Read The Doctor Digs a Grave Online
Authors: Robin Hathaway
The Doctor Digs a Grave (6 page)
Reminded that he wasn't on the staff of this hospital, Fenimore smiled weakly and said, “A friend. Would you please take care of her.”
To his surprise, the woman returned his smile and set off down the hall at a rapid clip.
As Fenimore headed for the elevator, he pondered the old adage, “Honey catches more flies than vinegar.”
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 6:00 A.M.
F
enimore slept fitfully for three hours, fell into a deep sleep for a fourth, from which he was jolted awake by the alarm clock at 6:00 A.M. Feeling anything but refreshed, he shoved Sal off the end of the bed with both feet (to which she responded with an outraged squawk) and padded into the bathroom. He made a point of never looking at his face above the chin while shaving. He couldn't count the number of times he'd wished for the physiognomy of Cary Grant. (Fenimore did have a small cleft in his chin, but that's where the resemblance ended.) Vanity about his physical attractions was not one of Fenimore's deadly sins. (As for his mental attributes, that was another matter.) He stole a quick glance at his face this morning. He was glad to see that the black and blue was fading to green and yellow. Soon he'd be back to normal.
enimore slept fitfully for three hours, fell into a deep sleep for a fourth, from which he was jolted awake by the alarm clock at 6:00 A.M. Feeling anything but refreshed, he shoved Sal off the end of the bed with both feet (to which she responded with an outraged squawk) and padded into the bathroom. He made a point of never looking at his face above the chin while shaving. He couldn't count the number of times he'd wished for the physiognomy of Cary Grant. (Fenimore did have a small cleft in his chin, but that's where the resemblance ended.) Vanity about his physical attractions was not one of Fenimore's deadly sins. (As for his mental attributes, that was another matter.) He stole a quick glance at his face this morning. He was glad to see that the black and blue was fading to green and yellow. Soon he'd be back to normal.
It took him fifteen minutes to dressâfive to shower, five to shave, three to tie his tie, and two for the rest. (Only five to dress for an emergency call in the middle of the night, minus the shower and shave.) Five minutes for breakfastâa doughnut and “swill”âpowdered coffee dissolved in hot tap water, a recipe he
had picked up as an internâwhich he consumed standing at the kitchen counter while catching up on the morning news via a midget radio. Besides his own face, the only thing he couldn't stand the sight of early in the morning were TV anchorpeople, primped and polished, serving up the news between generous dollops of kittenish banter. He preferred his news served brisk and undiluted, like his shower: Cloudy skies. Temp. 58 degrees. Winds 20 mph. Tie-up on the expressway due to jackknifed tractor trailer. Dow Jones average down 15 points. Phillies took one from the Mets, 4 to 2. His only objection to the format was that it presented the most important fact last. He flicked the radio off before the listing of overnight fires, shoot-outs, and stabbings.
had picked up as an internâwhich he consumed standing at the kitchen counter while catching up on the morning news via a midget radio. Besides his own face, the only thing he couldn't stand the sight of early in the morning were TV anchorpeople, primped and polished, serving up the news between generous dollops of kittenish banter. He preferred his news served brisk and undiluted, like his shower: Cloudy skies. Temp. 58 degrees. Winds 20 mph. Tie-up on the expressway due to jackknifed tractor trailer. Dow Jones average down 15 points. Phillies took one from the Mets, 4 to 2. His only objection to the format was that it presented the most important fact last. He flicked the radio off before the listing of overnight fires, shoot-outs, and stabbings.
He threw together a tuna sandwich, which he shoved into a small cooler along with a can of Coke and some cookies. Last of all, he fed Sal and changed her litter box. Not sure when he would be back, he scrawled a quick note to Mrs. Doyle, in a hand only her practiced eye could decipher, asking her to reschedule his morning appointments (more colds and sore throats) and, in case of an emergency, to call Dr. Reilly.
When he let himself out the front door, it was only six-thirty. True to the weather report, the sky was the color of putty and the temperature mild enough to leave his coat unbuttoned. Instinctively, he looked left and right, checking for enterprising early-bird muggers. Darts of pain still pierced him when he moved his head too quickly, a reminder of his last mugging. He headed for his car parked only a block awayâby city standards, very convenient. Pausing at the corner, he dropped some coins in the newspaper dispenser and took out a morning
Inquirer.
