She followed.
“Now what?” she asked.
“I’ll take her driver’s license and ask around, to the other people I see up and down the river. Maybe someone has seen her. Maybe he banished her from her room, threatened to kill her if she ever came back. Maybe she’s relocated to one of the other hotels or empty houses close by.”
“Do you really believe that, John?”
“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
He wouldn’t say it, but while he was showing her driver’s license around the area he’d also be searching the mountains of garbage on the Riverwalk, as well as the surface streets above the river.
They were everywhere, the piles of garbage were.
Some of the survivors were starting to burn their garbage now, foreseeing a time in the future when the garbage piles would simply overtake them and being proactive to prevent it.
Most of the others, though, were not so forward-thinking. They were adding to the problem, tossing their trash upon the piles and making them ever higher.
The stench, of course, was horrible.
But human corpses were relatively easy to find. For they had a stench all their own, and not even the smell of a hundred bags of rotting household garbage and wet diapers could conceal it.
As John walked both sides of the river banks asking people if they’d seen Rose McGlory, he’d take a moment to inspect each pile of garbage he happened across.
He’d stand in front of it and inhale deeply, searching for the scent of human death.
Before the power went out very few people in San Antonio knew what a decaying body smelled like.
Now everyone did. It was distinctive, powerful and stomach-turning.
If Rose was anywhere in the vicinity he’d find her, one way or another.
First, though, he had another place to go.
He said his goodbyes to Rose’s friends and helped carry Big Boi’s body to street level and into the middle of South Alamo Street.
There the thug was unceremoniously dumped, and John thanked the man who helped him carry the body.
“There’s a lot of places to hide a body around here, officer,” the man volunteered.
“Where are you going to start?”
John answered, “The Alamo,” and walked away.
-35-
The Alamo was frequently called the “Shrine of Texas Liberty” before the great blackout.
It was as close to a sacred place as any for a native Texan. A Mecca of sorts, for it was said one truly couldn’t call himself a Texan unless he paid his due by visiting the old mission at least once.
Most Texans visited several times over the course of their lifetimes.
Since the blackout, the Alamo served a purpose perhaps more akin its original purpose than at any other time in its long life.
It was no longer a battlefield, no longer a monument to the fallen, and no longer one of the state’s primary tourist destinations.
It was now a site where kindness and benevolence was on display each and every day.
And nothing could be more appropriate.
For it had started its humble life, after all, as a mission.
The Alamo, to most people, is the iconic stone and mortar building in the center of Alamo Plaza. Technically the Alamo includes much more than that. It comprises almost an acre of grounds which include several other buildings as well.
Originally the grounds encompassed most of what is now downtown San Antonio, with marching grounds, orchards and gardens on both sides of the river.
Huge high rise buildings take up most of that space now, but the Alamo of the early 19th century was a vastly different place.
The cross-shaped structure which everyone calls the Alamo today was built not for battle but as a place for believers to worship. A place to care for the infirm and the elderly. For people to study God’s word.
It was a place intended to honor life; not a place of war.
It was fitting, therefore, that the Alamo Plaza had found a new purpose in the two years since the first blackout and several months after the second.
Behind the walls, inside the Alamo compound, more than eighty orphans were being cared for by nuns and volunteers.
In the chapel itself, unpaid civil servants worked hard to screen would-be adoptive parents. Most of them lost their children in the wake of the blackouts and were willing to do what they could to help raise the orphans.
More of the parentless children were coming in almost daily, as more and more desperate people took their own lives but couldn’t bear to take the lives of their children.
Instead, they left them behind hoping they’d at least have a chance.
“Leaving them behind for the wolves,” many skeptics would say.”
In Alamo Plaza, the area immediately outside the massive wooden doors of the old mission, forty volunteers gathered each day to serve meals to the hungry.
John had seen the operation in the past from a distance. Prepared meals stacked on folding tables in styrofoam containers, a long line of hungry residents waiting to get their hands on one.
He’d never approached the operation before. Never had a reason to, really, but was warmed by the fact there were enough volunteers who cared enough to put together such a thing.
Today he walked straight into the mix, asking to speak to whoever was in charge.
For today he had good reason to be there. Good reason to make an inquiry.
This might be his first clue in his mission to solve what he believed to be the murder of Rose McGlory.
And perhaps the murders of others as well.
“Just a moment, officer,” a kindly old woman told him. “I’ll get our director.”
Two minutes later she returned with a kindly priest in majestic robes and high collar.
“I’m Father Benedict,” he said.
“Hello, father. I am John Castro of the San Antonio Police Department.”
The priest nodded.
“How can I help you, John?”
“I am investigating a missing persons report which I suspect may instead be a homicide case.”
“Oh, my…”
-36-
The old priest crossed himself as John continued.
