Old Wounds (37 page)

33.

A
T THE
M
OUSE
H
OLE

Tuesday, October 25

The casino stretched
out endlessly, row after row of slot machines and video poker games. Lights flashed and blinked, music blared, and the smoke of innumerable cigarettes spiraled like incense from myriad altars up to the massive exhaust fans. Elizabeth made her way down a row of machines, a stranger in a strange land. Disconcertingly, many of the gamblers seemed to be plugged in, a cord growing from chest to machine as if for intravenous feeding or some electronic life support.

At first the players seemed to her to be all alike: mindless automatons feeding money into mindless automatons. Soon, however, she began to pick out individuals and relish their particular idiosyncrasies. A tiny old woman, evidently toothless, judging from the set of her tight-lipped jaw, was nodding and bouncing to the driving rhythm of the relentlessly upbeat music as one hand punched the buttons before her in perfect time. Beyond her, a matron with tight-curled iron gray hair rode her tall chair with insouciant ease, one foot propped up on a steel tray, the receptacle into which the machine would, with luck, disgorge its bounty of nickels. At her side, a neglected cigarette smoldered in a black plastic ashtray.

Elizabeth picked her way through the rapt gamblers, heading for the offices at the back, where she had been told she would find Driver Blackfox. Suddenly a siren whooped. She looked back to see a thirty-something woman with dirty blond hair, tight white slacks, and a cigarette dangling from her lips executing a slow, hip-swiveling, triumphal dance in the aisle by her machine. The beacon light atop the machine was proclaiming a win that could not be satisfied by rattling coins, and a uniformed attendant was hurrying to make the payout.

Other players looked up briefly, then resumed their methodical feeding of the machines. A tall man came striding down the lane, looking for an unoccupied seat. He brushed past Elizabeth and made for a vacant, flashing monster.

Okay, he gets the prize.
Elizabeth tried not to stare, but the man was already attached to his machine and oblivious to her. A little embarrassed, she yielded to curiosity and studied the newcomer carefully, absorbing every detail of his outfit—fur-lined boots,
very
short cutoff jeans with slits reaching precariously high, an open denim vest, and a large gold medallion, prominently displayed on his bare chest. His confidence in his fashion statement was clear, but with his long white hair and beard, the latter slightly yellowed about the mouth, he looked like nothing so much as a Santa gone very wrong indeed.

At last she came to the hallway at the back of the main gaming room. It was marked NO ADMITTANCE, but the helpful woman at Mystic Grounds had told her that if she waited there, she couldn’t fail to intercept Driver Blackfox.

I hope she knew what she was talking about.
Elizabeth took up her station, just to the right of the hallway.
Like a cat at a mouse hole.

Or one of the damned in Dante’s inferno.
Twenty minutes of waiting: being bombarded by flashing lights, bells, buzzers, the rattle of coins in the metal trays, and the occasional siren for the large wins, as well as the pervasive cigarette smoke. Elizabeth had a growing suspicion that somewhere back at the coffeehouse, two Cherokee artists were having a good laugh at her expense.

She was watching a woman near her light her fifth cigarette, oblivious of the four still smoldering in an overflowing ashtray. The woman, eyes locked on the ever-changing display in front of her, exhaled jets of smoke from her nostrils.

“I can’t promise it any sooner than June.”

“We can live with that—I don’t think we’ll have the site ready much before June, anyway.”

The voices were almost beside her, and Elizabeth hastily looked around to see the man she had been waiting for.

Driver Blackfox was even handsomer than his photograph—slim and athletic, he had avoided the paunchiness that was the curse of so many of his fellow tribesmen. He wore faded jeans and a neatly pressed white dress shirt. His braids were iron gray, and the aquiline severity of his copper-hued face was softened by the faint tracery of laugh lines around his dark eyes.

The two men stood, exchanging a few more words, while Elizabeth feigned interest in the smoking woman’s play.

At last good-byes were said, and to her great relief, the client—supremely uninteresting: smallish, pinkish, with what was either a bad toupee or a terrible haircut—returned to the inner sanctum and Driver started for the exit. He strode rapidly away, gliding down the rows of slot machines as if along a deserted woodland path. Elizabeth hurried after him, not wanting to accost him here, doubting that she could make herself understood in the heart of this buzzing, whirring, dinging, sparking bedlam, but determined to keep him in sight.

At last Driver was at the main entrance, flashing a brilliant smile and nodding to the two pretty Cherokee women stationed there to greet the patrons. He pushed through the doors and started for the parking lot.

“Mr. Blackfox!” Elizabeth dashed through the door. “Mr. Blackfox, can I speak to you for a minute?”

