The Empowered

by Craig Parshall

  I waved to the waiter to bring me the check.

  “That’s our destination tomorrow,” I said. Then I repeated that part of Minerva Sabatier’s note: “‘Sulphur is the path to Hell, leading to the sea.’”

  On that happy note, I suggested we both head to bed.

  My original plan was to set out early the next morning. But I decided against it. We didn’t know where to look, so it wouldn’t do any good arriving before shops and offices had even opened up. Instead, I opted to use the early hours for something else. My reading routine first thing each day had me slogging through the book of Deuteronomy with its complex Israelite history and intricate Judaic law.

  I was nearing the end of that Old Testament book, and I was looking forward to finally finishing it and moving on to the book of Joshua, full of stories of battle and conquest, the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.

  My wake-up call came just after dawn. I splashed water on my face and opened my Bible to the place I had left off the day before, marked with a leather bookmark: chapter 29 of Deuteronomy.

  But as I read the account about the covenant between God and the sons of Israel at Moab, and the warnings of God, my mind refocused on the journey Heather and I would be taking that day. To a place that was a tiny dot on the map in southern Louisiana. I didn’t know why we were going there. Not exactly. Except for the hint that Minerva Sabatier had dropped in the margin of her Bible . . . It was all I had to go on. A hunch? I yearned for more. Where was God’s leading in this?

  I returned to Deuteronomy. About two-thirds of the way through the chapter, I stumbled onto God’s judgment on wickedness and on the flagrant rejection of his moral law. Stern stuff. To those people, the consequences would be horrifying. And then I read the features of that divine curse:

  All its land is brimstone and salt, a burning waste, unsown and unproductive, and no grass grows in it.

  Brimstone. The King James word for sulphur.

  I had to read that one again. A wasteland of sulphur and salt.

  I didn’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore. Having come to understand that the Lord of the universe is a sovereign architect, I expected his hand always to be instrumental. Even when I couldn’t see it. The timing of my Bible reading and our destination for that day could not have been an accident. His hand. Using his Word. For his mission. Yeah. That made sense.

  By the time I had finished the end of the chapter and knelt at the edge of my hotel bed, the words of my prayer had already been placed in my mouth. They were taken from the last verse of that part of Deuteronomy, an Old Testament book that had surprised me with its relevance:

  The secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things revealed belong to us and to our sons forever, that we may observe all the words of this law.

  I had to keep my eyes and ears open for what was about to be revealed.

  30

  The drive to Port Sulphur was slightly over an hour, as we traveled Highway 23 through the low delta land that followed the Mississippi. When we entered the little burg, we found a humble scattering of houses, some churches, a school, and several industrial buildings along the river that serviced the shipping industry. Forty-five miles to the south, the Mississippi wound its way to Port Eads, where the mouth of the river opened to the Gulf of Mexico.

  Heather asked the obvious. “What now?”

  We had just passed a municipal building off Levee Road.

  “I might pop into the Plaquemines Parish Sheriff’s Office. Pay them a visit.”

  “A cold call?”

  “Right.”

  Heather looked dubious. “This should be interesting.”

  I sent a quick text to Morgan Canterelle in accord with the agreement I had with him that I would report on my investigation progress.

  Things were quiet at the sheriff’s department. I bumped into a deputy leaving for patrol. He told me that the sheriff, Clay Haywood, along with most of the command staff, were at a law enforcement conference at the other end of the state, way up in Shreveport. The detectives were out in the field.

  I played the Morgan Canterelle card. “I’m here investigating a case for a New Orleans attorney.”

  “Well, Deputy Ben St. Martin is still here. He’s in the Marine Division. Water search and rescue.”

  That didn’t sound hopeful. But my options were limited. I asked if Deputy St. Martin could see me, along with my “assistant.” We were taken to his office.

  Ben St. Martin was a square-shouldered man in his thirties with his hair buzzed, military style. I gave him my card and told him that I was working a case for Attorney Canterelle about a missing girl. I handed him Peggy Tanner’s poster.

  I had unknowingly yanked the string at the end of his lightbulb, because there was a flash of recognition on the deputy’s face. “I know about this,” he said. “A rash of missing girls. Apparently Mr. Canterelle—and you, too, I guess—think law enforcement isn’t doing its job.”

  “Not really. We’re after the same thing you are. It’s about finding a young girl named Peggy Tanner. And many more like her. And finding out why another young girl named Lucinda was killed and left in a bayou.”

  He looked dubious. “Really?” Then he added, “I know law enforcement in New Orleans. They’re totally dedicated to finding that girl. Just like we are. You know how many cold cases our detectives are dogging? Plenty. And they never give up.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” I said, then decided it was time for the wide-angle lens. “I think this Peggy Tanner case is just the tip of the iceberg. We’re trying to locate the criminal enterprise behind this. Child abduction and pornography. Homicides. Awful stuff. With a heavy dose of voodoo mixed in.”

  “What does Port Sulphur have to do with this?”

  I noticed a small plaque on his desk with a section from the book of Proverbs:

  Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.

  I figured I could get down in the weeds with him.

