The Trees Beyond the Grass (A Cole Mouzon Thriller)

by Reeves, Robert

  Cole wrapped his long arms around his grandmother and whispered in her ear, “You know I will.”

  CHAPTER 51

  COLE HAD WAITED around until after lunch to see his folks off to Ft. Meyers. His stomach ached from one too many ripe tomato sandwiches and a slice of hummingbird cake. He hoped that would last him the rest of the day, because he didn’t have time to waste. Moments later he hopped into the Focus and drove over to the old homestead where MeMe had lived. He hoped she was alive and still where he last visited her.

  MeMe Jenkins had been Cole’s nanny from birth until he was twelve, though the term ‘nanny’ conveyed a drastically different meaning than would be implied. When he was first born his mother fell sick for several months. MeMe’s family property bordered theirs, so Libby hired MeMe to care for Cole when she was working. Cole’s existence had been modest; after her death and Randall was injured, the family moved to the property and its triple-wide off Porchers Bluff. MeMe stayed on, taking care of all the Mouzon children. He could still feel her large, engulfing hugs whenever he thought of her.

  He drove to the property off dead-man’s curve on Rifle Range Road. A historically treacherous bend in the road that converted Rifle Range into Porchers Bluff Road, it was a hot spot for deaths in the 60s from drag racing. When he and his family lived on the end of Porchers Bluff, numerous accidents occurred from the unwitting, risk-taking, or just drunk drivers attempting to ride the almost ninety-degree curve. But the greatest casualty ever seen was a mammoth boar that festered along the side of the curb for weeks until ultimately claimed by nature. The local paper celebrated the death of the curve in 2006, announcing it had ‘a date with the executioner.’ In its place was constructed one of the many round-about intersections that now dotted the lowcountry landscape like dizzying chickenpox, causing confusion to the locals used to driving in straight lines.

  A few miles off the curve, Cole approached the property. Other than one new structure and a few extra cars, the place appeared just as he recalled. Cole parked directly outside the newest building as a small child and a man crossed his path with skeptical eyes.

  He had been here many times. His childhood days routinely consisted of waking to MeMe cooking shrimp’n grits or cornbread. While he ate, she cleaned the house and laundry. By noon, she was done and they would walk along Porchers Bluff to MeMe’s property. The large white sand circular driveway with several once-white wood buildings following the exterior of the arched drive remained unchanged. These buildings were similar to the housing in the recent movie The Help, but were certainly less well-maintained, with green moss and pine straw coating the roofs and ground around the structures. The white had long succumbed to grey from dirt and the sap of the overhanging loblolly pines and live oaks, their branches weighed down by Spanish moss. Peering across the property, he could see where he’d played with MeMe’s grandchildren around the makeshift homes.

  “Can I help you?” A tall, slender man with mocha skin approached to determine if Cole posed any threat. It wasn’t an issue of race; it was an issue of belonging. And a white man in the backwoods of Mount Pleasant on a black family’s property spoke loudly of not belonging. Cole began to speak cautiously, “I’m here to see Mardean Franklin… MeMe.”

  The man asked, “Is she expecting you?” His eyes narrowed.

  “No Sir. I’m Cole Mouzon; she took care of me as a child, and I was in town and thought I would…”

  “Cole? Cole Mouzon? Wow, man, you have grown. I mean, I expected you would have, but damn. It’s been forever. It’s me, Jeffery. We use to play around this yard when you were little; we were tight as brothers back then.”

  Cole’s mind raced, settling on one image in particular. “Oh, man. Jeffery, how are you doing? You’re looking pretty good yourself. Was that your kid that I just saw walking past?”

  Jeffery threw his right arm back in the direction of where the girl had gone. “Yeah, that’s my baby girl, Abby. She’s my world. So, what brings you out here? Oh, Grandma, damn man. Let me get her.” As he walked toward one of the larger buildings Jeffery turned back, “Cole Mouzon, who would have thought.” A minute or two passed as Cole stood next to his rental before Jeffery leaned out the front door and waved him in. “Come on, she’s up.”