“I have some questions about how your operation works. My suspect is dead, but I took from his body his personal driver’s license, as well as three others. The room in which he was staying was littered with empty styrofoam food containers, similar to the ones you use.
“I was wondering whether he was getting his food from you, and what your process is for passing out food for the hungry.”
He pulled out Lamar Taylor’s driver’s license and handed it to the priest.
“He looks familiar to me,” the old man said.
He turned to one of the nearby nuns and said, “Sister Sara, can I bother you for a moment?”
“Yes, father?”
He handed her the license and said, “He looks familiar to me, but I don’t know exactly why.”
Sister Sara recognized him immediately.
“Oh, that’s Lamar. A wonderful man. He comes daily to pick up his meal. And he takes care of several elderly shut-ins. Bless his kind soul, he picks up meals for them as well.”
John took out the licenses for Rose McGlory, Nancy Fontenot and Mary Graves. He handed them all to the nun.
Do you remember if these are the shut-ins he collected meals for?”
“Why yes. I believe they are.”
John could have put forth his suspicions about the “shut-ins” being murder victims, but chose not to. After all, he had no evidence yet to support such a theory.
Instead, he asked a question:
“Can you tell me what the process is, for people who show up asking for a meal?”
“Well, the meals are prepared in advance, by volunteers who come in early in the morning. By one p.m. we have several hundred of them ready, and that’s when we start passing them out. It’s first come, first serve, and when we run
out we’re out.”
“So you only have one meal per day?”
“Yes, unfortunately that’s all we can do. We have volunteer gatherers who set out on bicycles every morning. They travel in a pack for safety and travel to the wholesale food warehouses the city commandeered when the power first went out. They gather what they can and bring it back, usually arriving in late afternoon. That’s the food that is used for the preparation crews the next morning.
“How much food we serve is dependent on the gatherers. How many of them show up on a particular day, how heavy the food is they bring back, etcetera. Some days we prepare six hundred meals, some days it’s over a thousand.”
“And the hungry…”
“We prefer to call them brothers and sisters.”
“And the brothers and sisters, they get one meal per person?”
“Yes. Typically. Of course, there are some exceptions. For example, your Mr. Taylor. Since he was caring for shut-ins he was allowed to collect their meals as well as his own.”
“How do you make sure your… brothers and sisters don’t take more than their share? Or come through the line twice?”
“We require a photo ID for everyone. There are other food programs which don’t require ID, but it’s something we’ve always done so people don’t take more than their fair share.
“We have a list of people who come through on a regular basis. Written out long hand, in alphabetical order. It’s on a ledger with an entry space for each day of the month.
“As each brother or sister comes through the line we ask to see their photo ID. Then we mark an X next to their name, in the box for that particular date. If they tried to come through the line a second time they’d be denied.”
“And because Mr. Taylor had three extra IDs for his shut-ins he was given three extra meals?”
“Yes, he was given a total of four meals per day.”
“Was he the only one of your brothers and sisters who received extra meals for shut-ins?”
“Until recently it was only him and Brother Swenson, who runs a boarding house up the street for the elderly. In the last few weeks, though, we’ve noticed an increase. Several people now bring in the ID cards of the infirm and elderly. They collect meals for them and take them to them.
“Some of them appear to be acquaintances of Mr. Taylor. I think word got around that he was doing God’s will and helping others, and his good deeds were adopted by others.”
John was skeptical, but held his tongue for the most part.
“Yes,” he said. “I think word has definitely gotten around.”
John returned to the Riverwalk and went door to door.
Most of the people he encountered were understandably reluctant to talk to him until he identified himself as a police officer. Most were skittish and untrusting of strangers.
His canvas yielded few results.
A handful of people recognized the faces on the IDs, but no one had seen them lately.
One man said, “I used to see Nancy every day, fishing in the river next to the Houston Street bridge. But not in a while. She seems to have vanished from the face of the earth.”
John’s suspicious mind was running in high gear, but he hoped against hope he’d find the women alive.
He’d been working his way toward Nancy Fontenot’s address, and along the way hadn’t come across a single person who’d seen her out and about in recent days.
As he walked up the steps to her small frame house just off the river he found out why.
The horrific stench coming from her house was unmistakable.
He found her strangled body in the middle of her living room floor.
-37-
Scarlett and Bill were sitting on the shore of one of the many playa lakes in San Antonio. It was just a few blocks from Baker Street and they’d been making the trek twice a week.
On this particular morning they’d already caught four fair-sized trout. Their goal was to catch enough for a fish fry.
Scarlett could tell from the time they’d set out three hours before that something was troubling her friend.
She wanted to ask him what it was, but she’d learned when Bill was rushed he had a hard time forming his thoughts.
