HOMOSASSA SHADOWS (15 page)

“I know that you’re thinking animals. But Fishhawk says there’d be signs.” Annie’s voice shattered again. In a few seconds she added, “Pieces of cloth, things like that. Daria would have cried out. I know she would.”

Brandy tried to feel reassured, but black bears were near and wild hogs, too. How had those earlier Indians lived in wilderness like this? All she could think of was the round little face close to hers, the breath on her cheek, the small arms tight around her neck. She felt like a rock had settled in her stomach. She could see no obvious damage to the brush and sapling pen.

She gently placed her hand on Annie’s arm. “Deputies are on their way. We mustn’t try to examine the pen anymore ourselves. We might destroy some clue, something that might help. But we have to be systematic. Search by grids, one block at a time. We’ll start again, near the pen.”

Brandy slogged along the creek bank through needlerush and spartina grasses and peered into a stand of saw grass, trying not to think about the alligators that might lurk in the mud or cruise the creek. Although alligators did not relish brackish waters, she had seen them among the islands, especially far from houses. What if little Daria had wiggled out of the pen and toddled down to the creek? What if...? But Brandy found no long, slithering track, no footprints except their own, hers near her boat, Fish-hawk’s where his canoe had lain. At every turn she prayed she would see the chubby little face with the sparkling eyes. Far away in the hammock she could hear Annie’s frantic call, again and again. “Daria! Daria! It’s Mommy.”

Brandy had almost reached the southern end of the island where Petty Creek forked and wound back along the opposite shore when she heard the roar of a boat engine. A Sheriffs patrol craft came surging up the creek, a tall figure standing at the prow, another boat bringing up the rear. Relief welled within her. Jeremiah Strong and his men.

She struggled back over the wire grass and followed the men up the path toward Fishhawk’s camp. Annie had already greeted them, hair in tangles, clothing coated with burs and leaves. Brandy heard her sob, “She just vanished! Disappeared.” She lifted one quivering hand toward the pen. “We don’t know how she got out. We can’t find a sign of her. Fishhawk went for help.”

Even Annie seemed reassured by the detective’s firm, confident stance, his calm voice. “We’ll find her,” he said. “You take a rest. We passed your husband on the way back. He’ll be here soon. He called the Homosassa Springs station shortly after you did.” The detective turned, saw Brandy emerging from the riverbank, winced as usual, and then beckoned to her. “Miss O’Bannon, since you’re here, help your friend. Get her a glass of water and make her sit down. She may be in shock.”

Mutely Annie allowed herself to be led to the chickee, slumped on a mat, and with trembling fingers grasped the paper cup Brandy poured from a water bottle in the ice chest. Strong studied a clipboard with a map of the island marked in grids. Rapidly he dispatched deputies in four directions with specific assignments. Brandy could see two divers preparing to search the creek. Tears welled in her eyes; she turned away from Annie. God, she prayed, don’t let them find her there.

Strong had begun a methodical questioning of Annie, jotting down times and information, when they heard Fishhawk’s hoarse voice, speaking to the divers. Then he strode up the path, the lines in his forehead deepened, his eyes glistening.

“We’ve found nothing,” Annie cried. “No one has found a trace—of anything.”

Fishhawk sat down, breathing heavily. How many miles had he paddled there and back? Brandy thought about ten.

In a few minutes Strong returned. “We haven’t made a complete search yet,” he said. “But there’s no sign of an intruder—that is, no bobcat tracks, no bear, no wild hogs. I thought you’d want to know. No sign of a scuffle.”

Annie looked at him with anguish. “She’d have cried out. I wasn’t far.”

“But could you see the pen?”

Dumbly, Annie shook her head, “It’s why we built it. To keep her from wandering off when we weren’t watching.”

“And your husband, where was he?”

Fishhawk clenched his fist. “In the sweat lodge.”

“How long?”

“Maybe an hour.”

“Did you hear any noises outside?”

The Indian shook his head.

“Did your wife see you go in and come out?”

Fishhawk scowled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I saw him go in,” Annie said in a thin voice.

Strong folded the cover over his notebook. “It’s good that we’ve found no signs. Unless the deputies turn up something, I think someone took her. Would she go willingly?”

With mounting fear, Brandy remembered Daria’s childish plea, “Go, g°.

Annie clasped her hands in her lap. “She would unless she was frightened. She was trusting, too trusting.”