A glance at the Metro section revealed full coverage of discovery of the body but no mention of any identification. Fortunately, that had occurred too late to make the morning edition. Now he could only hope that Roaring Wings's disdain for telecommunication extended to radio and television. He tucked the paper
under his arm to peruse at his leisure, which probably wouldn't be until late that night.
Inquirer.
A glance at the Metro section revealed full coverage of discovery of the body but no mention of any identification. Fortunately, that had occurred too late to make the morning edition. Now he could only hope that Roaring Wings's disdain for telecommunication extended to radio and television. He tucked the paper
under his arm to peruse at his leisure, which probably wouldn't be until late that night.
He had crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge and was well into New Jersey before he let his mind drift toward Roaring Wings. Superhighways stimulated his thought processes. Leaving the mechanics of driving to his motor reflexes, his mind could roam freely, unimpeded. But he had to be careful not to let it roam too freely. He had been known to miss his exit.
He began by reviewing his knowledge of the Lenni-Lenapes, which didn't take long. He knew that
Lenni
meant “original” and
Lenape
meant “men” or “people.” They were also known locally as the Delawares, after the river on whose banks they'd settled. Their ancestors were supposed to have migrated to America from Asia across the Bering Strait Land Bridge some fifteen thousand years ago. But the Lenapes had only been recognized as a distinct people for about a thousand years, when they settled in what was now New Jersey. The history of the Lenapes was hard to come by because it was mostly oral history and many of the older people who were familiar with it had died. Very little had been written down. What was known had been learned primarily from artifacts and the diaries and letters of early settlers, the Swedes, the Dutch, and the English. One of the most reliable of these were the letters of William Penn. He was one of the few who took the trouble to learn Algonquian, the Lenape language. He was very impressed by it, Fenimore remembered. He described it as “lofty, but narrow ⦠Like shorthand in writing, one word serveth in the place of three.” Fenimore had thought how nice it would be if our own language was as economical and the professional babblers of this worldâspecifically on radio and televisionâhad their words reduced by two thirds.
Lenni
meant “original” and
Lenape
meant “men” or “people.” They were also known locally as the Delawares, after the river on whose banks they'd settled. Their ancestors were supposed to have migrated to America from Asia across the Bering Strait Land Bridge some fifteen thousand years ago. But the Lenapes had only been recognized as a distinct people for about a thousand years, when they settled in what was now New Jersey. The history of the Lenapes was hard to come by because it was mostly oral history and many of the older people who were familiar with it had died. Very little had been written down. What was known had been learned primarily from artifacts and the diaries and letters of early settlers, the Swedes, the Dutch, and the English. One of the most reliable of these were the letters of William Penn. He was one of the few who took the trouble to learn Algonquian, the Lenape language. He was very impressed by it, Fenimore remembered. He described it as “lofty, but narrow ⦠Like shorthand in writing, one word serveth in the place of three.” Fenimore had thought how nice it would be if our own language was as economical and the professional babblers of this worldâspecifically on radio and televisionâhad their words reduced by two thirds.
As for the Lenapes' recent history, he had read in a newspaper account not long ago that a local tribe with ancestors from the Turtle clan had acquired a tract of land near Riverton, New
Jersey. The land had once belonged to the Lenapes, before the white man came. They had hunted and fished and farmed there. The reporter had asked a member of the tribe about their future plans. The tribesman had first thanked the Great Spirit for the land and then said something like, “Without land, it is hard to be an Indian. With land, we can bring the circle back. We can bring the hoop together.”
Jersey. The land had once belonged to the Lenapes, before the white man came. They had hunted and fished and farmed there. The reporter had asked a member of the tribe about their future plans. The tribesman had first thanked the Great Spirit for the land and then said something like, “Without land, it is hard to be an Indian. With land, we can bring the circle back. We can bring the hoop together.”
A red Jaguar cut in front of him and the driver gave him the finger. A glance at his speedometer revealed the reason. Immersed in thought, Fenimore had been cruising at 45 miles per hour. Bringing the needle up to 65, he also brought his thoughts up from prehistoric times to the present. What was he going to say to Roaring Wings?
If Sweet Grass had died of natural causes and Roaring Wings had found her and buried her, technically his only crime was neglecting to report a death to the authorities. Ethically, he should have informed her fiance, but he wasn't required to by law. And the burial ground in which Sweet Grass had been found was still recognized as a legal place of interment for Native Americans. If this were the case, Roaring Wings had every right to be furious with Fenimore for tampering with his sister's grave.
