Valley Echoes

CHAPTER 1

Love knows no limit to its endurance, no end to its trust, no fading of its hope: It can outlast anything.

—I Corinthians 13:7

‘Echoes of past deeds exist as distant murmurs, dormant but never dead, always present, always cunningly sly, awaiting resurrection.’

—A line taken from Sidney Mason’s latest thriller.

"The road not taken…’ kept repeating itself in my mind. I wondered if Frost had ever traveled a road as rut-ridden as this one. Potholes flourished like crab grass. Past the final crossing the road got meaner yet as it wound its way up to the plateau. Located in a remote area of Preston County, West Virginia, hardly anyone traveled this primitive route save the few hog farmers who chose to live their lives in the wilderness; and Blue Wolf, whose lone homestead sat among scrub pine atop Menhaughilla Plateau.

I first met Blue Wolf, the sole descendent of an extinct Indian tribe, in a dream when he was much younger. He is Sidney’s uncle, and although I have no blood ties to him, he is as much my uncle as he is hers.

Sidney Mason is my spouse. The law doesn’t recognize us as married but no matter. We had a ceremony, and when other legal matters are resolved, I will legally take Sidney’s name as my own. As a writer I am known as Parker Bannister. In real life I refer to myself as Parker Bannister-Mason. We decided we preferred the term spouse over the more traditional, and to our way of thinking, possessive term wife. Having researched the root beginnings of wife, we became even more convinced we did not like its slavish tone. Domestic Partner did not suit us either. As writers, we found the phrase harsh—as cold as moss on a slab of stone in perpetual shadows. Nor was being PC (politically correct) on our agenda. To us, PC meant personally correct, and being a spouse seemed the perfect personally correct term. At bedtime one night we had a discussion about it. Spouse, we decided, is genderless and evokes equality. The word has ‘old shoe’ warmth and appeal. Sidney is my spouse. And I am Sidney’s spouse.

Blue Wolf is the grandson of Mattie Mason, Sidney’s great-grandmother. Although Mattie went to her grave long ago, she is a woman I love every bit as much as I love Sidney. The second time I met Blue Wolf was on the other side of this mountain, on a windswept slope. Unaware of the obstacles we would face, Sidney and I had opted to hike up the mountain to Blue Wolf ’s retreat. We were backpacking a toddler but the hike would take less time than driving. By motor vehicle it’s a five-hour journey to the road, then you have to navigate this pig path fraught with its own set of obstacles, as I was doing now. Hiking seemed more prudent.

That day on the slope was momentous. Blue Wolf met his niece for the first time. In turn, Sidney introduced him to a great-granddaughter he knew nothing about. Little did any of us know how quickly our lives would blend together, coalesce into a cohesive family unit as strong and defiant as the encroaching woods that refused to accept this road.

I bounced along the ruts, sometimes barely reaching five miles an hour. Heavy rains had turned Possum Trot Run into a stretch of cavernous gullies. ‘The road not taken….’ There it was again. The phrase blipped in my mind like a neon light.

Winters were tough on unattended homesteads. Now that Blue Wolf lived with us in Virginia, his cabin up on the plateau required routine visits, and Sterling’s spring break from pre-school offered the perfect opportunity to de-winterize the old place. Sterling loved going up to the plateau with her great-grandfather, and Blue Wolf loved taking her. He never failed to teach her some new Indian lore about the village in which he was born. The village no longer existed, but many a night, as we sat around the fire pit listening to Blue Wolf spin his stories, I could sense their presence, those spirits of the plateau.

Two days earlier, Blue Wolf had driven Sidney and Sterling up this very same pig path. That thought gave me solace. Our original plans were for them to meet my return flight in Morgantown, but a rogue blizzard forced me to spend two extra nights in a Denver hotel. Plan B went into effect. Sidney drove my Rover into Morgantown and parked it at the airport so it would be there when I arrived. Blue Wolf followed in his pickup.