  CHAPTER 52

  WALKING IN, THE space was clean, old wood floors and walls with a light coat of white paint. The mallard greens and golds suggested the decoration had remained relatively the same since the 70s. Pictures—almost too many pictures—filled the walls, likely prized moments with all of MeMe’s family.

  “Come’n.” She shouted from the single side bedroom directly behind a very small galley kitchen closest to the door. Slowly she cracked open the door. Cole glowed as the black, wrinkled woman was revealed. “Wehl, don’t jus’ stan’ der, gib MeMe a hug.” Cole happily obliged, catching MeMe as she squeezed his upper waist. MeMe was a thick, solid woman, almost as tall as Cole, and wider. She had a slight limp that Cole did not recall.

  Her arms tight around him, Cole spoke into her ear. “I’m here to collect that slice of banana cake you promised me.”

  “I don’t have no ‘nanna cake, but I got peach cobbla if ya wan’ some.” She released and flashed a broad smile.

  “No, no, I was just kidding. I’m here to see you, not let you get me fat all over again.” Under MeMe’s care Cole had been what the rest of the world called fat, but MeMe called ‘healthy.’ It wasn’t until her care stopped at age thirteen that he slimmed down and discovered a gym.

  Looking him up and down, she said, “Bebe boy Mouzon.” MeMe was in awe of her visitor. “Look at dem green yey. Hmm, lub dem yey…Where my manner, seddown, seddown.” She motioned him to a small couch in the far corner of the room.

  MeMe was Gullah, and Cole’s ears strained to remember how to understand the throaty, African-English language he had grown up with, but hadn’t heard in almost two decades. Outsiders foolishly equated the language with ignorance, a lack of education. Cole experienced the same prejudice from his own accent, though certainly to a lesser degree. Yet, Granny was Geechee, a white speaker of Gullah, and had taught him early that the Gullah could match wits with anyone. You didn’t get anything over on a Gullah woman, especially MeMe. Those smarts had obviously come to fruition in locating him in the marsh.

  “You look good, real good boy. What chu been doin’?” MeMe moved over to a green Lazy Boy that had seen its days and some.

  “I’m a lawyer now, in Denver; moved out there a couple years ago from Atlanta.”

  Cocking her head to get a view, she said, “I don’t see no ring, you married, got bebes of your own?”

  “No, ma’am. Single, no childs, yet.” Cole could hear is own accent getting thick on the tongue when he said ‘childs’, fighting to be echoed because it was hearing a kindred voice.

  After only a few minutes of catching up, MeMe leaned in and touched Cole’s knee. “Smattah, bebe?” Her large, leathery dark hand felt warm and comforting.

  Cole had been paying attention to their banter but his thoughts had drifted off to his immediate concerns while he spoke. Caught, he filled her in on learning about his kidnapping as a child and that now it appeared someone had returned to complete the task. MeMe hesitantly told him what she knew of the event.

  “Dey tol’ me, ‘somebody gone and stole the bebe boy Mouzon.’ A tief. Cole, your grand-momma was bad somethin’ horrible, ill about it she was. She couldn’t function. My people had been on tiss land almost as long as yours and if someone had you, we would find’m. So, I get me boys to go look. T’ree days yous had been gone. ‘De police tried, but couldn’t find you. ‘Dem boys check every crik and maa’sh they knew. Two day later, dat’s where they foun’ you. Side of the ol’ school. ‘Dem police had look t’reetime dere. Dem boys foun’ you, dough, under some palmetto tree in deh maa’sh. I was so thankful, t’engk’gawd!” She raised her hands in reverence to the Lord.

  “Your momma was good people, Cole. Real good. And, boy did
she love her some bebe Cole. You was attach to her hip like em’ oyster. When you was born, she just stopped all she doin’ and decided to be a good mother. It be horrible what happen’ to her, just horrible. ‘Dem boys tell me she holdin’ you, even dead, watching over you and em’ boy. Her love is in you, Cole. And with it, her strength. ‘Dat man may taken her life, but not the strength she gave to you.”

