Dead Sleeping Shaman (26 page)

Friday

4 days until the end of all time

I didn’t need to
be told it was Winnie. Something had been nudging me in that direction from the first glimpse of the shadow on the photo. I might not have the power of a Crystalline or any of her friends, but I’d had a sinking feeling that hadn’t left me. It had to do with symbolism—Marjory under that particular tree.

After the body—or what was left of a body—was removed from the grave and taken to the lab at Grayling, a very tarnished gold ring was found on one of the fingers. Later that morning, Officer Winston called to tell me there was an inscription on the ring.

“‘Winnie—Love of my Life—Charlie,’” Winston said, his voice reading off the words with military precision. “Not much doubt as to who she was.”

I agreed there was no doubt at all. Winnie Otis had been dead all along. If only we could follow the trail backward, to when she went missing, find out who passed the word she ran off with a tractor
salesman. But it was too late for that. If Aunt Cecily didn’t know, there was no one else. Maybe Marjory—too late. Maybe the brothers.

“You’d better get back to Arnold Otis before he leaves town,” I said. “Ask him who started the rumor about his mother running off. Did you ask him what he was talking about when he said he ‘knew’? And who’s the ‘they’ he thought were involved?”

His voice got stiff. “I’ve done all of that, Emily … Ms. Kincaid …”

“Call me Emily, please.” I think I rolled my eyes, a bad habit I’d had since childhood when dealing with blockheads.

“I’ve already spoken to him. Well, that aide who protects him. He said Mr. Otis was too broken up at learning his mother was dead. He wouldn’t come to the phone. Through the aide, I asked our questions and he said he had no idea who first said she’d run away, nor who had claimed it was with a tractor salesman. He thought it came from the police—when she was reported missing. Lucky says they have a missing person’s report—filed a month or more after she was gone. There’s only a notation that the case was closed. Nothing else. A dead end.”

“So, what he said there at Deward, did he mean Brother Righteous? Was that what he was talking about? About him being involved? Or maybe Reverend Fritch?”

“The aide said he was insisting the Reverend Fritch’s group had something to do with Marjory’s death. He’s got to take care of something first, before he’ll say anything more—but after he’s done what he has to do—he’ll be happy to talk to us.”

“Does he know that Brother Righteous is a mute? I mean, the man can hardly take care of himself, let alone …”

There was a pause from the other end of the phone. “I … eh
… didn’t know that myself. I was going to go out to where that group is camped … eh … you think maybe we could go together? I mean, you seem to have some knowledge …”

We agreed to meet that evening, six-thirty at the campground. It was the earliest Winston said he could get over from Gaylord.

And that was that. Now I knew why Marjory was afraid to go to Deward. She had to have known her mother was buried there. Maybe Winnie’s body even explained why Marjory was killed—to cover up her mother’s murder. But why so many years later? And why, unless she killed her, had she never told anyone? Too many questions. My head hurt, but the questions wouldn’t stop.

Why had Dolly and those cult members come out? Why was Brother Righteous, or Sister Sally, interested? There had to be a connection between Marjory, Winnie, and the Reverend Fritch. Did Arnold know what that connection was? If so, why hadn’t he told us? Lord, how I wished I could put everyone in a room together, throw out accusations, and have somebody confess. Life could be so much easier if I could write it instead of live it.

I called Bill with the story of the exhumation of Winnie Otis. “Two murders,” I said, and filled him in on Winnie’s body being found next to where her daughter had lain.

“A lot going on. Think you can handle it?”

“Think so,” I lied, and hung up.

Jackson called. Since I wasn’t doing manuscript pages for him, he didn’t call as often. I was almost to the point of missing him. At least he didn’t bring me dead bodies and old tragedies. Well, some—all those Chaucer people on their pilgrimage.

“I’d like to take you out for a drink on Sunday.” He had a slight touch of hesitance in his voice. “To make up for Bill’s dinner party …”

“Have you asked Bill?”

