“Okay, here’s a question: Who knew we were here?”
Heather didn’t have to think long. “You texted Attorney Canterelle. You told him you were down here.”
“Nah. I may have trust issues with Canterelle, but that’s a stretch.”
“Deputy St. Martin knew we were here,” Heather said. “And so did that pastor he talked with on the phone.”
The list was getting longer.
We checked into the motel, and I made sure we had adjoining rooms. Heather hung out in my room for a while, watching TV on my bed. I knew down deep that she was frightened.
Then my cell lit up. It was Dick Valentine.
“Dick, why aren’t you snuggling with your lovely wife, rather than calling me?”
“She’s at a ladies’-night-out thing again. Women wearing red hats. I don’t get it, but she’s into it.”
“So you’re stuck with me?”
“Yeah, fun city. Briefing a guy who’s all hot on devils and such.”
After the chuckles, he launched in. “Got a little more on the Jason Forester case. When he died, he was homing in on an international child abduction and porn ring. Really sophisticated. Well-financed. Very high-tech. Part of the ‘dark net.’ The dirty basement of the Internet that’s heavily encrypted and accessed by twisted types with expensive passcodes. Back-alley stuff. Except it’s all digital.”
“Where’s the command center of this disgusting website?”
“The server is overseas. But there’s a control administrator somewhere in the continental United States. Also, there’s a Russian name attached to this group of creeps. You’ll need a pen to write this down.”
I told Dick I was ready.
“Kuritsa Foks Videoryad,” he said, following up with the spelling.
I took a moment to absorb that. “Any hint of voodoo in this?”
“Depends on how you define voodoo.”
I needed more. “Dick, I know you’ve got homicides to crack up there in NYC. And you do me a lot of favors. Don’t ever think I take this for granted. . . .”
“Yeah, blah, blah. Listen, how many times do I have to tell you, it’s the least I could do for you after you broke that rogue cop case for me up here.”
“Okay, then here it is: it would be grand if you could get me more on this international criminal bunch. And that control center in America, that’d be a home run.”
“Anything I can, I’ll do. Shouldn’t be a problem, seeing as there is always a New York City tie-in on those criminal enterprises. In my contacts log, I’ll mark these as calls with one of my confidential informants. Which I guess you are.”
I laughed. “But, Dick, you’re the one informing me . . .”
“So you’re saying the informant would be me? Dunno. I’m getting on in years. I get mixed up.”
By the time the jokes were over and I was off the phone, Heather was asleep on my bed and snoring. I clicked off the TV and pulled the covers over her. I jotted down a note for her that I was sleeping in her room and put it on the nightstand next to her. I took a moment to give her a fatherly look. Neck tattoo and all.
Thank you, God, for my daughter.
As I lay in bed in the other room, fading into sleep, I wondered whether it was fair for me to have pulled Heather into danger. I was willing to assume the risks. But she had no idea what she was venturing into.
At what point should I pull the plug, get her safely away from me and light-years away from the hideous organization that I was messing with?
33
I awoke the next morning to the ring of my cell. I had left it on and plugged into the wall for charging. The voice on the other end was a man’s, but it wasn’t familiar. A slight drawl.
“Mr. Trevor Black, this is Pastor Wilhem Ventrie of the Levee Road Community Church in Port Sulphur.”
I told him I was grateful for the call.
“We need to talk. But not over the phone. Have you had breakfast yet?”
I was still waking up. Food wasn’t on my list. “No . . .”
“Good. Meet me at Captain Jack’s Oyster Bar.”
“Yeah, I think I saw it off of Levee Road yesterday.”
“That’s the one. I’m buyin’. My treat.”
I was glad to oblige, though I couldn’t see how oysters at 8 a.m. would be anybody’s treat.
I slipped into the other room where Heather was sleeping soundly and dropped a second note on the nightstand, telling her where I was and why.
Pastor Ventrie was a man in his sixties, heavyset, with a ruddy face. He was already sitting in a booth by the window of the café when I arrived. He asked me to recount again what brought me to Port Sulphur, and I gave him a paper-thin account—investigating on behalf of a New Orleans attorney the death of Lucinda and the disappearance of young Peggy—and showed him the same poster I had displayed to Deputy Ben St. Martin. “I suspect it all might be part of a wider criminal enterprise involving young girls.”
He looked at the poster and shook his head. “No, she’s not familiar. Don’t know about this one.”
“This one?”
“Yes. This particular one.”
“There are others?”
The waitress hustled up to us, and the pastor ordered oyster quiche. I went for the tamer stuff: scrambled eggs and crab cakes.
He leaned forward and asked in a low voice if I was a “saved man.”
“God changed me radically when I had my faith encounter with Christ, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He nodded. “Ben . . . Deputy St. Martin, he thought as much. He’s a member of our church. Well, then you know about the battle with demonic forces, as the Word of God says, not against flesh and blood, but with the principalities and powers of the unseen world . . .”
“More than you can imagine.” I nudged closer to the issue. “Can you give me specifics, why you wanted to meet with me?”