Shards of light reached through the forest canopy and struck the Rover’s windshield in bizarre ever-changing patterns. On rare occasions I would crest a hill where the forest broke away and provided a clear view of the sky. My body listed back and forth in a perpetual rhythm with the road. The tandem action of the fractured sunlight and the constant listing lulled me toward a hypnotic state. Every nerve battled against the sensation. I turned on the radio and expected to hear the loud wail of hillbilly music or some evangelist screeching his pathetic doom and damnation. Instead, Gregorian chanters mumbled a monotonous dirge in eerie muted cadence. Once again sunlight struck the windshield full force. A lone hawk coasted on a slipstream in the vast sky. As if aware he was being watched, he dove toward the Rover like a Kamikaze pilot, wings thrust back for maximum speed. Suddenly he screeched, reversed his dive and thrust his body against gravity. The shadow of his wingspan blotted out the light. At exactly the same moment, a huge crater captured the front right tire. I grabbed the wheel and gunned the accelerator just in time to stave off a fateful pitch into the bar ditch.

That’s it! I said out loud to check my voice, make sure it wasn’t quaking. I guided the Rover toward solid ground and yanked up the emergency brake. Looking at Blue Wolf ’s map, I retraced my path. The last juncture where other roads led to various hog farms was behind me. If this were the right pig path, the only people using this stretch of Possum Trot Run would be those headed for Blue Wolf ’s retreat. I had to be on the right road—Blue Wolf said I would surely know if I had accidentally turned onto Hog Farm Road because of the smell. For the present, only forest muskiness drifted through the window.

The wilderness crept closer. I gunned the Rover and crested a blind rise only to stop again. An abandoned Mercedes, its black elegance at odds with its surroundings, blocked the road ahead. No one in their right mind would drive a Mercedes on these roads, or any other vehicle not equipped with four-wheel drive. A chill ran along the bony scale of my spine.

Easing off the brake, I let the Rover drift closer.

The Mercedes was an older S-class model, which year I couldn’t be sure. I pushed the code number on the cell phone to instantly dial Sidney. Within one ring, Sterling’s small voice greeted me. Pokker? Mama showed me. I learn your number.

Way to go, sweetheart. That’s called ‘Caller ID’. Listen, baby, would you call your mother to the phone? I removed the cell phone from its carrier and exited the Rover. It’s important. Yes, I’ll be there soon, thirty minutes tops.

Grandpa wants to talk. I’ll get Mama, Sterling said before she got off the phone.

Blue Wolf ’s voice came on the line, Hey there, Inspector Bannister-Mason, how went the bowling banquet in Albuquerque?

Albuquerque turned out great. I think I owe you a big ‘thanks’ if you get my drift.

Anytime, he responded. Take it easy on Sid. She gets a little down in the dumps wondering what will happen with Sterling."

It’s easy to see the down side of that. Her adoption worries the hound out of us, I said.

Just remember…

I know…you’re Sterling’s grandpa. You won’t let anything change.

That’s right. Trust me on that, Parker.

The gravel beneath my feet crunched loudly as I approached the Mercedes. This road is a mess. It’s taking a great deal longer than I anticipated.

Have you passed the last crossroad? he asked.

I haven’t smelled anything horrible, if that’s what you want to know.

Did you see the sign we posted? he then asked.

What sign? This road is so bad, I haven’t had time to watch for signs. I took the final steps to the car and leaned inside the open window. I’m investigating an old Mercedes someone’s left out here. Was this car here when you…

Suddenly the power switch in my brain went dead. My phone flew into the backseat. Without warning, my structure evaporated, turned to liquid. I drifted away.

CHAPTER 2

There was no point in trying to move. An invisible shroud encased my body, paralyzing every muscle. Someone had zapped me with a high voltage stun gun, disrupting my neural pathways, forcing my blood sugar into a major nose-dive. Depending on the voltage of the gun, five minutes or so had elapsed. Two large boots smashed against the gravel and stopped short of my head. We meet again, Bannister. How’s it feel bein’ on the outside lookin’ in? said a cigarette-battered voice that belonged to someone I despised more than snakes, rats, grasshoppers and possums. As usual, Sledge had his syntax screwed up. Regardless, it was a moot question. He had to know I was incapable of answering him.