“No. I thought maybe we could just talk, the two of us, have a quiet drink together …”

“Talk about what?”

“Just … you know … talk.”

“Ok. Where? When?”

“In town. Maybe the Blue Tractor. Eighth and Union.”

I almost groaned. Of course it would be me taking the long drive.

“Five o’clock?”

I hung up. I had a date.

Later, in town, the vestibule at EATS was packed with people. I thought there must be a line again, maybe the End Timers back for a nearly last supper. But these were townspeople. They crowded the small space, standing with their backs turned to the door.

I gave Gloria, who stood among the rest of the Leetsvillians, a confused look. She made a face and pointed to the wall where one of Eugenia’s genealogy papers fluttered.

A picture of Cate, the odd old lady Eugenia had taken under her wing, hung above the cigarette machine. A nice, if grainy, picture, from an era when she was young, but recognizable—well dressed, hair swept up into what looked like a chignon. I blinked a few times, not getting it. I turned back to Gloria. She nudged me with her elbow and said, “Read it, Emily. You’ll never believe …”

I read the neat typing beneath the old photograph.

Catherine Thomas
, it read.

I knew the name. I’d seen it recently …

Dolly’s grandmother.

The news knocked me back into people standing behind me. Gloria put a hand on my arm. “Eugenia knew all along. She found her through genealogical research. Remember, she told Dolly she was going to do it? They’ve just been waiting for the right time. With Dolly, that never seemed to happen.”

“For God’s sakes, Gloria,” I was disgusted with all of them. “The woman’s been here for a couple of weeks.”

“They were waiting. And now, with this cult business she’s got herself into … well … ask Eugenia. Never was the perfect moment.”

“And this is? And the right way? Somebody’s going to go running out there and tell Dolly, and then the crap will hit the fan …”

Gloria nodded. “Nobody’s got nerve enough to be the one to break the news. She’ll probably have to walk in here herself …”

“And?”

“Well, I don’t know …”

“Sure you do. She’d tear down this whole place, board by board. That’s what she’ll do.”

Gloria shrugged. People around us added comments, about Dolly, about Cate, and even about Eugenia and her patience and how she’d been taking care of Dolly’s grandmother.

“Personally,” Flora Coy, beside me, said, looking up through her thick glasses. “I think somebody better tell Dolly soon. Not a lot of time left to any of us, you know. With the world about to end and all.”

“Oh, Flora, not you! You don’t believe that preacher,” I groaned.

“Ernie Henry and some of the others say we gotta be out there Tuesday, just in case.”

“Like you would miss it, if you didn’t show up?”

She clucked at me. “Now Emily. This isn’t the time for blasphemy. You know for certain we’ve got any more than a few days left to live? You got an answer? If you do, I’ll just stay to home and take care of my birds.”

I had to shake my head—but very slowly, more exhausted than done in by her argument. No answer. Common sense wasn’t enough, not in the face of this enormous uncertainty.

“Well, there, you see?” she said. “I’ll be out there Tuesday morning. Same as you, I’ll bet.”

Others around us turned and nodded.

“Somebody’s got to tell Dolly,” I groused, hoping for a volunteer.

“Nobody’s seen her in days,” Gloria said.

“Yeah,” Jocko Whitney, owner of the discount food store, said. “Heard she was there when they found Winnie Otis in Deward. And, you know what else? Heard there wasn’t a magic stone buried after all.”

“And sure as hell no treasure,” Jake Anderson, the tall, thin owner of The Skunk Saloon, added, disgust at a lost opportunity thick in his voice.

I worked my way through the marveling crowd into the restaurant. Eugenia, behind her glass counter, handy flyswatter in her hand, looked hard at me. I would save her for later. It was Cate I wanted to see.

The old woman sat in her usual place. Her black, lace-gloved hands were wrapped around a white coffee cup. Her wild hair sported a kind of tiara—a few bright stones winking out from her head of white hair. Cate saw me coming. She gave a weary nod. I didn’t know if it was a “yes,” telling me what hung in the vestibule was true, or if it was an attempt to hide.

