Deeper Than the Grave (23 page)

Chapter Forty-eight

I sat next to the wreckage of my computer. Small shards of plastic here, bits of coiled wire there. I picked up a piece of meshed metal and held it to the light.

Rico's voice was gentle. “Did you try calling?”

“He won't answer his phone.”

I could hear music at the other end of the line. Rico was having a Snowpocalypse party at his apartment, gathering a charmed circle of poets and artists, singers and activists, maybe even a movie star or two. Once I would have been there with him. Instead I sat with my knees against my chest on the floor of my shop, ten minutes past sundown, all alone, with a rising storm outside.

I slumped backwards against the counter. “This sucks.”

“Of course it does. Y'all are all up in each other's stuff right now. What did you expect?”

“I expected it to get better. But it's not.” I thumped the back of my head against the wall. “It hurts.”

“Good.”

“Rico!”

“I'm serious. People take all this hard fake stuff and put it on the outside, and that keeps all the soft real stuff safe on the inside, and that is the exact definition of armor, baby girl. And you two have taken it off. And that's where it gets real. Skin in the game real.”

“This was a little too real.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Trey.”

No response. But the music got quieter, which meant he'd gone into the bedroom and shut the door. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

I explained as best I could. Sometimes with Trey, the rush of anger flared with a different kind of heat, and in the past, I'd responded with a matching, primal hunger. But there had been none of that red-blooded drumbeat this time. This time I'd felt only fear, cold and pure and irresistible. And now I felt a different kind of fear, the anxious kind, the kind that left my heart sore and my throat raw.

“I swear, Rico, I can't think of him out there by himself, hurting and confused, and me here, stuck in this freaking shop. But I remember that look in his eyes, and I get…Damn it!”

The restless itch started in my legs again. I recognized it from before—the first twinge of a panic attack—and I tried to breathe it down, but that wasn't happening.

“I have to get outside,” I said.

“What?”

I scrambled to my feet and shoved open the front door. A blast of cold hit me like a slap in the face. The square outside was sheened with snow, the trees heavy with ice, the streetlights tingeing everything a tawny amber. I sucked in a lungful of the crisp air, wet now, sharp as a razor. There wasn't a single ounce of tobacco in the shop. I'd have smoked anything, even a scuzzy, stale, lint-pocked cigarette from the bottom of my tote bag.

I rubbed my arms. “Jeez, Rico, I gotta get it together.”

“You gotta get your ass back in that shop.”

“In a minute.” I took another breath, relieved when it went all the way in. “It didn't feel like a betrayal when I did it, any of it. I knew Trey wouldn't have liked me talking to Kenny by myself, but I didn't know that was going to lead to the damn Russian mafia, and he had so much else on his mind this morning, and—”

“That's not why you didn't tell him, and you know it.”

I kicked the curb, sending a tiny plume of ice and snow into the air. I didn't argue because he was right. I'd been laying claim like a gold rush prospector—my shop, my parking space, my A&D book, my investigation—all in an effort to control something that couldn't be controlled, something I couldn't fight any longer.

The tears started again, and I cursed softly. “Everything's all mixed up, Rico—Trey and Dexter and the ATF and the cops and that poor girl's bones. I can't help thinking that could be me one day, a dusty skeleton shoved in the back of the closet, no name, no resting place, no people to miss me.”

“Careful, baby girl. You're working yourself into a one-woman pity party.”

I tilted my head back against the brick and blinked back the tears. “I think he killed her, Rico.”

“Who?”

“Braxton Amberdecker. That girl died on Amberdecker land, I know it. What if they made up that story about him disappearing in the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain and then hid him out until he died and then buried him in an unmarked grave in those woods? What if that's why they put his sister in an asylum and destroyed her journals, because she knew the truth?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. That's a whole lotta ‘what ifs' there.”

I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. “I swear, once this city unfreezes itself, I'm going to prove it.”

“How?”

“By digging up Braxton Amberdecker.”

“You don't know where he is.”

“I bet I do, thanks to a tip from a Russian mobster.”

“And where is that?”

“I'll tell you if I'm right.”

In the square, I saw the headlights on the police car flare bright. Then the blue lights on the dash followed, a kaleidoscopic spin, as the cruiser pulled onto the street.

“So much for that,” I said.

