Homeward Hound

CHAPTER 21

Crawford walked with the head of the Virginia Historical Society. January 26, cold but clear, allowed Crawford to point out what he deemed important.

“We estimate two hundred bodies in this area alone. The radar has uncovered other burial places but this is the largest here on the east side of this slope. As the land is flat, the slope or hill somewhat protects the site.”

“I’m assuming you will remove the debris.” John D’Etampes observed the heavily wooded area overgrown with thick underbrush.

“Underbrush but I’ll keep the trees. With a little effort this will be a lovely spot.”

“Do you plan to exhume a corpse?”

“In order to accurately date the people in here, we will need to do so. What my historical researcher and I are studying now is what spot might be the oldest, what area the youngest? Do these people go back to immediately after the War of 1812? Others much later? Obviously, we have work to do. Personally, I don’t want to disturb any remains.”

John took photos of the area.

“I have a lot of visual materials,” Crawford offered.

“I’ll take them, too, or make copies, but this is for me.” He took another photo with his phone, then looked up at Crawford. “Big undertaking. Perhaps that isn’t the right word.”

Crawford smiled, pulled his collar up as the wind edged upward to about twelve miles per hour. The wind changed in the blink of an eye by the mountains.

“The ground-penetrating radar has revealed garbage pits. Dumping grounds. Old wagon wheels, broken bottles, junk, but useful to understanding how Old Paradise was run.”

“More buried people?”

“Yes. If you get back in the Rover, I’ll take you there.”

John climbed in, Crawford slowly backed out, drove over the fields to a rise above a tributary of Broad Creek. He stopped, did not get out but pointed to the land just west of this narrow creek.

“The radar shows a small grouping of people. We’ve counted fifteen. Charlotte believes these may be the last of the Monacans who lived here, we think, in the summers, moving farther east in winter. Again, we will have to unearth one.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “My wife, opposed as she is to the pipeline, becomes squeamish at the thought of digging up old bones. She says we mustn’t disturb the dead.”

“Many people feel that way. However, it is the only way we can get accurate information about nutrition, health, age. Did these people die of old age? Were they wounded in skirmishes? Could some of them have perished of starvation?”

“Of course,” Crawford said. “It’s the only way. Marty, my wife, is a spiritual person. Then again, there are people around here who believe this will release the spirits of the dead. There’s a fascinating woman, in her nineties, who said to me, ‘Don’t conjure up what you can’t conjure down.’ ”

“Voodoo.” John laughed. “Speaking of conjuring, you all have had your trials.”

Crawford cut the motor for a moment, still gazing at the older burial site. “I can’t pretend I’m distressed over the Soliden president disappearing. The entire pipeline project is a hideous mistake. But the fellow who was found, he worked for me. He was a decent fellow.”

“I am sorry.” John had no idea that Rory had been employed by Crawford.

“Bashed in the head.” Crawford shook his own head. “No idea. No one has any idea at all. I think”—he said this with conviction—“I think Rory encountered whoever killed or kidnapped Gregory Luckham. Well, killed. Why kidnap him? We’d hear about a ransom by now. I’d ransom his life against the pipeline, were it me.” He shrugged. “Has people spooked.”

“Small wonder.” John looked back out the window as Crawford turned around, pointing out things he felt of interest, explaining the outbuildings, the plan for rebuilding Old Paradise.

“You know, I have to admit, the first thing I did when the radar got here was I had them go over the remains of the house. Well, there is only the columns, which you see, and the basement, which I have rebuilt. As soon as it’s warm I’ll raise walls again. We have the plans plus this place was stunning. A lot of people took pictures or painted it.”

“I take it you found nothing so far?”

“No. But I heard all the stories about buried treasure. Couldn’t help myself.”

“I did a little research on Old Paradise myself before coming here. From its founding until right after World War Two, money rolled in like the tide. Then it rolled in somewhat sporadically and finally it didn’t roll in at all, it rolled out. And two brothers who didn’t speak. A strange place.”

“Yes. When I saw it I felt an electric current shoot through me. I had to have it. Had to wait out the two brothers. Rented it first.”

“You were wise. I researched you, too.” John grinned.

“Ah,” Crawford replied. “Well then, you know I get what I want.”

“Yes. What is it you want from me?”

“A statement from the historical society that remains have been found here, remains of importance to Virginia’s history. A press statement and, if you would, a statement here for the TV people. I will arrange and pay for everything.”

“Thoughtful. Wise. This will arouse public interest. Remember the excitement when the graves, new to us, were uncovered at Jamestown in 2015? One of the deceased had been a priest, not a pastor but a priest. We are pretty sure of this, which casts a new light on Jamestown. Then again, we will never know everything, will we?”

“No but we can grasp the larger picture. I am, by the way, prepared to give a five-hundred-thousand-dollar donation to the historical society. I need your help and I do support your work.”

“Thank you.”

The two drove on, Crawford again pointing out this and that while John was already writing the press release in his head.