Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller (18 page)

“Well, you don’t sound so sure. Don’t tell me you’re homesick. Any place was better than that place!”

Ozzie didn’t say anything. He just doodled and dug in the dirt next to the stream, not saying anything, not really thinking anything.

“Why in the world do you miss
that
place, Oz?

“I’m worried about my mother. I’m afraid they’re going to hurt or kill her.”

“Well of course they’re going to—” Ozzie’s head jerked up as Tammy caught herself and stopped before she said anymore. She hadn’t realized how innocent Ozzie was, how much his mother had sheltered him from what
really
happened there.

“Ozzie,” Tammy began, more gingerly than before, “how long did you live there?”

Ozzie pondered the question for a moment. “I’ve always lived there!” he said finally.

“Ozzie, we were
all
brought there. We were all kidnapped and brought to that place. No one was born there and
no one
leaves that hell hole alive.” Tammy paused for a moment. “Until...you Ozzie, you were the first one to leave there alive. You’re the reason I’m free. You can never go back there Ozzie. Those men are vicious. They’ll kill you and laugh while they’re doing it. I’ve seen them do it.”

Tammy stopped talking, her own horrific memories now trying to bubble to the surface. She squashed them in their tracks as she always did, suppressing her feelings the same way she and her family had been suppressed and held down. Tammy had watched them murder her mother, murder her father, only two years before. The men
did
laugh while they did it, talked about football and women while looking at her, smiling, when they slit her daddy’s throat. As they bled him dry right before her eyes, Tammy’s mind left her body and drifted far away from that place. It sought refuge in her own forest utopia where it roamed carefree and did what it wanted. Until, she now realized, Ozzie escaped and she followed him through the fence to
real
utopia. No, she would never go back to
that
place.

Ozzie studied her silence and thought about what she said. Tammy began walking down stream and Ozzie followed. Tammy changed the subject.

“Lets walk down the stream Ozzie!”

Ozzie walked just behind Tammy on the narrow trail. The trail widened and the sun shone brightly through the canopy. Tammy began spinning around.

“What are you doing?” Ozzie asked.

“Dancing in the sun’s rays, Ozzie ’ol boy. Dancing in the sun’s rays!”

“What on earth for?” Ozzie asked.

Tammy looked at him and cocked her head. “Because Ozzie, I can. I’m free! And last night I danced in the moonlight.” Tammy left the trail and splashed in the stream.

“Come on in, Ozzie!”

Ozzie stared at her pensively but stayed firmly on the trail. He hadn’t yet accepted his freedom and wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Tammy, on the other hand, embraced her freedom. Nature provided almost everything she needed, just as Hal would point out that night and every night when his liquid rants echoed over the campfire. But it didn’t provide everything. Unlike Hal, she didn’t want to be alone. She wanted a family one day, and she couldn’t do that alone.

By early afternoon they had made their way back to the clearing where Ozzie had found the figs. Ozzie stopped in the woods so that he was able to see the garden. He stood and stared.
If that woman is still there, she won’t be able to see me,
he thought. Tammy saw the opening and wanted to go explore, but Ozzie cautioned her, telling her about the screaming woman. Tammy stayed back while Ozzie walked slowly toward the tree.

Angelica sat in a wicker chair in the corner of the garden. In front of the chair was two mullein plants, their yellow spikes towering over six feet high and obscuring most of Nancy’s Tree, thirty yards away. With her hands, Angelica felt the heft of the royal blue yarn, the smooth, fuzzy touch of the fiber. She draped it over her skin, closed her eyes and visualized it warming her baby, her son, in the winter months. She tugged the half sweater she had knitted and approved of the tension. Without thinking, her muscles and ears took over, by now having memorized the movements and sounds to create the perfect rhythm of knitting. Her hands moved steadily, the metal knitting needles creating a soothing clicking sound as they struck together, the sound being precisely why she preferred them to bamboo. She watched her work when she wanted, but there was no need to concentrate on the task. Knitting in her secret garden calmed her the way yoga calmed others. It gave her peace and provided refuge from any stress that attempted to creep into Angelica’s life.
All stress can be knitted away
, she thought,
and a garment made to take its place.