“For what?”

“My sentry just abandoned his post.”

“No surprise, probably got another call. You think these people can't drive on good days, wait till you see what happens with a little ice on the road.” Rico paused to take a swig of something. “Keep your door locked up there in the boonies. You don't want things to get all Donner Party and shit.”

I laughed, even if it was half-hearted. Laughter echoed at his end of the call too, his poet friends coming in, wondering where he was. His community. His people. At my end, there was only a silence coming down like the night, and the rising cold.

I went back inside the shop and shut the door, stamping the slush from my feet. And that was when I saw it, the tiny red flicker behind the glass eyes of the stuffed deer. I walked over and stood under it.

Rico's voice was concerned. “Tai? You still there?”

“I'm here. But I have to go.”

“All right, but you be careful up there all alone.”

“I will,” I said, and hung up.

I didn't tell him I wasn't exactly alone anymore.

Chapter Forty-nine

I tilted my head back, looking the deer right in the eye. “I know you're watching me. I can tell, you know, even without the little red light to give you away.”

I sat cross-legged on the floor, put my chin in my hand. The shop was quiet, save for the chirps of various surveillance equipment, a noise like well-behaved robot crickets. I could hear the drip drip drip of the faucet, the hum of the electric lights, the muffled roar of the gas heater. The noises blended into the smells—gunpowder and leather and tobacco and strong coffee—and I realized with a pang it was the smell of home.

“It's okay. I watch you too sometimes. Like when I come to bed and you're already asleep. Some days I can't believe you're real and not a figment of my imagination.” I fixed my eyes on the red light. “You're probably close to Buckhead by now. At least I hope you are. It's nasty out, and getting nastier.”

As if in response, the wind surged, and I heard a branch snap and tumble to the ground with a muffled thud. I held my breath waiting for the electricity to flicker, but the current stayed on. So did the red light.

“You left all your paperwork. I'll put it with mine. And then when the storm's done, we'll dump it all on your dinner table and see how it connects. Because I'm betting it does. I'm betting the skeleton in my closet and the skeleton in the Amberdecker woods and the skeleton we still haven't found are all part of one whopping story, and if anybody can figure it out, it's you and me. We make a great team, boyfriend. Which reminds me.”

I leaned over and dragged my tote bag into my lap. I pulled out a piece of paper and held it up.

“This isn't finished yet, but here's the idea I was telling you about, my contribution to your seduction strategy. Besides me learning to be more patient, of course.” I unfolded it and turned it to face the camera. “It's a flowchart, see? It starts with a single box here—that's you, taking one step forward. One step. Then based on the response you get from me, you choose the next action. It's all linear except for some…what do you call it? Circular non-divergence? And you're
quite
familiar with this section already, so nothing new there. Except for this sequence…” I pointed to the lower right corner. “It may seem a little odd, but just go with it, trust me.”

A spatter of sleet lashed the window, mixing with the snow. Soon it would freeze, and the power lines singing in the whiplash wind would grow heavy with ice. The shadows of the tossing tree branches wove patterns on the wall.

I tucked my knees against my chest. “I suppose you saw my little freak-out when I was talking to Rico. You told me that PTSD triggers are complicated, but mine is pretty specific—it's feeling trapped. Rooms. Circumstances. Expectations. Anything where I'm not in control. And when one hits, it's Savannah all over again, those hours before I finally found you, when I didn't know if you were alive or…not. So last Sunday, when you locked me in the safe room and went off into the darkness, that was a trigger. And now, with the storm, and you out there somewhere, where I can't get to you…”

My voice broke, and I focused on the red blinking light. I recognized the vulnerability behind that ruby glow. Trey had covers for his empty places, perfectly engineered ones that camouflaged the abyss below. He wasn't the only one. And as I sat alone in that cramped messy room, all the memories flooded back—every kiss, every hesitation, every blush, every sideways glance, him in the dark bottom of that boat, lifting his head at the sound of my voice, him in the dark of the bedroom, his mouth against mine—and I got dizzy with the weight of what he meant to me.

“Trey Seaver, I know you'd never hurt me. I know it with my whole heart. I know the kind of damage you're capable of inflicting—and yes, that's scary to see, I'll admit—but you are the best man I know, good and true all the way to your middle. I keep saying, over and over and over, that I'm not going anywhere. And I'm not. I'm right here.” I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath. “And I've got something to tell you. It's something I should have told you when I first figured it out, and as soon as I lay eyes on you again—”

My phone started ringing.

