Disappearance at Hangman's Bluff Page 3

  “There’s a sad dog,” I told him. “Maybe it’s Yemassee.” Rufus apparently did not care about sad dogs. He gave his head a quick shake and nosed me for more scratching. “There’s Cepheus,” I said, pointing up again at a constellation named for some old king but that looked to me like a kindergartner’s drawing of a house.

  “They’re the only ones I can see,” Daddy said, but I could tell he wasn’t thinking about constellations.

  I sat up and looked at him.

  “Sorry,” he said. “But I’ve got a bail hearing and motion I’ve got to prepare for.”

  “Bail?” I said. I didn’t know much about law, but I knew bail was money that got posted to get people out of jail after they got drunk or in a fight. “Who’s in jail?”

  Daddy gave me one of those looks that said I should know better than to ask. “A client.”

  He turned and went up the steps and into the house, and I sat there feeling scared. I tried to tell myself it was stupid to feel like that, probably selfish too, because I could tell he was excited to get back to work, but sometimes feelings and facts are just different.

  When I walked in the house a few minutes later, Daddy was already hard at work, sitting at the kitchen table, his glasses perched on the end of his nose as he read from a law book and made notes on a yellow pad. He had turned on the TV and tuned to the local evening news.

  “Hey,” I said. “I guess I’ll go to sleep.” Bee and I had a big day planned for tomorrow, because we were going to start looking for Yemassee.

  “Okay,” Daddy said, sort of half paying attention, but then the news lady on TV said something about the “recent Leadenwah County crime wave.” She said there had been no progress in finding the stolen armored car, but the police expected breaks very soon because, “You just can’t make an armored car disappear.” The news lady switched to the robbery at the Old South Bottled Gas Company, and suddenly Daddy’s head jerked up and he grabbed the remote control and hit the record button.

  According to the announcer, police believed the thieves had been looking for money, and when they didn’t find any, they had stolen a truck loaded with tanks of gas. She said a man named Willie Smalls had been arrested in connection with the robbery.

  I knew a man named Willie Smalls who lived in a little tumbledown cabin not too far from Reward. The Willie Smalls I knew was slow talking and very slow thinking, but he was nice and honest. I was sure he couldn’t be the person they were talking about on TV. That was until I looked at Daddy again.

  “Is Willie who you’re bailing out of jail?” I asked.

  Daddy glanced at me, hesitated, and then nodded.

  My jaw dropped. “Willie wouldn’t steal anything.”

  “I happen to agree, but Willie was the night watchman, and the robbers used his keys to get into the building, so it doesn’t look good.”

  My brain was suddenly moving in a different direction. What kind of risks was Daddy taking getting involved in something like this? What kind of bad things could happen? “I didn’t think you did that kind of law, you know, where people get arrested.”

  “Criminal law,” he said. “I usually don’t, but Willie’s dirt-poor. If I didn’t take his case, I didn’t know if anyone would.” He must have seen the worry on my face, because a second later he said, “Don’t worry, kiddo, I’m not taking any risks with a bail hearing. I’m just trying to make sure Willie gets a fair shake.”

  He turned his attention back to the TV, where the announcer was saying the thieves hadn’t been very smart, because all the tanks had Old South Bottled Gas written on the sides, and the truck had the same thing written on the doors. She said the police expected to find it pretty soon.

  A second later the television showed a clip from a security camera of two men wearing clown masks as they came through a door and walked toward a parked truck. The clip also showed a third man slumped on the ground with his back against a wall and what looked like a bottle of liquor in his hand. Even though the camera was up high on a wall, I recognized Willie Smalls. He appeared to be sleeping.

  But that wasn’t the amazing thing. That came when one of the men took off his mask in order to get into the truck they were going to steal. The picture was grainy, but even so there was no mistaking who it was.

  “That’s him!” I shouted, pointing at the tall, skinny man on the television. “That’s the guy who shot Yemassee!”

  Four

  The next day was Sunday, and Bee and I got up early, packed snacks and water, smeared on sunscreen, and met at the barn a few minutes after seven. We brought along a map of Leadenwah Island, and our plan was to ride down every single back road and try to spot the white truck.

  As we saddled the ponies Bee said, “You really think that truck is on the island?”

  I nodded. “I bet it’s near wherever Yemassee found that white thing she was carrying,” I said. “Probably the men who stole her saw her as she was digging it up. If we just ride around long enough, I bet we’ll spot them.”

  Leadenwah Island is about seven miles long and three miles wide, and it forks like a pair of rabbit ears about halfway out, creating two separate points of land that jut out into the river. The point nearest to Reward is called Bishop’s Point. The farther point is called Sinner’s Point.

  Like a lot of places in our part of the country, Leadenwah Island had a fair number of people who lived in small houses or double-wides set close to the road. We figured that if the fancy pickup with the double back tires belonged to one of them, it would be easy to spot. But there were also a fair number of folks with plenty of money who lived on much bigger places, and while the two guys we saw hadn’t looked rich, it definitely wasn’t out of the question.

  Even before we got to the end of the plantation drive and onto the township dirt road, I could sense Bee already starting to worry. When I glanced over at her, she was chewing her lip. “What?” I asked.