He glanced around the café, which was already more than half-full. He was about to tell me something, but our plates showed up and he stopped. Pastor Ventrie prayed a blessing over the food, expressing gratitude for the grace of God and the sacrifice of Christ on the cross, and for “Trevor Black, that he may fight the good fight for the faith, not only opposing the deeds of darkness, but even exposing them . . .”
When he finished, I thanked him for praying for me and for the Scripture that he had mentioned. “Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. Powerful and true,” I said.
He nodded. Then he drilled down deep. “I have a member of my church. He’s been in turmoil ever since he turned his heart over to the Lord Jesus Christ. Wrestling with something. I know a little about it. But I’ve got to figure things out.”
“Legal things? In my prior life I was a lawyer.”
“Yes, legal. I did talk to a member of our board of elders who’s an attorney. I won’t be able to share things unless that church member gives me permission to tell his story. I want to do the right thing, but these legal matters are like quicksand.”
“I’m guessing you’re probably caught between being a mandated reporter of sexual abuse on the one hand and honoring the privacy of a church member who has confided in you spiritually.”
“That’s it exactly, Mr. Black.”
“I don’t want to put any pressure on you, Pastor, but time is of the essence. There are young girls out there at risk. Every day that goes by, more of them are abducted and turned into human traffic for a ruthless business. Some disappear forever. I’m sure Port Sulphur is a fine place to live. But evil doesn’t know boundaries. Of course, who am I to preach to a preacher about that?”
He smiled.
“Who knows,” I said, “maybe you’ve been called to help us stop this.”
A nerve had been hit. I could see it in his eyes. “Port Sulphur is a good little place. Honest, God-fearin’ people. Tough times, though, economy-wise. But lately there’s been . . . not quite sure how to put this . . .”
“I’m all ears.”
“A sp
irit of demonic oppression is comin’ over a few of the people. Floatin’ in like a poison cloud. Involvement in vile sensual appetites for children . . . children, mind you. On the Internet. Horrible things. I’ve preached against it. Summoned the powers of Christ against it. Prayed and fasted over it. It breaks my heart.”
Then he added something that screaked like a siren. “What’s worse,” he said, “is that I am hearing tales of voodoo worship being involved in all of this. Rumors of spells being cast and such. To give these child predators special powers of protection. My land, Mr. Black, this is Armageddon taking place.”
I wondered how much I could share with him. I opened the door a crack. “Last night I was harassed by a man in a big pickup truck as I left the Subway sandwich shop outside of town. He was driving a Chevy Silverado. It could have turned deadly. I don’t think it was an accident. Who, besides you and Officer St. Martin, knows I’m here or why I’m here?”
Pastor Ventrie’s eyes widened, mouth pulled tight. “Only that church member of mine. Just him. I didn’t even tell our attorney about you. Maybe I should have . . .”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Yes, if I can.”
“Don’t tell that church member of yours about our meeting today. Or anyone else. Not yet.”
“I can honor that. You know, I felt led to meet with you this way. In person. Just the two of us, privately. I didn’t even feel right about us talking over the phone. This church member of mine that I’ve been talkin’ about, he thinks somethin’ funny is going on with his phone.”
Note to file: that registered with me. Meantime, I needed to hustle back to the motel and check on Heather.
34
Heather was awake when I got back and was sitting by the motel room window sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “So,” she said with a pout, “do you need me on this case?”
“More than you know. But you were deep asleep, practically unconscious. Besides, I thought my first meeting with Pastor Ventrie ought to be solo. I didn’t want him to feel double-teamed.”
Satisfied she wasn’t being cut out, Heather perked up. “Find out anything useful?”
“Predictably, the pastor sought legal advice. He can’t talk unless that church member of his gives him the go-ahead. It sounds like the member thinks his telephone line might be tapped.”
“Could it be?”
“Not legally. Unless there’s a warrant.”
“Good grief, do you think this church member’s involved with child abduction?”
“Don’t know. If he is, right there is a basis for the warrant. But maybe there is no warrant, and someone just thinks he knows too much.”
“Why don’t the cops bring him in for questioning?”
“Deputy St. Martin could be playing this cagey. He’s a member of the pastor’s church.”
“Sure . . . or maybe he’s covering this up, just like I suggested. An interchurch conspiracy.”
“Then why would the pastor invite me to breakfast and discuss it with me? And why would Deputy Ben St. Martin make that call to the pastor right in front of me? I’m seeing transparency, not conspiracy.”
She didn’t look convinced.
I said, “I’m not pressuring you to believe the way I do. But there’s no need to be so suspicious. Not every person who uses ‘Jesus’ as a proper noun rather than a swearword is a crackpot.”
“I’m not a raving secularist.”
“Of course not. But you do cast a jaundiced eye at all of us Bible-thumpin’, devil-fightin’ members of God’s army of crazed zealots . . .”
I got a smile from her.
I said, “I think these are good people down here. Trying to do the right thing. They may be facing an enemy of overwhelming force.”
“You want to elaborate on that?”
“Not now, but soon.”
I suggested that we cruise around Port Sulphur. We had a little time to kill while waiting to hear whether anything would come from my meeting with Pastor Ventrie.