I believe I am on the downside looking up.

Sledge crouched down and lifted my limp arm. Nope. You need more juice. He pressed his brawny face close enough for me to smell his cavities, Just so you know who’s in charge. The small device slammed against my upper shoulder.

When I came to a second time, my ears worked slightly better than my eyes. Sledge was scavenging around in the trunk. Bottles clinked together. No surprise there. He was a known substance abuser. Blue Wolf once said, ‘The day will come when someone buries Sledge’s sorry ass.’ Considering the trouble this man had caused us, I was inclined to agree. My first encounter with Sledge at Bonzo’s grocery store in O’Winen remained as clear as the day it occurred, the same day we met Sterling. Not yet three years old, the toddler scurried among the dingy counters and sneaked peeks at Sidney. For no apparent reason, the child’s little game threw Sledge into a rage. He sent her flying across the floor with a backhanded slap. In a heartbeat Sidney entered the fray and forced Sledge to back off. When Sledge claimed to be Sterling’s paternal grandfather, Sidney offered to adopt the child and willingly paid ten thousand dollars for the privilege. In the days that followed, our investigations proved that Blue Wolf was Sterling’s true grandfather. Aside from the other issues we had with this lousy example of humanity, Sledge’s abusive treatment of Sterling warranted a special kind of justice in my book.

Miss Queer Bitch—you awake? He thrust his huge boot against my body to check the efficacy of the stun gun.

Not to worry, asshole—I’m not going anywhere.

Sledge opened the back door to the car and leaned in. When he was visible again, he tossed my cell phone on the ground. As he raised his boot, I inwardly tensed, expecting a smashing kick to the head. Fuckin’ queer phone, he growled, and stomped the device sending plastic missiles in every direction. Damned Masons. That ol’ coot Injun gets here in time for the fireworks, the gaw-damned bunch a ya can go up in smoke.

I glared at him. "Yeah, and if I weren’t paralyzed, I’d kick your sorry ass so far, it would share space with Hale Bopp.

Sandpaper hands reached down and grasped my ankles.

God, this son of a bitch is going to rape me.

Sledge grinned crookedly as if reading my mind. I wouldn’t waste my time, he said, plunging pudgy fingers inside his bib pockets and withdrawing two super long electrical slip ties. After trussing my ankles, he opened the door to the Mercedes and shoved me behind the steering wheel, grunting the entire time.

Look at ya, Inspector Bannister—who’s so goddamned smart now? he wheezed. Tobacco juice spattered my face.

Geez, I’m wearing him out. That’s right, Parker. Keep a sense of humor.

His hands slipped into his bibs once again, pulling from them his nasty handkerchief and more slip ties. Open up, Bannister, or I’ll break your jaw.

I barely opened up.

Not good enough. Sledge grasped my jaw and forced it open. I swallowed hard on a gag as he crammed the rag in. Duct tape followed. So much for your smart-ass tongue, he said. He then grabbed my hands and lashed them to the steering wheel. A meaty knuckle rapped against my head before he snatched my hair, forcing me to look at the red scar that ran from the corner of his eye to his temple. See here, bitch? You damned near blinded me!

Were it not for the handkerchief, my smart mouth would definitely have made matters worse. I wanted to belly laugh, proud of last year’s handiwork when I had decked Sledge with a handmade slingshot. Sidney had a way of talking with her eyes. I glared loudly hoping a few of her meaningful expressions had rubbed off on me.

Sledge began yanking wires from beneath the dashboard and attaching them to the package in the passenger seat. Next to me sat enough explosives to incinerate the car and blast a crater-sized hole in the road. If his plan worked, there wouldn’t be a trace of my DNA left.

His fingers worked the wires, twisting them together. Just as he was about to connect a new one, the twisted ones came loose, refusing to bond. Fuckin’ slippery junk, he muttered. Say, Bannister. I hear you got shot up pretty bad in that Kentucky post office.

I stared hard at him.

