It was nearing 3:00 P.M. when the Lieutenant parked the rental beside a pine cabin that appeared to serve as the reservation’s produce market and general store. It also marked the entrance to the Catawba land. Driscoll stepped inside. On the far wall hung a four-foot stretch of leather that was adorned with a painted buffalo head.
“Welcome,” the Native American shopkeeper said.
Driscoll took note of the necklace the man was wearing. A string of bear claws. Levi’s and a well-worn plaid flannel shirt clung to the man’s angular frame. Around his forehead he wore a red bandanna, the color of blood. What concerned Driscoll, though, was that he was loading a handful of bullets into a Winchester rifle. “Going hunting?” he asked.
“For deer,” the man replied. “The name’s Bill Waters.” He offered his hand. “You?”
“Driscoll. I’m also hunting.”
“On Catawba land?”
“For Raven’s Breath.”
“Why? Did she do something wrong?”
“She delivered babies. No?”
“Nothing wrong with that. What do you want with Raven’s Breath? You’re police, right?”
“Adoption service,” Driscoll lied, not wishing to cause alarm. “I simply wish to talk with her.”
Waters ran his hand down the carved wood of the Winchester rifle, then doused it with an oil-soaked rag.
“What is it you need to talk with her about?”
“Babies.”
“I’m afraid you won’t find her here.”
“Where would I find her?”
“Many miles away.”
“In which direction?”
“Down. Six feet. She’s buried in Blue Ridge Cemetery.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”
Waters nodded.
“Someone must have kept records of the births. Do you know who that might have been?”
“Raven’s Breath had a daughter. Taniqua. You can speak with her. She lives here, on the reservation. Look for a small house up the road with a thatched roof.”
“Thank you.”
The woman who answered the door appeared to be in her late thirties, sporting a denim shirt over faded jeans. On her feet, she wore a pair of hand-sewn moccasins.
“I’m John Driscoll,” he announced. “Are you Taniqua?”
“Yes, I’m Taniqua.”
Driscoll sensed her reserve. He had experienced it before, many times. But always as a policeman. How would someone from an adoption agency react? Dressed in khakis and an Izod? He’d have to wing it.
“I understand your mother was Raven’s Breath and that she was a midwife.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“I’m from the Mid-Atlantic Adoption Agency. I’m seeking information on a set of twins your mother may have delivered.”
The woman flinched. Driscoll caught it.
“Please, come inside.” Taniqua walked inside the small house, Driscoll trailing in behind her. The woman sat at a loom and resumed her weaving.
“What is it you’re making?” he asked.
“A shroud.”
“Someone die?”
“No. But someone will this week. Their burial cloak must be ready.” She gestured for Driscoll to take a seat. “What is it you’d like to know?”
She was deeply guarded now. Her eyes searched Driscoll’s face.
“I’d like to start by asking you some questions about your mother.”
“My mother? My mother is dead.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m interested in some children…”
“Does this involve a white man’s adoption?”
“Something like that.”
The woman continued her weaving.
“We believe your mother was the midwife for a set of twins born sixteen years ago. A boy and a girl. Did she keep records of her deliveries?”
“No,” she answered, but Driscoll read worry in her face. She used a set of shears to cut the end off a length of yarn.
“This cloak is for a baby,” she sighed. “Our infant mortality rate is forty percent higher than the white man’s. The nearest pediatrician is thirty miles away. But even he would be of little help now.”
Driscoll read the sadness in her face.
After a moment, he continued. “The twins were Angus and Cassie Claxonn.”
Taniqua flinched. Again, Driscoll caught it
“March 1991. You were what? Twenty? Twenty-five? Surely, you’d remember.”
“I don’t,” said the woman.
Driscoll knew she was lying. He wondered why.
“These were twins, Taniqua. You must remember twins being born.”
“The only thing I remember about my twenties was dropping out of school and getting high on peyote.”
A silence passed between the two. It was Taniqua, oddly enough, who broke it.
“Maybe they were born at the hospital in Franklin,” she said.
“Did your mother work there?”
“Yes,” said Taniqua. “Your white twins must have been born there.”
Although Driscoll was certain the woman was hiding something, he left her to her weaving.
Chapter 33
Driscoll headed over to Franklin Medical Center, where his reception wasn’t warm. In condescending fashion, the administrator made it clear that employment records were confidential. As he stepped out of her office, an attractive secretary silently mouthed: “Never worked here,” and handed him a flyer for Prilosec. On its back was scrawled “Sheryl-304-358-7038.”
Climbing into the rented Dodge, he tapped the flyer on the steering wheel and grinned. He checked his watch. It was nearing five-thirty and he was hungry. What he needed was a solid meal before heading south to the motel holding his reservation for an overnight stay.
He headed east, toward Oak Flat, where he discovered that Main Street was a pit stop for U.S. Route 33. It featured a Mobil gas station, the Duck Inn Whiskey Emporium, and Luellen’s Diner. He pulled up in front of Luellen’s. Inside, the metal walls and a string of steel stools lining a Formica-topped counter reminded Driscoll of Norman Rockwell’s “The Runaway,” where a freckled-face truant was being treated to an ice cream cone by a policeman. Driscoll straddled one of the stools and looked around. A buxom gal, with the name MaryLou embroidered on her apron, cast a wink at the gent she had been flirting with and sashayed over.
“Hi there,” she said, sliding a glass of water, a paper napkin, and a set of eating utensils onto the counter. “What’ll it be?”
“How’s the beef stew?” Driscoll asked, looking at a blackboard featuring the menu.
“Chock-full of garden fresh veggies.”
He gave her a nod.
MaryLou poured a ladleful of the stew into a bowl and placed it before Driscoll. “You’ll be wantin’ crackers with that,” she said, placing a handful of Saltines next to his meal.
Driscoll took out the area map he had been given by the Avis attendant, palmed it flat across the counter, and found Sugar Grove, where he’d spend the night. His actions were watched intently by two of the locals, who were seated in a nearby booth, sipping from bottles of Rolling Rock beer.
“Can I expect any traffic on Route 21 this time of day?” Driscoll asked MaryLou.
“You are definitely an out-of-towner,” she said. “Where ya headin’?”
“Sugar Grove.”
The sound of a whining dog interrupted them.
“Orville, that damn mongrel of yours is loose again.” MaryLou cast a glare at one of the beer-guzzling duo. “He puts his paw through that screen door one more time, I’m gonna shoot his ass off.”
Orville bolted for the door.
His partner, who looked like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz, eyed the contents of Orville’s beer bottle. After a quick look outside, he downed half of what remained.
Orville returned from tying up his dog and eyed Driscoll and his map. He glanced at his buddy and grinned, displaying incomplete rows of nicotine-stained teeth.
Sensing a scene, MaryLou glared at the drunk. “Go on. Get back to your booth before ya get yourself into trouble.”
Orville cast a threatening glare at Driscoll before following her instructions.
“Pay no mind to those two idiots,” MaryLou said, eyeing Driscoll’s designer khakis and Izod shirt. “What brings a snazzy dresser like you to Oak Flat?”