It was better to let him speak on his own schedule, after he’d had a bit of time to decide on his words.
“Scarlett, can I ask you something?”
“I don’t know why not, Bill. You ask me at least thirty questions a day.”
Bill blushed.
He did ask an awful lot of questions.
“What’s gonna happen to me when you and Mr. Rhett die?”
It was certainly true that Bill asked her thirty questions a day.
But few were as direct and blunt as this one was.
A bit taken aback, it took her longer than usual to answer his question.
“Well, honey, we don’t plan to die anytime soon. Not until we’re very old.”
“But I heard you tell Mister Frank and Mister Tony that they almost killed Rhett. And lots and lots of people die before they get old. My brother Eddie was only twenty eight I think. Or maybe thirty seven.”
Apparently Bill was in a mood to be quite profound on this particular day.
And Scarlett couldn’t just write off his question as being fanciful or not worthy of answering.
For he had a very valid point.
“You’re absolutely right, Bill. The world has changed. We’re no longer guaranteed the chance for a long life. Sometimes that chance is taken away from us. Do you mind if I ask what made you start worrying about this?”
“Last week, when they found that little girl and little boy dead on the next street… it made me wonder what if it was somebody over here instead? What if it was me? Or you and Mister Rhett? What would happen to me if you and Mister Rhett died?”
“Well, nothing will happen to you. I mean, I suppose you’ll be sad for a time. But there will be a lot of other people here on Baker Street who will help you deal with your sadness. And after awhile you’d stop being so sad and move on.
“As far as how you would get your food and shelter and protect yourself against bad men, well…”
“Do you think the bad men would shoot me if you and Mister Rhett died?”
“No. They definitely will not. We’ll make sure of that.
“You see, Bill, when you moved here I promised John Castro I would look after you, and help you learn what you needed to know. But after everyone else met you and got to know you, they fell in love with you too.
“That’s why everyone wants to help you learn. That’s
Why Miss Eva is helping you learn to grow a garden and why Mister Frank is going to help you learn to ride a bicycle. And why he’s teaching you all about first aid, so you’ll know what to do if you ever get sick or break your arm and there’s nobody around to help you.
“That’s why Mister Tony is helping you with your reading and is going to teach you to use a crossbow.
“That’s why Mister and Miss Flores have decided to plant a whole yard of assorted beans next season. They say they will do that every year from now on. And they’re going to call them ‘Bill’s beans.’ Do you understand why they’re doing that?”
“No, not really.”
“Because every year they expect to get about two hundred pounds of beans. And every year they’re going to dry them out and seal them in watertight containers. And they’re going to hide them in the crawlspace of your house.
“And for the rest of your life, no matter what else happens in the world, you’re going to have enough beans to keep you alive. You might or might not ever need them or use them, but they’ll be there just in case.
“That’s a lot of beans. I don’t even weigh two hundred pounds and I’m big.”
She smiled.
“Yes, sir, you’re right. That’s an awful lot of beans.”
“My brother said that beans make you fart.”
She laughed out loud.
&nb
sp; “Yes, Bill, they do sometimes.”
“But nobody will like me if I fart all the time.”
“Bill, you’re a big mess, you know that?”
“Why? I put on a clean shirt and combed my hair this morning and everything.”
He suddenly looked sad.
“Oh, that’s not what I mean,” she said as she put an arm around him. “You look fine. I just meant… well, never mind. I think you’re just being silly.”
“So people will still like me even if I fart all the time?”
“People will love you even if you fart all the time.
“Now, let’s get back to your question. Rhett and I expect to live for a very long time. Probably until you have gray hair.
“But even if we die earlier than we plan to, like that little boy and girl or your brother Eddie, you’ll still be okay.
“The people of Baker Street will still be here to help you even if Rhett and I aren’t. And soon you’ll have all the skills you need to survive on your own.
“You’ll have a means of growing your own food and raising your own rabbits. You’ll have a means to travel. You’ll have a good stockpile of emergency food. And you’ll know how to hunt and fish.”
As though on cue, a fish took Bill’s hook and ran with it.
Bill stood and played the fish, then brought it in. It turned out to be the biggest fish of the day.
Bill still couldn’t stand the thought Rhett and Scarlett might not be around for the whole of his lifetime.
But with each passing day he became more and more proficient and more and more capable of surviving on his own.
-38-
Tillie was struggling with the new realities of her life.
She was no longer alone.
She had a constant companion now, a shadow which followed her everywhere. Unquestioning, silent and steadfast.
She’d spent nearly her entire life avoiding dogs. Terrified of them. Ready to flee at the mere sight of one.
Now she had such an animal as her very best friend.
That in itself was an accomplishment of monumental proportions.
Something to brag about.
An Acquired Taste Page 13