I smiled up into the red light. “Took you long enough.” And then I put it up to my ear. “Hey, boyfriend.”

But the voice on the other end was unfamiliar. “Excuse me?”

Not Trey. I yanked the phone down and checked the display. It was an unknown number, from an unknown area code. I put it back against my ear. “I'm sorry, I thought you were…who is this?”

A hesitation. “I'm calling for Tai Randolph?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Professor Geoffrey Walker. I've been told that you may have found the bones of my great-great-grandmother?”

Chapter Fifty

I stammered a little. “Excuse me, could you repeat that?”

“Ophelia Price gave me this number. She said that you've discovered bones that quite possibly belong to my great-great-grandmother, Josephina Luckie.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” I scrambled over to my tote bag. “I'm sorry, it's been crazy here.”

As I pulled my papers from the bag, I sketched out the story for him—the backpack of bones, the mourning jewelry, the forensic details the ME had shared. He listened. I could feel his excitement mounting.

“We never thought we'd find her. She moved to Atlanta in the late 1850s with her aunt—the Sophia Luckie memorialized on the locket—but when her aunt moved back to North Carolina, Josephina stayed in Georgia, moving in with her brother and his family. She was supposed to flee Atlanta with them, but she never returned from gathering provisions, and they had to leave without her, barely ahead of Sherman's troops. There's a memorial in the family plot and an empty grave but…” His voice cracked with emotion. “How did her remains get in your shop?”

“We're still trying to figure that out, but it's looking like a relic hunter who used to work for my uncle hid them in the wall, probably to sell on the black market.”

His end went silent. I glanced up at the wall—the red light still flashed—then pulled out the papers Ophelia Price had printed for me.

“Dr. Walker, if you'll send me all the information you have, I'll do the same for you. Tomorrow. In case you don't know, it's blowing up a snowstorm of epic proportions here in Atlanta, and since my computer is suddenly defunct…” I directed a pointed glance at the deer head. “…my cell phone is my only link to the outside world.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Although we don't have much—the few letters she sent, anecdotal recollections from other family members.” His voice went emotional again. “All we've had of her has been the story, which some of us assumed was more fiction than fact, and a photograph.”

I got a tingle. “You have a photograph?”

“Yes. It's posted on the genealogical website my cousin maintains. Shall I message you the link?”

“Oh yes, please do.”

Another pause while he got his voice under control. “I know you're still trying to figure out the story, but…were there other bones with hers?”

I got another tingle. “We don't know—the remains were removed from their original burial place. Why do you ask?”

“She was supposed to be bringing her betrothed with her to the meet point. She never mentioned his name, only that he was a freeman, and that he was bringing provisions from his home for the trip. He had a sister, the letters said, and this sister was providing food and gold and clothes, but they had to sneak it out past an unsympathetic older brother. Josephina planned to marry him once they got north of the Mason-Dixon line, then head west.”

“Her fiancé didn't make it out either?”

“Nobody knows. The final shelling started, and the rest of the family decided that they couldn't risk staying any longer. Travel was severely restricted then for all persons of color, free or slave, and they had to move when they had the chance. They had no choice, not with the baby to consider.”

“Josephina's baby?”

“Yes. A little girl. Today Josephina seems too young to be a mother, seventeen, but given the context of the time, she was of marriageable age. In her prime, actually.”

I thought of the Minié ball, the probably fatal wound on her vertebrae. She'd left her child with her family to meet her soon-to-be husband, but had instead been shot in the back before she could return to them.

“The baby survived?”

“A minor miracle, that. Josephina's brother raised the girl as his own.” A pause. “We've always suspected Josephina lied about the child's parentage. She told her brother her betrothed was a freeman, but the baby could have passed for Eastern European. The child chose to identify as black, however, even though it cost her a lifetime of privilege.”

“So you suspect Josephina's betrothed was white? Or do you think…I'm sorry, I don't know how to ask this question delicately.”

“It's always the question, isn't it? Josephina was a free black woman, but that provided very little protection from the predations of white men. She could have been raped. She could have sold herself for money or food. Or the child really could have been the child of her betrothed, as she claimed. We'll never know.”