  “Big picture, I’m not in Port Sulphur just for an assignment. For me it’s a mission. God is in the center of it. I’m tracking down these evildoers because it’s the right thing to do. Not a job. A calling. Just a guess, but I’m assuming that doesn’t sound totally crazy to you.”

  He smiled and thought on that for a moment. Then he said, “Child abduction?”

  I nodded.

  Deputy St. Martin glanced at Heather. “And what’s your interest in this, miss?”

  I answered for her. “She’s my research assistant. An anthropologist.”

  “Almost,” Heather said, slightly qualifying my dad brag. “Currently working on my thesis.”

  The deputy said, “Anthropologist. You mean the experts that analyze human remains? Bones?”

  She said, “That’s forensic anthropology. I’m into other things.”

  Our meeting didn’t look productive, so I was about to cut it short. “I appreciate your meeting with us, but I don’t want to take up any more of your time. You may not be able to help us. . . .”

  Deputy Ben St. Martin leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

  He picked up the phone and put in a call, right in front of us, explaining about me, what I was investigating, and asking whether the person on the other end was willing to talk to me.

  The deputy went silent, listening, and after a few more minutes he gave a warm good-bye, hung up, and turned to me. “This is a complicated situation. Pastor Ventrie isn’t sure he can talk. He’ll consider it.”

  “Does he know something?”

  “I can’t comment. Except to say he’s the head pastor of Levee Road Community Church here in town. If he gives the green light, I’ll give you a call and put the two of you together.”

  I wanted to probe further, but before I could, Heather jumped in. “Is this pastor trying to protect someone?”

  Deputy St. Martin
straightened. “Can’t comment.”

  Heather got pushy. “Oh, so you’re trying to protect this pastor. . . .”

  He turned to me, forcing a grin. “Mr. Black, your assistant’s pretty aggressive.”

  “Well,” I said sheepishly, “she’s my daughter.”

  By then I had a theory on what was going on. I threw Heather a stern look to stop giving the deputy the third degree. I thanked him for taking the time. I snatched one of his cards. “Let’s stay in touch.”

  As we drove away from the sheriff’s office, I cautioned Heather. “We can’t stomp into a place like that and treat law enforcement like they owe us something.”

  “Aren’t they public servants?”

  “That doesn’t mean just our public servants. They serve everybody.” But she wasn’t buying it.

  So I kept going. “Have you given it much thought, their jobs? Monotonous rounds to keep the townies safe, day after day. Traffic stops. Angry citizens. Impatient judges. Protecting everyone but pleasing almost no one. Until one day they respond to a domestic dispute, and an angry spouse fires a loaded weapon at them at close range. Just because they wear the uniform. All the while, getting paid a pretty meager salary. Did you notice those little houses and trailer homes on the way down here? I’m betting one of those belongs to Deputy St. Martin.”

  “Wow,” she shot back, “I didn’t realize you were so gung ho on cops.”

  “Not always. Remember, I used to be a criminal defense lawyer. Then I started dueling with evil, face-to-face, started to see the world through God’s eyes. Things change. So did I.”

  I remembered seeing a sign for a Subway sandwich shop when we first entered Port Sulphur. I asked about catching something to eat, and Heather said she was up for it.

  I doubled back and headed out of town, back to where the billboard had pointed the way. The route took us on a lonely road through low fields of grass, scrub brush, and red clay dirt. It went on longer than I expected and without signs or other traffic. I thought we’d better get our bearings. But the GPS on my phone couldn’t get a fix on our position. Then that fleeting sense as we drove that maybe we should turn around. Head back into Port Sulphur.

  31

  I shook off the paranoid apprehension. There was only one car at the sandwich shop, and it was parked around back, which meant it likely belonged to the young fellow wearing the paper Subway cap who was standing at the counter, reading a magazine until customers showed up.

  After we ordered and collected our humble eats, I suggested to Heather that we dine in the car. I had my reasons for privacy.

  I asked for my iPad from Heather, clicked it on while I ate, then booted up my LexisNexis search engine for legal research and handed it back to her. “There’s a reason the local pastor might be hesitant to talk.”

  “You mean, like protecting his flock?”

  “Might have something to do with it, but I have another thought.”

  “I’d be interested to hear it.”

  “You’ve been a good research partner on this case. How about doing another online search?”

  She chomped down on her sub and laid the iPad in her lap. “Looking for what?” she said with a mouth still full.

  “I suggest you find some cases with the following search terms: ‘Louisiana, clergy privilege, disclose.’”

  She tapped it in and scrolled down some online articles, then stopped at one and started reading. As she read, she summarized it. “This is fairly current. April 2016. A teenage girl confessed to a priest about sexual abuse that occurred to her. . . . The priest didn’t report it because of the ‘seal’ of confidentiality in the confessional. . . . A judge ruled the priest didn’t have to report it despite being a ‘mandated reporter.’ . . . Appeal to the Louisiana Supreme Court . . . Doesn’t look like that court has ruled on it yet. . . .”

  “That confirms my suspicion.”

  “How? A pastor isn’t a priest.”