However, if Sweet Grass had not died of natural causes and whoever murdered her had buried her in the traditional Lenape burial ground to throw suspicion on her brother, Roaring Wings had every right to be outraged.
On the other hand, if Roaring Wings had murdered Sweet Grass (preferring to see her dead than married to a white man), as Ted seemed to think, and had buried her himself in the sacred ground ⦠A horn bleated behind him. Glancing in his rearview mirror, Fenimore saw a giant oil truck bearing down on him. He pressed the accelerator and sighed. No matter what, the prospective interview promised to be difficult.
As he turned onto the exit ramp, another vehicle followed him. A pickup truck. It had almost missed the exit and squealed
like an injured animal when it made the turn. The driver was wearing dark glasses and had his windshield visor down even though it was overcast. The truck remained in his rearview mirror for at least two miles before it turned into a side road and disappeared. Relax, Fenimore. Nobody's after you. That mugging was sheer coincidence. From then on, he concentrated on the road and maintaining a good speed. The most important thing was to reach Roaring Wings before the police.
like an injured animal when it made the turn. The driver was wearing dark glasses and had his windshield visor down even though it was overcast. The truck remained in his rearview mirror for at least two miles before it turned into a side road and disappeared. Relax, Fenimore. Nobody's after you. That mugging was sheer coincidence. From then on, he concentrated on the road and maintaining a good speed. The most important thing was to reach Roaring Wings before the police.
Riverton's most distinctive landmark was the dome of the courthouse. Painted gold, on a bright day it gleamed and sparkled in the sun. Nothing else gleamed and sparkled in the town. In days gone by, the main street had sparkled with freshly painted Victorian houses adorned with gleaming white gingerbread. The houses were still there, but now they were shabby and their gingerbread was badly in need of paint and repair. The courthouse clock read 7:30. A few people were on their way to work, either walking or congregating at bus stops. Fenimore pulled up to one of the stops and rolled down his window. “Can anyone direct me to Camp Lenape?”
His request was met with blank stares.
“Thanks anyway.” He drove on, down the hill and over the small bridge that spanned the Ashley River (formerly known as the Wisamek, or Catfish River, before the British renamed it). On the other side, he pulled into an old-time gas station, boasting two pumps and one oil-stained attendant. A Phillies cap was pulled down over the man's greasy locks. (Since New Jersey had no baseball team of its own, Jerseyites often rooted for the Phillies.)
“Help ya?”
“I'm looking for Camp Lenape.”
He paused to chew something. Gum or tobacco. “You mean the injun campsite?”
Clearly, political correctness had bypassed Riverton. “That's right.”
Another pause, filled with more chewing, as he looked down the street. “Take this road outta town.” He spat roundly “About two miles outside, on the right, you'll see a sign. Says âCamp Lenape.' Ya can't miss it. There's an iron gate they keep locked. Don't know why. They ain't got nothin' worth stealin'. Only the land. And you can't steal that.”
How little he knew. “How do I get in?”
“Just blow your horn. They'll open up for ya.”
Fenimore thanked him and took off.
The exit from Riverton was even more depressing than the entrance, dotted with abandoned trailer camps, gas stations, and railroad tracks. The tracks, laid in the 1890s when south Jersey was a booming industrial center, were rusty and choked with weeds from disuse. He was glad to get back on the open road lined with nothing but sandy banks and scrub pines. He had gone a little over two miles when he spotted the iron gate and the sign. The sign was a surprise. It was made of polished wood with the words CAMP LENAPE inscribed in gold paint by an obviously professional hand. The wrought-iron gate had probably once belonged to the estate of a glass baron. Glass manufacturing was a big industry in that area a hundred years ago, because of the abundance of sand. But that was before World War II, when plastic took over.
The gate was well maintained, painted a satin black with no rust visible. Fenimore hesitated to blow his horn. Rude at any time, it seemed especially so at such an early hour and in such peaceful surroundings. He scanned the gate for a buzzer or bell. Halfway up one side of the gate, he spotted a small box with a wire curling from it up the drive. He turned off his motor and got out to examine it. It resembled the voice boxes on the town houses in Philadelphia's yuppier neighborhoods. There was a button at the bottom. He glanced at his watch: 8:05. If he wanted to maintain his edge on the police, he'd better hustle. He
pressed the button. It made no sound, but a second later a man's voice inquired, “Who is it?”
pressed the button. It made no sound, but a second later a man's voice inquired, “Who is it?”