To her immense relief, Driver Blackfox turned to look at her. “Mr. Blackfox, I’m Elizabeth Goodweather…Rosie’s mother. You knew Rosie—she was Maythorn’s friend.”

Explanations, apologies, more explanations. Driver Blackfox stood as still and inscrutable as one of his own carvings as Elizabeth told him about Rosemary’s belief that she could solve the mystery of her friend’s disappearance.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but Rosie’s convinced herself that Maythorn wants her to do this. It’s become almost an obsession—maybe that’s too strong—but I don’t know what else to call it.”

Maythorn’s uncle said nothing. Instead, he began to walk toward a nearby section of the huge parking lot. Elizabeth kept up with him.

“Rosie had just one thing she wanted to ask you. It was about the booger mask you were helping Maythorn make. Rosie—”

He didn’t slow his long-legged stride but he did break his silence. “What does Rosie know about booger masks?”

“She knows that Maythorn was making a mask to represent someone who scared her. Kind of like your Rush Limbaugh mask. Or the one of the President.”

“Yeah, they scare me, all right.” His eyes twinkled, but his mouth remained stern. He stopped at the side of a worn old pickup.

“So, do you remember what the mask Maythorn made looked like? It would be such a help….”

Her heart sank. Driver Blackfox was climbing into his truck. He was turning the key in the ignition and the truck was roaring to coughing, sputtering life. Laboriously he cranked down the clouded window and began to back the truck out.

Elizabeth stood there, bitter disappointment sweeping over her. With a grinding and clashing of gears, Driver forced the old truck into low. Just before he released the clutch, he put his head to the window, leaning toward her. “Maythorn didn’t make
a
booger mask. She made
two.”

H
UNTERS’
M
OON

September 1986

A
S THE FULL
moon’s glowing disk slowly came into view behind the peaks and gables of Mullmore, its cold light bathed the watching face of the girl in the gazebo. Maythorn Mullins watched, motionless, as the great orange ball gradually struggled free of the mansion’s silhouette to begin a stately ascent into the velvet sky. At last she nodded. Now, now was the time to finish it—now when the magic would be strongest.

Below her, the big house pulsed with light and hummed with a crazy confusion of sound—talk, music, the rhythmic clatter of tap shoes, gunfire, and the squeal of tires in a car chase emanated from various rooms as Mullmore’s other inhabitants pursued their chosen entertainments.

Silently, Maythorn counted them off on her fingers: Krystalle was perfecting her Tap ’n’ Twirl routine under the critical eye of her mother; Moon was in his den watching Beverly Hills Cop; and Jared and Mike were in the great room, where the television was tuned to some scary movie. In the kitchen wing, where the cook and her husband—the houseman—were cleaning up, a radio added its voice to the others.

Standing alone in the gazebo, Maythorn stared down at the house. A cold breeze herded a rustling flock of dry leaves across the wooden floor and around her running shoes. She pulled her jacket closer to her thin frame and shivered. The house looked so warm. Kids at school envied her for what they thought was a perfect life. When the class had come out for a picnic and a swim party at the end of school last year, she had seen how everyone had looked around. All at once, girls who had made fun of her long braids and dusky skin now wanted to be friends. And even Brian, who had whispered “Red nigger” whenever she passed by him…even Brian had been nicer to her since the picnic.

Brian’s eyes almost jumped out of his head when he saw Mama in that tight T-shirt. And all those stupid girls, saying how darling Krystalle was. They didn’t pay her much attention once Jared came out to play lifeguard—acting all grown up and showing off how he could do fancy dives.

Maythorn sniffed in disgust. Every last one of those dumb girls was giggling and trying to get Jared to notice them. They all had crushes on him for a long time—bad as Tamra. I knew that was why they all of a sudden wanted to be friends—so they’d get to come back here and see him. And I bet it was Debbie or Tiffany who kept calling him all summer. Dumb idiots.

As the moon soared higher above the great house, its angry orange-red softened to a creamy yellow. The girl watched its progress for a few more minutes, then, leaving the gazebo to the skittering leaves, she made for the little shed behind the pool house. Gardening supplies and tools were stored in the shed; at this time of year, no one ever came here. Her secret project would be safe from curious eyes.

Thrusting a hand into her jacket pocket, she felt for the precious envelope—still there. It hadn’t been easy to get hold of what she needed, but at last the opportunity had come, just in time for the full moon—the Hunter’s Moon, Driver called it, when trees and fields were bare and the light of the moon made it easy to spot the prey.

Her fingers curled around the soft package, and the ends of her mouth lifted in a triumphant smile. Anything the booger had worn next to their skin, Granny Thorn had said. But for the strongest magic, hair from the booger was best.

Rosie, what are you going to be for Halloween?