Fishhawk dropped, then raised his head. “Why would anyone kidnap her? What could anyone hope to get from us?”

Strong crossed long arms over his chest and spoke deliberately. “The motive may be different,” he said. “I want you two to stay here and let the deputies search now. I’m going to make a call.” They watched his tall figure march toward the patrol boat.

“I ought to give you two some time to yourselves,” Brandy said, slipping down from the chickee. She set off at a brisk clip after the detective and paused behind a bushy cedar as she neared the patrol craft.

“That’s right,” Strong was saying into the cell phone. “Send a car to the Seminole Cultural Center in Tampa, check things out. See if a little girl has turned up there with anyone. About eighteen months old. Yes, a little Indian girl. Name’s Daria. Daria Pine, Father’s Franklin Pine, goes by the name of Fishhawk. He works there.”

Brandy pressed her back hard against the prickly leaves, nausea in the pit of her stomach. Strong may suspect Fishhawk himself, she thought. But why? Her thoughts raced back over the last few days. Fishhawk had feared for Annie and Daria to come here, had judged the island unsafe, although he thought he could protect them. He had left early that morning in the canoe. Annie did not see him come out of the sweat lodge. Questions flooded her mind. Could he have handed Daria off to someone? What if Fishhawk had found the valuable artifact—or knew where to find it? Would he kidnap his own daughter to get Annie off the island and keep his find a secret? If the Sheriff’s Office found Daria was not here, Annie would surely look elsewhere or go home.

But if Fishhawk were guilty, would Annie ever forgive him? There was, of course, an even uglier possibility. What if Fishhawk had tried to teach Daria some Indian trick she was too young to master, had taken her into the brush to learn to hide like Seminole children did in the last century, and what if she had been bitten by a coral snake or a water moccasin or rattler? For such a small child, death would be quick. He was plainly distressed. But if an accident had happened, would he dare tell his wife?

Brandy hurried back up the path ahead of the detective. She could hear the receding sound of men thrashing through the underbrush. “Look,” she said to Annie. “You don’t need me here anymore. I’ll leave now, but would you still consider coming to stay with me?”

Fishhawk turned his head and stared at Brandy, hostility clear in his eyes. Perhaps Annie had not told him about her invitation. Annie shook her head. “I couldn’t, not now. Not until...” she paused and caught her breath. “Not until they’ve found Daria or.” Her voice trailed off.

“I’m going to stop at the Flint house,” Brandy said. “I’m sure the deputies will ask there, but I’d like to talk to Mrs. Flint, too. And that real estate woman, she’ll probably be there if they made up the spat they had yesterday. Deputies ought to search that area.”

“Daria could never have gone that far,” Annie said in a faint voice.

Not alone, Brandy thought. Out loud she said, “Take my cell. It’s good for several days. Call me at Mrs. Flint’s or at my house if they find anything, please. If no one finds Daria soon, I’m going to search near the Flint house myself. The officers already failed to find something there that I later found myself. I have to try.”

To the Sergeant, still standing near the chickee, she said, “I’d like to notify the newspapers. Someone in the area might’ve seen or heard something.”

He nodded, but his eyes were on Fishhawk. “You’re a spiritual advisor, I hear,” he said. “I understand you believe a witch may be on the island.”

Fishhawk’s eyes narrowed, a muscle stood out in his cheek. “Our beliefs are not the same as yours, Sergeant. I can’t explain them to you. You wouldn’t understand.”

Frowning, Strong ran a big hand over his forehead and said sadly, “Can a man take fire into his bosom and his clothes not be burned?”

If Fishhawk understood the Biblical warning, he gave no sign. He still sat beside Annie, his big hand covering hers, his broad, flat face without expression.

Brandy walked toward her boat, for the moment Jeremiah Strong beside her. “Fishhawk believes he’s purifying the island, casting away evil,” Brandy said. “He compared his belief to the casting out of devils in the Bible.”

Strong paused, as if studying the proposition. “As a medicine man, Fishhawk also believes he can heal the sick,” he said slowly. “It’s a shrewd comparison. According to Mark, Jesus gives His disciples two powers—to heal the sick and to cast out devils. Matthew added they had the power to cast out unclean spirits. But the devils and the unclean spirits were in people.”

“And so they are on Tiger Tail Island,” Brandy said.