“Dr. Fenimore. I'd like to speak to Roaring Wings.”
A barely perceptible pause. “Speaking. What is your business?”
Fenimore cleared his throat. “A private, family matter.”
“You may enter.” As these words were uttered, the gates began slowly to open.
Fenimore hopped back in his car and drove into Camp Lenape.
LATER TUESDAY MORNING
T
he driveway was no more than a dirt road through a field, and the only building in sight was a large barn outlined against the sky.
he driveway was no more than a dirt road through a field, and the only building in sight was a large barn outlined against the sky.
The sky was the most distinctive thing about south Jersey. The land was flat, and the sky seemed to go on forever. It was as close to the landscape of the West as you could find in the East. Fenimore, although an inveterate city dweller, sometimes daydreamed about buying a few acres here, building a one-room shack with a wood stove, a pump, and a privy, where he could come to smoke his pipe and contemplate field and sky without interruption, and Sal could chase mice to her heart's content. (No muggers here.) It was a luxury not to be taken lightly. Future generations might not have the opportunity to survey such limitless spaceâexcept from a spaceship.
He followed the unpaved road, wincing at every rut and bump. The shocks in his old Chevy had given out long ago and he had never bothered to replace them. The government grant that had provided the Lenapes with the land, the new sign, the intercom, and the paint for the gates must have run out before
the drive could be paved. As he drew near the barn, a man came around the corner and stood waiting for him. Of average height and build, he was dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a fringed leather jacket laced partway up the front with leather thongs. His hair, parted in the middle, hung to his shoulders in two neat braids. His face was impassive. As Fenimore pulled up beside him, he gave no sign of welcome. Silently, the man watched him get out of the car. Fenimore glanced at the man's feet, expecting to find moccasins; instead he found an expensive brand of sneakers. “Roaring Wings?” He extended his hand.
the drive could be paved. As he drew near the barn, a man came around the corner and stood waiting for him. Of average height and build, he was dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a fringed leather jacket laced partway up the front with leather thongs. His hair, parted in the middle, hung to his shoulders in two neat braids. His face was impassive. As Fenimore pulled up beside him, he gave no sign of welcome. Silently, the man watched him get out of the car. Fenimore glanced at the man's feet, expecting to find moccasins; instead he found an expensive brand of sneakers. “Roaring Wings?” He extended his hand.
The man shook hands briefly and nodded. If he noticed the odd color of Fenimore's face, he gave no sign.
Fenimore found himself suddenly, and uncharacteristically, tongue-tied. He had driven all the way down here thinking about Sweet Grass's death without giving a thought to how he was going to break the news to her brother. Subconsciously, he must have decided that Roaring Wings already knew. But suppose he pretended not to know? Fenimore must pretend too. But there was always the possibility that he really didn't know.
“I'm afraid I have bad news.” From long experience as a doctor, Fenimore knew there was no way to sugar-coat death, “Your sister, Sweet Grass, is dead.”
The man continued looking at Fenimore. He had heard the words, but there was a delay before their sense registered, like the pause after lightning, before the thunder.
“How?”
“Heart failure.”
“Ah.” He placed his hand over his breast. “Her old trouble.”
“No.” Fenimore bit his tongue. The medical knowledge had slipped out automatically. From a detective's point of view, it would have been better for Roaring Wings to believe that his sister had died from a complication from her “old trouble,” tetralogy of Fallot.
He felt the full force of the man's gaze. Doris Bentley had not exaggerated its potency. “Is there some place we could talk?”
For the answer, Roaring Wings turned and walked around the barn.
As Fenimore followed he couldn't help noticing the graceful way the man moved. He flowed across the rough ground, making Fenimore feel, with his normal gait, like a clumsy oaf. Somewhere he had read about the Indians' gait. They placed one foot directly in front of the other, toe to heel, instead of side by side with a gap between, as most people did. Long ago this enabled them to walk the narrow paths of the forest and stalk animalsâor enemiesâswiftly and noiselessly. A side effect of this gait, after the original purpose had become obsolete, was a dignified posture that automatically commanded respect. If this gait were taught to children in kindergarten, Fenimore thought, it would eliminate a lot of middle-age back problems.
Roaring Wings led him to a small cinder-block building that had been concealed by the barn. A ribbon of smoke rose from a metal chimney that protruded from the corrugated roof. There was no sign of the mansion to which the elegant iron entrance gates had once belonged. It must have been razed, or destroyed by fire, and the barn was all that was left of the estate. Stepping aside, Roaring Wings held open the makeshift plywood door.