  “Most of these big places are set pretty far back from the road,” she said.

  I shrugged. “So?”

  “Gonna be hard to see a truck if it’s parked all the way in the back.”

  “Yup,” I agreed.

  “So we’re gonna trespass?”

  “Can you think of any other way for us to spot that truck?”

  Bee thought about that for a long moment. “I guess not,” she said at last.

  We rode out the plantation drive, then turned left on the township dirt road. We went past several of the neighboring properties without even turning our heads, because we knew the people who lived there and the people who worked for them.

  When we hit the paved road that ran down the center of the island, we turned left. A big tractor trailer overflowing with a load of freshly dug dirt passed us heading toward the mainland, and we had to close our eyes and turn our heads away from the blowing dust. That was the only vehicle we saw until we came to the Y intersection and went left, heading toward Bishop’s Point. After that we saw an SUV or two and some pickups. None were white, and besides that I recognized the drivers and waved. A tractor with a big cutting bar passed us on its way to mow someone’s fields, and we waved at that driver, too.

  Once we were on the point, we stayed on the main road and then turned down the first of the narrow dirt roads that went toward the water and started to search for the white truck. We checked the small places close to the road and skipped past the first couple big places because, again, we knew the owners and the people who worked there. The third large property was one we didn’t know anything about.

  Old families still owned a lot of the larger properties on Leadenwah, but increasingly, as people would pass away, strangers from Atlanta or Charlotte or New York would buy them. Some of the newcomers spent a lot of time here and really became part of island life, but there were some, like the owner of this plantation, who didn’t seem to care much about getting to know us locals.

  “Ready to do some exploring?” I asked.

  “Okay, but if somebody comes out a
nd starts screaming at us, you’re doing the talking,” Bee said.

  Bee might have been the worst liar who had ever been born. I’d figured out pretty soon after we’d become friends that whenever we had to fib our way out of a tough spot, I was the one who had to do it. “No problem,” I said.

  The property where we stopped had a couple fancy gateposts marking the entrance. A pair of wrought-iron metal gates would have been closed if the owners were away, but today they were open. We turned our ponies into the drive and started down the long allée of live oaks. The branches formed a high canopy over our heads, and Spanish moss hung from them and waved in the breeze.

  We rode in silence for a ways, but then Bee asked, “So what are you going to say if the owner threatens to call the police?”

  “Easy,” I said. “We’re going to say that we thought one of our classmates lived here.”

  “And what if we run into those two men?”

  I shot her a sideways glance but didn’t say anything because I’d been worrying about the exact same thing. We were getting farther and farther away from the township road, and I was growing more and more nervous.

  Plantation is a Southern word that basically means “big farm.” In my opinion plantations are the most beautiful places in the world, lush and green with fields of crops, and pastures full of animals, and ponds that twinkle in the sun, and pretty houses, and lots of flowering trees. A plantation is the opposite of a suburb. There aren’t any nearby houses or neighbors you can run to for help, and once you get far enough away from the road, people driving past in cars wouldn’t be able to see you at all.

  Therefore, if you went riding up the driveway of a plantation where someone wanted to hurt you, it could be real dangerous. It hadn’t even been four months since some bad people had tried to kill Bee and me on our own plantation, so I knew I wasn’t being a weenie.

  “Um, there’s one thing I kind of forgot to tell you,” I said.

  Bee looked at me and wrinkled up her face like she knew it was going to be bad. “What?”

  “I saw one of those men on TV last night. They didn’t just steal Yemassee. They also robbed that gas company.”

  Bee’s eyes went wide. “Those guys saw us!” she exclaimed. “And now you tell me they’re also like major criminals? Are you seriously crazy?”

  “This isn’t just about Yemassee,” I told her. “It’s about a man named Willie Smalls and Daddy.” And I told her about who Willie was and about Daddy’s bail hearing. “If we can find the men who did all this, it’ll help Daddy out, and he can get back to doing the kinds of things he was doing before, not getting all mixed up in this dangerous criminal stuff.”

  She looked at me, and her eyes narrowed. She huffed some air out her nose and shook her head. “I must be crazy to be your friend,” she said.

  Up ahead of us the line of live oaks seemed to stretch forever. Cows and horses grazed in the pastures on either side. We had ridden a good quarter mile off the county road before some barns came into view on our left. They were pole barns, the kind with just a roof and no walls, so I could see through to the other side. I looked hard for any sign of a white pickup truck but saw nothing other than tractors, mowers, and assorted farm equipment.

  “Is this far enough?” Bee asked, her voice tight with anxiety.

  That was when I heard the bark. A second later four or five big dogs came around the corner of an outbuilding and headed straight for us. Judging by their angry sounds, I didn’t think they were coming out to say hello.

  “I think this is plenty far,” I said as I wheeled Timmy around. I didn’t even have to kick him, because it was clear he didn’t want any more to do with those dogs than me. Even Bee’s pony, Buck, was fast on his feet for once as we started to gallop down the drive toward the township road.

