up my neck.

An odor… What was that disgusting odor? It stunk of women’s perfume… stale sweat… a canine whiff of wet hair and rotten eggs. No… I was wrong. My nose had been confused by the heavy perfume. Perfume so cloying, it cloaked a familiar musk-possibly as intended. The fecal stench of a chimpanzee was otherwise unmistakable.

I got to my feet, the pistol ready. The stench laced through willows from the northeast, the same direction as the wind. That suggested the chimp could no longer track my scent.

Oliver’s nose is as good as any bloodhound’s. Once again, Theo’s brag came to mind.