THE
Endling Deborah Maxey
Firefly Southern Fiction is an imprint of LPCBooks a division of Iron Stream Media 100 Missionary Ridge, Birmingham, AL 35242 ShopLPC.com Copyright © 2021 by Deborah Maxey All rights reserved. First printing 2021. Printed in the United States of America Cover design by Hannah Linder Designs No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. Iron Stream Media serves its authors as they express their views, which may not express the views of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only. Library of Congress Control Number: 2021934269 All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.TM Scripture quotations from The Authorized (King James) Version. Rights in the Authorized Version in the United Kingdom are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press ISBN-13: 978-1-64526-264-0 EBook ISBN: 978-1-64526-329-6
Praise for The endling In The Endling, Deborah Maxey grabs you with her first line and takes you on a high octane adventure through mountains and cities. Readers will be flipping pages as fast as possible to see if Maxey’s character can find a way to defeat the odds stacked against her by using her Native American background and training. An engrossing read. ~Ann H. Gabhart Bestselling author of An Appalachian Summer Dive into a world of enchanting characters from the small Virginia mountain town of Colony Row. You'll fall in love with Emerson Grace as she unravels the last secret her grandfather left for her to solve. The mystery twists into powerful suspense that leads Emerson back to herself and gives her the wit and strength to stop the sinister plot to her own murder. Powerful. ~Linda Evans Shepherd Bestselling author of The Potluck Club Make room on your bookshelf, because once you’ve read it, you’ll want to keep The Endling by Deborah Maxey. With a compelling plot, an element of suspense, memorable characters, and lush descriptions, she’s written a pageturner that will draw you into her story. I loved this book! ~Michelle Cox Bestselling author of Our Daily Biscuit: Devotions with a Drawl, Just 18 Summers, and the When God Calls the Heart series The Endling kept me glued to every page. I simply had to have more. More of the mountain mysteries. More of the compelling characters. And more of Emerson, whose quiet dependency on holy guidance gleaned from her ancestors makes for the reader “good medicine.” My highest recommendation for a beautifully memorable read! ~Debora M. Coty Award-winning author of over 40 books, including the Too Blessed to be Stressed series As someone with deep roots in a Native American tribe and in colonial Virginia, I found my attention held page after page to the very end. From the heights of Easterbrook Mountain to the streets of New York City, a lot of research and knowledge went into this story’s writing. Highly recommended. ~Debra DuPree Williams Author of Grave Consequences
DeDication To Mack. I am the most blessed person I know to always have your love and support.
acknowleDgments
T
hank you. Yes, you! Since my first inkling of an idea for this book, I’ve wanted to write a story worthy of your time and imagination. Books have touched, changed, inspired, excited, and motivated me my whole life. Characters, dialogue, and plots dance in and out of my memory and consciousness as freely as reality. I am humbled that you are giving me an opportunity to be a part of that for you. The book you are reading would never have come to fruition if not for my beloved husband Mack. There are truly not enough words to describe the depth of his love and support. Huge thanks go to Jessica R. Everson, Eagle Eye Editor Extraordinaire. Under her guidance, rough stones became multi-faceted and polished jewels. I’m grateful to everyone at Firefly Southern Fiction for believing in this book. And, Eva Marie Everson, thank you. I wonder if you knew that voluntarily editing a chapter for a stranger at a writers conference would launch her into this incredible world of her dreams. The Alpha and Omega of all acknowledgments is to You, Father. You continue to show me that when I leave everything in Your hands, I see You in everything.