  Ponies are fast, but their legs aren’t as long as horses’ legs by a long shot. For a few seconds it seemed like the dogs were going to catch us because we had to start from a dead stop and they were already running. I felt a twinge of something close to panic as I heard the barks getting closer, and I kicked Timmy hard. The barks stayed close for several more seconds, then finally they began to fade. When I felt like I could risk it, I looked back and saw that the dogs had stopped and were standing with their tongues lolling out as they watched us leave.

  Once we were back out on the township road, Bee and I reined in our ponies and let them catch their breath. “That wasn’t overly successful,” I admitted.

  Bee gave me a cool look. “I’d say your brilliant plan of trespassing onto people’s property and then claiming to be lost is almost guaranteed to get us bitten or shot.”

  I bit back my normal response. Bee could definitely be a bit of a wuss, but in this case I couldn’t argue. Anyplace we trespassed was going to have dogs, or worse, a hothead with a rifle or shotgun. I should have known that in the first place. After all, we were in South Carolina.

  “Okay, change of tactics,” I said. “From now on we’ll circle the fence lines and try to find a way in through the pastures. We’ll stay out of sight better and be farther away from the buildings and the dogs, but we still ought to be able to spot the truck.”

  Bee mulled over my suggestion for a few seconds then gave an uneasy shrug. “We’ll try it,” she said. “But we stay away from swamps.”

  Bee harbored an unholy fear of snakes and any other critters that like to hang out in swamps. Also a few months earlier we’d almost been eaten by a huge alligator named Green Alice.

  “Deal,” I said, happy that she was still willing to come along.

  We continued down the dirt road. For the next five hours, every time we came to a large property, we skirted the fence lines until we found an unlocked pasture gate. It took longer that way, but we stayed out of sight and managed not to get chased by any more dogs or any crazy owners. We spotted plenty of trucks but not a single new white pickup truck with a set of double back tires.

  The day continued to get hotter as we searched. The sky was cloudless, the breeze nonexistent. We found several places to water the horses, but by late afternoon we were tired, frustrated, sunburned, mosquito-bit, out of snacks, and very sweaty.

  As we plodded along the dusty road toward home, I got out the map and planned our next day’s exploration. Little did I know what lay ahead. If I’d had any idea, I think I might have given up any hope of rescuing Yemassee and maybe even of trying to help Daddy.

  Five

  The next morning Bee met me at the barn at seven, just like we had planned, but she told me she couldn’t go riding right away. Grandma Em had a new project she was working on, and she wanted Bee to learn about it. I was invited, too, she said.

  “How long will it take?” I asked.

  “We’re leaving in just a few minutes, and Grandma Em promised it would take only about two hours. She wants to get done before it gets too hot.”

  “I guess I’ll come,” I said. I didn’t want to give up two hours of looking for the white truck, but I sure didn’t want to go snooping all alone, either.

  We went out into the pasture, got our ponies and put them in their stalls so we wouldn’t have to waste time catching them later on, and just about the time we finished, Grandma Em drove up to the barn in a car I’d never seen before. A stranger got out of the driver’s seat and introduced himself. “I’m Professor Emmitt Washburn, girls,” he said.

  The professor was a tall, thin African American man with his hair all black and gray, which made me guess he was probably about as old as Grandma Em. But I also noticed that his eyes had the kind of glint in them that you’d expect to see in an excited kid and not in an old person. It made me like him right off. He opened the door for us, and Bee and I climbed in the backseat.

  As we started driving, Grandma Em swung around in her seat and told us that Professor Washburn taught at the College of Charleston, and the two of them were working on a project to identify all the old slave graveyards on Leadenwah Island, mapping them out and making
sure they were protected. The professor started talking, too, and he told us how slave graveyards were the places where slaves used to bury their dead. Unlike white people’s graveyards, which had big fences around them and lots of fancy headstones, the slaves had nothing to mark their graves except things they planted and bits of pottery and other small items that over the years rotted away or got broken or covered with leaves. Because of that a lot of the slave graveyards had become lost and forgotten, and sometimes farmers or builders would find them totally by accident.

  Grandma Em jumped in and told us how most people would try to respect the graves and would call the proper authorities so the bodies could be dug up if necessary and reburied someplace else, but how other people didn’t. Hearing the two of them and how excited they sounded, a person might have thought a slave graveyard was the most interesting thing since sliced bread. I glanced over at Bee a couple times, and she shrugged at me as if to say, Who knew what was going to get two old people excited?

  I looked out the window the entire time we drove, because we were heading in the same general direction Bee and I had ridden the day before and I was hoping to catch sight of the white pickup. We went a little farther out on Bishop’s Point, turned down a dirt road, and drove until we came to a small turnoff. There wasn’t anything that looked like a graveyard, but then I spotted a narrow path leading off the road into a square of land that looked a little different from everything else around it.

  The professor parked, and he and Grandma Em got some colored tape from the trunk. Bee and I followed them down the path to where some bushes and trees had recently been cut, and the ground changed. Inside the cleared area were a number of spots where the earth had sunk down a few inches. The sunken areas were all the same rough shape, maybe a couple feet wide and five or six feet long, and most of them had a yucca plant growing at one end. It took only a second or two to realize I was looking at graves.