Chapter 1
“I think we’re lost,” my best friend, Carson Hendrix shouted to me over the rushing water of Little River. In the last few minutes, the forest canopy of moss-laden hardwood trees and the river itself had drawn in closer, obscuring the early morning sun that had been blinding just minutes ago.
Carson and I had partnered up in a two-seater kayak for the first leg of the Town Creek Triathlon, and judging from the absence of any other kayaks in sight, I was reasonably certain that we had made a wrong turn.
“You think?” I laughed, resting my paddle crossways on the pink kayak Carson had gotten especially for the event. Technically we were in a race, but like a lot of other participants, we were just out for fun and to help raise money for the Town Creek Indian Mound state historic site.
“Okay. That’s it!” Carson called from the front seat. “I’m pulling out the cell phone. GPS, get us out of here!”
I threw my hands up in defeat. Now I hadn’t expected to win or anything, but I at least thought we would make it to the finish line without needing GPS navigation. I shouldn’t have been surprised though. It’s not exactly like Carson and Mother Nature are on the best of terms. Put her in any mall in the South and she could locate all of her favorite stores in record time, but in the woods she can’t find her way out of a paper bag.
Besides being here for the kayak race, I was actually on official business as a reporter for my school newspaper. At fourteen, I’m the youngest reporter on the Warrior Weekly staff, so I tend to get a lot of assignments that the more senior reporters don’t want. Believe it or not, but most teenagers don’t like to get up early on a Saturday morning to cover a story. Imagine that.
Lucky for Mr. Fields, my newspaper advisor, he has me. It’s ok though. Mr. F looks out for me, too. He knows that my life’s ambition is to be a real reporter, so he tries to give me every chance he can to practice my skills, so I can’t complain.
My assignment was to cover the Town Creek Indian Mound 50th anniversary celebration. The Indian Mound, as the locals call it, is the only North Carolina state historic site devoted to our state’s Native American heritage and it just so happens to be located right here, practically in our own backyard. Since our school mascot is the Warrior, named so long before anyone thought about political correctness, it is only right that the anniversary celebration receive full coverage from our own Warrior Weekly, even with our shoestring budget.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Carson wailed. “No service!”
I can’t say that was a surprise either. At least we now had a chance to redeem ourselves. I did a quick survey of my surroundings to look for any clues that would help lead us back to the race. Lucky for us, I heard the sound of distant voices to our right once Carson quieted down a bit.
“Paddle that way!” I pointed to Carson. “If we hurry, we may at least get close enough to those people to get back on course.”
I knew that if we had to have help to finish the race, Brady would never let me hear the end of it.
Brady is my older brother and he’s pretty cool for the most part, except for one thing. He is a bit competitive. No, who am I kidding? Competitive is an understatement. If there is a game, or race, or any other kind of competition, he’s going to be there, right in the thick of it.
I can’t say much though. I am a bit of an athlete myself and I hate to lose. All kidding aside, Brady is a great big brother and I can’t imagine what I would do without him.
Sure enough, once we rounded the bend, the river straightened out considerably allowing me to see the field of dozens of kayaks in a rainbow assortment of colors dotting the river. Some of them were only yards ahead of us while several more were close enough to almost recognize. Then a group of four or five were barely distinguishable in the distance approaching the streamers hanging over the river. It was too far away to be certain, but I thought a Carolina blue blob might be Brady in the midst of the pack of frantic paddlers.
“Kick it up a notch, will ya’?” I turned back to Carson. “I want to see who wins.”
Besides, I didn’t want to be at the back of the pack, but I kept that to myself.
“Aye, Aye, captain!” Carson called back, putting her paddle in motion. Within seconds, our paddling was in sync and I could tell we were starting to make up some ground on the pack of paddlers nearest us.
Before I knew it, we were in the midst of about ten kayaks, paddles frantically slinging water from all sides. I could feel the muscles in my arms burning, but I wasn’t about to stop. A red kayak on our right was so close that I could almost reach out and touch it. Carson turned her head, glowering in that direction and increased her speed. Apparently she didn’t want any red rubbing off on her Barbie pink kayak.