You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands. (Isaiah 55:12)
Ask the Lord your God for a sign, whether in the deepest depths or in the highest heights. (Isaiah 7:11)
And he answered and said unto them, I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out. (Luke 19:40 KJV)
Chapter One
I
knew my mountains were full of mysteries, but it had not occurred to me there might be a secret inside the cabin. I sat back on my heels and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the lines were still there. Deep crevices forming a rectangle in the planks under Grandfather’s old oriental rug. This meant that since my first steps—for my whole life, in fact—I had walked over a trap door. Over a secret Grandfather kept from me. I could not remember him ever having done that. The stone cabin atop Easterbrook Mountain had been my home since birth. When I was two, my mother and grandmother died in a car accident, making Grandfather my legal guardian. Since that time, he had made it his life’s mission to teach me everything he knew. There had been no secrets. If his knowledge was to be handed down, it would have to be through me. I was an endling. The last of my tribe. So why had he kept the trap door from me? Tears caused the dark lines to wave and then blur. I blinked to clear my vision. I had no chance now of him telling me why he had not shared such a big secret. Grandfather had loved surprises. He delighted in teaching major life lessons through what he called “mystery hunts.” They always began the same way. I would stumble upon a tin box in an obscure place— beneath a roosting hen, deep in the hollow of a tree, hidden in a bale of hay—then turn and find Grandfather standing nearby. He would
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smile, his eyes closed, and nod twice—his signature of approval. Inside the box, I would find instructions to begin unraveling the mystery. If I turned now, would I see his spirit standing nearby? Would I catch the morning light reflecting from his long, gray hair? Would he be wearing the white buckskins he was buried in or one of the plaid flannel shirts he so loved to wear? To turn and not see him would only stir the hot ashes of my grief into a flame. So I did not turn. I closed my eyes instead to imagine that he was there, my mind’s eye revealing his joy when I found his hidden treasures. I drew my thoughts back to the wood pattern in the hundredyear-old oak floor as I pulled the band down my long brown ponytail and rewrapped it in a bun. I crawled my way around the dark lines to the edge that held the hinges. It was a bit wider than the others. There was no doubt about it—this was a trap door. I rested back on my knees, pressed my palms flat to my thighs. Why on earth would we have a trap door in the cabin? My ancestors had lived here since before the Civil War. Was it that old? I allowed my fingertips to examine the depth of the crevices in the wood, as though it were braille, and stuck the thick nail of my thumb into one of the cracks. A fingernail would not be enough. I would need a tool. A screwdriver would work. My moccasins were silent against the great room hardwood, and again when I reached the kitchen’s shiny greenstone floor on the other side of the fireplace. The large L-shaped island and its dark gray slate top were cluttered with the groceries I had brought in when I arrived late the night before, too tired to unpack them. The jumbled top contrasted greatly with the rest of my orderly kitchen, bare countertops and no appliances other than a coffee maker. A must. I opened the pantry door and swung my hand like a blind ninja to find the pull string. The bulb in the tiny windowless room blinked but stayed on, allowing me to find the toolboxes on the middle shelf, directly in front of the door. Grandfather’s gray toolbox was rusted around the edges and showed years of use. My small red box still had a shiny coat. 2
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As if their size and color were not enough to distinguish them, the Christmas I received mine, he had allowed me to paint our names on them. I had started with his box. I painted Edward Two Eagles across the center. When I got to mine, I did not account for its smaller size and wrote my first name—Emerson—too large. The result was that my middle and last name—Grace Coffee—were written so tightly, the letters were barely legible. But Grandfather had only nodded his approval. “We will surely know one from the other now, Little Bit.” A tight knot formed in my throat. If only I could hear him call me that once more. I reached into Grandfather’s box and grabbed the largest flathead screwdriver, then walked back to the great room. Sunlight slanted through the skylights in the tin roof, illuminating the warm reds and browns of the cedar-covered walls and ceiling. Light splattered across the beige sectional leather couch that sat in attendance, waiting for the accompaniment of a roaring fire in the massive greenstone fireplace. I squatted on the side of the door opposite the hinges, facing the fireplace. Sure enough, a small indention showed me where a fulcrum had been used to open the door. I put the edge of the tool into the black line and began to push down on the handle, but the frantic sound of crows, unusually loud, drew my attention. Caw, caw, caw! Crows are sentinels. They band together and cry when their sanctity is disturbed, scolding the offender in loud, repetitive tones. Beneath the rising volume of their calls, I could hear heavy engine sounds. An automobile coming up the mountain. Fast. No one who knew Easterbrook Mountain would drive that way. And no one would come up by accident. Our driveway was hidden, and the cabin was the only destination. Caw, caw, caw! I flew into protective mode. No one could know what I had found. I still did not know what it was myself. I hurried to roll the rug back over the trap door. It more than covered the lines. No wonder I had never noticed them. I stilled to listen for the vehicle, scolding myself for not staying 3