We drove down Levee Road, past the little clapboard church that was Pastor Ventrie’s. I slowed to take a long look at the greenish-brown water of the Mississippi on the other side of the road. And as I did, I had a thought. Something had to be checked out, but I needed a place to park. The small parking lot of the church was as good as any.
I had Heather pull the travel map out of the glove box; then I asked her, “Show me where the river ends, due south from here.”
A minute later, with her finger on the spot, she said, “Port Eads. Like we said before.”
“It makes sense.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Funny. Always wanted to compete in the famous billfishing tournament there, down where it pours into the Gulf of Mexico.”
“You’re thinking about fishing? In the middle of this case?”
“Not really. I’m after bigger fish.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man strolling toward us from the church. It was Pastor Ventrie. He bent down at the driver’s-side window, waved to me, and then eyed Heather. I rolled down the window, said hello, and explained that I was using his parking lot to study our travel map.
By the look on his face, he had a crisis on his mind. “This must be providential, you being here. I was on my way to your motel. My church member . . . He was here this morning, waiting for me. This is so hard for him . . . but urgent, too. It just weighs heavy on the heart, Mr. Black. This whole thing.” He glanced at Heather.
I introduced my daughter and explained she was my “investigative assistant.”
The pastor launched into it. “His name is Henry Bosant. He’s a boatman and ship’s mechanic. Worked the river from here up to New Orleans. He was known as pretty much of a roughneck around town. He served time in jail. But praise God, he has come to Christ. His heart’s burdened; the Spirit’s been whisperin’ to him. Now, he wants to talk.”
He plucked a piece of paper out of his pocket and quickly sketched a map, giving us directions north up Highway 23 to a location where Henry said he would be waiting for me.
“It’s off 23, along Diamond Road, and then straight toward the banks of the Mississippi until you see a sign for an old cemetery.”
“We’re meeting in a graveyard?” Heather blurted out.
“Not really,” he said. “But it used to be. Back in the 1940s there was a major flooding of the river, and when the water subsided, they decided to dig up all the graves and move them farther inland. Folks call it Dead Point.”
I asked, “Why are we meeting there?”
“An expression of remorse on his part, I truly believe.”
I thanked him. He pledged to “pray us all the way to Dead Point.” His last words were “Be careful. Be safe. These are dangerous times. So you be of good courage, Mr. Black.” Then addressing Heather, he said, “And you too, young miss.”
It was a short drive from Port Sulphur north along the river and just past Fosters Canal, where we turned off 23 and onto Diamond Road and cruised slowly with the Mississippi on our right, bursting into view from time to time through the overgrowth. We drove until we spotted a dirt road cutting through a tangle of scrub brush. We could see, fifty feet away, there was a sign made of gray, warped metal that arched over the dirt road. At close view the lettering on the sign was legible, but only as a ghostly trace.
River Bend Cemetery.
There was a rusted gate made of metal tubes, like a farmer’s gate, and it could have blocked us from entering. But not that day. The gate had been swung open.
After we bumped along the root-infested dirt path in our Mustang, the scrub brush disappeared and the river lay before us. A white utility truck was already parked there at the banks of the river. A man was leaning against the truck, smoking a cigarette.
I parked and turned to Heather. “Stay in the car. Let me do the talking. If I give you the signal, you can join us. But not before I signal you. Understood?”
She agreed, and I trotted up
to Henry Bosant, a short man in his fifties with a tan, creased face and fingernails darkened with grease.
As we shook hands, I said, “I understand you have something to tell me.”
Henry took one more drag, then tossed the cigarette down and crushed it. “Gotta kick that ol’ habit now,” he said. “My body’s the temple of the Holy Spirit. Goin’ to quit. But not today. Too much on my mind . . .”
I invited him to tell his story any way he wanted.
He didn’t have a problem telling it. To me, even though I was neither a policeman nor a priest, it felt as if I was hearing his confession. And it became clear, almost immediately, why he had picked that particular spot to tell it.
“You know, Mr. Black, why they call this place Dead Point?”
I explained the little history I knew about it.
“Well,” he continued, “this was the very spot where I knew it for sure. How I knew my soul was stone-cold dead inside. And all them others? Well, they was dead too. They just didn’t know it.”
35
Henry Bosant had two qualities that made him the right man for the wrong kind of job. He was a man with a criminal record, and he was a boatman who had a knowledge of the river.
Henry told me that it had started simply enough, with a call from a small shipping outfit he had never heard of. Something with a Russian-sounding name. Their boats would depart from the New Orleans area, pass by Port Sulphur, and eventually reach the end of the Mississippi where it met the Gulf. When the boats reached Port Sulphur, they wanted him to act as a “tender,” motoring food, supplies, and fuel to their boat while it was in the middle of the river, about once a month. Always at night and in the dark. The money was pretty darn good. Two thousand a pop, plus supplies. It didn’t make a lot of sense, Bosant said. He asked why they didn’t simply dock at one of the ports along the way so he could shuttle supplies to them there much easier. Their explanation, Bosant said, was “to save time.” Of course, there was another explanation, one that came too late.
“The first time,” he said, “it went off real smooth. I’d anchored my tender boat just off Dead Point, right here, and waited for a signal.”
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