Mum looked up from her sewing machine set at one end of the dining table. She was stitching another strip of bright polka-dotted fabric onto the gypsy skirt that was going to be Laurie’s costume.

Will you wear your Indian outfit again? If you want something different, you need to decide now—I’ll be finished with this as soon as I add the rick-rack.

The machine buzzed back to life and Mum’s head bent over her work. Rosemary considered the question while watching her little sister, who was painstakingly wrapping her arms, legs, torso, and head with strips of cloth from Mum’s scrap bag. Orange, purple with pink flowers, green stripes, blue—with crows of delight, Laurie found a new place for each scrap. Her bright red curls were already adorned with a scattering of little bows.

Make my hair all fancy, the little girl had demanded. I want lots of bows. Odd ends of bias binding (lucky Mum never threw anything away) had served for ribbons, and now Laurie’s head looked as if a flight of tropical butterflies had landed on it.

But her face…Rosemary looked at her sister with undisguised displeasure. The chubby face was garish with pink lipstick, blue eyeshadow, and two clown spots of rouge on her fat cheeks.

Mum, where did Laurie get that…that stuff? She looks like Mrs. Barbie.

The whir of the sewing machine stopped as Mum looked up. She made a funny face and whispered, I know, it’s awful, isn’t it? Don’t you remember—the Mullinses gave it to her for her last birthday, almost a year ago. She wasn’t at all interested in it and I put it away. Unfortunately, she came across it this morning when we were rummaging around for stuff to make her a costume. She decided that makeup would suit the look she’s working on now.

They watched Laurie, who was standing on one foot and slowly raising the other behind her. Her arms, trailing bright strips of cloth, waved languidly up and down.

Now I’m a bally dancer. Aren’t I beyootiful, Rosie? But for Halloween I’m going to be a gypsy princess. With big earrings!

The leg and arms came down and Laurel looked at her sister with an appraising eye. You can use some of my Little Princess makeup, Rosie. You can be an Indian princess.

Somewhat hobbled by the various bits and pieces of fabric dangling from her small person, Laurie moved carefully to a nearby chair, where a round purple plastic case lay open. She picked out a small pink tube and held it out. Here, try this. It’ll make you pretty too.

Yuck! I wouldn’t put that stuff on my face for a million dollars. You look dumb. Besides, who ever heard of an Indian with makeup on?

Laurie’s lower lip began to stick out and her face got the look that said a loud outburst wasn’t far away.

Indians did use war paint, Rosie. It would work with your costume. You don’t have to use the colors like makeup—be creative! And don’t call your sister dumb. She’s just playing. Mum lowered her voice and winked. The sooner that stuff gets used up, the better. And it does wash off, sweetie—at least, that’s what it says on the case.

Rosemary pondered. War paint. That might be fun. She and Maythorn had never done war paint. But she had seen pictures of Indians with bold patterns on their faces, right there in the museum in Cherokee, the time Driver took them. Yes, that settled it.

Okay, Mum. I’ll be an Indian again. Sorry I called you dumb, Laurie. I didn’t mean it.

The little girl grinned and tumbled in a brilliant heap on the floor. Now I’m a chicken hiding my eggs, she announced, as she crouched above the bag of scraps.

Rosie studied the contents of the purple case. She picked up a container labeled Pretty Princess Blusher. She opened it, frowned, snapped the lid shut, and selected a little pot of turquoise eyeshadow. Prying off the top, she put in a cautious finger.

Shining Deer, her face painted with the slashes of blue, green, and red that marked a Cherokee princess prepared for battle, made her stealthy way toward the Council House. The message had been clear: come quickly and quietly; come alone. The longed-for return to the old alliance, the sisterhood of blood, had come at last and Fox-That-Watches had sent for her—and her alone.

She looked back to her family lodge. A blue banner of smoke rose to the sky from the hearth fire. Already, on this fall afternoon, the sun had slipped behind the steep hump of the mountain that marked her people’s western border and the chill breeze nipped like the wolf in winter. But as she reached the boundary ridge and looked down on the land held by the clan of Fox-That-Watches, she was warmed again by the waning rays of the sun, as yet unblocked by the lower hills at the western end of this neighboring hollow. With a brief pause for an openhanded salute to the setting disk, Shining Deer hurried on.

When the Council House was in sight, she halted again and gave the secret signal. Kee-o-wee! Kee-o-wee! She called twice, waited five beats, and called a third time.

The door of the Council House opened halfway and Fox-That-Watches could be seen. Her impassive eyes scrutinized the markings on her friend’s face for a long moment. At last she said, That looks cool, Rosie.

Then, recollecting herself, she reached into the pouch that dangled at her hip. Raising the dark circle of the Looker Stone to her eye, she intoned, Shining Deer of Over Hill, I see you. Enter.