I sat down without asking, ordered the meatloaf from Cindy, the only waitress actually working, and let out a deep sigh.

“Is it true?” I asked.

She nodded. “Eugenia found me. Since Delores was little and they took her away, I didn’t know what happened to her. My daughter, well, what I told you was the truth. I don’t even know if Audrey’s alive or dead. But here’s my granddaughter. If I’d known Audrey was going to throw her away, the way she did, I’d have taken her myself. I’d have been glad to have Delores. Couldn’t get Audrey to say a word about her. I guessed maybe the baby was with her, there in France. Like maybe they took in her and the child. Still, I should have tried … something.”

I nodded, completely out of pity for anyone. All I could think of was Dolly hearing this news. No preparation. Just that she had a family—at last.

“Eugenia shouldn’t have done it this way.” I lifted my chin toward the vestibule and the people trickling in. “You should have gone to her.”

Cate shook her head. “Whatever’s happened to Delores, it’s changed who she might have been. Eugenia says any way we tell her there’s going to be an uproar.”

There was truth in that statement. Uproar was what we were going to get.

I finished my plate of meatloaf, set in front of me in a record four minutes’ time, persuaded Cate to come with me, and headed over to Dolly’s house.

The little white house had the look of being empty. It had that dark-window, old-newspapers-on-the-stoop look that signaled no one was home.

I could only think of one other place to go. Since I was meeting Officer Winston there anyway, it seemed the place I was meant to be. Cate and I were off to the campground.

Still only 4 days before the end

The campground was more
crowded than it had ever been before. Four days before the end of the world and people were coming from everywhere. A parking place wasn’t easy to come by with only tight spots left between vehicles. There were license plates from as far away as California, some from Canada, many more for East Coast states, and then the South. Trailers and tents and RVs were stuck wherever there was an open space. More and more bald people hugged cowled robes around their bodies, even little children, walking along, tripped on the too-long, white ropes tied about their small waists.

I took Cate’s hand. Best not to lose her now.

It wasn’t time for Officer Winston yet. I wanted to take care of our business with Dolly before he got there. This was separate from the investigation. This was about Dolly’s life. I’d known her for a couple of years, but I had no clue what her response to Cate would be. Dolly was full of surprises, like this cult thing. I would never have picked her out as religious, or even mildly superstitious, but here she was, as anonymous as the others, waiting for the world to crumble around her.

With everyone dressed the same, it was impossible to tell one person from another. I bent to look at faces under hoods. Most glared back at me. I held tighter to Cate’s hand, going slow so she wouldn’t trip. We headed to the open area and the stage. People milled about everywhere. We pushed through. Behind me, Cate looked tired, and more than a little concerned about the crowd.

“We’ll find her. I know she’s here,” I said, urging her on, over the uneven ground in her down-at-the-heels, fancy shoes.

We rounded one end of the raised stage and were stopped by two large figures, robed as all the others. I stepped to one side, and then the other. They blocked my way deliberately.

“I’m looking for Dolly Wakowski,” I said, peering up into a face I didn’t know, hadn’t seen before.

“Not here,” one of the men said.

“Yes, she is,” I countered and pushed at a bulky body. Broad shoulders closed the space between the men, pinning me there. I stepped back, almost running into Cate, and looked into two set, indistinguishable faces.

“The cops are on their way out here. You let me talk to Dolly or they’re going to shut this place down for overcrowding, for allowing people to live in dangerous conditions, for sanitation problems …” Everything I could think of poured out.

The men weren’t fazed by my threats. They stood like a brick wall as I searched my brain for something more dire—maybe child abuse complaints, kidnapping. I didn’t care. This time things were going to go my way.

“It’s ok.” Sister Sally stepped from behind the two men. Another figure, hood lowered, arms up into the wide sleeves of her robe, stood just behind Sister Sally.

“What’d you want to see Dolly for?”