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aware, for not hearing the sounds sooner. I had been totally preoccupied. Caw, caw, caw! With giant steps I reached the open screen door and listened. Someone was coming up the mountain swiftly, about two minutes away. I shoved the heavy oak front door shut and locked it, bracing my stiffened arms against the wood, calculating the time I had left. I could not remember ever having locked the door when I was at home before. I stepped back to look through the windows that ran the length of the front of the cabin. Something was not right. My scalp crawled, my spider senses alerting me. If Madeline or Aunt Hattie were coming, they would call. Nothing good came up the mountain without notice. The only times were to bring bad news or the two times people came to start a “raid on Injuns.” Men with lit torches had piled in the back of pickup trucks, and waved guns in the air as they shouted their demands, threatening to return with the Ku Klux Klan if we did not get out of Rockcliff County. Both times, Grandfather and I had stayed behind the front door and waited until the local sheriff’s department came up, sirens blaring, threatening arrests. But, as Grandfather predicted, there were never any arrests. The engine sounds became louder as the vehicle approached. Whoever it was, they were almost here. I laid my hand over my chest and tried to take a deep breath. Was I overreacting? I rubbed at the hairs rising on my arms. No. This was real. Caw, caw, caw! I watched until a four-door black SUV pulled up toward the veranda, its windows dark with tint. As it approached, I was able to make out government plates. It stopped several yards back from the veranda’s wide steps, and the front doors on either side opened simultaneously. Beneath each door, a pair of polished shoes fell to the ground in a synchronized move. The men stepped out and into view. Both wore black dress suits and dark sunglasses. The driver was tall and thin. The 4
Deborah Maxey
passenger much shorter, stockier, his forehead high from balding. I moved behind the door and pressed my back against it. Footfall on the steps told me that the men were of equal weight and walked with determination. They were sure of themselves. Thought they had every right to come up my private driveway and walk so purposefully onto my veranda. The door vibrated against my back with their knocks. Hard. Loud. Insistent. I waited, my breath shallow. They knocked again. Harder this time. I did not have a plan, other than knowing I would not open the door. Maybe they had come to the wrong place. If I did not answer would they leave? “Ms. Coffee?” one of them shouted through the door. I froze. Their arrival was not a mistake. “Ms. Coffee?” The voice was louder. They knew my name. They looked like government officials of some sort, and I could sense their entitlement with the determination of their steps and knocks. My knees wobbled. “Yes,” I replied in a flat tone. “We are with the US Marshals Office. I’m Marshal Davidson, and I’m here with Marshal Stinnett. We need to speak with you.” Me? What in the world could US marshals want with me? How did they even find me? I had only come back home from New York City last night. Not to mention, there was no mailbox along Colony Row. We used a post office box. As though they could read my mind, the other man spoke boldly through the door. “Madeline Matthews said she texted you.” They had talked to Madeline. I was close to only two people on earth, and these men had invaded that tiny circle. Punctured my privacy. Anger flew through me. My fingers fumbled with the denim flap covering the back pocket of my jeans as I struggled to pull my phone free. My index finger trembling, I punched the home button and pulled up the screen. Sure enough, there it was. A text from Madeline: US Marshals on the way up. 5
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Your Aunt Hattie and I are worried. Please call ASAP. I had not heard the vehicle or the text. It had taken a murder of crows to get my attention. I turned toward the door and looked through the peephole. Both men had removed their sunglasses. They must have noticed me peeking out because both lifted their badges. I smoothed my hair back, then opened the door about a foot. I stared at their badges and then at them. The taller one was Davidson. They put their badges away. Davidson spoke first. “Ms. Coffee, we hate to disturb you.” “You have come at a bad time. What is this about?” “Ma’am, can we come in and speak with you?” “You will need to tell me what this is about.” I looked from one man to the next, hoping to read something in their faces. Stinnett, the shorter one, spat his words with impatience. “I expect you’d better speak with us.” I looked him in the eyes to make it clear I was not someone he could intimidate. What I saw in Stinnett’s expression settled me in a strange way. I had seen the look before. Always with those who held disdain for Natives. His prejudice would not affect me. Bigotry was not new. This I could handle. This, Grandfather had prepared me for. A steely resolve gave me oppositional strength, curiosity, and determination to face them. But what came next sent a charge of electricity up my spine. “Ms. Coffee, your life is in danger.”
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