Ozzie walked under the drip line of Nancy’s Tree, entering from the forest this time. A few more figs had fallen from the tree. Ozzie pointed them out to Tammy. “It’s safe,” he whispered. “Come try one.”

Tammy moved forward and tasted her first fig, deliciously ripe. She accidentally bumped Nancy’s Tree, laughing as an overripe fig bounced off Ozzie’s head. Across the garden Angelica saw the tree shake gently. She slowly leaned to her right and saw both Ozzie and Tammy at the base of the tree reveling in Nancy’s gift.

Children of the forest!
Angelica said to herself with a smile that ran almost to the back of her head. Tears welled in her eyes as she thought about the happiness that Nancy now showered on her garden and how much happiness had risen from that place that was so deeply sorrowful just two years ago.
I want to meet them!

As she continued knitting she began to sing ever so softly, as if singing a lullaby to her newborn child. Her angelic voice lifted over the mullein, danced with the herbs and filtered through Nancy’s branches down to Ozzie and Tammy. They ate, the singing a background noise as a distant wind that goes unnoticed. The knitting soothed Angelica. The singing soothed Ozzie and Tammy. Angelica let her voice rise ever so slightly, unable to help it anyway as if a spirit had lifted her soul. She wanted to belt out her love, her compassion, but didn’t want to scare her new friends away.

Ozzie lost himself in the figs, but Tammy stopped and listened to the singing. She looked around unable to determine the origin of the voice.

“Ozzie, where’s that coming from?”

Ozzie raised his head, half-chewed figs dripping from his mouth. He listened, hearing it for the first time, and turned around. There was no one in the hammock. He stared in that direction, his eyes sidestepping into the corner of the garden. The voice was coming from there, from the same woman, but he couldn’t see her. It wasn’t a screaming voice this time. It sang the way Hal sang, only...no one sang like this. It didn’t make Ozzie feel like dancing. It made him feel joyous, peaceful, very nearly compelling him to kneel and bow his head. He felt as if he were a baby and his mother was singing to him, the way Isabella used to sing to him. The way all mothers sing to their babies.

Angelica stood up very slowly, smiled and looked right at Ozzie as she rose in the distance. Ozzie darted to the bushes and stopped with Tammy at his side. He looked through the bushes, able to see Angelica, but thinking that she would be unable to see him. Still she smiled, still she sang. Still she stood. She hadn’t tried to harm him. Instead, she captivated Ozzie. Tammy looked at Ozzie, mouth agape as he peered at Angelica, her singing luring Ozzie into a trance that caused him to sway ever so slightly.

“Let’s go, Ozzie. I don’t like her.”

Ozzie turned to Tammy, looking perplexed. “Why not? She’s not going to hurt us.”

“I don’t like her,” Tammy repeated, furrowing her eyes in Angelica’s direction. She turned and walked toward the path by the stream. “I’m going back to Hal’s.”

Ozzie turned his head back to glance at Angelica. She waved at him. It startled Ozzie. He was sure she couldn’t see him, could she? How could she see into the bushes?

As he began to follow Tammy, Ozzie walked into the open behind Nancy’s Tree instead of following Tammy through the cover of the forest. Walking very slowly he looked straight into Angelica’s eyes as she gazed peacefully into his. She smiled and sang to him as he continued walking out of the garden and up the stream.

Chapter 16

Some people’s lives seem preordained at birth. As youngsters, they pass time playing with other children, absorbing what teachers and preachers have to say until they’re old enough to accept their destinies. Sheriff Lonnie Jacobs was one such person.

