Down River Part 15

"Three million," I said.

"That's about what I figured. He says we're okay, but he's tight-lipped about his money. It has to be hurting, though."

"And this is all riding on Jamie?"

"That's right."

"d.a.m.n," I said. The risks were enormous.

"It's make-or-break, I guess."

I studied the older man. The farm was his life. "You okay with that?"

"I turn sixty-three next month." He looked at me sideways and nodded. "But your dad's never let me down before, and I don't think he's planning to now."

"And Jamie?" I asked. "Has he ever let you down?"

"It is what it is, Adam. Guess we'll see."

We were silent for a moment.

"Is my father going to sell to the power company, Dolf?"

There was a hard edge in his voice when he answered. "You worried about missing out on the windfall?"

"That's not fair."

"You're right, Adam. It's not. But I've seen what this money has done to folks around here." He stared through the gla.s.s, his eyes distant. "Temptation," he said. "It's making people crazy."

"So, do you think he'll do it?"

Something s.h.i.+fted behind the old man's gaze, and he looked away from me, down to the long rows of promising vine. "Did your father ever explain to you why this place is called Red Water Farm?"

"I always a.s.sumed it was because of the clay in the river."

"Thought not." Dolf started the truck and turned around.

"Where are we going?"

"The k.n.o.b."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

The k.n.o.b was the highest point on the farm, a ma.s.sive upheaval of granite that could pa.s.s for a small mountain. Most of it was wooded slope, but the peak was barren, the soil too thin for much to grow. It commanded a view of the river's northern approach, and was the most inaccessible part of the property.

Dolf started speaking when we reached the bottom of the k.n.o.b, and his voice rose as the truck slammed its way up the weathered track that led to the top. "Some time ago this was all Sapona Indian country. There was a village nearby, probably on the farm, although its exact location has never been determined. Like most Indians, the Sapona didn't want to give up their land." He gestured up the track ahead of us. "Their final fight happened right up there."

We came out of the woods and onto the plateau. It was covered with thin gra.s.s. At the northern edge, the granite rose out of the earth to form a jagged wall thirty feet high and a quarter mile long. The outcropping was riddled with cracks and deep fissures. Dolf parked at the base of it and got out. I followed him.

"By the best count, there were maybe three hundred people living in that village, and they all fled here at the end. Women and children. Everybody." Dolf plucked a long blade of gra.s.s from the stony soil and shredded it between his fingers as he waited for his words to settle into me. Then he started walking along the stony face. "This was the high ground," he said, and gestured at the rock face with a gra.s.s-stained finger. "The last good place to fight. You can see everything for miles around from up there."

He stopped and pointed to a narrow fissure in the stone, at the very base of the wall. I knew the spot, for my father had often warned me to avoid it. It was deep.

"When it was over," he continued, "they threw the bodies in there. The men had been shot, of course, but most of the women and children were still alive. They threw them in first and piled the dead on top. Legend says that so much blood soaked into the water table that the springs ran red for days after. That's where the name comes from."

I felt the warmth fade out of me. "How do you know that?"

"Some archaeologists from Was.h.i.+ngton excavated the pit in the late sixties. I was here when they did it. So was your daddy."

"How have I not heard about it?"

Dolf shrugged. "It was a different time. n.o.body cared so much. It wasn't news. Plus, your grandfather only agreed to the excavation if they kept it quiet. He didn't want a bunch of drunk idiots up here getting themselves killed looking for arrowheads. There are some dusty papers on it, I'm sure. Maybe at the university in Chapel Hill or somewhere in Was.h.i.+ngton. But it was never news. Not like it would be today."

"Why did my father never tell me?"

"When you were young, he didn't want to scare you. Didn't want you worrying about ghosts and such, or the nature of mankind, for that matter. Then when you were older, Jamie and Miriam were too young. By the time you were all grown, I guess he just failed to get around to it. It's no mystery, really."

I edged closer to the pit, and my feet sc.r.a.ped on the raw granite. I leaned forward, but was not close enough to see down into the crack. I looked back at Dolf.

"What does this have to do with my father selling?"

"Your old man is like those Sapona. As far as he's concerned, some things are just worth killing for." I looked hard at the man. "Or dying," he said.

"That right?" I asked.

"He'll never sell."

"Even if the farm goes bankrupt over Jamie's vines?"

Dolf looked uncomfortable. "It won't come to that."

"You willing to bet on it?"

He declined to answer. I moved closer and leaned out over the cruel mouth, looked down the shaft. It was deep, lined with sharp protrusions of hard stone; but the sun angled in. I thought that I saw something down there.

"What did those archaeologists do with the remains?" I asked.

"Tagged 'em. Hauled 'em off. Sitting in boxes somewhere, I'd imagine."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Why?"

I leaned farther and squinted into the gloom. I got down on the warm stone and hung my head over the edge. I saw a pale, smooth curve, and below that a hollow place, and a row of small white objects, like pearls on a string; and a large dark hump of what appeared to be stained, rotting cloth.

"What does that look like to you?" I asked.

Dolf got down next to me. He stared for a good minute, wrinkled his nose, and I could tell that he smelled it, too, the faintest lick of something foul. "Jesus Christ," he said.

"Do you have any rope in the truck?"

He rolled onto his side and the metal rivets of his jeans rasped on the stone. "Are you serious?"

"Unless you have a better idea."

"Jesus Christ," Dolf repeated, then got up and went to the truck.

I tied the rope off with a clove hitch and dropped the loose coil over the edge. It flicked against the stone as it went down.

"Any chance you have a flashlight?"

He pulled one out of the truck, handed it to me. "You don't have to do this," Dolf said.