  COLE REFLECTED ON MeMe’s words. He had never thought about his mother’s death much. He was too young when it happened; it impacted him as much as reading a sad story in a book, in a detached way. He had been told she was lost in a car accident. But now, that connection was real, with the reality of the truth of what happened; the emotions welled up in his face, forcing him to isolate them so that he could function and push forward.

  “‘Dey never foun’ de man, I wonder…wonder where he go. T’ief’n chill’un like ‘dat. An, that t’ing on yah back.” MeMe looked behind Cole, toward his hip and the brand she clearly recalled being left by whoever had taken him those years ago. Her head shook as she returned to face him. “Had to be a buckruh, (white man) cuz uh know no black folk do such a ‘ting.”

  Cole laughed and agreed. Yes, it was likely a white man back then. Everything so far matched the stereotype, even if the stereotype was usually wrong. Cole had learned as a public defender that plenty of studies had gone to this issue, all coming up with their own theories. The most commonly accepted was that because serial killing is usually carried out by males, and white males outnumber black or Hispanic males by almost seven to one, there was roughly a seven to one chance a serial murderer was white.

  Leaning in, Cole asked, “MeMe, did I say anything? Did I talk about what happened?” MeMe sat back in her plastic-covered lounge chair as if she were deciding if she should speak. “Cole, digging around in da’ past is dirty business. Bess leave t’ings as they are.”

  “MeMe, someone took me all those years ago and now, well…it looks like someone is back. If there is something in the past I need to know about to save my future, please tell me.” The softness of her face dissolved into a fortified mask of anger, daring the world to attack something that she cared for, loved.

  With a stern voice, MeMe barked, “Jeffery, go get Penney.” Jeffery had been sitting quietly on the floor against the door the entire conversation, absorbing it like a sponge. He quickly got up and ran out the door, leaving MeMe and Cole alone in the dark home. Silence crept in while they waited.

  Several minutes later, Cole could hear the heavy steps of Jeffery on the front porch and behind him a second, lighter pair. The door opened to reveal a woman in a dirty purple t-shirt and jeans. In her hand was a book bag that had weathered too many hurricanes. Jeffery was out of breath as he introduced to Penney. She was soft-spoken, smaller than MeMe and probably several decades younger. When MeMe began to talk her authority was recognized by everyone in the room, who all lowered their heads in deference.

  “Penney, Mister Cole has come with questions ‘dat shouldn’t be answered. But, it seems ‘dey muss if he to get ‘dis evil after him now.”

  “I understand. Give me your hands, boy. Jeffery, get the lights.” The room went pitch dark, with only a gap of light streaking under the door as Cole extended his hands. Slowly, a chant exited Penney’s mouth. It was hoodoo, the nicer, kinder sister of voodoo practiced by the Gullah along the coast. Cole had grown up around it with, MeMe saying random chants and applying herbs to his cuts when he was little. A blend of Christianity, herbalism, and folk magic, its roots were in the slave times, when medical care for slaves was rare at best.

  Penney was obviously a root worker, or conjurer of these spells, each with their own color. White for protection, red for love, green for money, purple for success, and black to harm. As Penney chanted, Cole listened to her lighter accent and mentally joked that he needed to order a white and a black for now, though green or purple where attractive options, too. Red will have to wait.

  “Pay attention, boy!” Penney had caught Cole’s drifting thoughts and knocked him in the head with his own hand to snap him out of it. He had learned long ago to respect people’s religions and practices, but he felt this was getting him nowhere.

  Herbal smoke filled his nostrils just as he was about to protest. “Breath deep, breath real deep.” Cole wasn’t a smoker and the smoke burned as he inhaled. Small flecks of light slowly started to burst into his eyes and he felt dizzy. His head felt like it was being weighed down by a soft, heavy pillow. He closed his eyes to try and focus, but it wasn’t working. His mind went deeper, until all was black and silent.

  CHAPTER 53

  IT WAS UNCLEAR how long he was out before Cole kicked as he woke, still fighting off his captor in the marsh. He was surrounded by MeMe and the others when he opened his eyes. “I saw!”

  “What you see, boy, come’on now and tell us.” MeMe’s words were rushed.