He was born and raised in Rabun County in an area the locals called Chechero. His backyard playground was Rainey Mountain where he roamed the woods as a boy, learning to shoot by the time he was eight and hunting alone with his shotgun by the time he was eleven. Like most boys he knew, he learned how to use a gun responsibly and scoffed at the liberal media reports he would see from time to time that proclaimed guns as unsafe. He knew guns were safe, if treated with respect, and were deadly if treated with negligence. Just as a motor vehicle is, just as a knife is, just as baseball bat is. “Heck,” he had recently told a friend over coffee at the Clayton Cafe when debating the subject, “the banjo is legally considered a deadly weapon under Colorado state law. It’s true!”

Lonnie first learned the word
sheriff
from Mrs. Welch, a Sunday School teacher at the Bull Creek Baptist Church. She was reading a passage from the book of Daniel that said, “the king sent to gather together the princes, the governors...the judges...the sheriffs, and all the rulers of the provinces.” Lonnie wanted to become one of those leaders, those rulers. Becoming a prince was out of the question and he had no interest in becoming governor since he’d have to move to Atlanta. Nor was he inclined to sit behind a bench, so he ruled out becoming a judge. He thought long and hard of becoming a pastor when he was a teenager, but also felt destined to become one of the sheriffs.

He had learned his way through the woods, knew how to hunt, how to track, what to eat, what to avoid. Lonnie also knew how dangerous the north Georgia woods could be to anyone unfamiliar with them. Fortunately, most folks in his county knew that all too well since most of them were born and raised there. No local in his or her right mind would just wander into the dense woods unprepared or without knowing how to get out.
Certainly two locals never would
, he thought to himself as he turned his new SUV into Blake Savage’s driveway.

The sheriff’s office had only recently begun using the SUVs, and Lonnie thought it was about time. Most of the sheriff’s territory in Rabun County was rural and lightly populated. Old dirt roads, washed and rutted by rains racing down steep mountainsides, were the norm. Blake’s driveway off Hale Ridge Road was no exception, but just getting there was the real battle.

Hale Ridge was one of the most isolated, least populated areas of Rabun County. The gravel road itself was in decent shape, Lonnie noted, with only a few bumpy ruts causing him to slow to a crawl. When it rained hard, however, it was a different story. Roads such as Hale Ridge became quickly impassable no matter what you were driving and were low priority for the road maintenance crews. Heavy rains would bring down huge trees, generally right over roads and power lines. To make matters worse, each side of the road was lined with terrain so steep a car could tumble off. If the drivers were sufficiently injured they may not be found or known about for a very long time, if ever. Hale Ridge road was wider than a one-lane road but not as wide as a two-lane road. It was rare for cars to meet on the road. When they did, they would each have to snake just along the edge of the road until they passed. Lonnie hated to think what that task would be like if the ground was waterlogged.

Lonnie knew Blake, but not very well. Like most folks in and around Clayton, Lonnie went to the Wildcat football games on Friday nights and had cheered as Blake dominated defenses until the rising star graduated in 2000. Lonnie himself had graduated from Rabun County fifteen years earlier before heading off to Georgia State College in Atlanta, where he majored in Criminal Justice. He hadn’t cared for the city lights of Atlanta much and mostly kept to himself in his dorm, with one exception. Turner Field was within walking distance and he could buy tickets for Atlanta Braves games for only a dollar in the cheap seats, something he did several times a week when the Braves were in town. When Lonnie finished up at Georgia State, he headed back to his home on Rainey Mountain to pursue his life’s calling just as he knew he always would. Ten years later he was elected Sheriff of Rabun County.

Lonnie parked in front of the house next to Blake’s F-150 at 8:10 a.m., got out, and shut the door quietly, as was his practice. He straightened his hat and walked with purpose and authority to the door at the center of the A-frame, and rang the doorbell.

Blake sat on the sofa when the doorbell rang, having just finished a heated call with Nick to discuss the delivery Blake would make later in the day. He looked toward the door and exhaled deeply.
Angelica, if you’ve locked yourself out
..., he thought to himself with exasperation as he got up and walked to the door. As he reached for the handle he could see through the stained-glass door that it was not Angelica. The figure loomed large, with the morning sun casting a large shadow over its wide-brimmed hat. Blake’s throat dried and his pulse quickened as he opened the door.