CHAPTER 10
 

Brandy said a mournful good-bye to Annie, but before she left the island, she walked over to the detective, who stood apart now, studying his chart. “What do you think, Sergeant?”

“I don’t like coincidences,” Strong said. “Hart claims he’ll find something valuable on the island; Hart dies on the island, probably poisoned; a few days later a child whose father knew Hart disappears on the island. There’s probably a connection.”

Brandy raised her eyebrows. “Did your men find anything at all?”

He shifted the clipboard to his other arm and ran one large hand through his hair. “The print of a boot beside the pen,” he said. “It fits the father.”

“Of course, he looked in the pen before he went for help.”

“I know. The area’s pretty muddied up with the mother’s footprints—” he frowned at Brandy—”and with yours. If someone left prints earlier, they’ve been tramped all over now.” He lowered his eyes, closed them for a moment, and shook his head. “I hate it when something happens to a child. If we don’t locate her very soon, we’ll call for volunteers.”

“Count me in,” Brandy said. She remembered that Strong had children of his own. She didn’t doubt the strength of his concern.

As she trudged back to her own boat, she knew the detective was irritated with her again, but he would also understand her need to help. Half way to the Flint house she saw Hackett’s boat approaching from the main river and throttled back at her side of the winding channel to let him by. As he passed he called out, “I heard the terrible news. I’m going to see Fishhawk. Maybe I can help.”

“Good,” Brandy said. “The Sheriff’s Office sent deputies.” He waved and swept on by.

Alma May’s jon boat lay next to the dock, the house itself quiet. The only sound was the rustle of cabbage palms and the sharp cry of a seagull. Before Brandy knocked at the front door, she skirted the house and peered into the garden. She could see across the canal that curved around this end of the island before joining the river. Nothing moved among the shrub oaks, palmettos, and wax myrtle. Apparently, deputies had not gotten to Alma May’s property yet. Fishhawk’s camp was a long walk away.

As soon as Brandy knocked, Alma May opened the door, and Brandy pushed over the threshold. She could see Melba Grapple’s scarf on the coffee table beside the pewter spoon and broken glass jar. Neither had been put away. Maybe the two had reconciled their differences. “Has anyone told you about the little Seminole girl?” Brandy asked immediately. “The child staying on the island with her parents is missing.”

Alma May pursed her lips. “We’re way ahead of you,” she said. “A sheriff already called. Well, ain’t no child here.” She made a visible effort to soften her tone, but the words still came out triumphant. “Never should’ve been on the island.”

Brandy flushed. She had the momentary image of the small, round face, the bright eyes, the black hair pulled back in a neat pony-tail. But antagonizing Alma May Flint for her heartlessness would not help Daria. She looked about for Melba Grapple. “Your friend at the plantation site again?”

Alma May shook her head. “Melba and me, we got business to talk about—privately.”

A door opened into the kitchen from outside, and Melba called into the living room, “I think everything’s going well.” Her lanky figure appeared in the doorway, white blonde hair in tangles and sweat on her face, carrying a Tupperware box.

“We got company,” Alma May said in a loud voice, looking at Brandy. “I think she’s fixing to leave.” Melba spun around, glanced anxiously into the living room, then hurried into the hall and disappeared inside Timothy Hart’s old bedroom. Brandy heard a muffled sound through the door—a reedy whimper, a half cough. She tried to edge her way farther in, but Alma May stepped before her, arms crossed.

“You’ll call the Sheriff if you see anything of the little girl, won’t you?” Brandy asked. “Someone should search around here. The missing child’s only a toddler, not quite two.”

Alma May’s answer was tart, “Then the kid couldn’t of come all this way.” She stepped toward Brandy, moving her toward the door. “They need to look somewheres else.”

Brandy didn’t argue. “Is Mrs. Grapple in some kind of trouble? I heard something like a sob from the bedroom.”

“Mrs. Grapple’s fine, thank you. You heard the cat. Been sickly.” Alma May opened the front door. “Cat’s got the heaves.” Brandy found herself on the doorstep.

Brandy couldn’t remember a cat. She strained to hear the cry again, but Alma May was saying goodbye. The last thing Brandy heard was Alma May’s final remark to Melba in the hall. “I declare, we’re not shut of that woman or the deputies yet. They’ll be back, too.” From outside Brandy saw window shades rattle down around the living and dining rooms.