The prefab exterior gave no hint of the warmth and beauty inside. Textured white walls were hung with blankets woven in warm earth tones of brown, red, and sand. Terra-cotta pots of various sizes and shapes exploded with flowers and fern. Dominating the center of the room was a cone-shaped fireplace with a long pipe soaring to the ceiling. Bright pillows were scattered before the flagstone hearth, inviting you to relax and sprawl. Roaring Wings gestured to one of them and disappeared behind a screen on the other side of the room.
Fenimore lowered himself onto an orange cushion and was glad the young man could not see his awkward descent. His stiffness was not due to age, of course, but to lack of exercise. Once settled more or less comfortably, he surveyed the room in detail. In one corner was a mattress on a raised wooden platform, its cover echoing the warm hues of the wall hangings. Another corner was occupied by a large desk smothered in papers. A word processor rested on it. A filing cabinet completed his office-in-the-home. Applying for government grants required almost as much paperwork as applying for Medicare reimbursements. Gradually Fenimore became aware of a pleasing scent emanating from behind the screen. There must be a stove back there, maybe even a refrigerator.
“I'm making tea,” the man called out.
“That's not necessary.”
“You prefer coffee?”
“No, no. Tea is fine.” He'd prefer nothing, so he could get on with the business at hand. He glanced at his watch: 8:25. Apparently there was more to making tea than just dunking a tea bag in hot water. Finally Roaring Wings emerged from behind the screen bearing two earthenware mugs steaming with that special fragrance. Fenimore envied the ease with which the Lenape lowered himself onto a turquoise cushion while balancing the two mugs full of hot liquid. He handed one to him. Fenimore had a strong desire to take out his pipe. But somehow, seated cross-legged opposite a Native American, he felt awkward about it. He took a sip of tea. “Hmm. What is this?”
“A blend of herbs.”
They drank in silence, Fenimore growing more and more ill at ease, edgy. He was not used to silence. If he hadn't been sitting on the floor and afraid of making a fool of himself as he struggled to his feet, he would have risen and paced the room, looking at things and inquiring about them to relieve the tension. But he remained where he was, waiting for his host to
speak. He was surprised that Roaring Wings didn't ask more about his sister's death. Or was there some taboo in his culture about discussing the dead? He seemed to remember that it was forbidden for the Lenapes to speak the name of their dead. The residue of crushed herbs was visible in the bottom of Fenimore's cup, before Roaring Wings finally spoke.
speak. He was surprised that Roaring Wings didn't ask more about his sister's death. Or was there some taboo in his culture about discussing the dead? He seemed to remember that it was forbidden for the Lenapes to speak the name of their dead. The residue of crushed herbs was visible in the bottom of Fenimore's cup, before Roaring Wings finally spoke.
“Tell me what happened.”
Reacting like a child who has been told to be quiet and is finally allowed to speak, Fenimore poured out the whole tale of burying Horatio's cat and the discovery of Sweet Grass and the eventual identification of her body by Ted. When he had finished, Roaring Wings rose easily and, turning his back, busied himself with the fire. To hide his grieving? His face had remained impassive during the telling of the story, and Fenimore had begun to wonder if he had any emotions. He checked the time. A half hour had passed. Soon the creaky wheels of organized crime detection would begin to turn. Rafferty or one of his assistants would show up on the doorstep. Fenimore must be gone before then. Rafferty would not be amused by his meddling. The only time Rafferty condoned Fenimore's meddling was when it was instigated by him. If there was anything more to be learned from Roaring Wings, he must learn it now. “Did you know of this burial ground?”
He turned from the fire. “My uncle took me there once, when I was a child.”
“Does it surprise you? That she was buried there?”
He sat down again and took a sip of tea. The deliberateness of his movements was maddening. “Nothing about my sister surprised me.”
Fenimore kept silent, noting that Roaring Wings neglected to mention her name.
“You see, we chose separate ways long ago. She chose to mix with the
wasechus.
I did not.”
wasechus.
I did not.”
Fenimore recognized the word
wasechus
. He had come across
it in his studies of the Lenape. It was a derogatory term for “white man.” But he was learning the rewards of silence. He held his tongue.
wasechus
. He had come across
it in his studies of the Lenape. It was a derogatory term for “white man.” But he was learning the rewards of silence. He held his tongue.