“And she never said?”

“No. She was a teacher, Ms. Randolph. She worked with churches to provide religious instruction to the enslaved workers on the plantations, secretly sneaking in reading and writing lessons when she could. It was a dangerous endeavor, illegal in antebellum Georgia, and it put her in close contact with white slave owners who would have been very unhappy with her. If she became pregnant through such an encounter, she would have lied about it, most assuredly.”

Something was trying to put itself together in my head, but the threads weren't weaving together properly. Something Ophelia Price had said. Or was it something Evie Amberdecker had said? Or was it…

Dr. Walker kept talking. “We're of mixed ancestry, Ms. Randolph. Indigenous people, specifically Cherokee and Muskogee, African American, Northern European to make it interesting. Even a soupçon of East Asian. My ancestral line is rich and diverse, but I identify as black. Would you like photos of me too?”

“Yes, please. Whatever you've got.”

“Certainly.” He chuckled. “You can easily see the resemblance between Josephina and me, even though she's the more attractive.”

I clicked the first link. And I lost my breath.

There was the face of Josephina Luckie, with the locket around her neck, the locket I'd held in my hands. She possessed the long, high-cheekboned features I'd seen on the Ugandan women at the History Center, dark skin, a rounded nose, and piercing eyes. Her dress was that of a Victorian gentlewoman, but her eyes flashed with defiance.

The second link revealed a handsome man with cocoa skin and neat black dreadlocks. He was straight up beautiful, and deceptively young-looking—close examination revealed that the dreads were shot with steel-gray threads and the angled jawline bore the first softness of post-middle age. The caption identified him as Dr. Geoffrey Walker, head of the African American Studies program at a university I recognized from the annual top ten lists. I could see Josephina in his eyes, his nose…

But not his chin, his assertive square chin. A chin I recognized. And the threads started knitting themselves together.

“Dr. Walker? I don't know how to say this, but…Dr. Walker?”

There was no reply.

I looked at my cell phone. Call ended. I pressed redial but the little icon on my screen went round and round.

I banged my fist on the counter. “No! No! No! Not now!”

But it was futile. The inevitable overloading of the cell phone towers, overwhelmed with the call volume of an entire city freaking out. At least I still had electricity, which meant that the deer head was broadcasting over the Wi-Fi, and Trey was listening, dear Lord, I hoped he was listening.

I looked up at the deer head, pointed a finger at it. “Don't go anywhere!”

Outside, the wind howled as pellets of ice pelted the windows with ballistic regularity. I dumped my tote bag on the floor and found the catalog from the History Center. I flipped to the photograph of Braxton Amberdecker—young and handsome, his jaw set firm and strong. I placed the cell phone image of Geoffrey Watson next to him, and saw it clear as day.

The Amberdecker chin.

Josephina
had
lied—her child's father was no freeman, he was Braxton Amberdecker. I remembered Evie's story, of Violet Amberdecker being reprimanded for bringing teachers in for the slave children. Josephina had been such a teacher. And the story came together with such force that I had to sit down again.

I looked up at the deer head. “Violet was the sister in Josephina's story, the one who was secretly giving her and her lover supplies to flee the Siege. That's how Josephina's bones got on Amberdecker land. She went to get provisions. From Violet. Violet knew everything. That's why her family destroyed her journals and locked her away. Because she knew that Braxton was in love with a black woman, that he was deserting the Confederacy and his wife—even his unborn baby—to be with her and his other child, to get them out of Atlanta, and she tried to help them do it. And she knew that somebody on the plantation killed them both, shot them with Minié balls and buried their bodies in the woods.”

I studied Josephina's face as the storm blasted the windows. She'd been a force of nature too, born free, which was a loaded and inaccurate word for describing being black in a white-dominated world, but she'd wielded that edged freedom like a sword. And she'd paid with her life.

I looked up at the deer head. The red light behind the glass eyes was no longer flashing. Trey had signed off. I felt a pang in my heart. And then the realization hit me—there was another reason that light could be off.

I pulled out my phone, then cursed. First the cell phone towers, now the Wi-Fi. And then, without even a flicker of warning, I heard a soft click and the room went totally, utterly, and completely dark.