Sledge shot me an evil smirk, displaying an almost boyish joy. Got your attention, huh? Ever figure it out? Who threw that little shin-dig for ya? He wiped sweat from his face. Yeah, that’s right. Guess I travel in the right circles. The hot shot with the spray gunnothin’ more than queer-bait. To emphasize his point, he leaned across the seat and poked a finger below my ribcage, sending sharp pains up my back and into my shoulder blades. The thought of that day roiled in my gut. I spent eight hours in a sweaty, airless inspection gallery, and caught two bullets in the back and a busted career for the trouble.

As if some invisible person were playing tricks on him, the blue wire acted sentient and suddenly detached itself. Sledge let fly with a volley of curses. When the wires finally stayed connected, he turned the timer around so I could watch it and punched me in the arm as if we were buddies. You thought I’d give up the Kentucky gig, didn’t ya? Sit and sweat, Bannister. You got precious little time left. Anxious determination crossed his face. He backed out of the car and manually locked the door without inspecting his work.

It’s a Mercedes, dodo. You ever hear of automatic locks? Then again, maybe Sledge wasn’t so dumb. The timing device would ignite the bomb, so why the extra wiring? One of Sidney’s thrillers came to mind where a car bomb was triggered by disengaging the automatic locking system. Maybe that was his mind-set—to use one of Sidney’s plot devices as the method of murder. Think Parker. Stop wasting time on his motives. Sledge is stupid. The bomb looks horribly fragile. The smart thing to do when you want someone dead is to do it quickly and efficiently. The effects of the stun gun are wearing off. Your muscles are working. From now on, it’s a simple matter of time.

CHAPTER 3

I was breathing faster than a panting dog. The seconds on the timing device quickly dwindled in receding order. Muscles were working again. I wriggled purple fingers that had no feeling and wrenched my hands in every direction, forcing the ties to stretch. Just a little slack, Parker, that’s all you need. Whew! Better. Blood pumped into the bloated stumps and hurt like hell. Now the handkerchief. The damned thing reached up to my nostrils and threatened to gag me from its stinking nastiness. If that happened, I would drown in my own vomit. I dropped my head to the steering wheel and forced my thumbs beneath the edge of the duct tape, working the tape into a curl. When there was enough to hold onto, I yanked my head to one side. The tape ripped from my face, pulling facial hair and the handkerchief with it. Sweat trickled into my eyes. I gasped deeply, thrilled to be free of Sledge’s snot rag.

The timing device seemed to tick faster. Look on the positive side. You’re going to die in one fell swoop. Bang—all over. That’s what you always wanted. Just goes to prove, be careful what you wish for…isn’t that what your mother used to say? I lost Mom last year. She creeps into my mind at the oddest times, causing a kaleidoscope of pictures to flash before me: images of family in good times and bad, as well as those monumental moments that mark our passage through life. Sidney, a tear in her eye as she spoke her vows during our personal union; Sterling, who willed me her trust and challenged me into parenthood; Steven, our literary agent and his lover, Chris—both the best friends anyone could ask for. And I couldn’t leave out Blue Wolf.

Nothing to be afraid of, sweetie. You’ll see, said a voice as familiar to me as anyone living.

I lifted my head from the steering wheel just as Mattie came into focus. Her hair was snowcap white, its natural curl lending an air of youth to her face. Even her advanced years couldn’t hide her resemblance to her great-granddaughter. Sidney was a dead ringer for her.

Mattie, what are you doing here? Does this mean I’m for sure gonna die?

Her blue eyes crinkled at the corners. There you go, always askin’ foolish questions. You’re the most worrisome woman livin’ or dead. Even Mary Kay never fretted as much as you, she responded in typical fashion, never providing a direct answer.

Oh, how I loved this woman. Between her and Sidney, my life was truly blessed.

Got someone you should meet, Mattie said. Time you met your own Grannie.