  Cole was still groggy as he spoke. “There’s a mark, a tattoo or something on his forearm. Like a bird, maybe like a crow’s head?” The look on MeMe’s and Penney’s faces read fear and surprise. “Crow you say, dat’s a bad omen, Cole. Carry death it does. Did you see anyt’ing else, did you see ‘ehm?”

  Slowly shaking his head and pushing himself up, Cole responded. “No, ma’am, just his arm still. But that’s more than I have ever seen.” The image came with fear and excitement. Perhaps Cole was getting closure to his childhood capture. But, he knew from the files and his meeting with Leas that the killer was a woman. Who is the woman?

  “Here, eat some bennie wafers, you need the energy.” Jeffery was lifting Cole up from behind as MeMe shoved a plate of thin caramel-colored wafers dotted with sesame seeds into his hands. Cole knew the offer was special.

  Sesame seeds, or bennie seeds as old Charlestonians called them, were said to have been so prized by the Nigerian and Angolan slaves that they buried the seeds in their hair when captured and brought them to Charleston to grow. Cole had eaten more than his share of the cookies every time his family went to his Granny’s home. Taking a bite, he felt the sugar do its quick work.

  MeMe clapped her hands on her knees and sat back in her Lazy Boy. “Ha, ‘dis remind me of when we foun’ you. You was rabbish, I rememb’r that. ‘Bout ate me out of house and home, I tell ya.” MeMe’s kinder spirit was back.

  “Never seen someone eat so many bennie wafers, as you.” MeMe laughed in memory. “E teet da dig e grave.” (You were overeating.) “Like a gay’da, you were.”

  Smiling back at her, he thought ‘God, I loved this woman.’ Being reconnected to her, he missed her even more. She had been a second mother to Cole and but for her, he might have died in the marsh.

  Half an hour later, Cole bid his farewells to MeMe so she could get to some event at the center.

  “Tek’care, bebe. Mus tek cyear a de root fa heal de tree.” He recalled that she said that old Gullah proverb often when he was a child. ‘Take care of the roots in order to heal the tree.’ Indeed. It seemed perfect for the situation; if he was to ever survive this, he would have to deal with his childhood and being marked for death. MeMe’s confidence that all would be okay helped. She made Cole promise to write, to let her know of his travels once this was all over. He accepted the promise in hope that he could fulfill it many times.

  CHAPTER 54

  BY THREE COLE had still not heard from Jackie about what she had discovered on the Calhoun kid. He texted and then headed to Melvin’s Bar-B-Q off Highway 17, to get some something to eat. It took only two sentences for the weathered waitress with a white apron to pour out several ‘darlings,’ ‘su'gas,’ and 'babies' while delivering his drink. “I’ll have a coke, ma’am.”

  “Of course baby, what kind?”

  “Sprite, please.”

  “Sprite comin’ right up, su’ga.”

  Cole missed Melvin’s. There was nothing like it in Denver. Like most things in the South, bar-b-que caused feuding as much as land or family, and Melvin’s was no exception. Melvin Bessinger was
the older brother of Maurice Bessinger and together they had cornered the market on all things mustard sauce, dividing between them the Palmetto State; Melvin taking the lowcountry and Maurice taking the other three-fourths of the state.

  Maurice’s in Columbia was always the larger franchise. But that all changed when he decided to stand for the Confederate flag, hoisting massive versions over every restaurant he owned during the height of the ‘great flag debate’ over placement of the flag above the state capital building. Cole’s family, like most of Charleston, put their backs behind the politically correct, or more likely politically silent, Melvin’s and had Maurice’s sauces removed from every Pig and Bi-Lo in the lowcountry to make room for Melvin’s sauce. But the blacks still revolted, believing that Melvin was bottling Maurice’s sauce to keep it on the shelf. That’s when a black minister, James Johnson, inserted himself into the dispute, at the request of Melvin, and brokered a deal no less contentious than a Middle-East treaty, holding a press conference to assure all that he had witnessed the bottling operations of Melvin’s and that all could rest assured that Melvin’s sauce was indeed different and in no way associated with Maurice’s, causing the balance of tangy sauce power to shift and never truly be regained by the little brother.