"I'm not sure what I see down there. Are you?"

"Pretty sure."

"Positive?"

He did not answer, so I turned my back to the hole and grasped the rope. His hand gripped my shoulder. "Don't do this, Adam. There's no need."

I smiled. "Just don't leave me."

Dolf muttered something that sounded like "dumb a.s.s kid."

I got down on my belly and slid my legs over the edge. I planted my feet, let them take what weight they could, put the rest on the rope. I caught Dolf's eye once, and then I was in, the lip of the creva.s.se seeming to fold over me.

Cold crept up and the air thickened. I descended past layers of rock, and the descent tore the warm, bright world away. The sun abandoned me, and I felt them, three hundred of them, some still alive when they went in. For an instant, my mind got away from me. It was real, as if I could hear the crack of shot on rock, the high screams of women tossed in alive to spare the cost of a bullet. But that was centuries ago, a faint vibration in the ancient stone.

I slipped once, heard the rope sigh as my weight came onto it. I swung away from the wall, and the void tried to suck me down, but I didn't stop. Ten feet more and the smell overwhelmed me. I forced a breath, but the stench was thick. I put a light on the body, saw twisted sticks of legs, and moved the light up. It struck the exposed curve of forehead bone, what had looked, from above, like an upturned bowl. I saw the hollow sockets, the tattered flesh, and teeth.

And there was something else.

I looked closer, saw denim turned to black, and a once white s.h.i.+rt now eggplant with seepage and decay. I almost threw up, and it wasn't because of the colors or the smells.

I saw insects, thousands of them. They moved beneath the cloth.

And they made the scarecrow dance.

Four hours later, under a vault of clear, sweet air, they hauled Danny Faith out of the ground. There was no pretty way to do it. They went down with a body bag, and used the winch on one the sheriff's trucks. Even over the whine of it, I heard the sc.r.a.pe of the vinyl bag, the apologetic knock of bone on rock.

Three people followed the body out: Grantham, Robin, and the medical examiner. They wore respirators, but still looked as fragile and gray as charred paper. Robin refused to meet my eyes.

No one but me was saying for sure that it was Danny, but it was. The size was right, and the hair was hard to mistake. It was red and curly, not something you saw that often in Rowan County.

The sheriff made an appearance while the body was still in the hole. He spent ten minutes talking to his people, then to Dolf and to my father. I could see the animosity between them, the distrust and dislike. He spoke to me only once, and the hatred was there, too: "I can't stop you from coming back," he said. "But you shouldn't have gone down there, you dumb s.h.i.+t." He left right after that, like he'd done the only important job and still had better things to do.

I caught myself rubbing my hands on my thighs, like I could abrade away the smell or the memory of the damp rock. My father watched me, and I shoved my hands into my pockets. He seemed as stunned as I, and moved close every time Grantham approached with yet another question. By the time Danny left the k.n.o.b for the last time, my father and I stood less than five feet apart, and our own troubles seemed reduced next to the awkward sack that refused to lie flat in the back of the sheriff's truck.

But the body wasn't there forever. The trucks dropped away and quiet descended again. We stood in a rough line by the broken stone, the three of us, and Dolf's hat was in his hand.

Danny Faith was no more than three weeks dead; but for me, in some strange way, he'd been resurrected. Grace had been hurt, yes, but Danny had nothing to do with it. I felt the hatred slip away. In its place rose bittersweet relief, quiet regret, and no small amount of shame.

"Can I give you a ride back?" my father asked.

The wind moved his hair as I stared at him. I loved the man, but could not see a way past our problems. Worse, I did not know if I still had the energy to search one out. Our words came with cost. His nose was swollen where I'd punched him. "Why, Dad? What else is there to say?"

"I don't want you to leave."

I looked at Dolf. "You told him?"

"I'm tired of waiting for you two to grow up," Dolf said. "He needs to know how close he is to losing you for good. Life is too d.a.m.n short."

I spoke to my father. "I'm staying for Grace's sake. Not for you or anything else. For Grace."

"Let's just agree to be civil, okay? Let's agree to that and see what the future brings."

I thought about it. Danny was gone, and I guessed that there were still things to say. Dolf understood, and turned without speaking. "Meet us at the house," my father called after him. "I think we can all use a drink." Dolf's truck coughed once before the engine caught.

"Civil," I said. "Nothing has been resolved."

"Okay," my father said, then, "You really think it's Danny?"

"Pretty sure," I said.

We stared for a long time at the black, black hole. It wasn't the fact of Danny's death or the questions that his death raised. The rift between us was as raw as ever, more so, and we were both reluctant to face it. It was easier to contemplate the dark slash in the earth, the sudden wind that pressed the thin gra.s.s flat. When my father finally chose to speak, it was of my mother's suicide, and of the things I'd said.

"She didn't know what she was doing, Adam. It didn't matter if it was you or me. She'd chosen her moment for reasons we can never understand. She wasn't trying to punish anyone. I have to believe that."

I felt the blood leave my face. "This does not seem like the time to talk about it," I said.

"Adam-"

"Why did she do it?" The question tore itself free.

"Depression does strange things to the mind." I felt him looking at me. "She was lost."

"You should have gotten her some help."

"I did," he said, and that stopped me. "She'd been seeing a therapist for most of that year, for all of the good that it did. He told me that she was improving. That's what he said, and a week later she pulled the trigger."

"I had no idea."

"You weren't supposed to. No kid should know that about his mother. Know that dredging up a smile took everything she had." He waved a hand in disgust. "That's why I never sent you to see a shrink." He sighed. "You were tough. I thought you'd be okay."

"Okay? Are you serious? She did it in front of me. You left me there, in the house."