In a heartbeat Mary Kay Bannister Mason’s image became crystal clear. She was more beautiful than I could have guessed. I had been told we resembled one another. If that were the case, it wasn’t immediately apparent. High cheekbones and deep-set eyes framed by the most gorgeous lashes hinted French aristocracy. Her complexion was earthy and flawless, perhaps a product of the wine country. True to past descriptions, she did not possess one trait that would have pegged our African-American roots. I looked more closely and began to see what others had seen: our facial expressions were identical. Change my hairstyle, extend my lashes and add some eye shadow, then I might agree that we were spitting images of one another.

I would love to give you a hug, but as you can see, I’m a little indisposed, I said. Does this mean you two are my escort angels to the pearly gates?

No, granddaughter, Mary Kay responded. In a delicate gesture, she reached out and touched my cheek. Have faith. Think in the present, remember what you have.

CHAPTER 4

Sledge underestimated Blue Wolf, calling him an old Injun’ coot. Sledge could only pretend to be a soldier. Blue Wolf was a veteran of three wars. Sledge might take me down. Blue Wolf was another matter. Old coot, indeed.

Blue Wolf had become another unexpected, and yet quite wonderful fixture in our lives, a presence we alternately loved and cursed. I constantly wondered if he might be his Grandmother Mattie reincarnated as much as he needled Sidney and teased me. He certainly possessed the trademark blue eyes, which distinguished all of Mattie Mason’s progeny from her only offspring, Whispy, right down to each of her descendants. Whispy was the product of brute force, the result of Mattie being raped by a rogue preacher, white of skin, but black of heart, blood and mind. Black blood or no, Whispy’s eyes gleamed bright blue, as did the eyes of her two children, Blue Wolf and Victoria, fathered by different men.

Sterling’s heritage was unmistakable. She was equally blessed with the Mason blue eyes, a significant factor that saved her life. In spite of the mixed blood and the improbable statistics that would claim otherwise, the blue eyes prevailed.

For certain we knew Sterling’s mother was deceased, having died shortly after giving birth. That information was fairly easy to obtain. In keeping with Mattie Mason’s time-honored custom, Blue Wolf exhumed Gilda’s remains from her pauper grave in Charleston and transported them to a remote edge of the Mason property line. Even in death, Gilda would stave off developers and keep the Mason property intact. ‘Gifted Gilda’ he had carved on her headstone, ‘Your precious daughter is safe with me.’

Sterling’s father remained a mystery. Other than the fact that he was black skinned (true nationality unknown) and someone whom we liked to believe truly loved Gilda, we knew nothing. Before Gilda died, she claimed Sterling’s father was dead. For Sidney and me, our inability to find a link to Sterling’s father seemed a mixed blessing. If we discovered his identity, we would be obliged to find his family, who might then want to claim to her. Such a happening would very likely negate Sidney’s efforts to adopt Sterling—a point the adoption authorities in West Virginia seemed all too adroit at using to prevent the adoption process from moving forward. Sidney’s relationship with me remained a contentious problem for them.

Sterling, who had no knowledge of adoption laws, or the paper war that raged on about her, had latched onto her grandpa like moss on bark. That was a good thing. We feared she might fix a negative attitude about older men, equate them to Roy Sledge. Sterling’s impact on Blue Wolf was nothing short of wondrous. Before Sterling, he rarely left his mountain retreat. He was a war-ravaged veteran growing old before his time. His closest relative, a son, lived two hours away and visited infrequently. The son’s children, now teenagers, had other interests that did not include visiting their grandfather on a remote plateau.

The depth of Blue Wolf ’s love for his great-granddaughter became evident the day after we celebrated Sterling’s third birthday, during god-awful August in the mountains. Suitcases littered the sofas in the open area of Mattie’s old cabin. I folded clothes while Sidney packed them, fussing the entire time that we had brought too much stuff. As she pondered what should go where, a small hand on her arm interrupted her train of thought.

What’s happenin’, Mama? Sterling asked.

We’re packing to go back to Virginia. That’s our home, too, you know, Sidney responded, briefly looking up.

Sterling dropped the book she had been holding and walked toward the kitchen.

What’s wrong, baby? Don’t you want to go?

Sterling refused to turn around. Tears blossomed like liquid pearls and quickly spilled down the baby’s cheeks.