  “He doesn’t have to be. The clergy privilege of confidentiality prevents an official of a religious body from being forced to disclose what was said by a lay member in a private spiritual setting, especially where it might involve a confession of some serious wrong.”

  “So in our case, a wrong done by a church member?”

  “Perhaps. Some admission made to the pastor that Deputy St. Martin talked to on the phone. Maybe some terrible thing that could relate to child abductions. Or the vile things done to those victims. Things available for viewing on secret porn sites. The pastor in this town could be trying to figure out where he stands under the law right now. Whether he can talk to us or not.”

  “It still sounds fishy.”

  “Welcome to the dark swamp of the law. I used to swim in it regularly.”

  The sun was getting low as I pulled away from the Subway sandwich shop in our rented Ford Mustang. I clicked on my headlights as we headed down the road.

  Then, in my rearview mirror, I saw a vehicle approaching, and it was coming fast. A jacked-up, heavy-duty pickup truck. A single driver in the front. As it roared closer, I could see him, a skinhead with a full beard and a nasty expression.

  I picked up speed, but the truck was bearing down on me. I could hear some headbanger rock at maximum volume pouring out of the truck’s radio. The truck switched its lights on high beam. I accelerated. But I couldn’t shake him. The big pickup was a foot from my rear bumper. I could sense the fear in Heather, as her eyes kept darting up to see the lights in our rearview mirror.

  There was a dirt pullover coming up on the right-hand side of the road, and I slowed and eased off the road to let him pass.

  But when the pickup roared past, it swerved over onto the pullover in front of me, then slammed in reverse toward my front bumper.

  I jammed my foot on the accelerator, wheeling to the left, and skidded back onto the paved road. I floored the Mustang. I grabbed my cell to call 911, but we hit a bump and it disappeared in that dreaded space between my seat and the console. I told Heather to use her cell instead.

  “I lost it.”

  “What?”

  “Back at the bayou,” she said. “That’s why I’ve been using your iPad. . . .”

  It was time for emergency measures. I was already calculating how long it would take, if we were run off the road, for me to pop the trunk and grab the tire iron.

  I could hear the roar of the pickup even before I noticed the high beams racing up behind me. I had my foot to the floor, going over ninety as we took the turns on the country road. No streetlights. I prayed no cars would pull out from a hidden farm driveway, and no stray deer either. And that I could reach the little river hamlet of Port Sulphur before something wretched happened.

  I strained my brain to remember how long the ride was from Port Sulphur to the Subway. Twenty minutes? Thirty? I had to make it back to civilization.

  We were squealing tires through the turns. I knew the high-riding pickup had more power on the straightaways, but we had more agility. I was counting on that.

  I was nearing a hundred and the pickup was gaining. Heather was whimpering next to me. I told her we would get back to Port Sulphur and drive straight to the sheriff’s department.

  A billboard for a shipping supply store in Port Sulphur went flashing by. We were getting close. But the truck was getting closer.

  I saw an intersecting side road coming up on the left with a deep ditch on each side. I took my foot off the accelerator.

  “What are you doing?” Heather screamed.

  “Bluffing.”

  The muscular pickup roared past me on the left and swerved, trying to force me off the road. I slammed on the brakes, then feinted to the left as if taking the side road. The pickup swung in front of me to block me at the intersection but went too far and tipped into the ditch.

  I swung the Mustang to the right, barely missing the pickup, and gunned it straight ahead. Heather started hooting and hollering in a victory chant.

  “Too early to celebrate,” I yelle
d. “That big rig is made for off-roading. He’ll be back on the pavement in minutes.”

  A few minutes later I saw the high beams of the pickup far behind us. It was picking up speed.

  But by then we were entering Port Sulphur. The pickup began to slow and then did a quick U-turn and disappeared in the opposite direction.

  32

  We skidded to a stop at the sheriff’s department and I tromped in, Heather close behind me. Deputy Ben St. Martin had left for the day, so I talked to the deputy at the desk. I filed a complaint of road rage against the other driver and identified the big pickup as a Chevy Silverado.

  When I finished filling out the mundane data, the deputy asked me an obvious question. “Did you give that driver any reason to come after you?”

  I told him no.

  “You sure? Didn’t cut him off? Didn’t go too slow, way below the speed limit? Make an obscene gesture? Try to provoke him?”

  I started to explode. “I don’t know what passes for entertainment down here, but that maniac came after us for no reason. It was all I could do to keep him from killing us. It was unprovoked, attempted vehicular homicide. My daughter here was in the front seat with me. Ask her.”

  But he didn’t. Instead he calmly spoke as he finished the report on his keyboard. “Complainant says he did nothing to provoke the driver.”

  I signed my statement and left.

  “Hey,” Heather said with a sly grin on her face. “‘We can’t stomp into a place like that and treat law enforcement like they owe us something.’”

  I stopped in my tracks and my mouth eventually spread into a grin. Couldn’t argue with that.

  I suggested we check in to a motel chain that we had passed. On the way over I told her I was sorry about the aggressive driving scare.

  She offered an explanation. “Maybe he was on drugs.”

  “I wondered that. But his driving was too intentional. Too precise. We were being targeted.”

  “Why? And please, no demon stuff.”