Thanks to the extra burst of speed, we finally broke away from the pack just in time to see the leaders, now down to three, in their final approach to the finish line. I was now certain that the Carolina blue blob was Brady’s kayak and he was right in the thick of it, just as expected.
Carson and I were in no danger of winning, but we were able to hear the cowbells and cheering spectators waiting to congratulate the winner. Finally we heard the air horn signal the end of the race and lots of shouting at the finish line.
From our perspective, the race was too close to call, so it wasn’t until we crossed the line ourselves a few minutes later, to much less fanfare, that we even found out who won.
“Congratulations, Brady!” Commissioner Peterson called, shaking my brother’s no-doubt soggy hand as I tried to help Carson drag the pink kayak over the rocky riverbed without damaging the paint job.
We had finished a respectable tenth, and I was completely exhausted but satisfied with our results considering we were lost in the woods a few minutes ago. Carson and I hurried to the official’s tent to join in the celebration just as I saw the crowd parting because Dad was making his way through the spectators.
Our dad is the sheriff, so pretty much everyone in Montgomery County knows who he is, regardless of which side of the law they are on. He has been sheriff for years now, so I would say he is pretty well-liked. I know Brady and I sure love him, but we’re not exactly impartial.
Our mom died when Brady and I were six and four, respectively, so we were practically raised in the sheriff’s office. While most kids grow up hearing nursery rhymes and Dr. Seuss, we learned to read wanted posters and police reports.
I guess that explains a lot.
“It looks like you won the first event of the triathlon, Brady,” Randy McIntyre, the site manager said, tossing him a towel. “We’ll call you when the awards will be presented. Go grab something to eat and rest awhile.”
Brady smiled and raised a hand in acknowledgement and headed towards the food vendor booths. Carson and I caught up with him when he was paying for a hot dog.
“Congrats, Brady!” Carson called as Brady took his first bite.
That was pretty good timing because it kept him from bursting out laughing.
Until now I hadn’t really looked at Carson since we finished the race and that was a good thing. My normally cute, blond cheerleader best friend now looked like the bride of Frankenstein, complete with black rivulets of mascara running down her face and wiry hairs sticking out in all directions.
If she looked that bad, I didn’t want to think about what I looked like.
Carson had a bit of a crush on Brady, so I knew she would kill me later for letting him see her like that.
“We’ll catch up with you later, Brady,” I called, grabbing Carson by the arm before she embarrassed herself any more and we made a beeline to the visitor center restroom.
“Lannie!” Carson screamed as soon as she looked in the mirror. “How could you?”
I closed my eyes and winced. Just the reaction that I’d expected. I’ve known Carson since we had taken swimming lessons together when we were four, so I pretty much know what kind of things set her off. Probably number one on that list is not looking her best.
I told Carson to stay put while I made a quick run to Brady’s truck to get our bags with the necessities- cute dry clothes, makeup, hair products, etc.
It took longer than expected for me to make my way to where Brady’s truck was parked in the field used as an overflow parking lot. I had never seen the Indian Mound so crowded. It wasn’t just the local crowd that had showed up. There were lots of out-of-state tags on the cars and trucks parked in the field and lots of faces that I had never seen before. I did a quick look around at exhibits that I passed and I may have talked to one or ten people that I knew before heading back. In a small town like Tillery, that tends to happen a lot.
Besides seeing lots of friends and family, I couldn’t help but get drawn in by all of the festivities. The large open area ceremonial ground was covered with dozens of tents of exhibits with everything from authentic Native American arrowheads and spear points to colorful beaded clothing and headdresses.
The Town Creek Indian Mound was originally built by the native South Appalachian Mississippian people, but the Pow Wow being held for the site anniversary included American Indian tribes from all over the Carolinas. It had been thirty years since Town Creek had a Pow Wow of this magnitude, so it was kind of a big deal.
I realized that Carson was going to think that I had forgotten about her for sure. I ran over to the picnic area to return Brady’s keys.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! Who?” Brady’s voice snapped into the phone. “I’ll be right there.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, a million possibilities running through my head. With Dad in law enforcement, one-sided conversations like these tend to make me fear the worst.
“Someone is contesting the race,” he spat, brushing past me. “We’ve got to meet at the official’s tent immediately.”