Sidney pulled Sterling into her arms. Oh, sweetheart, don’t be afraid to tell Mama what you’re thinking. If you’re unhappy, tell us. We’ll understand.

Grandpa, Sterling mumbled against Sidney’s shoulder.

What about Grandpa? Sidney asked.

Don’t want to leave. Want him come, too, Sterling answered.

But, baby, Grandpa lives up on the plateau. That’s where his house is. You want him to come back to Virginia with us?

Uh-huh.

Sidney’s mind scrambled for meaningful answers that might appease a toddler’s mind set. More tears tumbled down Sterling’s cheeks. Sidney looked as if her heart might break. Okay. You call Grandpa and ask him if he wants to come with us. Remember, it’s entirely up to him. You shouldn’t be upset if he decides not to come.

Wiping her eyes, Sterling appeared satisfied and ran to retrieve the cell phone from Sidney’s briefcase. We seated ourselves on the cedar chest and watched an anxious toddler race back. Here Mama, call. Hurry!

Sidney dialed Blue Wolf’s number and waited. Hi, Blue Wolf, she began hopefully. I have someone who wants to talk with you.

Sterling danced in place. Her eyes got large with anticipation. After tucking the phone in both her hands, she said, Grandpa? He evidently said something, and she waited. Want you come wiff us. There was another pause. Pwease, Grandpa, pwease come wiff us. Her eyes listened as intently as her ears. Here, Mama, he wants you.

Sidney took a deep breath. I’m not going to belabor this. Sterling’s quite sad about leaving you. You would make a little girl tremendously happy if you seriously consider her request. Think about it—kids grow up too fast when they’re this age. Besides, Parker and I think you might make her feel less lonely in the Virginia house.

I nodded my agreement when Sidney shot a question mark glance my way.

A long silence passed before she spoke again, If that’s your final answer, tell her yourself. There was no joy in her voice when she handed the phone back to Sterling. We were going to have a weepy baby on our hands all the way back to Virginia.

The poor man must have agonized, not at all interested in leaving his beloved plateau. Realizing that his love for his great-granddaughter surpassed all personal need, he capitulated to a three-year-old toddler’s not-so-simple request.

Our subsequent union, other than Blue Wolf ’s constant teasing, proved to be a godsend for several reasons. When the Judge in West Virginia allowed us to take Sterling back to Virginia, the larger questions occupied our minds: were we up to the task of parenting a toddler? To what extent would her abusive beginnings affect her? We never considered how she would react to a mammoth estate home located in a zealously guarded community called General Paxton’s Hill. Being a world-class espionage writer, Sidney had purchased the property for security and privacy. As much as I disliked living in a gated community, this home was the birthplace of our relationship, a relationship that was as rock solid as the foundation on which the house was built.

The transition for Sterling went poorly. What we envisioned as a playground full of adventure ended up becoming her personal hell. The size of the house overwhelmed her. She constantly clung to Sidney’s pant legs, or worse yet, begged to be carried every waking moment. Potty training took two steps backward as if we had never started. Accidents became a constant. In spite of our attempts to decorate her bedroom according to her tastes and interests, she insisted on sleeping with us. Nightmares and screams were never ceasing.

When Grandpa Blue Wolf dropped his luggage on the kitchen floor, she grabbed his hand and dragged him from room to room as if the house were her pride and joy. In turn, he oohed and aahhed throughout the tour. When he placed his bedroll on the floor next to her bed, she willingly slept in her own bedroom that night. Suddenly, our house became her home.

In short order Blue Wolf was on a first name basis with almost everyone. Like a one-man army, he was determined that our well-heeled neighbors would acknowledge him and his granddaughter as full and equal members of their community. He visited folks whether they wanted him or not. Sometimes, when driving the Mercedes to the store, or returning from the doctor’s office, I would spy Blue Wolf escorting Mr. Borwin and his prize corgi down the street. Nor could Mrs. Deavers escape him. Each day he imposed himself into her ex’cising routine (Sterling’s word for exercising). I just bet she loved him tagging along as she fought her battle with the bulge. Blue Wolf