I was too damned mad to talk to Sally. She’d done enough to keep me away from my friend. I was there to do battle.

“For Christ’s sakes. Is that you, Dolly?” I said to the shy, bowed woman behind Sally.

Cate moved closer. I sensed her fear. The thought flashed through my head that this could have been the way she’d last seen her own daughter—being sheltered by a cult. Those memories couldn’t be happy ones.

Dolly put her hand out toward the two men, then motioned them away with a flap of her fingers. I recognized the signal: Dolly taking over, in charge. At least that much was left of who she’d been.

Dolly flipped her hood back with a toss of her head and leaned forward, looking me hard in the face. “This better be good,” she growled.

The men disappeared into the crowd around us. Sister Sally stayed at Dolly’s side, following us to one of the picnic tables in front of the big RV. Dolly hitched up her robe and threw one leg over the seat, settling herself there. I thought I caught a glimpse of blue uniform pants but I must’ve been wrong. Cate and I sat across from her. Cate rode the bench side saddle. Sister Sally moved away, but not too far.

“I’ve told you I’ve got my reasons for staying out here,” Dolly leaned forward and hissed, ignoring Cate sitting beside me. “I don’t want you interfering. We got four more days to get through.”

Cate leaned forward. I could see she wanted to reach across and grab on to Dolly’s hand, but she restrained herself, her bent hands fluttering in her lap. “You didn’t sign over your house or anything to this man, this Reverend Fritch, did you?” she asked.

“The man’s not like that,” Dolly snapped. “Hey, I’ve seen you in EATS? You’re new around here, aren’t you? I was going to have a talk with you before … all this other stuff came up. Sure started hanging on to Eugenia. I hope there was no … what do you call it … ulterior motive? Like scamming people …”

“Dolly,” I put my hand on hers, stopping her. “Cate is Catherine Thomas.”

Dolly winced, then pulled back. She thought hard, raised her chin, looked at Cate, nodded and went back to thinking again.

“Catherine Thomas,” I said. “Your grandmother.”

This time Dolly frowned and wound her face up into an odd knot, all caught at the middle, around her little nose. “So
this
is the scam?” She gave a snort and looked away from us. “It was on me the whole time? How do you like that?”

“No scam,” I said.

Cate leaned in as close as she could get. We both saw this wasn’t going well. Dolly was pedaling as fast as she could mentally pedal, backing away, coming up with anything she could to deny that family was finally right there in front of her.

“Your mother was my daughter, Audrey. I’ll tell you about her, Delores, if you’d like.” Cate laid a small photograph in front of Dolly, against the bare wood of the table.

“That’s her,” Cate whispered.

Dolly’s hand came slowly up to touch the old photograph. Her fingers closed around the picture and held it there, against the table, as Dolly stared down at her mother’s face, then over toward the back of the stage, one eye slipping off slightly as the other lost focus.

Dolly looked at Cate then slowly shook her head. “I don’t need no damn family now. Been doing fine by myself all these years …” Her hand closed tighter on the photo.

“Dolly,” I said. “Cate didn’t know anything about what happened to you …”

“I would have taken you to live with me if I’d known,” Cate said, her voice low and hurried. She drew her black shawl up to her neck, against the chill. Dolly’s hand opened slowly. She looked down again, into the face of Audrey, her mother. Her small, rather homely face didn’t crumple so much as melt into the kind of longing other human beings shouldn’t ever have to see. I wanted to put my arms around Dolly, just hold her and tell her this was good, that she finally knew where she’d come from. Not just foster homes. Not just a pawn of an unworkable system, but from a woman, out of another woman. A person with a name and a history.

Dolly swallowed hard and glanced toward Sister Sally, who watched us. She pulled her leg back over the bench, thumped her fists on the tabletop, and got up. No one said anything as she stood, stretched, then drew her cowl back over her head. The photograph wasn’t on top of the picnic table. It was either still in her hand, or slipped into a pocket. Her face was blank and under control.