“Don't misunderstand me. I don't blame her. When she was small, she had this sickness. She had trouble breathing. When we played tag and other running games, she had to squat down to catch her breath. The other children made fun of her. They called her Sitting Frog. And she was a funny color. Her skin was sometimes blue. The children made fun of that too.” He looked at Fenimore. “Children are cruel.”
Fenimore allowed himself a nod, without disturbing the flow.
“When she went to school, on the first day the nurse diagnosed the blue tinge of her skin as cyanosis. She insisted that my mother take Sweet Grass to a specialist. After that, everything changed. My sister went to a big hospital in the city. She had an operation. She was gone for several weeks. And when she came back, she was completely cured. She was no longer blue, and soon she was running like the rest of us. No one called her Sitting Frog anymore.” He paused.
“Naturally, she was very grateful to the
wasechus,”
he went on, “and afterward, she seemed to feel at home with them. She got along very well at school. The teachers loved her. And she made good grades. I also made good grades. But they did not like me as much, and I never felt at home with them.” Again he paused, obviously thinking back.
wasechus,”
he went on, “and afterward, she seemed to feel at home with them. She got along very well at school. The teachers loved her. And she made good grades. I also made good grades. But they did not like me as much, and I never felt at home with them.” Again he paused, obviously thinking back.
“As the years went by, she grew closer to the white people, and I did not. She went away to school and became a teacher. As a result, we grew farther apart. In recent years we saw each other only now and then. And when she told me she was going to marry a ⦔ For the first time, he seemed to realize that Fenimore was one of them.
Fenimore said quickly, “And what were you doing all those years, while your sister was becoming a teacher?”
“I am an engineer, a builder.” His eyes swept the room. “I built this house.” His voice held a note of pride.
“Quite an accomplishment. It's charming and very comfortable.” (Albeit chairless, Fenimore thought.) “But during all those years when you were getting an education, surely you mixed with the
wasechus?”
wasechus?”
“Mixed, yes,” he nodded, “but never blended.” He glanced at the herbs in the bottom of his mug. “That I do only with my own people.”
“Would you have considered burying someone in that burial ground?”
He shook his head vigorously. “Never. Very foolish. Too public. Things happen. Disturbances. Look what did happen. You and that boy. The dead do not like to be disturbed. My sister should not have been disturbed.”
Fenimore felt like a child who has been justly reprimanded.
“However, I can remedy that.” Roaring Wings rose and turned back to the fire. “Now we have this land.”
“We?”
“The Lenapes. The Turtle band. The Great Spirit has returned this land to us in the form of a grant from the government. I am the director, in charge of development. We will turn it into a historic park, a memorial to our ancestors.” He outlined his plan for the park in some detail for Fenimore. “I can bring my sister here and bury her,” he concluded. “And I guarantee she will not be disturbed.” He looked at him. “Where is she now?”
To Fenimore's consternation, Roaring Wings seemed ready to come back with him to Philadelphia then and there, to collect his sister's body. “Her body has not been released.” The Lenape's gaze was intimidating. “Uh, the police are uncomfortable with the circumstances of your sister's death.”
“The police?” He frowned. “What have they to do with this? This is a blood feud, between the
wasechus
and the Lenape. Obviously
a
wasechu
buried my sisterâand botched it.” The word leaped out at Fenimore, from the Lenape's carefully formal sentences. “Probably that fiance of hers ⦔ His lip curled. No lack of emotion now.
wasechus
and the Lenape. Obviously
a
wasechu
buried my sisterâand botched it.” The word leaped out at Fenimore, from the Lenape's carefully formal sentences. “Probably that fiance of hers ⦔ His lip curled. No lack of emotion now.
“Wait a minute. You have no proof of that. Her fiancé was the one who reported her missing.”
The Indian's eyes burned with years of controlled resentment, and Fenimore recalled a Lenape legend he had once read: When the Lenape met his first white man, the Lenape had a deer hanging up. The white man took all the fat parts, leaving only the neck and the feet for the Lenape. The literal translation of
wasechu,
he remembered now, was “fat taker.”
wasechu,
he remembered now, was “fat taker.”
“We'll see.” Roaring Wings looked down, as if to hide the depth of his feelings from Fenimore. “Meanwhile,” he continued, “I want my sister. I am her next of kin. It is my right to bury her.”
“I'll see what I can do.” Fenimore got clumsily to his feet, but Roaring Wings took no notice. His mind was filled with funeral plansâand vengeance.
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