“Come on, Sally,” she said. “We’ve gotta get inside. They’ll be coming out soon.” They walked off toward the RV.

With no choice left us, Cate and I went to stand beside my car, me thinking the yellow Jeep would be easy for Officer Winston to spot among all the old pickups. I kept Cate talking about everything but Dolly, going over the weather, the parking problem, the crush of people—anything, until I’d figured out, in my own head, what had happened back there.

Officer Winston, in his blue and gold state police car, arrived exactly at six-thirty. He was nothing if not a man of his word, and a man dedicated to keeping his life in precise order. He nosed his car in behind two pop-up campers, got out, and nodded first to me and then to Cate, who asked to wait in the car. Her face was drawn, dark circles under her eyes. I helped her into the front seat and made sure she was all right.

“Just tired,” she said, smiling wanly up at me. The old bravado was gone. I couldn’t imagine being her at that moment. Two children—off into cults, to be absorbed, made impersonal, made into robots afraid to love their own mother.

“We have got to speak to that Brother Righteous,” Winston said as I hurried along beside him, figuring he had to have been in the military. Though he was a squat little guy, his stride was wide. He out-loped me as we made our way back toward the open space and that RV. “And the other one. That Reverend Fritch.”

“I think they’re getting ready to start a service …” I said, out of breath.

He nodded. “Won’t take long.”

“I wouldn’t count on seeing either of them. They’ve got a few thousand people out here. Everybody guards Brother Righteous. The guy seems special. He starts the revivals. Kind of like a wordless cheerleader. I doubt …”

I was right. Winston knocked on the RV door and was told to leave.

“Tell them both I’ll be back in the morning. If need be, I’ll get a warrant. That Brother Righteous is going to talk to me …” Winston must have realized what he was saying at that point. He backed off. “Well, somebody’s got to know sign language. I mean, they’re going to have to bring Brother Righteous in …”

The door closed in his face. Winston was furious but kept the lid on.

“That’s all right,” he muttered. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. I’ll get a warrant …”

“Don’t wait too long,” I warned. “After Tuesday they’ll be gone.”

Winston gave a kind of horse laugh. “You mean with the world ending? Very funny.”

I stopped, and then gave him a hard look. “No, I mean the people will be leaving Tuesday. The Reverend Fritch’s going to have his hands full. Can’t see them hanging around much after noon, if nothing happens.”

We fought our way through the crowd gathered in the clearing, in front of the stage. The stage lights were on, overhead bulbs buzzing. Hymns blared from the loudspeakers as before. Winston pushed his way ahead of me, through the throng.

All I wanted to do was be where I could hear nothing but quiet. My mind was still torn between pathos and being happy over my recent news; between wanting the cult gone and needing to know who killed Marjory, and now her mother. All these people were in my way—between me and a place where I could think. I didn’t mind pushing; didn’t mind the glares I got in return. I stopped at one point, trapped between two large families. I searched for a pathway through the pilgrims. Off to our right, there seemed to be an open aisle where people jockeyed for standing places then moved quickly when they spotted a better vantage point.

Winston saw the cleared path at the same time I did. We hurried together, staying close so as not to be separated and maybe lost in the crowd.

As I passed one man, not in a robe but in a fishing jacket and slouch hat, I looked up. The glint of a bare lightbulb reflected off the man’s glasses. Winston kept me hurrying on but I was sure I knew that hat, and that jacket. I pulled at Winston’s arm, stopping him finally, and yelled the name of the man behind us. I pointed, wanting Winston to witness that he was there, but the man was gone. Robes and cowls had filled in the spaces. Winston shrugged and pushed on, getting us back to where we’d parked our cars.

Inside my Jeep, Cate slept with her gray head back against the seat, her worn face troubled. There didn’t seem to be peace for Catherine Thomas, any more than there’d ever been peace for Deputy Dolly Wakowski. I got in my car as quietly as I could, shut the door behind me, and headed back to town.